Stalking into the surrounding jungle, he followed the subdued voices he heard, until he could see them without being noticed.
What he saw was not what he expected. Havencourt was lying on the sandy river bank, looking as relaxed as possible, while she was languishing in the water. Her breeches and boots on the sand next to Havencourt. This was not a scene Christian had anticipated.
"Go across again," Havencourt called.
"The current is quite strong."
"Yes, well, you will have to navigate it."
Awkwardly, she swam across the water to the other side. It wasn't deep enough to require swimming; she could just wade across. For the life of him, he couldn't figure out what the hell they were doing. If this was their secret weapon, it was incomprehensible.
Her head bobbed awkwardly and she spat out water. It was the most uninspiring bit of swimming he'd seen in a long time. Then it dawned on him. She had no confidence in the water.
"This water is cold," she called out.
"It runs off the mountain. It's fresh water, so it’s colder."
"Shall we sail out this afternoon, wait for someone else to ambush us?"
"The other two might be wary of the tactic now," Havencourt said, twirling a blade of grass between his fingers.
"So what do we do?" she asked as she reached the other side of the river and stood with her arms wrapped around herself, the white shirt plastered to her skin. Christian could see the pleasing lines of her stomach and hips, then her slim thighs.
"We wait."
She started swimming again.
Wait for what, Christian wanted to know.
"My skin is getting wrinkly. I'm getting out now."
Havencourt rolled over on his stomach, giving her privacy to emerge from the water. The man was foolish that way, forgoing this sight in some misguided attempt at chivalry.
She rose and waded through the shallow water, the shirt clinging to every part of her body and practically transparent, reaching down high up her slim thighs. He could even see a hint of her nipples through the sodden material. A flare of heat ran through him. Havencourt was denying himself a heavenly sight, and maybe he was right to not see it as desire now stole through Christian's entire body.
Water dripped off her darkened curls onto her shoulders as she wrapped herself in linen, turning her face to the sun and closing her eyes—a look of sheer enjoyment on her face. He wanted to see that look on her face as he took her against a coconut tree, as they'd discussed. His breeches grew uncomfortably tight.
With a grumble, he turned away. Desire was cheap—worth nothing. It only served as a distraction and he was not going to be distracted. Havencourt could have her—probably already was for all he knew.
At least he'd learned one thing. They didn't have a plan—or one she knew about. But she was now his natural target. She had two keys to be plucked off her. Talbot could wait—he was the easy target now. Christian wondered if Havencourt thought the same thing. It might serve him well if he pounced while they were distracted trying to relieve Talbot of his burden.
Chapter 16:
* * *
Clara sat down to supper in the kitchen, taking in the delicious scent of roast chicken. For being a pirate haven and completely lawless, she had never eaten so well. Porridge and turnip stew was what she’d grown up on, but here there were meat and spices, and delicious, exotic fruit. She smiled at the lieutenant and Madame Guerier who were already seated. Normally they ate in the parlor, but not tonight. Clara suspected they needed to discuss what they were going to do next.
"Talbot is a slimy weasel," Madame Guerier said, "and you have to watch out for him."
"He will avoid direct confrontation. He would be seen as an easy claim by Mr. Rossi," Lieutenant Havencourt said. "But then we have two keys, and Mr. Rossi might see that as the more fruitful option. He will move against us soon."
"How?" Clara asked.
"I don't know. He is the most clever and resourceful of our opponents. If we are to move, it would be best to do so against him before he moves against us. He would be cautious of boarding us, but have no doubt he is thinking up some scheme to defeat us as we speak. Compared to Talbot he is strong, with a loyal crew. I would go as far as to say he has the best crew here."
"But we have the fastest ship."
"That is true. He could chase us around the Caribbean for months, but that will not finish this challenge. We must think of some way to ambush him." Havencourt stroked his forehead as if he was trying to rub out an annoyance. They had no plan.
"It would be best to get him on his own."
"He will be unwilling of face you alone," Madame Guerier said to the lieutenant. "It would be something he would avoid. We must seek some consistency in his character—something we can utilize. They say it is best to remove the enemy's strength. Do they not?" Neither Clara nor the lieutenant had anything to add, so they let Madame Guerier develop her thoughts. "Wait here a moment," she said and left the room.
"How would we remove his strength? We can't take him in an ambush. He and his crew are too strong. He won't take us on single-handedly. Maybe we just have to wait for him to strike."
Madame Guerier returned with a large and a small bottle, placing them on the table. "Christian likes gin, more than any other drink, and he would go a long way for it."
"So we use it as bait?" Clara said.
Madame Guerier said, "We use it to incapacitate him."
"I'm fairly sure he can take quite a bit of gin before his faculties are impaired."
"Then we must help it along." She pointed to the other bottle. "This will make him as threatening as a kitten, and unlikely to raise an alarm. This is the juice of poppies, grown in the far reaches of India. He probably couldn't defend himself from being tickled with this in his belly."
Clara's eyes sought Havencourt. "This is really underhanded."
Havencourt shrugged. "It is, but then he would do it to you if he thought of it. It is up to you."
"Would you do it?"
"No," he stated matter-of-factly with a sniff.
"I would," Madame Guerier said. "If you want to win this competition, you have to use every means at your disposal."
Clara looked at the bottle. This was underhanded. Havencourt would not resort to such tactics, but then he wouldn't steal linen off her in the dark streets of Port Royal either. "Let's do it."
Madame Guerier pulled the cork of the bottle of clear liquid and tipped some drops of the poppy juice in. "He's not stupid enough to accept a gift from us, but then we don't need to give it to him. He is a pirate, after all."
"We can have the tavern sell it to him," Clara said.
"He might grow suspicious that a bottle of his favorite tipple turns up just at this time. No, we are better off if he actually needs to strive to get it."
*
The problem with a pirate town was that it was too easy to have something stolen. Anyone walking past would steal something within reach, so they needed it to be available only to Rossi.
They placed a spy in the tavern to inform them as soon as Rossi made ready to leave, while Clara waited in a stuffy, small store house. Perhaps this was a bad idea, she though as she wiped the sweat running down her temples. Havencourt, although curious, had decided to remove himself from this venture. Clara completely understood why, but for her, this was an opportunity to return Christian Rossi's unscrupulous behavior.
Running steps came up and knocked on the side of the store house, then the spy spoke to the elderly man lying on a wooden bench, seemingly unconscious. As Clara watched through the dirty window, he revealed the bottle of gin and uncorked it, placing it prominently beside him, then returning to his seemingly passed-out drunken state.
With nerves and excitement coursing through her, she watched as Christian Rossi walked into view.
"The bottle," she urged quietly as he walked past. It looked like he hadn't noticed, then he stopped. "Yes!" she said as he stepped back, considering the
drunk man and the bottle of clear liquid. Slowly picking up the bottle, he brought it to his nose. "Yes, it's gin, you great, big clod. Steal it."
Christian stood back and considered further, taking a sip of the gin. Pulling out some coins, he placed them down by the drunk man, which surprised Clara. She hadn't expected that he would pay for it. Why wouldn't he just steal it?
He wandered off, heading toward the port, and Clara emerged from her stifling hiding place. The weapon was delivered, she smiled. This really was underhanded, and she did feel dismayed that she had engaged in such activities, but she was not prepared to lose this competition because of scruples.
"I'm keeping the coin," the old man said, getting up and walking straight to the tavern. Clara wasn't going to argue.
*
Clara waited until dark, spending the rest of the afternoon in the parlor, drinking rosewater and trying to get her nerves under control. This was such a bad idea, but something in her had to do this—show all of them that she was more than some useless convent girl, and a poor one at that. Taking Wainsess' ship with the lieutenant had clearly shown her that she could do something and succeed. It was the most lovely feeling in the world and she wasn't quite done with it.
"If he hasn't consumed it, you are in trouble," Havencourt said as he approached.
"I am aware." Another wave of nervousness twisted her gut. She didn’t dare think what he’d do to her if he caught her sneaking onto his ship.
"This is a considerable risk."
"If you can think of any other way of doing this, I am happy to hear it."
Havencourt pursed his lips. That was the problem: they had no other ideas, so she was doing this. "If he catches you—"
"Yes, I know," she cut in. She really didn't need to be reminded of what he would do to her if she had miscalculated. A thrill of fear shot through her, and something else she couldn't quite put her finger on. "You just worry about how we get Talbot. I want to finish this challenge as soon as humanly possible. Ideally, before Mr. Rossi decides to exact his revenge. If we win the last key from Talbot, he will be the second contender for the third challenge, won't he?"
"At which point, it doesn't really matter who wins."
Clara nodded, absorbing the information. The one thing she wanted right now was to exclude Christian Rossi from the third challenge. Biting her nail, she considered the task ahead of her. Since taking Wainsess' ship, she'd realized that she could conceivably win this thing, to take ownership of this entire town. It was still a strange notion, but after consideration, she had decided she could quite happily live here with Madame Guerier and Lieutenant Havencourt. There were definitely some people she would get rid of—one soon-to-be irate pirate at the top of the list—but owning this town was an interesting prospect.
"I think it's time to go," Clara said, taking a deep breath. Tension tightened her shoulders and refused to budge.
"If you insist," Havencourt said.
She wished he was accompanying her, but understood his reservations. He still considered himself beholden to the code of conduct he'd lived and worked under for most of his life.
*
Clara rowed as silently as she could, making her way out to Rossi's ship. She could see crewmen walking the deck, keeping guard, but they were watching for ships, not dark dinghies. Still, she made sure she didn't place herself between the ship and the moon where she could be clearly sighted. Luckily, it was only a quarter-moon that night. They didn't see her as she made effort to approach at the ship's aft, below where the captain's quarters were. A faint light shone inside the ornate windows, covered with small, square glass panes. His was a handsome ship with golden embellishments—Spanish, she would guess.
Drawing up next to the ship, she looked up. It was a long way up and she needed to scale it to get inside. As silently as she could manage, she threw the hook and managed to land it over the railing, and waited to see if it was noticed, but no one came. Quickly, she tied the other end of the rope to the dinghy so it didn't float away, stranding her in his cabin. That would be a disaster and a complication she could do without.
Using all her strength, she climbed the hull, at times wondering if she would have to abort because it was such hard work, but she refused to relent, making her way slowly up the side of the ship through heavy breaths. It was a wonder no one heard her, but she got up, and managed to pry one of the windows open. Again, she couldn't believe she was doing this. Peering inside, she spotted the bottle of gin, three quarts of it drunk. Christian lay on the bed, wearing only his breeches—undone at the knees.
Picking a small stone out of her pocket, she threw it across the cabin and watched for any reaction. He would also feign unconsciousness if he knew someone was creeping in through his window. There was no way she could be certain; she just had to take a chance.
Swinging a leg over the window ledge, she heaved herself in to stand in his cabin. Scents hit her, smoke, sweet rum and male. It felt surreal being there, seeing his inner sanctum, where he slept and plotted. And then there was him, lying in bed, with one of his knee raised, looking utterly relaxed.
The muscles of his broad chest shone by the light of the candle sitting on a table next to his bed, and she had to admit he made for a beautiful sight. His corded arm lay across his stomach. He looked so much less threatening with his eyes closed, dark lashes hiding his piercing eyes. His skin was lovely and smooth. He must have shaved at some point.
Clara jumped when he moaned, remembering that she wasn't here to admire his physicality. It was just that she never really got to look at him otherwise, or any other man for that matter. Attracting his attention by looking at him when awake instinctively seemed like a bad idea.
Where would he place the key? Normally, she would say on his person, but there were precious few places he could hide something in his current state of undress. Walking closer, she looked over his breeches, which fit tightly around his hips and thighs, including the bump at the front. Flaring red, she looked away, being even more shocked when she looked back and found his eyes open and looking at her. Her heart stopped and she held her breath, feeling a strong instinct to run, but he didn't do anything. Still staring into his eyes, she noticed how glossy they were, and dark—pools of darkness that seemed to draw her in. It was as if he was trying to mesmerize her.
Where would he place the key, she repeated to herself. He would keep it within arm's reach. Maybe his breeches had a back pocket. There certainly were no front pockets.
Not knowing what else to do, she tentatively took a step forward. His eyes followed her, but he still didn't do anything, except he groaned again, his hand languishly running flat across the taut expanse of his stomach. Her gaze searched around him as she crouched next to his bed. There was nothing. Looking back at his hips, she knew she had to search for a back pocket. From where she was, she could see that the small of his back flare to his backside, which was covered in the black material of his breeches. Every part of him was muscled, and golden brown from the sun.
Sitting down on the side of the bed, she ran her hand along the waist of his breeches, and down underneath him, along the firm curve of his backside. He was amenable enough to lift his hip for her, giving her better access. He was warm under her touch and she made effort not to touch his skin, somehow feeling that was an imposition too far.
Her breath hitched as his hand ran up her arm, causing strong goose-bumps along her skin. Grabbing her by the elbow, he pulled her forward. Alarm raced through her mind, but his eyes stayed soft and deep as they roamed down her neckline. Deep concern flared in her as he seemed to take in her form. She saw uninhibited desire in his eyes' depths.
Suddenly, his upper half rose of the mattress, taking her by surprises as his hands ran around behind her, drawing her against his solid chest. "Uh," she uttered. She didn't know what to do. She still had to check his other side for a pocket, but his hands were so distracting, running down her back to her hips, drawing her closer to him. She resisted, but
he rose further, drawing her fully into his body. He kissed her neck and she drew her shoulder up to protect herself against the unwelcome and fiendishly subversive sensation.
He was so strong as he pressed her to his chest, his arms around her back. It was too much, sensations were coming from every direction. He was drawing her down. This was not going to plan. She hadn't anticipated him being amorous. He tried to kiss her, but she turned her face away, trying to keep her wits about her. Thoughts of their last kiss entered her mind, her first ever, and how shocked she'd been, not to mention the softness and beckoning sensations. Part of her wanted to explore that again, but she refused to let herself entertain such ridiculous sentiments.
Something hard and metallic met her fingers and she tried to think, attempting to establish where her hands were. She was pressed to him and if he rolled over, she would be underneath him. That could not happened. Pushing her arm forward, she clasped around the ring of the key. It was under his pillow. How predictable.
Using her strength, she pulled out of his grip and he leaned back into the mattress, repositioning himself, as if he was displaying himself to her. Unwittingly, her eyes roamed down along his chest and the contour of his waist. She had never seen such a sight—both compelling and captivating. If he was trying to mesmerize her, he was doing a good job. Then the little trail of dark hair that went low, down into his black breeches, which now housed a much bigger bulge. She tore her eyes away.
What was she doing standing there admiring him? If she didn't extricate herself from this cabin quick smart, he would take her chastity, probably without being entirely aware of it—pull her back into the bed and underneath him. A rush of warmth ran over her skin, making her flush again. It wouldn't be so shocking if there wasn't something in her that wanted to stay, wanted to feel him over her, subduing her. The only way to describe it was that his skin was utterly captivating—warm and smooth, aching to be touched.
She pulled away from his hand reaching for her, and his eyes followed her. For a minute, she thought he was going to get up, but his eyes unfocused further. She had no idea whether he would remember any of this in the morning. Something subversive in her almost hoped he would. He would be so angry with her.
A Pirate's Ruse Page 9