A Pirate's Ruse

by Camille Oster

"A convent childhood can hardly be referred to as cosseted."

  "It is compared to some of the alternatives."

  Clara didn't quite know what to say, wanted to argue with him, particularly as a convent education was spartan, cruel and soul destroying. But the tone of his voice had a warning in it, telling her not to venture farther down this path. He must have had a life prior to being a pirate, a life that made him ruthless and single-minded. She couldn't imagine him being anything other than he was. He seemed so very capable of surviving, but perhaps they were hard-won skills.

  Chapter 25:

  * * *

  The rain stopped suddenly. It was as if someone had directed it to stop and it did. The island was entirely silent, the constant drone of the rain absent. No animals made a sound; even Christian stopped his pacing back and forth across the church.

  Their confinement was over. It was time to figure out how to deal with this clue. She knew he was mulling it over, walking up and down the aisles, stroking his finger down his lower lip as he thought. His shoulders were broad under his shirt and Clara almost wished it was still off so she could look at him. Turning her gaze away, her cheeks flared. There had been that point when she'd had all of his attention focused on her and the intimidation he had exerted. Tension flared in her thinking about it. He'd threatened to take her. She didn't quite know what to do with that concept and the images that were trying to form in her head. If she hadn't given him the clue, he would have taken her chastity.

  She really should be more angry than she was. She tried to muster her anger, but it stubbornly refused to form. Instead, her traitorous mind was wondering what would have happened. Again she shook her head at her own incomprehensive thoughts. She should be thinking of interpreting the clue, like any rational person would at this point, instead of wondering what it would be like to have him force himself on her. And yet another flare of tension gripped her. Mentally shaking herself, she focused her thoughts.

  The moon is large. That had to mean something to do with the tide. When the tide is high, the sea stretches to the sky. What in God's name was that supposed to mean? The only thing she could think of were cliffs; waves sometimes splashed upwards on rocks, but there were rocks everywhere. Well, not everywhere, but in places. Maybe she just had to search every piece of rock touched by the sea when the tide was high.

  Closing her eyes, she tried to think of the map Lieutenant Havencourt had shown her and the features he'd mentioned. This clue must be close to the sea line. She tried to picture the shape of the island and the embellished drawing representing observed aspects. There was the settlement and the mountain. The island was a tear shape, the settlement closest to the pointed end of the island. The middle was just jungle, except where the mountain rose, at the center of the rounded end.

  The map had shown reefs on one side. A couple of small islands at the bottom, which she supposed had some potential, but would be bothersome to explore—then something on the other side. What was it? There was a whale on the picture, squirting water out of its blowhole. Blowhole—that was it. The map had said there was a blowhole. Sea reaching for the sky. It all made sense.

  Clara let out a shuddering breath. She knew where she had to go.

  "What?" Christian said, his deep voice echoing off the walls now that the rain wasn't absorbing sounds anymore. Clara blinked. How had he done that? He'd managed to sense that something had changed.

  "Uh… " she said, trying to find something to say. "I just remembered my boots. I have to go find them." She got up, a bit awkward from sitting on her legs so long. "They'll be soaked. I need to dry them out. Can't go around barefoot," she said, attempting a smile.

  His eyes watched her as she walked toward the vestry entrance and she held her breath, hoping he bought her lie. Walking calmly, she continued outside. Say what you would about yesterday's failure, today was a new day and she knew where the next clue was.

  She walked slowly for a little longer, then started sprinting. The game was on and as far as she could tell, she was slightly ahead. There was still a good chance she would win this.

  "Ha!" she yelled loudly, knowing she was far enough away that he couldn't possibly hear her gloating. Moving down to the firm part of the beach, where the waves intermittently stretched up, she gathered a comfortable speed. The sand was soft under her feet, forming watery indents around her footsteps, but firm enough not to sink into.

  She really should get her boots, which were on the other side of the island, but she had the advantage and she could go get her boots when she had the next clue to mull over.

  Turning around and checking behind her, she saw the sights she least wanted to see. He was still more than a hundred yards behind her, but he was tearing down the beach. Damned, she cursed and increased her speed. How had he known? How was it he could read her so easily?

  She needed to get into the jungle, but this particular part of the coast was a little more sparse, covered with coconut trees. Maybe she could just assure him that his assumptions were baseless. Feeling panicked, she ran as fast as she could, but he was still gaining on her. She really needed to get into the jungle—although that had served her no benefit whatsoever last time.

  She was running out of options and he was gaining on her. Damn him for being so fast. Panic hit her in the gut. She wasn't going to be able to get away. She had her sword and maybe she wouldn't be so plagued with qualms this time. Still running, she drew it out of her scabbard.

  His impact hit her in the back, clasping his arm around her waist and whipping her around, then lifting her as she kicked violently. He practically had her on his shoulder before he dropped her heavily on the sand, which was still wet. The impact winded her and for a moment she couldn't draw breath.

  His hand pressed down on her sword hand, pressing it into the sand. Placing his knees at her sides, he grabbed the hilt of her sword and ripped it out of her hand. She hated how he could just plow through her defenses and pin her down.

  Sitting on her hips, he had each of her wrists pinned. "Now where are you going in such a hurry, Miss Nears?" His voice was light and playful. This was amusing him. The bastard.

  "I told you. I'm getting my boots."

  "But your boots are on the other side of the island."

  "I was going the long way around, to see if I can spot something along the beach." Her voice sounded thin and she swallowed. His gaze moved to her throat then back to her eyes.

  "Somehow I just don't believe you. You've figured something out."

  "I haven't," she said, but her voice was now so thin not even she would believe it. "You know this really isn't very sporting of you, forcing clues out of me. You're supposed to find them on your own." She was going to say something about him not being intelligent enough, but thought better of it. Still, the truth was that she had found all the clues first, so far.

  "You really are in the wrong line of work here. I'm a pirate; I take what I need. More often than not, I take what I want. It's all fair game, including you, and we both know what happens when you try to keep things from me."

  Pressing her lips together, she stared up at him. And he weighed a ton, pressing her down into the wet sand, which was now soaking through her clothes. Looking down, she saw him straddling her, his black-covered legs on each side of her stomach, his hips, while trim, were broader than hers. "Let me go," she ordered, ensuring her voice was low and firm.

  He shifted and sat upright, crossing his arms. Even with full movement in her arms, she couldn't shift him. "If we must go through this whole process again, then we must."

  "I'm not afraid of you."

  He grinned. "You should be."

  "If you wanted to kill me, you would have done it already. And you said you couldn't."

  "I didn't say I couldn't. I said I didn't like to. Besides I don't need to, because I know what you fear."

  "Not you," she said bravely, knowing it was completely misguided.

  "Oh really. Then ask me what it is you fear."


  She bit her lips together, hoping God would strike him dead. He raised an eyebrow. "See, you fear a man's touch. It is your ultimate weakness, particularly as you're stuck here on an island with a man who knows you fear being touched. And what you fear more is how curious you are, not quite able to imagine the things I could do to you."

  She wanted to argue, but there was some truth in his words. It wasn't like she was screaming in fear as if wolves were chasing her through the forest, but she was in a certain amount of distress. And she had tried really hard not to imagine what he could do to her. But she couldn't stop the blush from crawling up her cheeks. "A fear I could conquer if I wanted to. And then where would you be?"

  "Is that so? Because I really want you to conquer that fear. I was actually disappointed when you gave me the last clue. I was actually hoping you wouldn't."

  "So you could rape me."

  "It wouldn't be rape if you chose it."

  "I would not choose it," she said indignantly.

  "Of course you are choosing. You have a choice. Give me what I want, or give me the other thing I want."

  Clara swallowed hard again. The most twisted of logic formed into the semblance of a choice. It was duress if she'd ever heard it. “You’re despicable.”

  "I really win either way," he concluded.

  "How would you win if I refuse to give you the clue?"

  "I would just not let you leave my sight." His eyes grew darker. "I think I almost prefer that option." He ground his hips over hers, drawing attention to where they were touching, making her open her eyes even more at the intent of his demonstration. She knew what he intended, but it was quite another thing to feel suggestive actions above mere words. "You and me together, day after day. I wonder how long it would be before you give me the clue. Havencourt wouldn't be too pleased if I bring back his charge well worked and infatuated."

  Anger flared through her at the arrogance of the man, and she mustered all her power to shove him backward and off her. Turning, she grappled to get away, but he grabbed her ankle and pulled her back, forcing her over onto her back. It was worse now, he'd managed to wedge between her thighs. In a panic, she grappled around her, until she reached something. Turning she saw the beard of a coconut, attached to the nut itself. Swinging it hard, she got him in the head.

  With a grunt he dropped on her, dead weight pressing her down. Using all her strength, she shoved him off and scrambled away. He lay in the sand, not moving. Panic of every sort flared through her. The urge to flee was there, but she stopped herself, hearing nothing but her own breathing. She'd knocked him out. He seemed so invincible, but she'd knocked him out cold. Maybe she'd killed him. Concern ripped through her. "Christian?"

  Crawling over, she moved his hair back from his face. "Christian?" she repeated. She hadn't intended on hitting him so hard, she was just trying to get away from him. The sand fluttered a little near his nose. He was still breathing. Clara closed her eyes with relief. He was alive. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to," she started babbling to an unconscious man, realizing how wasted her efforts were, but she just needed to say it. She hadn't intended on it, had just reacted to… his teasing. It was teasing, but there was also intent there. Perhaps because she couldn't entirely dismiss his assertion that she would relent to him and keep doing so. A surge of emotions shot through her—ones she wouldn't dare identify. Maybe he was capable of ensnaring her—he certainly made a lasting impression on the girls in the whorehouse and they, she expected, were hard to impress.

  He would be absolutely furious when he woke and it was probably in her best interest not to be there when he did. There was a good chance she had ruined whatever existed of civilized co-existence between them. She had to win this challenge and get off this island before he found her again. With more trepidation than last time, she started running down the beach toward the blowhole.

  Chapter 26:

  * * *

  Christian's head flaring with pain, pounding with the beat of his pulse. For a moment, he had no idea where he was or what had happened. Groaning, he lifted himself off the sand and pushing up on his knees. She was nowhere in sight and somehow she had knocked him out. He ran his fingers down the side of his head and found a painful swelling. His little nemesis had claws, it seemed.

  Pushing himself to standing, he was a bit unstable at first, but the world settled. He had no idea how long he'd been out, but long enough for her to scarper. She was heading down the beach before he caught her and that was where she'd most likely gone.

  Shaking his head, he tried to focus and started running at a more leisurely pace. His head hurt with each step, so he tried to keep them soft. After a while, he decided it was best to continue within the tree line as he was completely visible on the beach.

  It didn't take long to find her. She was on top of a rocky protrusion, on her knees, looking down. A blowhole. Of course. Why hadn't he thought of it? And how the hell had she known where to find it? It was more or less hidden, except if a wave came in and shot water up the hole, which it did and Clara fell back to avoid it.

  The bastards had obviously put the message in the cave underneath, meaning they had to go down there to get it.

  As he watched, the girl put her head into the blowhole again, withdrawing quickly as another wave shot through. She was trying to work out how to get inside, too distracted to notice him silently making his way up the rock formation.

  Her head was inside the hole again, reaching in as if she was trying to find purchase.

  "You can't go in during high tide, you twit," he said.

  She scrambled back, reaching down where she had a small pistol, which he recognized. Madame Guerier had given the girl her pistol. Why was everyone supporting this girl? Then again, he'd underestimated her and got a painful bump on his head for it. "If you go in during high tide, you won't come out again."

  The pistol was aimed at him, but he suspected she wouldn't be able to do it—although maim, possibly. He could imagine her taking a shot at his leg and he did not want to deal with an injury right now.

  Bringing his hands up, he said, "Just trying to prevent you from doing something stupid." Havencourt would take her death quite badly and Christian would have an unnecessary mess on his hands. Guildford, for all his dismissal of the girl, might be even more of a problem. Although he seemed cold, you couldn't really be assured that fathers were indifferent to their children's demise. Even Guildford.

  She eyed him suspiciously. "Why should I believe you?"

  "You don't need to. By all means, crawl down in there and see how long you last against the waves. It would only serve as a more leisurely end to this competition for me." He sat down and stretched out his legs, leaning on a rock behind him. "High tide now. It will be well dark by the time low tide comes around."

  The girl looked miffed, realizing there were hours of waiting ahead when she finally came around to believing him.

  "So suspicious," he said as she rose, pistol still in hand. Keeping an eye on him, she walked away and clambered down the rocks to retreat into the jungle. "See you later, then," he called with a smile.

  He had to concede that there was more to her than he'd assumed. There was a ruthless spark evolving. In some sense it was a pity. As jaded as he was, he could appreciate the innocence in her and it really was a shame as it warped into something harder—something required to live here. But what good was innocence if one couldn't survive? Maybe this was the best thing for her.

  Come the dark and low tide, they would both be here, searching to find the clue. Until then, there was nothing to do. Getting up, he found a dry spot of sand and lay down, watching the waves reach up on the beach. His eyes grew heavy.

  *

  Sleeping the afternoon away in the sun was a luxury he didn't have all that often. The sun had shifted across the sands and he was now lying in shade. It wasn't cold, but the sand around him was losing its heat. Rolling onto his back, he looked up at the clear blue sky. It was late, the shadows were long
and the sun was taking on a more golden hue. The sun would set soon.

  His skin ached to touch. Doing nothing always made him wish for a woman, but there was only one coming to mind right now. He thought back on the day’s events, when he'd had her underneath him, just for a moment—before she'd knocked him out. He smiled. There was definitely fight in her. She drew from resources she didn't know she had. It was as if she was blossoming before his eyes, and it only made him want her more.

  He had to spend the tension firing his blood on something, and the hunger gnawing in his belly was as good a reason as any. If he couldn't sate other hungers, there was one he could.

  Getting up, he wiped the sand off him and went into the jungle in search. Going deep, he listened and stalked until he found his prey. A rustle and snuffling nearby homed his attention and he brought his pistol out of his belt and grabbed his powder pouch. The black powder was dry and he filled the flintlock, retrieving a ball and he was ready.

  It took some time to stalk the creature and get the perfect shot, but before long, he had a smaller-sized pig hoisted over his shoulder. He would eat well that night, ready for a take on the day tomorrow—whatever it would bring.

  Returning to the beach, he brought the beast to water and prepared it. It would require a great deal of wood, but there was dry driftwood all over the beach, perfect for burning.

  He set everything up and started the fire, turning over the spear stuck through the beast every so often. He dearly wished he had some rum, but there was none on the island. Again, he sat back and just stared into the fire as the wonderful smell of roasting pig promised delight later.

  The tide slowly began to retreat, but the cave would only be safe when at its lowest. At some point, the girl would be back, and he wasn't surprised when he heard a rustle in the trees behind him. Would she rob him at gun point for the roasting meat wafting delicious smells, probably across most of the island? She was a bit early for low tide, but hunger drove her here.