Still, she felt herself blush under his scrutiny. She had lain with him and it had been a revelation. It was also an incredibly stupid thing to do. She could have a child in her belly this very minute, and she'd threatened her future by her actions. She wondered how she should feel, in the past so concerned what people would think of her, that they would determine she was only good for what people could use her for. But she found she didn’t care now. Her value wasn’t wrapped up in people looking down at her, or her not being good enough for them. She was good enough. She had proven it without a doubt. And she had given of herself to a man, and had enjoyed it—immensely. Admittedly, it might not have been the brightest thing to do, but she still couldn't bring herself to regret it. It had been a risk, though—one she could not repeat.
Drawing her knees tightly to her, she tried to dismiss the sweet memories. He probably hated her now, and wouldn't stop being a threat. He'd said so himself: he wouldn't stop trying to dislodge her, to take her place and the town. She turned her gaze away and looked back on the island where they had roamed, where she had experienced hardship and compromise, not to mention pleasure with a very confounding pirate.
The dinghy arrived at the ship and she climbed up the rope ladder. Lieutenant Havencourt was there, looking down. "Congratulations," he said. "I saw you through the spyglass, waving the flag. Couldn't quite believe it."
"You shouldn't have underestimated me."
"A mistake I won't make again," he said, taking her hand as she climbed over the deck railing. "Let's set sail," he said as men were pulling the dinghy up. "Pull the anchor and raise sail," he ordered the men.
Christian walked past her, down toward the aft of the ship, where he stood, leaning against the railing at the back. His expression was tight and she expected he was smarting from the loss of the challenge. Swallowing, she turned her attention back to Lieutenant Havencourt and smiled.
*
"So you won," Guildford said as she walked into his house, followed by Lieutenant Havencourt, Madame Guerier and Tuber. Madame Guerier had been waiting down at the docks when they’d sailed in, awaiting news. She gasped with delight when the lieutenant told her of Clara's victory.
"I did," Clara confirmed, trying to sound like it had been the most inevitable of conclusions.
Guildford was dressed in an oriental-looking silk dressing gown, but it didn't look the least bit feminine on him. His dark hair curled, hanging to his shoulders as he looked at her. Her own eyes looking back at her—the one thing that made it impossible to refute that the man was her father. "Well, then," he said. "When I die, the town is yours."
She wanted to ask what that meant, but suspected he might give her a disgusted look if she asked. She also wanted to know when that would happen as she could see the thinness in his face and dark circles under his eyes, but it wasn't something she could enquire. It would sound too callous and mercenary, even if she had legitimate reasons to know how much time she had to prepare herself for the task ahead.
"I will have the man of business prepare my will. Until such time, you have a lot to learn, girl. You best spend a great deal of time in Tuber's company," he said, giving her a pointed look.
Only if he acquaints himself with a bathtub, she wanted to challenge, but kept her mouth shut, suspecting her father was not a man to tolerate belligerence. It was pure belligerence, because she knew she needed to learn everything she could to have the remotest chance of taking charge of this town. She was starting with very little knowledge of the piracy business. Tuber would hopefully be there once she had to take responsibility, unless he sought to retire.
Guildford's eyes didn't leave her, his scrutiny making her nervous—a feeling she couldn't escape anytime he was near, but he shifted away and started speaking to Tuber about his stores.
Clara moved to the window, looking for a ship sailing away. Christian had said he'd sail if he lost and he might be gone already. A frown crossed her brow, but she wiped it away. It might be a long time until she'd see him again, which might not be a bad thing. His presence would only remind her of the things they'd done and the incredible and compelling headiness of what they could do together. She could not afford to fall under his spell, suspecting such a thing would be very powerful.
She needed to focus on the things she had to learn, not be distracted by his glowing skin and how profoundly she'd wanted him in the little jungle glade they'd found themselves in. That whole episode belonged back on that island and that was where it had to stay.
Feeling heavy, she looked down into the light green waters. There was all manner of sea life down there. She could see fish swimming and spiny creatures lying on the sea bed. The water was so clear it looked deceptively close, showing every rock, coral and sand undulation down there.
"You must be certain you are prepared to take this on," her father said at her side, surprising her.
"I am."
"This cannot be something you can do by halves. You must be certain with everything, or they will find weakness in you and prey on it. This is not a town that condones weakness."
"I will make this work. I have nowhere else to go. There is nothing else. I have to make this work." It was a sad truth she'd been hiding from herself, not wanting to acknowledge it until she was in a position where she didn't have to head out into the world to force a place for herself.
He considered her for a moment.
"You didn't think I would win," she said and looked him in the eye.
"I knew there was a possibility." This was news to her.
"Did you kill my mother?" she asked, coming right out with the question that had been preying on her mind since the moment she'd arrived here. Disturbingly, he smiled—apparently not surprised by the question.
"No," he finally said and Clara blinked, both surprised and pleased by the answer. Not like it mattered, but she didn't want her birth to be a consequence of hate. Because he did seem to have a low opinion of her mother. And still this admission did little to lessen how intimidating he was. It made her wonder yet again if she had what it took to run this town. If she had to be as intimidating as he was, she would struggle.
"You hated her," she said. All comments about their relationship indicated as much.
He raised his eyebrows as if the direction of this conversation was useless. It wasn't useless to her. These two people, neither of which she knew well, were her parents, her origin.
"She was a spiteful and sometimes irrational woman. And yes, there were times when I would happily have murdered her." A small, tight smile formed his lips, his eyes far away, as though he was remembering things long in the past. Then he hardened again. "I am not a lovable man. Never make the assumption that I am. I've never been able to love or care for you like a father should. That is never going to change. There were times when I would have killed her on sight, but there was also a time when things could have been different. Maybe if your mother had lived and I did not murder her out of sheer irritation, because the woman got under my skin like nothing else and made me want to do violence, we could have gotten past the strife between us. I might be a different man than the one you see today, but she didn't and whatever softening influence she could have had on me in the course of time never came to pass." He walked away, uninterested in extending this conversation, and Clara suspected that was as much as she'd ever get him to talk about her mother, but it did address some of the questions burning in her mind.
It was a little sad to think that her mother could have prevented the hardness that encompassed him, and he was aware of it, even if their relationship sounded contentious most of the time.
Her thoughts traveled to Christian, and the ruthless streak in him—but there was also playfulness and downright sweetness in him—perhaps in very measured amounts—and she suspected he showed very few people that side of himself. Loss and hardship might make him bitter too, killing that part of him that was other than aggression and ruthlessness. It would be a shame if that happened.
A feeling of guilt stole across her. She'd taken away what he wanted and he was likely very bitter at the moment, regretting any kindness he'd shown her, swearing that doing so had lost him this competition and his heart's desire—this town. She had to harden her heart. She couldn't very well hand the town over to him out of soft-heartedness; she would sink and as far as she could see, there was no bottom to how far.
Chapter 30:
* * *
Christian wasn't going to slink away. Sure, losing the challenge was a blow to his pride, or at least to how other people perceived him, but he wouldn’t tolerate any signs of disrespect. Running away now might seem appealing, but he refused to slink away with his tail between his legs like Wainsess had.
He knew he'd won, and he was playing a longer game. That was all that mattered and even Talbot's disgusted looks had no impact on him, although he was more concerned about Guildford's opinion. This loss was a blow to his reputation—there was no doubt about that. He'd lost to a girl, so this sacrifice had some real consequences. He still didn't know if he'd done the right thing, but in the heat of the moment, he hadn't been prepared to see her go.
Grabbing the bottle of rum, he filled the glasses of his crewmen, who really were taking this loss harder than he was. Whereas the problem he faced now was what to do with the girl. He wanted her back—wanted that they'd had on the island. He itched to chase her, to pin her down—to take her. That was really the part he ached for.
The tavern grew silent, which signified that something had happened. Tuber was entering up on the mezzanine platform, then Havencourt and her. His chest tightened seeing her—a reaction he didn't want, but it was there nonetheless.
"We have a winner," Tuber yelled so the whole tavern heard. "This is the new heir of Tortuga Bay." Clara stepped forward.
This wasn't news to anyone, but a murmur spread across the space as the assembled parties discussed the implications. This announcement meant that Guildford had accepted the outcome, but people saw her as weak and while winning this challenge had made people more wary of her, they still saw her as easy pickings. Whoresons like Talbot would be scheming against her and Christian wondered if the girl knew what she was taking on.
Her eyes scanned the crowd and settled on him. He felt the energy flow between them and then she frowned. She frowned—displeased to see him there. Dread crawled across his skin. By her expression, he could tell that she was not set to rekindle what they'd experienced together. Christian wanted to punch something, feeling both rejected and disappointed. He'd hoped for more from her. He'd sacrificed his future for her.
Walking down the stairs, she made her way to the main area. Havencourt following her like a dog, ready to whip his sword out at anyone who approached her. If Havencourt served as her constant guard, she might have a chance. She certainly seemed to have inspired him to something other than his incessant sulking.
Madame Guerier came in behind them, taking the stairs down, fully aware that most eyes followed her. She was a rare sight in the tavern, preferring the refinement of her own establishment. They all took a drink from the barman and drank in each other's company.
This was quite a coup for the more refined elements of this town. The madam, the naval man and the convent girl, set to run this town soon enough, and Christian wondered what changes that would entail.
Havencourt was engaging in conversation and Clara drifted Christian’s way. She wanted to speak; he could tell.
"I'm surprised to see you here," she said. "I would have thought you'd gone."
"Do you not want me here?" he teased, but there was more hurt underneath than he let show. A frown crossed her eyebrow and he smiled. "You use me and discard me, then?" She blushed severely and Christian mentally shook his head. "You are never going to run this town if you blush at the drop of a hat."
"I don't," she started, defending the indefensible. "And I never used you. I won this competition outright."
He itched to inform her of the true situation, but knew in his gut it would be the wrong thing to do. "Please. You'd be a shriveled shell of a person if I hadn't fed you through the entire challenge."
"I would have managed."
"Eating bananas and citrus?" he snorted.
"I still got to the top of that mountain before you. I got most of the clues before you. You only stayed in the game because you forced me to relinquish them." Pride and indignity flared up along his insides, but he had to let it pass. "And you tied me up."
"You seduced me."
She gasped with shock and dismay, looking around to see if anyone had heard him. She leaned in closer, "I did not seduce you. You were the one kissing me every five minutes," she said through gritted teeth. Actually, he itched to right now—itched to grab her and kiss her there in front of everyone, but it would probably backfire.
"You did everything you could to pick a fight with me," he accused, watching the lightning of anger storm through her eyes. Oh, how he loved this.
Indignity colored her cheeks. "I did no such thing," she declared and turned on her heel, walking back to Havencourt and Madame Guerier with her back ramrod straight. Alright, that might not have gone entirely to plan. As for wooing her, he was doing a terrible job. He just couldn't help needling her, adoring how she bristled, turned red and attacked. Stuck in this town long enough, she’d probably dive for him one day, using her little fists to pummel him. Breathing in, every part of him tightened. Strong desire ran through his blood, drugging every part of him—but unusually, he was in a position where he didn't quite know how to proceed. Things were rarely this complicated. Then again, his desire was never this strong.
As he watched, Clara approached Madame Guerier, anger still staining her cheeks. Havencourt ran his hand down Clara's arm, eyeing Christian meaningfully—staking his claim. In no uncertain terms had the man just told Christian, through a mere look, that Clara was his and Christian needed to stay away.
Blotches colored Christian's cheeks now—anger, leaving him with no breathing room. With total lack of dignity, he wanted to shout his claim to the assembled party, like a child robbed of a toy. He had been with her, repeatedly. She had given herself to him and he had sacrificed this town for her, and she would choose him again. He just wasn't sure how to go about making that happen.
He couldn't stay, or he really would do something foolish. Leaving the tavern, he took a deep breath in the cooler night air, trying to gather his wits to combat the raging jealousy firing every part of him—another emotion he didn't really know how to deal with. Sure, he was envious of Guildford and had worked hard to move toward gaining what the man had, but with her it was just pure raging jealousy, devoid of rational thought. What the hell had he gotten himself into? This felt like utter insanity, and now he was stuck in a situation where she would choose her suitor. Havencourt was staking a claim, obviously ready to make a move. Christian couldn't bear it.
He returned to his ship, but his mind wouldn't give him peace. He had to calm down—had to think rationally and he knew full well he wasn't capable of that until he cleared this emotional reaction from his mind.
There was no question: he had to win her, unable to bear watching her with Havencourt. The man was old—well, older, a good fifteen years her senior, probably twenty. And he didn't want to be here—surely she saw that. Christian, on the other hand, was made to run this town. He understood piracy. Havencourt detested it.
*
The sun was gentle the next day and the breeze coming off the sea was perfect, but it didn't soothe today. Christian paced around the deck while his crew went about maintaining the ship, scrubbing the deck, testing ropes, sewing tears in sails. He'd done all these tasks in his time and they were necessary.
"Shouldn't we sail soon, captain?" his boatswain asked. They were ready to go, Christian just couldn't make himself leave.
"Not yet," he said and the older man left him with a grumble. He should be sailing; he should be out chasing ships, lifting booty, making money, but he
would also be leaving her behind and right now he couldn't. Everything in him strained against it.
He needed to woo her. How? He'd never wooed anything—didn't even know how. He had so much more to offer her than Havencourt. She had to see that. Problem was, Havencourt had all those morals and righteous indignity, and that appealed to her. But then she loved the chase, too—she loved the adventure. He'd seen it himself. Havencourt would stifle that in her. She was just blossoming and Havencourt would beat that down—intent on making her a lady, devoid of passion and burning intensity.
Disturbingly, he was more concerned about losing her than losing the town. So easily had he given up everything he’d wanted, because apparently he had a new desire now, and it itched along his skin, making him unable to stand still. His body ached for her. She filled his senses even now, having reduced him to this mess. He dreamt of her and he spoke to her, fighting with her even in his mind—challenging her and imagining her response.
What the hell was he going to do? This was a mess and he was out of his depth. How did one woo a girl? Flowers? An invitation to a stroll? He tried to think what he could do to make and establish contact with her. Havencourt was with her every day, no doubt dropping suggestions in her ear all day long. Care for some wine, my dear? Christian's blood boiled. He could never compete with Havencourt's manners. Shall I hold that parasol for you? This was ridiculous.
The boatswain returned. "We should sail. What are we sitting around here for? We're damned pirates."
Christian groaned. The boatswain was right. This was an utter waste of time. They were pirates and they took what they wanted. He was a pirate, damn it. He took what he wanted.
He smiled. "Prepare to sail, but let's pull into dock first. I need to retrieve something that's mine."
*
Christian strode through Madame Guerier's, his pistols drawn. Women and men scurried out of his way, knowing a raiding party when they saw one. He might not be able to take Havencourt with a sword, but he was an excellent shot. The women were screaming.
A Pirate's Ruse Page 18