The girl was falling behind. She was a strong swimmer—especially for a woman—but Navarrone knew she would not make the Merry Wench without assistance. He stopped his stroke toward the ship, treading water until she reached him.
“Lower the rope ladder!” Navarrone shouted as he saw Baskerville looking over the side of the ship to the water. “Quickly, mate!” Baskerville nodded, and Navarrone knew the rope ladder would be waiting—if he could get the girl to it.
As she approached, he attempted to take hold of her in order to keep her head above water. Stubborn female that she was, however, she began to struggle.
“I’m not about to violate you here in the sea in the midst of battle, woman!” he growled. “I’ll swim you to the ship. But if you determine to keep fighting me, I’ll let the sea have you!”
She ceased her struggling at once, and for the first time he saw true fear in the depth of her violet eyes.
“That’s a good lassie,” he said. “Now, take my belt…here at the back,” he instructed, taking her hand and placing it at his belt. “I’ll swim you the rest of the way.”
Navarrone noted the manner in which the young woman did not simply go slack, allowing him to swim her on his own. She yet kicked her feet and stoked her free arm in rhythm with his. This girl was no dwindling lily. Again he wondered at what reason she had to have been aboard the Chichester. Perhaps she was its captain’s wife. Yet what man would bring his wife aboard a ship bound for war-ridden waters?
Breathless, Navarrone reached up, taking hold of the first rung of the rope ladder. The girl bobbed up beside him, and he frowned a moment. She was winded—but there was something more.
“Here,” he said, awkwardly removing his long knee-length vest. “Cover yourself with this.” He helped her to put her arms through the vest, adding, “Else your health is compromised from the wet and lack of clothing.”
“I have no clothing because you tore it from my body,” she said through chattering teeth.
Navarrone glared at her. “The wetted weight of those bolts of fabric you women deem attire would have taken us both to Davy Jones’s locker. You should be thanking me for allowing you to keep your undergarments and not stripping you to the skin!”
Still she returned his glare with defiance. Navarrone admired her will. He felt a grin tug at the right corner of his mouth.
“Now, unless you want to board my ship in nothing but your white, now gossamer, underclothes…I suggest you secure those vest buttons,” he said.
Cristabel frowned even though, as she clung to the bottom rung of the rope ladder and struggled to fasten the buttons of the pirate’s long vest, she understood why he had stripped her before hurtling them both over the side of the Screaming Witch and into the sea. The weight of her dress would have easily drowned her. Yet she was further suspicious—suspicious of a pirate who would take concern over her modesty. Perchance he was simply trying to avoid chaos among his men. No doubt a woman dressed only in her near-transparent underthings would cause disorderly behavior among the sort of miscreants known to sail pirate vessels.
“Now up the rope with you, love,” Captain Navarrone ordered. “I have plundering to attend to.”
Cristabel endeavored to pull herself up onto the rope ladder. The strength of her arms and legs was spent from swimming, however, and she could not manage it. Furthermore, the pirate’s long, blue brocaded vest was wet and heavy. Again she attempted to pull her body onto the ladder and failed. She gasped when she felt a strong hand at her seat as Captain Navarrone boosted her up.
“Grab hold, girl!” he growled, boosting her seat once more.
His strength indeed assisted her, and she began to climb. Her arms and legs were trembling and weak—heavy. Yet she persevered—even for the group of pirates gazing down at her from the ship’s deck.
“Pull her up, Baskerville!” the pirate captain barked from below her.
“Aye, Cap’n,” a weathered-looking man called, offering a bronzed, knurled hand to Cristabel.
She paused—for the man was a pirate. A pirate! She could hardly fathom how she had come to be climbing up the rope ladder of a ship straight into the hands of pirates. Yet neither could she sort out the events that had found her kidnapped and taken prisoner aboard a British merchant vessel.
“Give me your hand, lassie,” the weathered man said, snapping the fingers of the hand he offered. “Come now. Ain’t a beauty in all the world that wouldn’t rather be ravaged by Captain Navarrone ’stead of ol’ Bully Booth. Come aboard so’s that the cap’n can have his way with you.”
Cristabel gasped—paused in her ascent of the rope. Yet the weathered man only chuckled, as did the men on either side of him.
“Oh, come now, lassie. We was only havin’ a bit of fun with you now,” he chuckled.
Another hand boost to her bottom and Cristabel accepted the hand of the man called Baskerville.
“That’s it, kitten,” Baskerville said as he and another man pulled Cristabel onto the deck. She collapsed at once, too exhausted to stand.
Captain Navarrone stepped over the side and onto the deck then. Cristabel watched, still too weak to move, breathless from the exertion of escaping one pirate ship only to be taken aboard another.
“What say ye, Baskerville?” the pirate captain asked, stripping off his belt, baldric, and wet shirt and depositing them on the deck. He pulled the blue sash from about his head, tossing it aside as well. He was a large man—taller than Cristabel had surmised him to be in her few moments on the deck of the Screaming Witch. His revealed broad shoulders and bronzed, sculpted torso presented a far more intimidating character, and Cristabel was again struck by the knowledge she was in the hands of pirates.
“Those bloody Brits have a hold full of goods, sir…but little ammunition,” Baskerville answered. “Not the usual cargo for a merchant vessel…especially in times of war.”
“No,” Captain Navarrone mumbled as his narrowed gaze fell to Cristabel for a moment. “Not the usual cargo at all.”
“Bully Booth’s men scattered like fleas, Cap’n,” a young boatswain chuckled. The others who had heard him smiled, chuckled, and exchanged triumphant nods.
“As well they should have,” Captain Navarrone said, patting the young man on the back. “The crew of the Merry Wench is not to be trifled with, eh?”
The pirates cheered, and Cristabel watched as Captain Navarrone began to stride toward a plank leading to the deck of the Chichester.
“Lock the woman in my quarters, Baskerville,” he ordered. He paused midplank, turned, and, glaring at his men, added, “Any man who entertains one thought toward her…will feel twenty lashes with the cat. I did not face and run through a pirate the like of Bully Booth to see my prize spoiled.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” the men said in unison.
“Come along, lassie,” Baskerville said, taking Cristabel’s arm and pulling her to her feet.
“Unhand me, blackguard!” Cristabel said, somehow managing to deliver a stinging slap to the pirate’s face.
Baskerville’s grip only tightened at her arm, however—painfully. The intensity of his applied seizure rendered Cristabel unable to offend him further.
“Oh, and, Baskerville,” she heard Captain Navarrone chuckle, “be wary. That one’s got a bit of a she-devil in her.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville grumbled, glaring at Cristabel.
“You’re hurting me!” Cristabel cried as Baskerville pushed her toward the captain’s cabin beneath the quarterdeck.
“The cap’n’s got arrangements to make, lassie,” Baskerville said as he forced her into the cabin. “But don’t you worry your pretty little head none. He’ll be back.” Baskerville’s smile broadened, revealing devious thoughts. “I’m certain Captain Navarrone won’t keep the likes of you waiting.”
“Please, sir,” Cristabel began to beg. Perhaps this man Baskerville would take pity on her—protect her from Captain Navarrone and whatever he planned to do to her.
&nbs
p; “You rest a bit now, lass,” Baskerville said, however. “It won’t be long. The cap’n can plunder a ship faster than any man I ever sailed with.”
With that, Baskerville closed the door behind him. Cristabel heard him bark out an order to a boatswain that the door be barred and guarded.
She was trapped—held prisoner by bloodthirsty pirates! Exhausted, Cristabel crumpled in a heap on the floor of the captain’s cabin. Sobbing wracked her tired, frightened body and soul, hopelessness and despair overwhelming her. She was lost—entirely lost! She would be beaten, seized, despoiled, and finally murdered! Cristabel Albay would find her end in being tortured in the heinous misery inflicted by pirates. She again thought of her mother.
“Pray…help Mother to find happiness,” she whispered through her tears. “I beg thee…never let her gain knowledge of the circumstance of my demise.”
Suddenly a strange, unexpected desperation began to wash over Cristabel. She could not perish—not at the hands of pirates! She could not! She would not! Brushing the tears from her cheeks, she pushed her weary body to kneeling at least. She brushed more tears from her face as she glanced about the cabin in which she was prisoner. She frowned, bewildered by the finery meeting her gaze. The desk and its chair, the blue velvet-cushioned chaise lounge to one side, a painting on the wall, the bedding of the captain’s berth—all were wildly luxurious and of great worth. Yet Cristabel was only momentarily dazzled, for she was indeed in a pirate captain’s cabin, and no pirate captain would linger in his cabin without knowing weapons of defense were within his reach. Though pirate crews that were captained by a man they respected were loyal to their leader, pirates were still pirates, and no captain of such a vessel as the Merry Wench could trust his men entirely. Thus, there must be weaponry at hand.
Hope began to swell in Cristabel’s bosom. Perhaps she could find a pistol, a dagger, something with which to aid in escape—or at least something with which to defend her virtue. She tried to stand, but her legs were still too weak from the exertion of swimming. Still, she was not thwarted and began crawling toward the desk at the far side of the room. She would not forfeit her virtue or her life without a struggle. When the pirate captain, Navarrone the Blue Blade, came for her, she would defend herself—to the death if necessary. She would plunge his own cutlass into his belly, drive his own dagger into his heart, shoot him between the eyes with his own pistol before she allowed him to touch her.
Reaching up, she took hold of the desktop, at last pulling herself to her feet. She smiled as she saw a dagger enclosed in a bejeweled sheath lying on top of the desk. Smiling, she picked up the weapon—drew the sharp blade from its ruby-encrusted scabbard.
Remembering the words Captain Navarrone had uttered a moment before he had hurled them both from the Screaming Witch and into the sea, she whispered, “Oh, but you’ll thank me one day, love,” as she studied the lethal weapon in her hand. “Will I thank you one day, Captain Navarrone?” she questioned the air. She smiled and whispered, “I may indeed, love. I may indeed.”
Chapter Two
Navarrone stood before the Chichester’s few surviving crew members. Bully Booth and his men had well slaughtered the British sailors. Only seven remained. He was angry—angry that Bully Booth had come upon the Chichester before the Merry Wench had found her—angry that his boots were sopping wet for the sake of the swim necessary to save the woman now locked in his cabin—angry at the British sailors for being part of the Empire’s tyranny. Independence from the British Empire had been hard fought for by the United States. Many men died for the sake of it, and now the British were attempting to conquer, or in the least oppress, the fledgling country. For over two years, since June of 1812, battle had been waged between the states and territories of the United States and the bloody British Empire. Navarrone was weary of it.
Navarrone studied the uniforms of the remaining British crew, their bloodied lips and defiant stances.
“You men,” he began, addressing the enemy, “you are fortunate to be alive. The pirate Bully Booth did not intend to spare you. Yet I have.” He glared at the men, pacing back and forth before the line of young British sailors. His eyes narrowed as he closely studied the uniform of one man. “You,” he said, glaring at the man, “you’re first mate. Where’s your captain?”
“Dead, you filthy pirate!” the man growled. Navarrone raised a hand, intent on striking the man for his disrespect and British alliance. He paused, however, for it took courage to stand in defiance of an enemy to which one was forfeit.
“The woman that was aboard your vessel,” Navarrone began, lowering his hand, “the one Bully Booth captured. Was she your captain’s wife?” His instincts whispered that he should not allow the Brits to know he had taken the woman from Bully Booth. Furthermore, he was pleased with his men, for as ever, they displayed solemn faces—revealed nothing to the Brits that might alert them to their captain’s trickery.
“No,” the Chichester’s first mate admitted.
“Why was she sailing with you?” Navarrone asked.
“What will the pirate do with her?” the first mate bravely inquired.
Again Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. “Bully Booth is merciless,” he answered. “He will keep no prisoner alive…not for long anyway. Tell me why she was aboard an Empire’s merchant vessel, and I may spare your lives. Was she of some value…other than the obvious, that is? Speak, and with respect…or you will share the same fate as your dead brother sailors.”
The first mate swallowed. Navarrone knew the man was considering whether to tell the truth.
“I warn you, Brit. I will know if you are lying,” he growled.
The first mate of the captured Chichester sighed—slightly shook his head. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I don’t know why she was aboard. But I do know she was not willingly aboard.”
Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. “Not willingly aboard? Do you mean she was forced aboard?”
“Aye,” the man answered. “We weren’t told nothing about why she was with us. The captain only told us we weren’t to…to touch her. A small ship brought her to us in the dead of night.”
“Did she tell you anything? Speak to you of why she was on the Chichester?” Navarrone asked.
The first mate shook his head once more. “No. Seems to me she didn’t know why herself.”
Navarrone glanced to Baskerville. Baskerville nodded; he too understood that there was something inexplicably strange about the presence of the woman they had found aboard the Chichester.
“Do you mean to hang us?” a British boatswain asked.
Navarrone looked to the lad—judged him to be no more than seventeen.
He did not answer the boy—simply spoke to his own men instead. “Empty the hold of anything of value,” Navarrone ordered. “Gather any logs, maps, or parchments from the captain’s cabin.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville agreed.
“Have Fergus choose ample men to sail the Chichester back to New Orleans,” Navarrone said. He paused, glaring at the line of British sailors. “If they want to live, they will man their posts…and the governor will decide their sentence when we arrive.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville said with a nod.
“Give the orders, Baskerville,” Navarrone ordered.
“Aye, Cap’n.” Baskerville inhaled a deep breath then and began to bark out orders. “You heard the cap’n, men! Empty the hold! Haul that British booty to the Merry Wench! Quick as you can, lads. We sail for New Orleans for feasting and riotous entertainment!”
The men cheered, and Navarrone had to fight to keep a smile from breaking over his face. He well liked the sounds of his men when they were merry; he well liked besting the British. Yet as he crossed the plank to the deck of the Wench, his thoughts turned somber once more. It was not logical, the girl being aboard the Chichester—and unwillingly. His sixth sense told him there was more to her presence, something of worth about her—or about something she possessed. Perhaps she owned
a knowledge the Brits had deemed valuable.
Whatever the reason for her presence, Navarrone would discover it—use it to his advantage if he could. He remembered the look of defiance on her face, even as Bully Booth held her in threatening her virtue and life. Her courage was admirable. Yet it revealed a stubborn nature—a strength that, though estimable, could be unpredictable and therefore dangerous. He would have to watch her carefully, read her expressions and movements if he hoped to extract information from her. Still, if she did hold secret some valuable or precious information, Navarrone the Blue Blade would reap it from her.
“Cap’n,” Fergus said as Navarrone stepped onto the deck of the Merry Wench.
Navarrone turned to see Fergus deftly crossing the plank toward him.
Lowering his voice, Fergus whispered, “There’s a trunk of women’s necessities in the Chichester’s cap’n’s cabin.” Fergus—the Merry Wench’s first mate—was a man to be trusted. Navarrone ever admired his quick wit and ability to solve riddles. “Might it belong to the lady?”
“Most likely, Fergus,” Navarrone mumbled.
“Should we bring it aboard the Wench, Cap’n?” Fergus inquired. “Allow the lady some dry clothes?”
Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. “Bring the trunk aboard…but do not take it to the woman,” he answered. “No one is to touch its contents until I have seen to them first.”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Fergus said.
“In fact…have it brought to me at once,” Navarrone said. “There is something strange in all this. It unsettles me somehow. Best we root out whatever knowledge we can before we reach New Orleans.”
The Pirate Ruse Page 2