The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Perhaps the contents of the woman’s trunk would reveal her purpose aboard the enemy’s vessel—or in least her identity. Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. Yes, something was greatly amiss where the Chichester and its woman passenger were concerned.

  *

  Cristabel glanced about the cabin. She held the dagger at her back, yet she wished for some alternate weapon to aid her. She saw none easily accessible, however, and knew the captain of the Merry Wench would return soon. She must prepare, convince herself that death may be at her door yet likewise persuade herself that she could survive—even triumph. Her eyes fell to the captain’s berth, strewn with linens and clothing. She considered snatching up one of the shirts she saw abandoned there in order to rid herself of the weight of the sopping brocaded vest. She knew the vest would inhibit her movements, yet she feared there was not time for such considerations.

  Cristabel glanced up then. She was instantly intrigued by the large painting on the wall near the cabin door—a portrait of a beautiful raven-haired woman. The eyes of the woman in the portrait were as blue as the sky, her lips as crimson as summer cherries. She wore a dress of peacock blue and an expression of contentment. She was, by far, one of the most beautiful women Cristabel had ever seen. She fleetingly wondered if the portrait had been painted from the artist’s imagination or from the sitting of a living woman. The woman bore a small, straight nose, high, well-defined cheekbones, and a dark beauty mark at the crest of her right cheek beneath the corner of her eye.

  Glancing back to the captain’s desk, Cristabel realized that the portrait was placed so that any moment the captain was at his desk or in his berth—or even perhaps reclining on the nearby chaise—the view before him would ever be the portrait of the striking woman.

  “A lover?” Cristabel inquired of the air. “Only such a rare beauty could be your equal, I suppose,” she whispered. For it was true: bloodthirsty pirate or not, Captain Navarrone was fully as handsome as the tales told of him claimed. Yet the devil often masked evil with beauty, and though Cristabel Albay had never seen a more handsome and alluring man, she was not so easily swayed to think good of him as some women had been. The stories of the pirate Navarrone’s conquests of women were many—and wildly scandalous! In Charleston it was rumored he had seduced the governor’s wife. Fair half the pirate wenches in New Orleans claimed to have fallen prey to his charms. It seemed the entire coast of the Gulf told tales of Captain Navarrone the Blue Blade and his carnal escapades.

  Cristabel wrinkled her nose, disgusted with the notion of pirates and their riotous, wanton ways. She swallowed a lump of fear that rose in her throat, for only in that moment did the true desperation of her circumstances seep into her thoughts. When she had been bound, gagged, and taken—hauled aboard a British ship with no knowledge of the reason, knowing she was the only woman on board—indeed she had known fear, sheer terror! However, when the Chichester had been attacked by pirates—by Captain Bully Booth and the crew of the Screaming Witch—her terror had increased one hundredfold. As the pirate Navarrone was known for his exploits with women, so the pirate Bully Booth was known for his lack of mercy—his methods of torture and murder.

  Thus (though only silently admitted), Cristabel had known an odd sense of hope when Captain Navarrone had appeared on the deck of the Screaming Witch to spar for her. Her good sense told her that a pirate was a pirate—whether heinous to look upon as was Bully Booth or handsome as was Captain Navarrone. Yet in the depths of her soul somewhere, a whisper breathed to her thoughts that fortune had smiled upon her in delivering her into the pirate Navarrone’s hands.

  Cristabel gasped—startled from her thoughts as the cabin door burst open to reveal a looming, and obviously perturbed, Captain Navarrone. As he tossed his belt, baldric, and cutlass to the floor, she could not help but take two steps backward—even though she had previously determined to appear courageous when he returned. Yet he was such an imposing figure! His dark, jaw-length hair hung wet and still dripping, and he raked a strong hand through it from his forehead, back over the top of his head. His well-groomed mustache and goatee were also darkened from the moisture still clinging to his whiskers. His massive form was sailor-bronzed, the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and torso rigid and tensed. The simmering anger in his dark eyes pierced her resolve at bravery like unto some medieval knight’s broadsword, and she again swallowed the trepidation in her throat.

  As he aggressed toward her, Cristabel heard the sloshing of his sea-saturated boots—saw the determination in his countenance—and it unsettled her far more than she had hoped. Acting too quickly, for he approached with the power and rage of a hurricane, Cristabel drew the dagger, wielding it at the advancing pirate. He did not even slow his gait—simply reached out, taking hold of her wrist in such a vise’s grip that her hand involuntarily opened, releasing the dagger. She watched in astonished horror as the weapon clattered to the cabin floor.

  “Why were you aboard the Chichester, woman?” the pirate Navarrone growled. “Who are you? Are you some treasonous wench conspiring with the bloody Brits?”

  “No!” Cristabel managed. She was angry that he should so accuse her. “I am no traitor!”

  “No traitor to whom? To the States…or to the crown?” he bellowed.

  “I was born in South Carolina, sir!” Cristabel answered through gritted teeth. “I am no traitor…though I do not know what right a pirate has to question my loyalty.”

  “South Carolina, is it?” he asked, releasing her hand. “Then why were you sailing with the British?”

  “I was taken,” Cristabel hatefully informed him, “stripped from my stepfather’s home in New Orleans in the dead of night…bound, gagged, and dragged aboard a small ship, which sailed me into the dark and finally to the Chichester.”

  She watched as the pirate’s eyes narrowed. “Why?” he asked. “Who are you that you should be taken by the British?”

  “No one, I assure you,” she told him. She could feel the emotions of fear and confusion torrid within her. Yet she struggled to keep them hidden. She could not let this fierce pirate see her weakness.

  She watched as he pulled a nearby chair to position in front of her. He took his seat in it and began struggling to remove his sopping boots.

  “Did they mean to ransom you? Who is your father? ” he asked.

  “I do not know…and my father is dead,” she answered curtly.

  She heard him growl as he stood and began unlacing the ties at the waist of his trousers.

  “Then who is your stepfather, wench? The one with the house in New Orleans from which you were taken?” he grumbled. He paused in untying the laces at his waist and glanced up to her. A smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth, and he said, “Make your choice, girl. Avert your gaze and trust that I am otherwise occupied with changing these wet trousers for dry and will not descend upon you…or do not trust and offer yourself a lesson in pirate anatomy.”

  Understanding his implication, Cristabel gasped, covering her eyes with both hands.

  “Who is your stepfather?” he repeated.

  “William Pelletier,” she answered, still covering her eyes.

  “A wealthy man?”

  “A terrible man,” she said.

  “I did not inquire of his character, woman,” the pirate growled. “Is he a man of wealth or position in government? Perhaps both?”

  “Both,” she answered.

  “Then the British meant to ransom you, no doubt. And you may uncover the innocence of your eyes, love.”

  Tentatively, Cristabel lowered her hands and opened her eyes. The pirate Navarrone the Blue Blade was once again somewhat modest. She watched a moment as he tied the lacings at the waist of a pair of black trousers, produced another pair of boots from beneath his berth, and sat down on the chair before her to pull them on.

  “William Pelletier would not pay a ransom,” she said. “Not for anyone.”

  “Is your mother still livi
ng?” the pirate asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then he would pay it.”

  “You do not know him,” Cristabel assured him. “He would be glad to see me gone.” She caught herself only a moment before she might have confessed to the pirate that the thought occurred to her that her loathsome stepfather, William Pelletier, might indeed be the composer of her abduction.

  She watched as he tugged on the long black boots, folding over their cuffs below his knees.

  “You’re keeping secrets, love,” he said, rising to his full height. He raked a hand through his hair once more. Several lengths of hair cropped shorter than the rest tumbled over his forehead to linger over his eyes, resting on his cheekbones. Cristabel noticed then not only the well-groomed condition of his mustache and goatee—the perfectly trimmed triangle of whiskers below his lower lip that met with those at his chin—but also the angled grooming of his side whiskers—the manner in which they bordered his face before each ear to angle to each midcheek. She frowned, thinking surely not all pirates were so well kempt.

  “Keeping secrets, love,” he repeated.

  “I-I have told you all I know,” she said, still distracted by his unusually attractive and striking appearance.

  “Do you truly expect me to believe that you, the stepdaughter of a wealthy New Orleans politician, were abducted in the dark of night, sailed to an enemy British ship, and put aboard for no reason you can fathom?”

  “It is the truth,” she said. Oh, Cristabel Albay had suspicions as to why she had been taken—or in the very least suspicions of who was behind her abduction. Yet she would not share them with a pirate! “I do not own the suspicious nature of a pirate, Captain,” she told him. “I have told you all I know.”

  Navarrone grinned. “No, you haven’t,” he said.

  He turned and strode toward the cabin door. Opening it, he called to a crew member, who handed him some white garments. He closed the door and returned to her.

  “There,” he said, tossing the garments to his berth. Cristabel recognized the clothing as her own—a chemise, corset, and pantaloons. “Strip yourself of that wet clothing.”

  “No dress?” she inquired.

  “No,” he answered. “I will allow you a measure of dry clothing so that you do not contract disease and die before I discover exactly why you were aboard the Chichester, consorting with the enemy.”

  “I was not consorting with the enemy!” Cristabel defended.

  “However,” Captain Navarrone continued with a scolding glare, “you will not be allowed to properly attire yourself until I am satisfied…either with the information you have finally revealed or…” He paused, studying her from head to toe with a wanton expression, “Until I have had my fill of perusing your appearance while so immodestly garbed.”

  Navarrone chuckled at the astonished expression of indignation on the girl’s face. He fancied she blushed, and he was further amused. Allowing her to attire in only her undergarments would keep her pliable and compliant, until he could determine what she was keeping secret concerning the circumstances that found her aboard a British merchant vessel. Still, he found her indignant expression wildly entertaining. He would have to remember to provoke it again.

  “You…you blackguard!” she growled at him.

  Navarrone chuckled. “I am a pirate, love,” he said. “Did you expect me to be a gentleman?”

  She was furious, entirely overcome with indignation. It was again amusing. However, he could not be distracted, for he somehow knew the girl’s presence on the Chichester was significant. He snatched a previously discarded shirt from his berth and pulled it on over his head, neglecting to tie the laces at his chest.

  Cristabel watched as the pirate Navarrone gathered a long red sash from the heap of clothes on his berth, positioned its middle at his forehead, and secured it at the back of his head. Picking up the dagger she had dropped, he retrieved its sheath from his desk, securing both at his waist in the back of his trousers. He took a baldric down from a hook on the wall and secured it over one shoulder. He retrieved a belt he had sometime previously discarded to the chaise and fastened it at his waist. At last, he drew his cutlass from the sopping belt on the floor and secured it at his hip.

  An intimidating presence indeed was the freshly garbed, well-groomed pirate Navarrone. Still, Cristabel maintained an air of defiance. He could not know how truly weak and vulnerable she felt.

  “Change your garments, girl,” he ordered. “We set sail for New Orleans.”

  “We are returning?” she gasped. At once she was horrified—confused by the fact that she was nearly as afraid of returning to New Orleans as she was to be in the company of pirates.

  “The surviving crew of the Chichester must atone,” he growled. “Furthermore, there is something you’re hiding, love…and I intend to discover it. Thus, since your part in this event began in New Orleans, then to New Orleans we will sail.”

  “You plan to simply sail into New Orleans? Pirates?” she scoffed.

  Captain Navarrone smiled, however. “It’s New Orleans, love…and we’re at war with the British. Pirates come and go nearly as they please. Perchance you have even brushed shoulders with Jean Lafitte himself while strolling past Saint Louis Cathedral or the Cabildo in the Place d’Armes. Besides, I have a captured British ship in tow, its seven surviving crew members as prisoners, and the lovely daughter of a wealthy New Orleans politician…whom I saved from certain despoilment and death. There will be vast rewards and commendations, no doubt.”

  “Stepdaughter of a wealthy New Orleans politician,” she corrected. “And I assure you, he will pay no ransom. Moreover, you are still a pirate. They will hang you.” She frowned, mumbling, “And I am certain I would have remembered brushing shoulders with Jean Lafitte.”

  Captain Navarrone chuckled, and Cristabel was intrigued that she had amused him. Perhaps her wit could work to her advantage somehow.

  “Now,” he began, “I have told you my plans. Therefore, reveal to me what you know about your abduction and placement aboard the Chichester. If you do, perhaps you will be returned to your stepfather’s home as virginally unspoiled as you left it.”

  His threat reduced her confidence once more, and she stepped back from him.

  “I have told you everything I know of a surety,” she said. “I was taken and put aboard an enemy vessel. They would tell me nothing. That is all I can tell you.”

  The pirate’s eyes narrowed. “All you can tell me…or all you will tell me?” he growled, striding toward her.

  “P-perhaps I am mistaken in thinking my stepfather will not pay a ransom,” she said, stepping further back from him. She had been too brazen in her defiance of the pirate. Suddenly she thought that if he believed William Pelletier would indeed ransom her, then perhaps Navarrone the Blue Blade would not ravage her. “Perhaps he will ransom me…for my mother’s sake…if I am unharmed.”

  Captain Navarrone’s chest rose to its full breadth as he inhaled deeply. His eyes narrowed; he studied her for a moment.

  “You’re still keeping secrets,” he said. “Yet I will allow you a measure of time to consider your situation. Cooperate with me; tell me all you know of the British ship Chichester, of your suspicions where your stepfather is concerned—for I know you own them. It is obvious. Thus, reveal your full knowledge to me—as well as a sampling of your feminine charms perhaps, as thanks for my rescuing you from the appetites of Bully Booth—and I may return you to New Orleans…essentially unscathed.”

  “I have told you everything I know,” Cristabel insisted.

  He was upon her at once, her chin gripped firm in his hand.

  “No! You have not!” he roared. His eyes flamed with fury, his teeth clenched tight. “Do not lie to me again, love. Do not lie to me again.”

  Even for the discomfort caused by his strong hand at her face, Cristabel quickly reached around him to where the dagger lay sheathed at his back. Drawing it quickly, she gasped when his free hand deftly to
ok hold of her wrist, causing her to drop the dagger once more.

  “And pray,” he growled, “cease in trying to best me. If you persist…it will not go well for you.” With one final glare and a slight push, he released her. He retrieved the dagger, returning it to its scabbard at his back. “Now change your clothes, girl. I’ll not have you dropping dead of pneumonia before my purposes in rescuing you are satisfied…all of them,” he growled at her, turning and striding toward the cabin door. “Baskerville!” he shouted as he opened the door.

  “Yes, Cap’n?” the quartermaster asked, nodding as he appeared in the doorway.

  “Keep the wench guarded,” Navarrone ordered. “No food or drink until I give the order.”

  “Yes, Cap’n,” Baskerville said. “James Kelley!” he shouted.

  Captain Navarrone left the cabin. Cristabel heard his heavy footsteps ascend to the quarterdeck overhead.

  “Aye, Mister Baskerville?” a young man said, appearing behind the quatermaster.

  “Cap’n wants his cabin door guarded, lad,” Baskerville instructed. “You’re to keep the woman inside. All right, boy?”

  “Aye, Mister Baskerville,” the young man said. The boy was small, blond. Cristabel thought he could not be more than fourteen. She thought it sad that his life was in ruins. After all, he was so youthful—and already mixed in with pirates.

  “Enjoy yourself, lassie,” Baskerville said to Cristabel. “At least yar not lingering in the likes of Bully Booth’s cabin.” He closed the door then, and she heard him give the boy named James Kelley further instructions.

  Cristabel was frightened—indeed, she was terrified! However, instead of allowing fear to conquer her, she determined to let indignation and hope be her allies.

  “Bloody pirate,” she grumbled as she stripped off her boots and stockings. Angrily she threw one sopping boot at the door. Yet the boy guarding her did not even glance back through the small window in the door to look at her. “Arrogant blackguard!”