Thus, he answered, “Salem.”
“Massachusetts?” she asked, smiling. “Salem, Massachusetts? The township of the old witch trials a hundred years ago?”
“Over a hundred years ago,” he corrected.
She laughed, and he fought the urge to enjoy her laughter.
“Well, of course! A pirate…born of witch country. I should have guessed at it,” she giggled.
“Puritan country as well,” he interjected. He was pleased by her enthusiasm—though somewhat astonished.
“Indeed…though I think history will find those accused and hanged for being witches owned the better character.”
“Then you should be comforted to know that I am descended from the condemned…and not those who sat in ignorant judgment,” he confessed.
“Truly?” she asked. He could not keep from smiling, for her face purely radiated with interest. “Are you in earnest?”
“Of course, love,” he assured her. “A pirate I may be…but why would I have reason to deceive you over such a trifle thing?” He wagged a scolding index finger at her. “You, however…you I found aboard a bloody British ship! Your trunk was neatly packed and ushered aboard as well. Thus, how can I believe you are not aligned with the enemy?”
Navarrone watched as she bit her lower lip, pensive. He had her! She would tell him the full breadth of all she knew—at last.
“What will you do to me once you know my thoughts…my suspicions? And they are only that, Captain,” she said. “I only have thoughts and suspicions.”
Navarrone’s eyes narrowed as he considered her a moment. “In truth, I cannot say, love,” he confessed. “For if you are a traitor, I will give you over to Governor Claiborne…just as I will the remaining crew of the Chichester. If you are not traitor…” He shrugged. “I can promise only that I will not kill you.”
She was silent a moment—appeared suddenly awash with anxiety.
“If you determine that I am not a traitor—which I am not—will you give me your word that you will not take me to Governor Claiborne…even if you think it would be in your favor to return me to New Orleans?”
Navarrone was wildly intrigued. The girl did know something.
“I promise,” he agreed.
“Then ask your questions, Captain Navarrone,” Cristabel Albay sighed. “And I will tell you all I am able.”
He was astonished, for it seemed she was truly resigned to speak to him. He watched as she retrieved a hairbrush from the depths of the trunk, sat down on the chaise, and began brushing her hair.
“Why do you not wish to be returned to New Orleans?” he began. “In particular to Governor Claiborne?”
“I-I…” she stammered. She paused, inquisitively frowning at him. “How could you return me to Governor Claiborne? How can you expect to take your captured British ship and sailors to him? You’re a pirate! He would have you hanged!”
She was quick-witted—perhaps too quick-witted. He must proceed with care, else he reveal too much of himself.
“It’s a British ship, love,” he answered. “And seven bloody sailors. Do you really think the governor would refuse such prizes simply because a pirate offers them? We are at war, Cristabel Albay. Or didn’t you know?”
Cristabel considered Navarrone for a moment. She had heard of such things—pirates entering New Orleans without fear of punishment simply because they owned information or goods desired by New Orleans citizens. Her thoughts lingered on the matter of weeks before, when Commodore Daniel Patterson set out aboard the USS Carolina to Barataria Bay, the bay south of New Orleans where Jean Lafitte and his brother Pierre anchored a fleet of privateers and smugglers. The Carolina and six other gun ships attacked Jean Lafitte’s Baratarians, scattering or capturing Lafitte’s men and ships—though Jean Lafitte himself escaped.
“Are you a Baratarian, Captain?” she asked. “Do you sail for Jean Lafitte?”
Captain Navarrone smiled in obvious admiration of her inquiry.
“Ah!” he said. “So you know of Jean Lafitte and Barataria Bay.”
“Of course.”
Captain Navarrone chuckled. “Though I know it may disappoint you, love, I am not a Baratarian…nor do I sail for Jean Lafitte. I make my home port…well, not in Barataria Bay.” He smiled and asked, “Are you allies with Jean Lafitte, Cristabel Albay? Is that why you do not wish to be returned to Governor Claiborne?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said, frowning.
“Then why?” Navarrone asked. “What reason would you have for lingering with pirates when your home is nearly within your grasp?”
Cristabel swallowed the lump of trepidation in her throat. Again she reminded herself that Navarrone the Blue Blade had neither killed nor ravaged her. She must confide in him if she hoped to keep it so.
“M-my mother will know more safety if I am not near to her,” she answered.
“What?” Navarrone asked.
“William Pelletier is a monster! And, I think, a traitor!” she confessed. The words continued to spill from her lips. “My mother married him for obligation’s sake, I am certain, and her life has been miserable because of it…because of me. It is why I agreed to marry Richard, though I do not love him. I do not even like him! Yet William was determined that I should marry him. Richard is his distant cousin…Richard Pelletier. Therefore, I agreed, for my mother’s sake, for it seemed William was always angry with her concerning me…ever arguing, threatening to turn her out. I think it is for the sake that I hear things…notice things. Mother notices them too, yet she stays silent, out of fear of William. But William knows I am not so easily frightened as Mother.”
Navarrone smiled—with sarcasm asked, “Is that so?” He was not surprised the young woman was less afraid of her stepfather than any other woman may be, for did she not stand in perfect composure, dressed only in her undergarments and revealing secrets to a pirate?
“Yes,” Cristabel continued without realizing he was perfectly aware of her daring.
“What did you hear?” he asked then. “What notices did you take?”
Cristabel shrugged. “Words…words one does not normally hear in patriotic conversation. Things such as, ‘King George is a worthy monarch’…names of ships I know are not of our navy. There is a man that visits often, and he is never presented to Mother and me, even when we are in the same room as he arrives. I saw him give William a sealed letter once. William read the letter and then tossed it into the hearth and left the room. He did not know I was hidden behind the draperies, and I rushed to the hearth to retrieve what he had tried to destroy, but the letter was too far in the fire. Yet a part of the seal was there…outside the grate. It was only four words I saw…but…but…”
She paused, and he sensed she feared he would not believe her.
“Go on…four words,” he urged.
“King of the Britains,” she whispered.
Navarrone inhaled a deep breath—exhaled it slowly. “King George’s seal reads, ‘George the Third, by the grace of God, King of the Britains, Defender of the Faith.’”
“Yes.”
“Perhaps it is all a ruse,” Navarrone mumbled. “Perhaps you are involved with treason. Perhaps your story of abduction is simply that…a story. Perhaps you are truly the Chichester captain’s lady and—”
“No! No!” she argued. There was desperation in her countenance.
Certainly Navarrone knew she was a prisoner aboard the Chichester. He had known it at once—even before the Chichester’s surviving crew had confessed it. Still, he had learned the night before that the lovely Cristabel Albay easily took any bait that would champion her character.
“Then tell me…how long were you aboard the Chichester?” Navarrone asked.
“Six days and nights,” she instantly answered.
“And you heard them say they were to take you to England?”
“Yes…to London.”
Navarrone was thoughtful. “And you think your stepfather was behind it?”
Navarrone nodded, for he too understood the power of the sixth sense.
“But why not simply have you murdered?” he asked, speaking his thoughts aloud. “Why not simply kill you? Why send you to England, even if he is loyal to King George, unless…for profit?” He paused, his thoughts too disturbing to share with her.
“Profit?” she asked, frowning. “Profit? I am certain William had to pay the men who took me…the captain of the Chichester. What profit is there in that for him?”
“Slaving is a profitable business, love,” he said. “Bloody Satan pays his slavers well.”
“Slavery?” she asked. Navarrone was touched by her innocence. “But—”
“It’s called white slaving, love…and we’ll leave it at that,” he interrupted. He turned from her, somehow ashamed he had spoken of such an evil to one so lovely. His gaze, however, fell to the painting of Vienne on the cabin wall, and he winced with the pain his memory brought to him.
“Y-you think William meant to have me…sold?” she asked, breathless with astonished disgust.
“I think William Pelletier is a conspirator,” he answered. “I think he knows you are quick to observe and far too clever for your own good and sought to rid himself of you.”
“But I have agreed to marry Richard,” she offered. “He would be rid of me soon enough.”
“No, he would not. You would be out of his house, perhaps. But you would not forget what you have already seen and heard,” he explained.
He heard her moan and turned to see her bury her face in her hands. “Oh, why did Mother marry him? I can make no sense of it.”
“You told me it was to save your family home,” he offered. “To keep you from poverty.”
“That is what she tells me,” Cristabel said, “though I would rather have endured poverty than knowing my mother submits to one such as William Pelletier.”
“What happened to your father?” Navarrone asked, suddenly curious.
“He died,” she answered, tears escaping her eyes.
“How?”
She shook her head. “No one knows how it happened. He was found dead…drowned in the Ashley River near our home.”
Cristabel looked to the pirate captain. He seemed lost in his pensive thinking. Yet she could not keep the question from escaping her lips.
“Do you really think William Pelletier meant to have me sold, Captain?” she asked.
The reality of what might have become of her had Navarrone the Blue Blade and his Merry Wench not come upon the Chichester and the Screaming Witch was grim and ghastly—horrid in its terrifying nature. Had Bully Booth’s crew not succeeded in wholly taking the Chichester, its captain may have taken her to England, there to be sold to what unfathomable end she would not ponder! Yet the Screaming Witch surely would have taken the British ship. Thus, if Navarrone had not intervened, her fate would have been just as heinous. In truth—though she would not show weakness and confess it to him—Cristabel owed Captain Navarrone a greater debt than could ever be repaid. Not simply the debt of her life saved but of her spirit’s rescue as well!
“Yes, love,” he grimly admitted. “I know that someone is white slaving in New Orleans. I just did not know who…until now.”
Cristabel covered her mouth with her hand, for she was certain what little content of breakfast remained in her rum-ravaged stomach would present itself at any moment.
He exhaled a heavy sigh as he studied her a moment. “Where’s the vial of peppermint oil then?” he asked.
With a trembling hand, Cristabel pointed to his desk. The pirate Navarrone retrieved the tiny vial, removing the lid. She watched as he poured several drops onto the back of his hand, licking them off with his tongue. He nodded to her and she held out her hand. He took hold of her fingers and turned her hand to place several drops of the oil on the back of it. Quickly Cristabel licked the oil from her hand in the same manner. At once her stomach began to settle a bit.
“Cheer up, love,” Navarrone said, replacing the vial’s lid and tossing it to land on the chaise next to her. “I could be wrong after all. Your stepfather could be quite innocent in all this, and it is merely someone else at the helm, composing your abduction in hope of acquiring ransom or reward.”
“William Pelletier will not pay a ransom for me,” she reminded him.
Cristabel watched as Navarrone smiled, reached into the pocket of his rather tight-fitting trousers, and produced Richard’s ring. She frowned, confused as she watched him toss it in the air and then catch it as if it were something of significant value beyond that of the obvious.
“Perhaps not,” he said. “But Richard Pelletier might, eh?”
At the thought of Richard, Cristabel’s stomach churned once more.
“Fear not, love,” Navarrone chuckled. “I promised I would not kill you, and I won’t. Furthermore, I will not return you to Governor Claiborne…but tell me why you do not wish to see the governor?”
She had told him everything she could think to tell him. Thus she saw no reason not to answer.
“William watches him…closely,” she said. “He often visits with a man I know to be in Governor Claiborne’s employ.”
“Good enough, love,” he said, stuffing the ring back into his pocket. “I will have James Kelley bring a plate of food to you. Eat slowly, and take your rest. We are three days from Lake Borgne. You should be well recovered by then—ripe for ransom or reward, I would think.”
“You really are a blackguard,” Cristabel said, the sting of disappointment heavy in her bosom.
“I’m a pirate, love,” he reminded, “not an angel.”
He left her then—left her somehow more weak, hopeless, and miserable than she had been when he had come to interrogate her.
“See that she eats, James,” Navarrone mumbled to the boy guarding his cabin door. “Pray tarry awhile in conversation with the lass. Her spirits are low, and your cheerful countenance will do her far more good than my glowering Vulcan’s brow, eh?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” James agreed.
“Good, lad,” Navarrone chuckled. He paused, feigning concern. “But remember, boy…if anyone’s to ravage her, it’s to be me. Do we have an understanding?”
James laughed. “Yes, Cap’n. No ravaging of the pretty prisoner.”
Navarrone nodded. “As you were, James Kelley.”
“Aye, Cap’n.”
The sun was sinking on the horizon. As Navarrone climbed the stairs to the quarterdeck, he felt sympathy for Cristabel Albay. No doubt the lingering effects of the rum would heighten her anxiety and despair over her circumstances. He would stay close to her through the night—watch her—guard the door from within just as he had the night before. He could sense he was on the brink of discovering a nest of traitors and treasonous mercenaries, and it bred desire in him—desire to crush their cowardly conspiring beneath his boot. Cristabel Albay bred desire in him as well—of a different sort, of course. He thought of her hair, the way it seemed to harbor glistening illuminants among its soft, dark tresses. He fancied it was the color of spice—of cloves—and he wondered if it smelled as rich.
“Cap’n!”
Baskerville’s shouting startled Navarrone from his pleasant thoughts of the prisoner in his cabin.
“Aye, Baskerville? What is it?” Navarrone asked, looking to the deck.
“It’s them smaller barrels you were suspicious of, Cap’n,” Baskerville explained. The quartermaster smiled. “You was right. It ain’t just provisions they’re storing.”
As a smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth, Navarrone asked, “Silver? Gold?”
Baskerville nodded. “And far more, sir. Far more!”
As Navarrone returned to the deck, Baskerville said, “And we ain’t got to the crates yet, sir.”
“We intercepted something conspiratorial where the Chichester is concerned, Bas
kerville,” Navarrone said.
“Indeed we did, sir! Indeed we did!”
Chapter Five
“James Kelley!” Cristabel exclaimed in a whisper. “Are you attempting to convince me that your captain is some sort of rogue saint?”
“No, miss,” James said. “I only said he don’t go wenching when we’re in port.”
“He’s a pirate, James,” Cristabel reminded the boy as she offered the remains of her supper to him. “All pirates ever do is plunder, pillage, fairly bathe in liquor, and chase after tavern wenches.”
James shook his head, however. “Now that ain’t fair, miss. That ain’t fair for you to say. I’m a pirate, and I don’t take spirits or chase after women,” he said.
“But Captain Navarrone is infamous for his skill in seducing even the most innocent of women,” she reminded him.
“Yes, miss.”
“Are you telling me, James…that I am perfectly safe in his company?” she asked. “For he ever and always threatens to…to despoil me.”
“I ain’t saying he wouldn’t, miss,” James said. He smiled, a purely mischievous smile. “I’m only saying he don’t go wenching while we’re in port.”
The moment of hope and safety Cristabel had experienced was vanquished.
“None of the crew does,” James added. “Most of the men of our crew, they have families…and they’re loyal to them.”
Cristabel laughed. Was the boy truly so naive as to believe his captain and shipmates were moral, loyal men with untarnished souls?
“It’s true, miss,” James assured her as he quickly devoured the remains of her meal. “They have families, and though the lot of them do swallow a drink or two while we’re in New Orleans, there ain’t no wenching goes on.”
Cristabel quirked one eyebrow in lingering, powerful disbelief. Suddenly, an unsettling thought traveled through her mind. “Captain Navarrone the Blue Blade…he has a family? A wife…children?” For some strange reason, she felt oddly jealous. Likewise she was even more discomfited by his threats and flirtations.
The Pirate Ruse Page 7