“And you believe the woman my friend William was seeking was taken from New Orleans for this purpose?” Claiborne inquired.
“I think it very likely.”
Claiborne sighed. “As I said, take your rest, Navarrone, and then root out these traitors among us.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Now see to your men.”
“Thank you, Governor,” Navarrone said as he struck hands with Governor Claiborne.
“Thank you, Captain Navarrone,” Governor Claiborne said. “I have never fully approved of the concept of issuing Letters of Marque…but in your case, I am glad of it.”
Navarrone nodded. He turned, striding from the old house. He had never favored Governor Claiborne—not in the least. Still, he knew the governor’s loathing for traitors was nearly as thoroughgoing as his own. In this they were allies—and he was glad of it.
Still, as he hastened to La Petite Grenouille, his vexed indignation where Cristabel Albay was concerned smoldered in his chest like catching kindling. She could have been found out and somehow harmed! Furthermore, she could have ruined everything where his plans to trap the traitors were concerned. And however had she convinced James Kelley into allowing her to take his place in the away party? He felt as if he might literally bend her over his knee and spank her round little bottom when he had her in his hands again. In truth, he was so awash with relief that she was well and unscathed that perspiration gathered at his brow, his strong hands still trembling with residual fear for her safety. Yet he could not allow his thoughts to linger on his relief that she was yet well. He could not allow tenderness of thought to distract him from his purpose. Cristabel Albay was a pawn of war—a game piece desired by each player. He must remember it. She was no more than a pawn—a beautiful, tempting piece of his gambit—and he must remember it, no matter how thoroughly the thought of her put his mouth to watering with desire.
*
The waiting was torturous. Cristabel wondered if indeed the anticipation of being flogged were worse even than the flogging itself would be. She thought—yet she was utterly terrified. She thought about dashing from the tavern—about leaping from the chair where Baskerville had ordered her to stay and racing out in search of assistance. After all, she was being held captive by pirates. Yet to whom would she run for help? The people of the small town who were obviously friendly to those who held her captive? To Governor Claiborne, who was deceived by William Pelletier? To Richard? She thought then of all her ears had witnessed, frowning, for it was obvious that Richard was as steeped in treason as his uncle. It had been Richard who had spun the lie of Cristabel’s false correspondence with a nonexistent British sailor. Yes, Richard was a traitor too. Thus, where could she run? Nowhere.
Cristabel sighed—discouraged, frightened, and confused. Perhaps she could convince Navarrone not to flog her. Perhaps—as Baskerville had suggested—there was something she could offer in return. Yet she was not so naive as that. She knew what Baskerville’s insinuation had truly been, and that was not a consideration.
“Privateer,” she whispered then. Full understanding had washed over her during the exchange with the governor. She had perceived it all quite clearly then: Captain Navarrone and his crew were privateers. Pirates of a sort, yes, but not bloodthirsty and murderous the likes of Bully Booth and others. In truth, Navarrone’s offering of the Chichester was near an act of loyalty to country! Pirates would have simply commandeered the British ship and fit it with a crew, most likely forcing the British sailors to join them, thereby doubling their chances to plunder. Giving the Chichester over to the governor supplied another ship to the United States’s defense.
“Do not romanticize it all, Cristabel Albay,” she whispered to herself. “He’s a pirate! For pity’s sake, he’s kept you captive…means to flog you!” She gulped as the anticipation of brutality returned.
Desperate for distraction, she glanced up to the barmaid standing in conversation with a man at a nearby table. Frowning, she looked up once more. From beneath her pirate’s hat, Cristabel stared at the woman—felt her mouth fall agape as she sat in utter astonished disbelief.
“It cannot be,” she whispered to herself. All thoughts of flogging emptied from her mind as she studied the woman. “It truly cannot be!” she breathed. Yet as she continued to scrutinize the barmaid, the truth was only more and more evident. The woman was beautiful, even for the dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes—even for the fact her hair was ratted and unkempt. Even for all her disheveled appearance, the woman from the painting in Navarrone’s cabin was as beautiful in the living flesh as ever she was in oils and canvas! The tavern inn light was low, yet the woman’s blue eyes glistened like sapphire stars. The unique dark beauty mark on her lovely face was indicative of her person as well—there at the crest of her right cheek, just below the outer corner of her right eye.
“Indeed, it is her!” Cristabel said. Quickly she glanced about. Where was Navarrone? Had he not yet entered the establishment? The men of the away party still sat where they had a moment before. Yet where was their captain? Should not he have arrived by now? Cristabel’s first instinct was to rush out of doors to find him. Surely he would want to know that the woman, whose portrait hung in his cabin ever in his view, was standing not five feet from Cristabel. Still, with her next breath she paused. An odd sort of jealousy—or perhaps protectiveness—was rising within her. The woman was no doubt Navarrone’s lover—or once had been—and the thought caused Cristabel’s teeth to tightly clench. She shook her head, disgusted with herself. Why would she own jealousy where Navarrone was concerned? He was a pirate—a privateer in the least of it! Therefore, she chose to be more attentive to the feeling of protectiveness she was experiencing, for there was safety in that. Had the woman spurned Navarrone, once broken his pirate’s heart? Or was she yet his lover? Was the woman in the tavern the reason Navarrone had chosen the place for the meeting with Governor Claiborne? Was it why he had sent his men ahead to wait for him at La Petite Grenouille? She briefly wondered why the establishment had been named the Little Frog but ignored the trivial thought—for Navarrone’s lover stood before her! Still, she mused her considerations were intolerable. What care should she have for Navarrone’s heart, for his lovers? Furthermore, she thought it more likely Navarrone had broken the woman’s heart instead of the reverse.
“May I offer you anything, sir?” the woman from the painting inquired as she approached.
Cristabel glanced to one side and then the other. “Me?” she asked, pointing an index finger to herself.
The woman from Navarrone’s painting smiled. “Yes, sir,” she said, nodding. “May I offer you a drink?”
Cristabel cleared her throat—lowered her voice in an effort to sound somewhat masculine. “No, thank you, ma’am,” she said, wondering if she sounded too polite for a pirate. Still, James Kelley was polite to her. Thus, why should she not be polite to a barmaid?
“What ship do you crew with?” the woman asked. “There are several of you here tonight that I do not recognize.”
“The Merry Wench,” Cristabel answered. She slightly gasped, instantly realizing she had only just named a pirate ship! Not simply a pirate ship (though publicly claiming to be a pirate was dangerous enough, even near New Orleans) but Navarrone’s ship! It was certain the woman was acquainted with Navarrone—most likely well acquainted with him—intimately acquainted with him. Oh, why had she spoken?
“The Merry Wench?” the woman asked in an awed whisper. Sensing the near panic in the woman’s voice, Cristabel looked up in time to see the woman’s lovely face grow pale, her blue eyes fill with tears. “Pardon me, will you?” the beauty said. “Celestine! Celestine!” she called. Another disheveled woman quickly appeared.
“Oui?” the woman called Celestine asked.
“Please…I-I must go…for just a short time,” the beauty from the painting explained. “Quickly!” she added, handing Celestine the crock of beer she had been holding. “I will return whe
n…when I am finished.”
“You can’t leave now!” Celestine argued. “Christophe will be very angry!”
“Tell him I’m sick…very ill. I-I will return as soon as I am able.”
Without another word, the beauty from Navarrone’s painting was gone—vanished through a door in the back of the room.
Cristabel was assured then—assured that Navarrone and the beauty were entwined, their lives entangled. She wondered at the circumstance of their connection or at least how they had once been associated. It was plain evident the woman did not wish to cross the path of anyone from the Merry Wench—did not wish to cross Navarrone’s path. Had the woman from the portrait been one of Navarrone’s many conquests? Or perhaps this woman had somehow escaped him. Thus, he kept her portrait ever in his attention, determined he would one day have her. Whatever the tale was, it was apparent that Navarrone the Blue Blade obsessed over the woman—but that she would ever run from him.
“You little rat!”
The hair on the back of Cristabel’s head stood on end at the sound of his angry voice behind her. The woman had momentarily distracted Cristabel from her ponderings of her fate. Yet she suddenly remembered she was about to be flogged. Leaping from her seat, she meant to dash from the place—avoid Navarrone’s wrath. Yet he was too quick, and she felt him take hold of the back of her shirt.
“You might have gotten us all killed!” he growled into her ear. His breath on her cheek and neck caused her flesh to ripple with goose bumps.
“I am sorry, Captain,” she whispered as she felt one of his powerful arms band round her waist. “I only wanted to—”
“Killed, love! Dead! They would’ve hung us on the spot if they had seen you…known we were lying…that I had kept a woman captive!” he interrupted. “And what of James Kelley? What is his part in this?”
“Nothing! I swear it!” she whispered. “I knocked him over the head with a bottle of—”
“Enough!” he grumbled. “And do not even contemplate attempting to escape. There is something malicious at work here, and you are at the center of it. I may not have ransomed you, love…but neither will I free you. You are my possession until I say otherwise. Do you understand, Miss Cristabel Desiree Albay?”
“Aye, Cap’n,” Cristabel managed.
He released her, taking her by the collar. “Then come along, lad. All sailors must learn to hold their beer—no matter how young. Am I right?” he roared.
A general agreement from all the men in the tavern went up in cheers.
“Drinks all around, barmaid!” Navarrone laughed, tossing a handful of pieces of eight to the woman called Celestine. “Drink up, lads! The Blue Blade would see all the patrons and wenches at La Petite Grenouille happy this night!”
Again a general uproar of well-wishing and thanks erupted.
As the men in the tavern began staggering toward the bar and demanding drinks be brought to their tables, Navarrone growled, “Come along, love,” as he pushed Cristabel out of the tavern. “It’s back to the ship with you.”
“Are y-you going to flog me?” she asked.
“You know the rules of being ashore for a purpose such as we had tonight,” he growled. “No talking. None whatsoever.”
“B-but—”
“Silence, vixen!” he ordered. “Else I strip and flog you here this moment!”
Cristabel gulped and tried to keep the tears in her eyes, but they escaped to cascade over her cheeks.
“Now come along, Miss Albay,” he whispered. “You have much to answer for.”
He took hold of her arm, storming toward the small boat waiting to ferry them back to the schooner. Cristabel glanced up to the stars and moon—wondered if it was the last time she would ever see them winking at her from the heavens.
*
Not a word was spoken—no conversation exchanged between the crewmen. The hour sail back to the Merry Wench seemed an eternity to Cristabel. Anticipating torture was more heinous than ever she had imagined. Though she did not break into sobbing, tears trickled over her cheeks at varying intervals all the way back to the Merry Wench. The only comfort offered her came from Baskerville. Just before they reached the ship, the weathered man placed a knurled hand on her shoulder, nodding reassurance when she looked to him. Yet she was little comforted. Furthermore, she worried for James. He would surely be flogged alongside her—perhaps cast away from the crew. Oh, why had she been so selfish, so rash in her decision to accompany the away party?
The schooner arrived, the smaller boat took the crew to the Merry Wench, and Cristabel Albay climbed the rope ladder to meet her doom.
“James Kelley!” Navarrone roared once they were on deck. “James Kelley!”
Cristabel’s tears renewed when she saw James bravely appear on deck. It had been agreed he would wait for her below deck, yet she was certain he knew they had both been found out. The anger in Navarrone’s voice was unmistakable.
“Aye, Cap’n?” James greeted as he stood before Captain Navarrone.
“I’m sorry, James,” Cristabel began.
“Do not speak, girl!” Navarrone growled, and she bit her tongue.
“Cap’n,” James began, “it ain’t her fault, Cap’n. I—”
“She claims she struck you over the head with a bottle,” Navarrone interrupted, however. “Is that true, James Kelley?”
“No, Cap’n,” James admitted.
“James, please…” Cristabel whispered. She gasped when Navarrone took hold of her chin and forced her to face him.
“I said, do not speak!” he reminded her. He released his grip on her and returned his attention to James. “How did this come to be then, James?” he asked.
Cristabel shook her head, silently pleading with James to keep their secret—to save himself from flogging.
But he was a good boy—and loyal. “I suggested it, sir,” he admitted, “to pay my debt to her for saving my life.”
“Did you think of the danger, James?” Navarrone asked. “If not to her…to us? If we had been found out…I told the governor Bully Booth had her, James!” he shouted. “They would have stretched our necks if they had found her! And then they would have come for the Merry Wench, James—for everyone!”
“I-I’m sorry, Cap’n Navarrone,” James stammered. “I…I did not think. I acted rashly, and I am sorry.”
“There are rules here, James,” Navarrone said. “Punishments must be inflicted for such crimes as these. Do you understand? Do you know what I must do? I cannot allow this to simply fade away, James Kelley.”
“I understand, Cap’n. And I will accept whatever discipline you name,” the boy said.
“Please, Captain,” Cristabel began. She turned to him, her desperate gaze pleading with his infuriated one. “Please…whatever punishment you name for him…I will take it in his stay.”
Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. “You have your own punishment to bear, love. You would not survive both his and yours.”
“I know,” she breathed, terror breaking over her. What did he mean to do to her and James? What could be so brutal that she could not live through it? “Yet is there no way I can barter with you? Is there nothing I can offer to lessen his pain? It is, all of it, my fault and only mine.”
Navarrone’s dark eyes narrowed. He seemed pensive a moment.
“Oh, there is something, love,” he said. “There is definitely something.” Cristabel wept as he said, “Are you willing then to barter for James’s health then, Cristabel Albay?”
Frantically Cristabel’s mind fought for rescue. She knew she had only herself to offer, yet she could not sacrifice her virtue. But what of James Kelley? It was her fault he was to be flogged. She could not let another human being suffer pain and perhaps death for her mistake.
Thus, she nodded—brushed tears from her cheeks and nodded.
Navarrone inhaled a deep breath, exhaling it slowly.
“What say you, crew?” he bellowed then. “Do you love James so much as to allow our
fair prisoner to save his hide from the cat?”
“What terms, Cap’n?” Baskerville asked.
“My terms, Baskerville,” Navarrone said. “If Cristabel Albay offers me what I intend to have…then I may be swayed to spare James Kelley the flogging he most certainly has coming to him. What say you, crew of the Merry Wench? Would you see your captain have the fair Miss Albay’s affections in exchange for James Kelley’s well-being?”
“Aye,” came a unified rumble of agreement.
“No, miss!” James Kelley argued, however. “It’s my fault, Cap’n Navarrone! Only mine!”
“Silence, James Kelley!” Navarrone roared. “You are in no position to barter. But she is…so silence.” He took hold of Cristabel’s arm and began roughly dragging her toward his cabin. “And do not disrespect her sacrifice for you by arguing further, boy!”
As Navarrone opened the cabin door, forcing her inside, Cristabel’s tears increased, for it was only then that she realized she would not be able to barter—that she would truly be sacrificed. She had somehow forgotten, until that moment, that she was no longer of any worth to Navarrone. He had not ransomed her to Richard, for it had been revealed that Richard was somehow involved with his uncle’s treasonous activities. Why else could it have been Richard who invented the lie concerning her and the nonexistent British sailor? Therefore, she no longer had hold over Navarrone, for he had no reason to return her to anyone—especially unspoiled.
“The governor would have hanged all my men, Cristabel!” he growled once the door was closed. Glaring at her, he said, “And what would’ve become of you, eh? With your traitorous fiancé and stepfather taking possession of you? You might not have been so fortunate as to have an honest privateer come upon you again. Though we may have hanged, your fate might have been far worse!”
“I-I’m sorry,” Cristabel sobbed. “I did not think of it. I did not think I would be found out.”
The Pirate Ruse Page 13