Men sat in groups around tables, playing cards and drinking. Women with indecently low dresses served behind the bar and cleared the tables. Some sat playing cards as well, while a few were sitting on the laps of men, one having her breast fondled.
Clara quickly looked away, flushing at the indecent sight. She stayed closer to Tuber as he continued walking into the large hall and toward a set of stairs. Everything was made of rough, bare wood, and the place was full of rougher looking men, all with piercing eyes, leering at her. Noxious whiffs of unwashed human odor assaulted her intermittently, almost making her gag.
She stumbled on the steps and scraped her knee, which she was sure bled beneath her dress.
"Stay here," Tuber ordered and kept walking into a doorway out the back.
"Don't mind me," Clara complained to herself. "I'm only bleeding." Anger kept her nerves at bay, because she knew they would run wild if she didn't keep a tight rein on them. She clasped her hands together and turned around, looking out from the elevated platform she was standing on. Luckily, there were only a few people up here, sitting at tables in the corner, keeping their own company.
A fight broke out below and Clara watched as drunk men flailed at each other, while others laughed, and loud, raucous music kept playing, until one of the fighters knocked the fiddler over, which seemed to really upset a few of the others. There were men of all ages here—burly men, thin men, but they all looked dirty, with unkempt long hair and worn clothes.
This is what you got without the matrons of the world, Clara thought. Or the influence of the church. Obviously, she couldn't stay here. What life could she lead here?
"This is her?" a deep voice asked behind her, and Clara whipped around, facing an older man with dark hair. Silver lined his temples, although his hair was tied back into a knot. His face was handsome, but weathered, and his eyes were hard. He wore a dark-brown leather coat with exaggerated cuffs and gold buttons.
Green eyes surveyed her and he tilted his head to the side to consider her. This was her father. She knew instantly. He had the same green eyes as her.
"Scrawny," he said and stepped forward, walking around her, perusing her form. "Any gumption in her?" he asked, but addressed Tuber.
"Some."
"We'll see how she does," he said dismissively and waved her away.
Clara's mouth fell open with the dismissal. This was not the reunion she had anticipated—being dismissed with a wave of his hand. "I have a name," she said.
He paused and watched her for a while longer, his eyes piercing her. He had power here—carried himself like his word was law, expecting people to comply. "Don't we all," he replied and walked past her with large economical strides.
Clara turned to stare at him, confounded that she'd sailed all this way to be dismissed by the man who was her father. Although the question of why he'd let her languish in a convent for the last eighteen years was effectively solved.
Chapter 3:
* * *
Christian Rossi watched the interaction between Captain Guildford and the young woman in the matronly wool dress. She was pretty enough, but did little with it. Her dark hair was tied back in a demure braid hanging down her back. But the really interesting part was that she was brought in front of the mighty Guildford, which meant she was more than just some hostage, or lifted off a passing ship. Guildford had taken interest in her, then dismissed her.
Christian watched Guildford, noting anything the man was interested in, because Guildford had power in these parts, able to make things difficult for a young captain like himself. The entire community here depended on the structure Guildford had in place. He owned most of Tortuga Bay, and paid for the goods they brought here. Lifting cargo off passing ships was all well and good, but it was useless if they couldn't sell it, and that was where Guildford came in. He was a legend around here, the number one target of the Royal Navy, as he had effectively taken control of the Caribbean. Rumor had it that he wasn’t well.
Christian had arrived in the Caribbean five years earlier, having worked himself up through the ranks, through sheer skill and ambition. He'd taken his own ship and commanded a crew for less than a year, but he wanted to be the most fearsome pirate sailing these seas, taking the lion's share of the profit. He was young for taking command, but when it had come down to it, few thought it worth standing in his way. But chasing down ships would only be so profitable as Guildford always took a severe cut, and there was little they could do about it, because they needed him.
Christian had reached a ceiling in his advancement and needed to find some way to break past it. There had been those talking of setting up an alternative to Tortuga Bay, but old Guildford was ruthless with anyone who tried to eat into his empire, and he had the power to make any one of these men do anything he wanted.
Christian watched as the old man with steely gaze survey the tavern from above, standing with his legs apart and his hands on the balustrade, assured in his power.
"Listen up, you curs," Guildford called out and silence settled over the tavern. The man only spoke when it was important and every single head in the tavern turned their attention up to the man whose voice boomed across the room. "I am dying and there's no bones about it. I need a worthy heir for this town."
Christian paused, both shocked and intrigued. This was a significant development, heralding change, potentially war if things went wrong. Whoever this heir was, he would have a fight on his hands, as every pirate in the room wanted a piece of Guildford's empire.
What everyone knew was that Guildford had no sons—hence no heirs, which would make this succession interesting—if not all out war.
Tortuga Bay was for the taking and if anyone deserved to be Guildford's heir, it was himself, Christian thought, as he'd followed in Guildford's fearsome footsteps, making a reputation for himself through intelligence and viciousness. Few here deserved to be the man’s heir, to inherit this town and the lucrative backbone of the piracy business.
But fairness in succession was not how the world worked. England was rife with it, power being handed to some twit heir—undeserving and incompetent. Who knew where England would be if the people who deserved it rose to the top—ran the country and its business. Some would say that the pirates controlled the Caribbean due to the incompetence of Royal Navy officers being chosen on their family ties, leaving the smart men out of decision making. All the better for them. They were just capitalizing on the gentry's stupidity.
"My heir requires strength, determination and a willingness to do what's required. Hence I have devised a series of tests, open to the captains present, and the winner shall take control of this town and all its buildings, my ships, and my contracts."
The room exploded with noise as people reacted to this news. Christian's eyes roamed the tavern, noting the captains present and considered their skill in comparison to his, breaking out in a sly smile when he realized that there wasn't a man in this room he couldn't take—he wouldn’t take.
"Each event, the number of contenders will be halved, until there is one left standing. These trials will be grueling and they will test skill, hunger and ruthlessness. I wouldn't advise you to embark on these tests lightly. They will be dangerous, and that includes threats from the other contenders." Guildford's voice lowered and a smile spread across his face. "I would strongly advise you to watch your back and make sure your crew is loyal."
A murmur of shock snaked through the room as people considered the implications of this contest, plus the fact that the reign of the king they'd been living and serving under was now coming to an end.
"My daughter here," Guildford said, pointing at the plainly dressed young woman, "who is my only known child will have her chance, but this town will go to the strongest. I wish her luck."
Christian’s gaze switched to the girl, whose mouth had fallen open. She was by far no captain, and as he'd never seen or heard of her, he suspected she barely knew one end of a ship from the other. He couldn't see her p
osing a threat at all, expecting her to withdraw before the contest even began. Christian laughed. This was the best day he'd had in a long time. He'd been searching for a way to advance his ambition and today it was handed to him.
Sitting back, Christian poured himself a rum and watched as the girl was urged out the back by Tuber. Guildford had a daughter. He'd kept her well hidden, not that he could imagine Guildford being overcome by paternal feelings. Guildford didn't do feelings—cool logic and ruthlessness was his stock and trade. Christian wondered where he'd dug this girl up from. There would be a lot of people interested in her as leverage over her father, perhaps overestimating his loyalty. He had, after all, not given his daughter his worldly goods, stacking her up in this competition with the most determined lot of ingrates ever sailed these waters. She didn't stand a chance and would probably be revealed for a fool within the starting minute.
"What do you think, Rossi? Will you fight to own this town?" Captain Rosier asked.
"This town is as good as mine," Christian replied with a beaming grin.
"I'm not sure I'd bet against you. You have youth and arrogance on your side. A more determined man I'm not sure I've met."
"Will you sail against me?"
"Not sure I want to expose my back to you."
"I wouldn't hurt you, Rosier. Well, only if you get in my way."
"Only youth can have such impetuousness."
"Or those skilled enough to speak true."
Captain Rosier laughed. "There is no fault with your confidence. Aye, and you have rare skills. I will give you that. I would bet you claim this trophy, and we will all be at your mercy in the end. Take care to ensure this is a prize you want. Might be more trouble than it's worth."
Christian smiled. He would love to be king. Power was always worth it. What else was there if not power?
Now he just had to wait for this contest to start. In the meantime, he might as well drink, be merry, and enjoy the women. He hadn't had this good a day in a while. Not as good as the day he would win, but it would do for now.
Taking a slug of rum, he considered the captains ambitious enough to take on Guildford's challenge and those too scared and timid to even try, conceding defeat before the challenge even started. His thoughts turned back to the girl, unable to imagine someone more out of place. Why Guildford expected her to take part in this challenge, Christian didn't know. Guildford would no doubt give her one of his ships for the purpose, but would she even know how to sail? It didn't matter—she was nothing more than a flash in the pan, consumed as part of harder men's ambitions.
Chapter 4:
* * *
Tuber urged her forward, out of the tavern and down the street. The warm breeze and quiet outside was a welcome change to the heat, humidity and overall stench of a tavern full of pirates.
"What does he mean ‘a series of challenges’?" she asked. "Am I supposed to take part in these challenges? Is that what he intends?"
"It is why he called you here."
"I know nothing of sailing," she said, her voice rising disturbingly high, but she was too distressed to calm down. "What do I know of piracy? And now I'm supposed to compete with these… "
"Curs is a good word," Tuber filled in, amusement clear in his voice.
Was she some kind of joke in these proceedings, she wondered—a spectacle? "What will these challenges involve?"
"Sailing, fighting, I expect."
Clara had never even held a weapon, let alone brandished one. Her head ached and she wanted to stop and rub her temples, but Tuber urged her on. She was getting tense being shoved around, having no control over what was happening around her. "Where are we going?" she demanded, stopping and digging her heels in. She was not going to move an inch farther.
"Madame Guerier's."
"Who?"
"It's the best place for you to stay, but you're welcome to make your own way if you wish."
Clara looked at the dark buildings around her, having no idea where she was, let alone somewhere to go. "Fine," she relented and took a step forward as Tuber waited for her to move.
They walked down a narrow alley, emerging in a small square. It seemed all the walkways around the whole town were built with wooden planks. Tuber kept directing her toward a three story house, brightly lit through the windows. "Does my father live here?"
"No, love. This is one of the few buildings your father doesn't own. This is the whorehouse."
Clara blinked. "The what? I'm not a whore if that's what you're thinking. Not all women are whores, you know."
"Perhaps not, but this is where the women are. I would recommend that you stay with the women. You can choose to stay with the men if you wish. Won't go far to confirm what you say about not being a whore if you do, but as I said, you are welcome to make your own way."
Shaking with frustration, Clara didn't know what to do. She'd come all this way to not end up in a whorehouse, but the first thing they did was try to place her in one. Crossing her arms, she tried to consider what to do. One thing was sure: she absolutely did not feel safe with any of the men in the tavern and doubted a single one of them would show her an ounce of kindness or mercy. Clara looked up the building in front of them. This was where the women were, Tuber had said, and he had thought it best that she stay here. "I'm not a whore," she repeated.
"Never said you were, but you don't want to be wandering around the streets on your own here. Madame Guerier will put you up and keep the men off you if you so wish."
"If I so wish? Did you not hear a single word I said?"
Tuber chuckled. "You're more like your father than you know."
"I am nothing like that man," she stated, still bristling from the arrogance of the man who was supposedly her father, eyeing her up and down like she was a horse—like she needed his approval before he would deign her important enough to give simple consideration to. It wasn't like he was offering her a room in his house, was it? Instead putting her in the whorehouse. What kind of degenerate was he?
Clara wondered if there was some way she could get back to England quick-smart. This had all been a stupid mistake. But there was nothing to be done right now and she needed sleep. She almost considered requesting her cabin on the ship she had sailed here on, but it was anchored in the dark bay, filled with drunken pirates. It was highly unlikely she was safe there now. If she knew her father's protection meant anything, or if she even had it, she would probably have more choices, but their reunion hadn't left her feeling reassured.
Tentatively, she took a step forward, reconciling that she would run if this whorehouse was revolting or in any way threatening—into the jungle if she had to.
Tuber opened the door to let her in, but Clara was hesitant, even though there was more light inside, chasing the shadows away. Swallowing a lump of dismay, she stepped inside, almost hearing the sisters from the convent in her ear, lamenting that this was where they'd always feared she'd end up.
Her arms crossed tightly over her chest, she looked around. The room they had entered was sumptuously decorated with velvet and silk. There was even silk on the walls, light red with small roses printed on it. It really was the most sumptuous room Clara had ever seen, a room she would imagine a princess living in. This was a parlor of some kind. There were finely dressed women sitting there, many with necklines cut too low to be decent. In one corner, a girl was giggling on a man's lap. He looked scruffy in these surroundings.
"One of the finest whorehouses in the Caribbean," Tuber said proudly, like he was partially responsible for it.
"One of the richest, too," a woman said, emerging from a mahogany door to the right. Her green silk dress, swayed when she walked over to them. "And who is this?" the woman said, reaching her hand toward one of Clara's curls.
"Guildford is hoping you would be of mind to house a guest," Tuber said.
The woman's eyebrows rose. "And I am housing his guests now?" She had blue eyes, bright like jewels. Her face was beautiful, but small lines appe
ared around her eyes, suggesting she was a little older. Clara guessed this was Madame Guerier. Clearly this was not something Madame Guerier did on a regular basis. From the tone of her voice, Clara had to wonder if this woman liked her father. She got the feeling that perhaps there was a history between the two, judging by the way the woman reacted as if she was imposed upon.
"This is his daughter."
Madame Guerier turned her gaze back to Clara with renewed interest. Crossing her arms, she considered Clara, running a forefinger along her own lower lip like she was deep in contemplation. "So this is her. I wondered what happened to her."
"Did you know of me?" Clara asked, suddenly interested. "Do you know who my mother is?"
Madame Guerier smiled. "I knew her. A pirate herself. Her name was Ana."
Clara's mouth dropped open yet again. "My mother was a pirate?" The woman's statement indicted past tense. "She no longer lives?"
"No, she does not. Died a long time ago."
"I was born, obviously," Clara said, homing in on this unexpected source of information.
"Yes, you were. You were here in Tortuga Bay for a while, but then she died. Before you ask how, we should settle you. There isn't much else to say. She died and Guildford sent you away."
"Were they married?"
"No," Madame Guerier said and walked away.
Tuber gestured for her to follow by an expression in his eyes and Clara realized he was leaving her here. "Did they love each other?" she asked as she started up the stairs, leading to the second story of the house. She was now too intent on getting information to worry about where this woman was leading her.
Madame Guerier shrugged. "It is hard to say with a man like Guildford. Then again, your mother was a challenging woman." Clara followed her down a hall, when the woman turned and opened a door. "You can stay here."
A Pirate's Ruse Page 2
