A Pirate's Ruse

by Camille Oster

  She backed away. "Got what I came for," she said, holding the key up. "Cheers." Turning, she practically dived for the rope, clearing her limbs of the window and quickly walking herself down. Her heart still beat powerfully as she sat down in the dinghy and started rowing back. She didn't know how close she had just been to being ravished by Christian Rossi, or worse, how close she had been to not objecting.

  An unknown heat had flared deep in her belly and it scared her. There was a part of her that had wanted to forget the competition and just allow his hands to roam over her—wanted to know what would happen when she was beneath him. One of those hands had even cupped her breast and she still felt the curiously warm imprint of it. Why was it she couldn't draw breath properly?

  It didn't matter, she told herself. It was all incidental. She had his key, which was what she was after, but he would be furious when he discovered what she'd done.

  Chapter 17:

  * * *

  With his eyes closed, Christian ran his hand under his pillow, and didn’t grab the ring of the key as he expected. His eyes shot open and he jumped up, removing the pillow to find the damned thing gone. He was still feeling groggy, like there was something in him that really didn't care, but this was a disaster.

  Growling, he got out of bed. Maybe he had moved it during the evening as he was enjoying the gin he'd found. Rushing around the cabin, he searched for the key, rustling maps and instruments, but didn't find it anywhere.

  His head ached and he sat down on a chair. His tongue felt large and his mouth dry. It wasn't typical that drink affected him like this. Something wasn't right. Then there was the dream, of her, which wasn't all that remarkable, but he had been left frustrated. It had almost felt real. He remembered the smell of her, the feel of her breast, how her hair tickled his face.

  After a moment, he went over to the bed and grabbed the bottle of gin, smelling it. It had the faintest smell of sweetness. He took a sip, trying to discern what had happened. The girl had put something in his gin. How? He couldn't figure out how—unless the bottle had been planted. How would she know to tempt him with a bottle of gin? She did not know him, but the bitches at the whorehouse did. One of them had sold him out and now she'd taken his key—all while he'd been thinking he was having a pleasant dream.

  Feeling like he wanted to tear something apart, he paced around the cabin. He'd lost his key. He was out of this race. This could not be happening. He was supposed to win this competition. This town was his. He was the strongest, the fastest; the one who would take on risk and persevere. Foul games had cheated him out of this. Everything he'd worked for, working his fingers to the bone to achieve, was now lost. No. He refused.

  Fury gripped every part of him. He would not be relenting this key.

  *

  With determined steps, Christian strode through town, knowing exactly where he was going. He was getting his key back if he would fight the entire town to get it. Nothing would stop him, although it was too early for most to be up.

  Tearing the door to the whorehouse open, he strode in and went straight for the stairs. A woman tried to get in his way, but he was not hearing a bar of it, pushing past the useless defense she put up. He took the steps three at a time while the woman was causing a ruckus behind him. From observation, he knew exactly which room was hers. He'd seen her from the outside.

  He kicked the door open and it hit the wall with a bang. The girl stood by a small desk, her hand at the neck of a white nightgown.

  "Where's my key?" he demanded, advancing on her, taking her by the throat and pushing her into the wall. "I'll have it back now."

  Her eyes were huge with fear and she was right to fear him. His anger knew no bounds and he hadn't even let his mind explore the embarrassment of this debacle. For now, the risk of losing this challenge was enough to fire his temper.

  "Now," he said. Her mouth opened and closed, pink and lush, maybe the prettiest mouth he'd ever seen, but that was not going to distract him.

  A pistol cocked by his head. "You will leave these premises, Christian," Madame Guerier said.

  He didn't care. "Not without my key."

  "No one comes into my house and makes demands."

  "Fine. I will leave, but she is coming with me." Still holding her by the throat, he pulled her forward off the wall. Her green eyes were large and pleading, hoping Madame Guerier would save her. He went to move to the door, but Havencourt stepped through, drawing his sword. Damn it, Christian thought with annoyance. Of course Havencourt would make a nuisance of himself. The man brought the tip of his sword up. Havencourt would definitely maim to defend a woman. "You live here now, Havencourt? Maybe this is where you belong—with the women."

  The man's lips pursed with anger, but he wiped the expression away. "You may insult me, Mr. Rossi, but you are not leaving this premises with Clara. Perhaps you just need to accept that you have been bested."

  "By deplorable tactics. I would have thought you were better than this. Of course, I am not opposed to doing what it takes to get what you want, but then you have to accept it when it is returned. So I will be taking my key back now."

  "Not today, I'm afraid," Havencourt said, bringing the cutting edge of the blade to his throat. Christian stared at the man, knowing he would not relent in protecting his charge, which had Christian in a bit of a pickle. He would not accept being out of this race, but then there was one other key out there—Talbot's key.

  "Fine, but this is not over," he said, finally relenting his grip on the girl's throat. He turned to her. "I will win this competition. You will not get in my way."

  Christian pushed past Havencourt, colliding with the man's shoulder in the small room. He kept going without looking back, sure his message had been heard. A part of him felt miffed that he was walking away without his target, and he wasn't necessarily talking about the key. He wanted to teach the girl a lesson for messing with him—admittedly he hadn't really thought that portion out well, but acknowledged that the desire was there.

  *

  "Where’s that dog Talbot?" Christian roared when he stepped up on the deck of his ship. "He's got something I need. Find him."

  With heavy steps, he walked into his cabin and slammed the door. He would get that key before Havencourt did and then they would face each other properly. As he sat down at his desk, he felt the ship set sail, felt the sails deploy and the water press on the hull. His eyes returned to his messy bed, where she'd come to him last night—with dishonest intentions.

  He appreciated her act more now that his anger was dissipating. His opportunities were not lost. Talbot would have to be taken care of now and everything would be back to normal when Christian had another key in his hand.

  Pouring himself a glass of rum, he considered the events that had unfolded over the last day or so. The girl had shown guts—although not so much in that youthful and virtuous nightgown. Her plan had been inspired and it had worked. He had to give her credit. What surprised him was how much he had wanted her when poppies, or whatever it was, numbed his mind, or maybe any female body would have appealed to him. Unfortunately, he suspected not. He remembered the curves of her waist, her hips and her thighs. He'd run his hands all over her. Even now he grew hard at the thought, his mind warping into images of her coming to his bed with very different intentions.

  Running the lip of the glass along his lower lip, he considered her. She had guts, having come into his cabin alone, taking his key off him from under his nose. He remembered the anger and shock she'd displayed when he'd taken her linen off her in Port Royal, and the kiss she hadn't known how to defend herself against. She was a mix of cunning and complete innocence, and he didn't quite know how to deal with it.

  He didn't know what he would have done if he had managed to drag her out of Madame Guerier's this morning, but likely she would be back here, trapped in his cabin. Heat coursed through his body, sure he would have enjoyed her punishment immensely. His body felt languid with desire, thinking of the pos
sibility of completing what she had set in motion the previous night.

  This challenge was not over and at some point he would deal with the curious Miss Nears—when she would be stripped of her protectors and it would just be him and her. Maybe that was where he needed to focus after retrieving this key.

  After eating a meal, he made his way on deck, set to turn his mind to the task at hand, retrieving this key. Talbot was scared and he was hiding—likely as far away from Tortuga Bay as he could get, but it would serve him no good. Where would the coward hide, Christian wanted to know.

  *

  It took them hours to find Talbot's ship and the man tried to run, but his sailing skills were not good enough to get away. Christian chased him down and eventually he was pulling close, watching for Talbot to bare his cannons. The man was stupid enough to resort to firing. It would not be Christian's choice, but he was prepared to enter a full battle if he must. The losses would be high and no one wanted to die in this challenge. This life was risky enough without battling themselves.

  He heard Talbot yelling at his crew as his ship came up parallel. The crew was watching him, but Christian was not giving the signal to board, suspecting they didn't need to. He jumped up on the railing and stood with his feet apart and his back straight, looking fearsome. Taking a moment, he surveyed the opponent's ship, whose crew worried with their weapons drawn. "I've come for the key and I'm not leaving without it."

  Silence held over the two ships as neither crews had orders. Typical that Talbot could not figure out what to do. "You're not getting this key and you're already out of this race," Talbot said, standing on the quarterdeck, looking sullen.

  Christian was taking this key no matter what. Turning his attention back to the crew, he looked them over. "Who do you want running this town? Me or him?" Christian smiled, watching Talbot's face crumple in rage. The man's crew hated him and no one would want to exist in a town Talbot ran. Christian watched as every man on both crews considered what the future would be. Talbot didn't understand the need for honor amongst thieves—he cheated everyone equally and this town would be chaos under his control.

  "Charge, damn you," Talbot screamed at his crew. "I'm ordering you to board his ship."

  Some of the crew members moved uncomfortably, but then stopped when they noted that other weren't. "I don't pay you to make decisions. I make decisions and you take them," the man hollered, pointing at Christian's ship.

  Grabbing a rope, Christian swung over the gap to Talbot's ship, landing on the deck. Still none of Talbot's crew moved.

  "Kill him," Talbot roared, rage turning his face purple. Christian moved slowly to the stairs of the quarterdeck and watched as Talbot drew his sword, wondering how this was going to progress. Talbot was too cowardly to die for a key, or anything else, probably his own mother included, and he wasn't skilled enough to prevail.

  Talbot was crouched down with his sword drawn, in what Christian suspected Talbot thought looked like a fighting stance. "Don't come any closer."

  "I'm taking that key even if I have to kill you," Christian said in the calm, low voice that he knew came across disturbingly chilly. Few stood up against that voice, and he wondered whether the girl would. Chiding himself, he refused to be distracted from the task at hand.

  Christian drew his sword, starting with a swinging strike, which Talbot met. Without giving pause, he stepped sideways and struck again, continuing to move and strike, until Talbot was going where he was leading him. Talbot was completely on the defensive, searching for an opportunity to strike—an immature swordsman. Christian had to leave him room to actually strike, counter-acting and coming down hard on top of the man's attempt at attacking. Talbot barely held onto his sword.

  The man tried to calculate his odds. They were poor, but Talbot was still irrationally hopeful. As a pirate he had always depended on his crew to do his fighting for him, but now that the stakes were high, his crew would not come to his defense. "Just hand it over, man."

  "Never," Talbot spat.

  Christian swung, cutting the man's shoulder in the barest of grazes. Talbot stumbled back, clasping his arm as if he was mortally wounded, fear shining in his eyes. "Just hand it over already. It would give me no pleasure to cut you to strips, but I will get that key. Actually, it might a little, but I'm not sure if I really want to spare the time."

  Talbot's mouth pursed as he tried to think of a way out of this. After a while, he reached into his coat and drew out the key. He held the key out and Christian went to grab it, blocking the predictable blow Talbot was banking on. Christian smiled. How predictable could you be?

  This would not be something Talbot would forget. The man would seek his revenge for this at some point, probably aiming for Christian's back when he was unsuspecting and unguarded. That was Talbot's way and he didn't understand that it was the reason no one wanted him to run Tortuga Bay. Talbot's stewardship would result in the slow and painful demise of this town and society.

  Holding the key tight, Christian returned to his ship and ordered his crew to set sail. The game was back on, he told himself. Leaning back against the railing at the aft of his ship, he crossed his arms, wondering what was to come.

  Chapter 18:

  * * *

  Clara didn't know what to do with herself. She refused to be cowered by the fear she felt. Christian Rossi now had a key and he wanted her keys, too. On one hand, she wanted this to not matter, to not interfere with her plans, but on the other, she would be stupid not to take measures to protect herself.

  She paced the parlor where sights of men and women together, embracing and fondling, had now become customary. It didn't shock her anymore, but neither did she pay any attention to it. Living here, it was just part of the scenery, and it allowed a lifestyle for these women where otherwise they would have little in a place like this—or probably anywhere else. She still couldn't quite understand it, or more correctly the underlying question, which she couldn't even put into words—a concept around what were relationships between women and men. Her convent education left her with little clues. Marriage and procreation, they said, but how was that relevant here, where neither of those things seemed to exist? More importantly, what to do with roaming hands and lips, and a pirate drawing you into his bed. If that was such a horrid thought, such a sin, why did her mind not reconcile with that and keep returning to these concepts again and again?

  Obviously, if she were to be with a man, it couldn't be him—he was just too… much. Which left the question of what kind of man she should be with. Handsome princes and gallant knights just didn't exist as far as she could tell. God-fearing, and righteous men were in rather short supply here. Misguided puritans were not approved of either. According to the sisters, there was a very narrow band of acceptable men—ideally a humble, God-fearing man with no earthly desires. Clara could just imagine Madame Guerier's scorn at their exaltation of the perfect man.

  Turning around, Clara spotted her hostess behind the bar, taking stock. Lieutenant Havencourt was sitting at a table with a book and a pot of fragrant brew made from the coffee beans that grew farther south. Maybe he was more like the kind of man she would be with—honorable, strong and capable, but there was something dark in him; it surfaced sometimes. At least he struggled against it, while Mr. Rossi accepted himself just as he was—no pretense, no guile, take it or leave it. It wasn't that Havencourt had guile, he was just very unhappy with himself and his situation, while Mr. Rossi was exactly what he wanted to be—ruthless ambition included.

  Also, she didn't get those curious feelings around Lieutenant Havencourt, but perhaps that was a good thing. How could she go through life with a man who made her feel tense and nervous whenever he was around? And what was the point of this conversation anyway? Christian Rossi’s most likely ambition was to run her through with his sword, although his unwelcome exploration of her person while semi-conscious had gone in a very different direction.

  Frowning heavily, she reached a corner of the par
lor and turned around. She just didn't know what she was supposed to do. She wanted to go for a walk, but there was a lion out there, stalking her, ready to pounce. This challenge wasn't over and it needed to be concluded, and it was only the second of three.

  "What are we going to do?" she asked, sitting down heavily at the lieutenant's table.

  He looked up and surveyed her, then sighed. "There may not be any point fighting further."

  Clara felt a rush of dismay at the statement. While giving up seemed like a logical step, her insides bristled at the idea. Perhaps that was something she needed to get over. Or on the other hand, maybe she needed to embrace that she was doing rather well at this piracy business. "I'm not walking away."

  "I didn't say walking away—more of a tactical retreat. There are two contestants left in this challenge now and two contestants are needed for the third challenge, so provided Wainsess or Talbot does not steal any keys, you're already set for the third challenge without doing anything further. Fighting for the fourth key may achieve very little."

  Clara’s dismay was replaced by a rush of relief. She had been wringing her hands trying to think of a way to get this fourth key off Rossi. Her breath caught every time that coming confrontation entered her mind, plus the fact that he would likely strip her of her keys, provided he made things uncomfortable enough for her to hand them over. That was the part that sent a blind panic through her. She could imagine herself tied to a chair, his sword at her throat—maybe in his cabin, by the bed.

  Clara shook her head, trying to clear the images, refusing to dwell on the nervousness that threatened to undo her. "So what are you suggesting?"