A Pirate's Ruse

by Camille Oster

  "Maybe we just hand the keys over to him. We need to know exactly what the rules are in that situation. Why fight if it serves no purpose? I think we need to speak to your father."

  Clara's stomach twisted with discontent. As with handing her keys over, speaking to her father was also far down the list of things she wanted to do. Handing over the keys went against the grain, but the lieutenant had a good point.

  *

  Apparently her father lived slightly out of town in a house right on the water's edge, raised on stilts above the shoreline. It wasn't more than a few minutes' walk, but away from the port, and they walked down a jungle path to get there.

  The man liked solitude, she told herself as she looked on the simple but sizeable structure that was her father's house. This would be hers if she won this challenge. It was a surreal thought that hadn't actually struck home before. Competing in this challenge had been more about refusing to be told she was useless than actually winning the prize. For Rossi it was all about the prize. Whoever won would be wealthy and powerful, a force to be reckoned with in this part of the world. It was strange to think that could be hers’. In all this time, she had never really thought of the future.

  A woman answered when they knocked on the door, comely with a blue dress. Clara could tell she was Irish before she spoke. "What business have you here?" she demanded in a rather haughty and aggressive tone. Was this her father's wife? Did pirates marry?

  "We need to speak to Guildford."

  "He is unavailable."

  "Then we'll wait," Clara said, angry that her own father wouldn't deign to see them, particularly when her safety was at stake in this competition. "All day if we have to."

  The woman gave them an annoyed look. "Then wait. See if I care." The woman closed the door.

  "And why would we be interested in what she cares about?" Clara grumbled. "Who is she anyway?"

  "Her name is Mary Brian. She is your father's companion."

  "Not married then?"

  "There is a decided shortage of priests in these parts, and I suspect neither priests nor God's laws have any sway over your father."

  Clara sat down on a rock. "Do you think he'll make us wait all day?"

  "I wouldn't put it past him."

  "Does he have any redeemable qualities?"

  Lieutenant Havencourt chuckled. "He keeps order—somewhat." He paced around the entrance to the house with his hands clasped behind his back. A sense of sorrow for his situation hit her. He was here, unable to go back home where he wanted to be. At least she had nowhere else she particularly sought to be.

  "What will you do if we win this challenge?" she asked.

  "You mean if you win," he said.

  Clara bit her lip, realizing he didn't perhaps see them as the team that she did. "Will you stay?"

  He shrugged, not answering the question. Perhaps like her, he had few answers to these questions. "Will you?"

  Picking up a small rock of the ground, she threw it down to the rocks forming part of the foundation for the house. She hadn't actually considered it, had been too intent on just surviving the next day. "I suppose I'll have to if I win. If I lose, I am leaving. There is no place for me here. As much as I appreciate Madame Guerier's hospitality, I have no interest in following in her footsteps." Surely it was a life that provided luxuries, but she'd lived without luxuries all her life and she didn't really see the need for fine dresses and porcelain supper services. Clara had spent all of her life wondering who she was and knowing more about her parents hadn’t really provided the answers she was looking for. "Maybe I'll forge a life as a pirate, after all."

  "So you two darken my door," a gruff voice said from the doorway of the house. "What do you want?"

  "The cozy family reunion out of the picture, then?" Clara asked.

  "You'll be disappointed if that's what you've come for."

  She had to wonder if a person could be more disagreeable.

  "We wanted to know," the lieutenant started, "how the two contestants for the third challenge are chosen now that there are two persons holding the keys."

  Guildford stared at them for a moment. "Dreading taking on Rossi, are you?" he said snidely.

  "Already took his key," Clara said sharply, feeling every one of her hackles rise in offense. All those years wondering who her parents were, lying in the dorm with lots of other lost and lonely girls, she'd never considered that she would intensely dislike the man who was her father.

  "I heard. Rossi has a habit of not staying down." Guildford walked back into the house. "Reminds me of myself when I was that age. All hunger and single-minded determination. He would make a good owner of this town."

  "If so, you should have just given it to him," Clara said.

  "Men don't always appreciate what's given to them and with a contest like this, no one will challenge the outcome."

  "But then you might get the heir you don't want."

  "Like a girl," he said, pouring rum into a glass and giving her a look. Again, Clara felt her hackles rise.

  "I might just win this contest."

  "Unlikely. You've had a great deal of help so far. Some would question if you've done anything at all."

  Indignation flared her cheeks. "I've done my bit," she said. "And I took Christian Rossi's key off him all by myself." Okay, maybe that wasn't strictly true as it had been Madame Guerier's idea, but her father's dismissal of her rubbed exactly the way that irked the most. She wasn't useless and she refused to be told she was—she'd had too much of that growing up and the man in front of her was responsible. "We'll just have to see. And every captain in this competition has depended on their crew."

  "All will be told by how you fare in this last challenge."

  "I'll fare just fine," she said, refusing to let herself be intimidated by his hard stare. "But if the third challenge awaits, why drag out the second?"

  Guildford grinned, taking a sip of his rum, then holding his breath like it hurt to swallow. "Perhaps you should not rush to the third challenge; it will be more difficult than the rest, particularly for someone who doesn't rely on their own skill."

  Clara clenched her fists at her sides, again wondering why this man had even bothered to retrieve her from England if he had such disregard for her.

  "The reason we are here is to inquire if there are any conditions placed on how this second challenge is resolved," the lieutenant said.

  "I don't care how it is resolved," Guildford said, swishing his glass around. "Now get out of my house."

  "By your leave," Lieutenant Havencourt said with a bow, while Clara stomped off without further comment.

  "He is just awful," she said when Lieutenant Havencourt caught up with her outside along the jungle path as she was trying to dissipate the anger coursing through her body. "How dare he accuse me of being no part of this? I have been a part of every step." Folding herself over, she sat down on one of the rocks and wrapped her arms around her knees. "That's what everyone thinks, that I'm here carried on other people's backs—just some useless girl, here for what? Amusement?"

  "There is nothing wrong in having help. A captain is nothing without his crew, or her crew. A sign of a good captain is to collect the most competent crew possible and to lead that crew."

  Tears prickled the back of her eyes. All the things Havencourt said were logical, but these people still thought she was worthless, a recipient of the generosity of the people behind her. Her father was searching for someone to lead this town and obviously thought she lacked all the skills necessary to do that.

  "Christian Rossi doesn't think you are here on the backs of other people," the lieutenant said. "He is much more wary of you than that."

  "Do you really think so?"

  The lieutenant leaned back on a palm tree, crossing his arms in front of him. "It is him you must face in this challenge."

  "Do you think I can do this?"

  "I don't know. It isn't really something you can foresee—hence the purpose of this con
test. You will never know until you test yourself. Christian Rossi is a formidable enemy, and I won't lie and tell you that you have the advantages in this. Compared to you, he has done this for a long time, but you have also picked all this up at a very fast pace. That is something to keep in mind. The bottom line though, is that when it comes down to it, it isn't skill that matters; it’s heart and hunger that drives a leader."

  "What if I can't lead? Who is going to listen to me? Maybe he's right. It's you the crew listen to."

  "Whether by position or commission, or for no other reason, leadership is taken. It isn't something that can be given. If you want it, you have to take it. Guildford is right in the sense that you have to take it now, show it's your decisions and drive that moves you through this contest."

  Pursing her lips, Clara sighed heavily, trying to clear the tears welling in her eyes. It was true that she had been going along with it all until now. It had been more fun and exciting than she'd ever thought possible, but this competition was about leadership and there was no reason to think she could do it. She just had to decide that she was going to take it, and then act on it. She had to commit and give it everything.

  Chapter 19:

  * * *

  The noise of the tavern wasn't exactly conducive to conversation. Clara looked around the space, sitting with her legs crossed and her elevated foot bouncing in nervousness. The gathered crowd was an eclectic bunch. Most were drunk, some passed out on the floor—usually the ones with the poorest dress sense. Their clothes were made with all sorts of materials harvested from sails, even sacks. Others were dressed as finely as money could buy.

  Lieutenant Havencourt sat beside her, with his back straight, unimpressed with the view around him. His naval uniform was as neat and tidy as it always was.

  "Do you think he is coming?" she asked.

  "The message has been sent. He will come, after making us wait."

  "Maybe there's a limit to how long we'll wait," Clara stated, still annoyed from her conversation with her father earlier that day. The man was clearly ill, dying if his own words were believed. Somehow she didn't think he was the kind of man who minced words over such things. If he said he was dying, it was probably true.

  The one good thing about meeting her father, and disliking him intensely, was that he was freeing her from the concerns of her youth—who she was and why she had been abandoned. She didn't care anymore. The answer was clear: her mother had died and her father was the worst kind of man. What more was there to say? She could turn her attention to her future now. Well, maybe not quite. This competition seemed to have a grip on her, determining who she considered and allowed herself to be. Everyone seemed to want her to be helpless and useless, except the friends she had made here—friends who weren't necessarily as steadfast as she would want friends to be, but that was perhaps what she needed to learn. She had to depend on herself.

  The room seemed to quiet and Clara looked up to see Christian at the door, wearing the black breeches that showed off all the muscles of his thighs and legs, and a white shirt, lose to keep him cool. His eyes were on her and a flush quickly spread up her cheeks. She dearly wished she didn't react like that, but he was the enemy and when his attention was on her, her hackles rose. It was only natural.

  Slowly he moved over to the table, lifting his hand to the bar-keep, signifying he wanted a drink. Two of his crew came in the door and stood along the wall. He didn't come entirely alone, not trusting them not to ambush him.

  The bar-keep arrived with a bottle and a glass, wiping his hands on his dirty apron. Christian grabbed the bottle and pulled the cork. "I trust you haven't tampered with this one," he said snidely, bringing it to his nose. He poured the brown liquid into the glass and it made glugging sounds in the neck of the bottle. He made another gesture to the bar-keep. "Care for a drink?" He pushed the glass over to Havencourt. "I would give it to you," he said to her with a grin, "but if you've been playing games, I would rather it's your defender that goes down."

  "Never did interfere with your drink. Hardly my fault you took something that didn't belong to you."

  "That's your justification?"

  "If you were a better man, I would never have been able to get your key."

  Something flashed in his eyes. Maybe she had gone too far. He just brought out her most belligerent side. Clara studied her hands in her lap, deciding it might not be such a good idea to goad him as they were trying to reach an understanding.

  "So why are we here? You've invoked parlay. Or is this an excuse to spend more time in my company? If you'd left your guard behind, I'm sure I would be more accommodating."

  Clara pursed her lips, noting the amusement and challenge in his eyes. Obviously it was his turn to goad her, but she refused to rise to it.

  "As two contestants move forward to the third challenge, it would be fruitless to continue attempts to collect all the keys," the lieutenant said, but Christian's eyes were still on her, refusing to relent. She was supposed to cower under his scrutiny and challenge, and she was torn between wanting to defy him and avoiding escalating things until they had what they came for.

  "So give me your keys," Chrisitan said, turning his attention back to Lieutenant Havencourt. "If you want to end this, you just hand them over."

  "I have three keys and you have one. It would be more fair for you to give your key over."

  "Fair? What care I for fair? I don't necessarily want this challenge over. You're the one who wants this over. I would quite happily pry the location of your keys out of you."

  Clara felt herself grow pale, wondering again why she was doing this. No, she refused to be defeated. She was fighting for her life, the person she was to become. She might not win this challenge, but she was not going to back out due to fear. "Certainly can't trust you to be reasonable. How are you ever going to run this town if you can't compromise?"

  "I'll find a way."

  "There is an art in picking your battles, Mr. Rossi," Lieutenant Havencourt stated.

  "You're suggesting Miss Nears isn't worth the effort? I think on some levels, he just insulted you," Christian said to her conspiratorially.

  "I think he is saying that the third challenge is the place to find out," she stated, taking her three keys out of her pocket and placing them on the table, one by one. "Just give me your key and we'll find out how much I'm worth." Clara swallowed hard, pleased that her voice hadn't wavered too much.

  "Give me your keys."

  "Oh my Lord, you are so childish." She pushed the keys over. "You are never going to be fit to run this town if all you're interested in is stroking your own sense of self-worth."

  "At least I am interested in running this town. Can you say the same?"

  "I would take the responsibility seriously," she said sharply.

  He watched her for a moment and took a swig of the rum. Lieutenant Havencourt hadn't touched his so far, so Christian was either taking a leap of faith in that she wouldn't stoop so low as to do it again, or not drink it. Admittedly she wouldn't, but now she wished she had, just so she could prove him wrong.

  "I heard you bunch of women's petticoats were seeking a shortcut out of the challenge," Tuber said derisively from above them on the elevated platform. "In such a hurry, then? As you wish. As we said, the treasure you seek is on Pina Island. Problem is, you don't know where. There are clues, you must find them—while watching your back. This," he said, looking grave, "is a challenge for the captains only."

  Clara's closed her eyes and cursed. Of course it was. Her father had accused her of doing this exclusively by others’ help, so he stripped her of that help. Did he really hate her, she wondered.

  Christian looked over and smiled. "I guess it's just you and me. I can't wait." He laughed and then rose, turning his back on her as though he didn't fear her in the least. Maybe she wasn't exactly awe-inspiring in her fearsomeness, but she had some claws—at least she hoped she did. She groaned inwardly. This could well be an utter disaster. She ha
d to do this alone, find this treasure and avoid Rossi.

  "How big is this island?" she asked the lieutenant.

  "It's pretty big, several miles across. It used to be one of the first Spanish settlements, but it was abandoned a century ago. It is haunted, they say."

  "Pfft." At least she never believed in ghost and ghouls. Somehow she didn't think Rossi did either. With a dismissive wave, Tuber walked away. "What kind of clues? He didn't say what kind of clues."

  "Are you sure you want to do this?" the lieutenant asked.

  "I'm not weak."

  "I never said you were." The lieutenant took a sip of his rum. "Rossi won't hurt you, not really. He is a lot of bluster and he will definitely seek to intimidate you, but he isn't cruel by nature."

  Clara wasn't so sure, but it was nice to hear some reassurance.

  Lieutenant Havencourt turned to her fully. "You do seem to go out of your way to rile him though."

  Clara's mouth opened as if to argue, but there was little she could say to the accusation. "He just brings out the worst in me."

  "It seems to be mutual. Try not to needle him relentlessly. This is a challenge to find the clues and find the treasure, not to annoy Christian Rossi to the point of distraction. Although young and ambitious, he is a reasonable man, unless you push him to far, which you sometimes seem intent on doing."

  "Calling him reasonable might be a stretch."

  "Clara!" he chided and she pursed her lips. She couldn't help it. Christian Rossi rubbed her the wrong way and everything about him prickled. "You need to focus."

  "You're right. I'm sorry."

  "There is no need for your paths to cross. Your only task is to find those clues." Lieutenant Havencourt closed his eyes, likely doubting her.

  Chapter 20:

  * * *

  The early morning breeze had a hint of cool to it. When Christian closed his eyes, it reminded him of home, the city he'd run from so long ago, the city with no place for him or his mother. Although the plague had killed her, it was really the grinding poverty and the cramped tenement they lived in. Everyone knew the pest crept through the city, but no one stopped it and they were stuck in its path like tied beasts, waiting to die. He never wanted to go back, but at times he indulged in memories of when the hunger and poverty had momentarily been far from his mind.