The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  Quickly she stripped herself of Captain Navarrone’s heavy, blue brocaded vest. She began to discard it to the floor but paused.

  “Hmm,” she said, holding the knee-length vest up in front of her. She studied it for a moment. “Excellent stitching…beautiful brocade. A very fine garment indeed. And no doubt it owns a corresponding frock coat…both very costly, I’m sure. Hmmm.”

  Walking to a nearby porthole, Cristabel opened it, stuffing the opulent brocaded vest out to tumble into the sea. She closed the porthole, dusting her hands together with satisfaction, and returned to changing her sopping undergarments for the dry ones Captain Navarrone had supplied.

  “And there goes yar finest vest, Cap’n…swept away on the waves of the sea,” Baskerville chuckled, leaning on the quarterdeck railing and gazing into the sea below.

  Navarrone growled. “I wonder that the British did not keelhaul her. She’s a stubborn little vixen.”

  “Indeed,” Baskerville agreed. “It takes a strong will to risk provoking Navarrone the Blue Blade.”

  “She only possesses the will of defiance because she is an innocent,” Navarrone said. “She has heard tales of pirates, no doubt…tales of swordplay, treasure, and rum. Yet I know…I know she has no conception of what her fate would most assuredly have been at the hands of Bully Booth and his men. She could not know, else she would not be so stubborn…so brave in defiance of me.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville said, nodding his concurrence. “Aye.”

  Navarrone felt the familiar nausea rise from his gut to burn in his throat. He ground his teeth and turned, striding to the helm.

  “We sail for New Orleans, Baskerville,” he snarled. “Signal Fergus to keep the Chichester at a close distance…port.” Shaking his head, he added, “I will discover what is amiss…whether treason, treachery, or trifle! And while we’re about it, we will venture with Governor Claiborne and become even richer men!”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville said. “All hands to the deck and rigging! We sail for New Orleans and glorious bounty!”

  As Baskerville barked orders to the men, Navarrone stood at the helm. Closing his eyes a moment, he tried to vanquish the heinous vision from his mind. It was not the ever-lingering sensation of the cat on his back that anguished him—not the beating, the starvation, or the memory of the stench of the hold. Rather it was the vision of Vienne that haunted him—his beautiful Vienne. It was the vision of her being taken that devoured his mind—the vision and the knowledge—the knowledge he owned of all she had endured before her merciless, savage death.

  “Vienne,” he breathed as he took the wheel. He glanced aft, to the Chichester behind, and hatred boiled in his veins. He loathed the British for their part in it all and for a moment considered setting the seven surviving British sailors adrift. Let the elements take them. Let Bully Booth’s crew torture, flog, or keelhaul them! They deserved no better treatment. They were the enemy!

  Still, for all his rage, Navarrone knew there was treason afoot. Someone was bartering with the British and the girl—with Cristabel Albay. Navarrone had never asked the vixen her name, for he knew she would simply have lied to him. Yet Cristabel Albay—it was the name on the trunk his men had found aboard the Chichester, her trunk.

  “Cristabel Albay,” he mumbled. “Are you a victim…or a traitor?”

  Navarrone sneered, infuriated, filled with hate. He would discover the truth concerning the bloody British Chichester and its passenger, Cristabel—even if he had to drive his own hand down her throat and rip the truth from her lungs!

  *

  Cristabel stood before the looking glass secured to the cabin wall. She wondered what disease she might contract in using the bone comb she had found in Captain Navarrone’s desk drawer. Yet there had been no evidence of lice among the teeth of it, and she could not endure matted hair. She was thankful the pirate had brought one of her long chemises. Perhaps her shoulders were bare save her corset straps, but at least her feet and ankles were fairly covered. She wished there had been stockings included in the items Navarrone had allowed her. Yet she was grateful to be dry and warm—and somewhat more modestly attired.

  She heard his voice outside the cabin—heard Captain Navarrone speaking to the boy, James Kelley. A wave of sudden terror rippled through her, and she dropped the comb. It clattered to the floor, and she hurriedly retrieved it, tossing it to his desktop and raking a hand through her now dry, smoothed hair. Would he keep to his threats to sample her feminine charms? Would he truly return her to New Orleans? And what if her stepfather would not pay ransom? What then?

  Cristabel had no more time for thoughts, for Captain Navarrone burst in upon her in the next moment. He closed the door behind him, and Cristabel stepped back. His presence filled the room as fully as breath filled the human bosom.

  “You have had hours to consider your predicament,” he said, striding toward her. “Therefore, being that you appear to be an intelligent young woman…will you now tell me all you know?”

  “I-I have already told you all I know,” she answered. “I have no more to tell.”

  “There is always more for the telling, love,” he said. “I think you well know that.” He cocked his handsome head to one side—considered her for a moment. “Are you not hungry? Do you not thirst? Reveal your secrets, and I will have you fed and your thirst quenched.”

  It was not difficult for Cristabel to ignore the appetite in her stomach. Yet her mouth was so in want of drink she could not swallow.

  “I have no appetite in your presence,” she bravely ventured.

  She watched as the right corner of the pirate’s mouth curled. His eyes narrowed, and he approached. Cristabel stepped back from him, but his desk foiled her retreat.

  “And what of thirst?” he asked, standing directly before her. He reached out, raking a powerful hand through her hair from her temple back over the top of her head. “Is there nothing I can offer to quench your thirst? Is your mouth parched, love?” He bent toward her and in a lowered voice purely provocative in nature mumbled, “For mine is moist…and will quite eagerly lend its moisture to yours.”

  Cristabel was breathless with fear—fear and something akin to elation—something she did not understand. Yet she would not be bested by the pirate’s use of intimidation and lewd coquetry.

  “If that is the only choice you offer,” she began. He grinned—yet she continued, “Then I will wait until I may quench my thirst with your blood!”

  He continued to grin, however. “Ah, I think not, love. I think not,” he said. “Hunger may not drive you mad. I see that in you. But thirst will, woman. Thirst will have you begging to tell me your secrets. That I promise.”

  He turned and strode from the room. “Give her nothing, James Kelley,” he ordered the boy as he closed the door.

  Cristabel attempted to moisten her burning lips and throat, but there was no saliva in her with which to dampen them. Captain Navarrone was right. She would succumb to him—reveal her suspicions regarding her stepfather—else she would go mad!

  Going to the chaise lounge, she sat, raking her trembling fingers through her long dark hair. Perhaps she had run the length of belligerence. Perhaps the only hope she now had was concurrence. Captain Navarrone had not wounded or killed her, and he had not even made to ravage her, though pirates were notorious for ravaging innocent women. Yet she well knew that had she remained in the clutches of the pirate Bully Booth, she would surely have been dead already.

  She thought then of Navarrone’s obvious loathing for the British. Yet her mind fought to believe a pirate could own loyalty to anyone or anything—especially a country. Still, it seemed his anger was provoked by thoughts of traitors and treason, and Cristabel knew no alliance with either. Thus, perhaps her best chance was to tell him her suspicions of William Pelletier, her stepfather. Even if William did not pay the ransom Navarrone demanded, perhaps he would take mercy on her and release her all the same.

  Cristabel’s thirst was ne
ar excruciating! She wondered that she was not so thirsty a moment before Captain Navarrone had inquired if she were so. She must find water. Yet she knew water was a rare commodity on ships. Still, she must quench her thirst before her mind could settle on what to do further—on whether to barter with the pirate captain or continue to defy him.

  Desperately she rose from the chaise and began to look about the room. She had already perused the captain’s belongings—his comb, his clothing, several drawers in his desk that held nothing but meaningless trinkets. However, as her gaze fell to a small wooden crate in one corner of the room, her hopes brightened, for she recognized the markings on the box.

  “Oh, please…please let it be,” she breathed as she went to the crate. Quickly, she removed the lid—near giggled with triumphant delight as she saw what lay within. “Marie Blanchard Biscuits!” she said, recognizing the small tin of sweet biscuits. “Complete with an accompanying bottle of rum,” she whispered, pulling the bottle from the crate.

  Cristabel had never drunk rum—nor beer nor port. Still, she knew Navarrone would not allow her water, even if the Merry Wench had it in her stores. She must not faint of parchedness, and she must survive the nights and days aboard the Merry Wench if she hoped to be ransomed.

  Thus, with continued existence as her ambition, Cristabel nourished herself with Captain Navarrone’s stash of Marie Blanchard Biscuits and a bottle of pirate rum.

  *

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James Kelley whispered. “But how long would you have me wait before I am to pretend to slip her the flask of water?”

  “No more than half the hour, James,” Navarrone answered. “I do not want her thirsting long, yet she must not know I ordered it. She must think you are disobedient to me…giving her water without my knowledge.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James said, smiling.

  Navarrone patted the boy on the shoulder—though he thought for a moment that tousling his fair hair might be a more appropriate gesture. James Kelley was so young—too young for the life of a pirate.

  “Good lad,” Navarrone said. Handing James the flask of water, he strode away. The men must be told of what little he had learned from Cristabel Albay. All must be prepared before they reached the bay, for this was not to be the normal visit to Governor Claiborne to settle shares of booty. No. There was far more to this visit to New Orleans, and the crew of the Merry Wench must be at the ready.

  Chapter Three

  Captain Navarrone allowed an hour to expire before returning to his cabin. His thoughts were that the girl would have had the water James had provided and would perhaps be hungry enough to reveal more information to him. He well believed she knew little about her abduction, yet he sensed she owned suspicions of who had orchestrated it. He further surmised that the blackguard who had her taken aboard the Chichester was involved in treasonous activities. Thus, he wanted to know more about Cristabel Albay and her suspicions, for she indeed seemed an intelligent and observant woman—very beautiful as well.

  Navarrone paused outside his cabin door to speak with James Kelley.

  “Did you give her the flask of water as I asked?” he inquired of the lad.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James whispered. “She thanked me for it, sir…said she’d be saving it for a moment of desperation.”

  Navarrone frowned. “Moment of desperation? But I left her already thirsting.”

  “She was quite happy to see it, Cap’n,” James explained. “She’s a very merry sort of woman, isn’t she?”

  “Merry?” Navarrone asked. “What do you mean merry, James?”

  “Smiling and giggling she was, sir…like she was off on a holiday instead of locked up in your cabin as your prisoner.” James smiled, adding, “And she offered me one of them biscuits you left for her, sir…them Marie Blanchard ones. I thought it was right kind of her to offer.”

  “Marie Blanchard Biscuits?” Navarrone mumbled. “I did not give anything to…” He winced with realizing his own stupidity. Of course! The crate of Marie Blanchard Biscuit tins and rum Governor Claiborne had gifted him weeks before. He had placed it in his cabin upon sailing from New Orleans and never more thought of it.

  “I fear the little vixen has bested me, James Kelley,” Navarrone growled as he opened the cabin door. “I just hope the rum doesn’t kill her.”

  “Captain!” the girl cheerily greeted as Navarrone entered his cabin, securing the door behind him. “Good evening, you naughty, naughty pirate!” The girl sat on the chaise—a bottle of rum in one hand. Her cheeks and nose were rosy already, and as she raked a dainty hand through the softness of her long hair, she winked at him.

  Sloshed—the girl was entirely inebriated. Navarrone’s heart near skipped a beat when he saw she had consumed at least a third of the bottle of rum. It was no doubt she did not indulge in spirits as habit. Thus it was fortunate he had not tarried in returning. Had she consumed the entire contents of the bottle, he may well have returned to find her dead!

  “I see you found the rum,” he said, striding to her.

  She wrinkled her nose, grimaced, and nodded. “Vile stuff it is.” She shrugged. “Yet what was I to do? For you refused to offer me anything to drink.”

  Cristabel drew the bottle to her lips, yet Navarrone snatched the rum from her.

  “Rum is not for those of a tender constitution, love,” he said. “And I see you’ve been into my tin of biscuits as well.”

  “Aye, Captain,” she giggled. “I adore Marie Blanchard Biscuits. My mother and I often stroll down near the river to sample the biscuits and sweets in her shop. She’s very old, you know, Marie Blanchard.” She sighed with reminiscing.

  “Is she?” he mumbled.

  Navarrone felt the corner of his mouth curve into an amused grin. She had found one of his discarded shirts and put it on over her corset and chemise. He was pleased in her efforts to find means of defying him. He had not allowed her a dress; thus, she had obviously decided to best him by donning one of his shirts for modesty. Naturally, it was too large for her—sagged off one smooth, porcelain shoulder—hung near to her knees.

  “Why, yes,” Cristabel answered. “Mother says the woman must be near seventy years.” She winked at him once more, adding, “It must be why her biscuits are so delectable…eons of practice.”

  “Indeed,” Navarrone said. Again he pulled a chair from its secured position and placed it before her. Sitting down, he leaned toward her and said, “You say you and your mother often visit Marie Blanchard’s shop.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Quite often.”

  Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. Marie Blanchard was not only a skilled baker of biscuits but also a loyal patriot. The fact that Cristabel and her mother often visited Marie Blanchard greatly intrigued him.

  “Tell me about your mother,” he begged. “She sounds like a good woman.”

  Cristabel nodded, her balance wavering slightly, even for the fact she sat on the chaise.

  “My mother is an angel, Captain,” she sighed. “She so loved my father. He was wounded fighting the bloody British the first time, you know…but survived to marry my mother. She was much younger than he, of course…but they were so in love.” She smiled and exhaled a wistful sigh. “Her name is Lisette…Lisette Ines Chachere Albay. Isn’t it a lovely name?”

  “Very lovely,” Navarrone agreed. “Yet would she not be Mrs. Pelletier now?”

  Cristabel’s smile faded. She frowned, her lovely brow crinkling with disgust.

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Lisette Ines Chachere Albay Pelletier. I loathe William Pelletier. I do not know why Mother ever married him. I suppose she felt an obligation.”

  “An obligation?” Navarrone inquired.

  She sighed. “You know,” she began, her expression that of irritation. “When Father died, William Pelletier purchased our house in South Carolina. Mother said we would have been driven to destitution without his help.”

  Navarrone’s eyes narrowed. “I see,” he said. And he did. Cristabel’s mot
her had found means to take care of herself and her daughter—by marrying a wealthy New Orleans politician.

  “But I do not wish to speak about William Pelletier,” Cristabel grumbled. “The thought of him causes my stomach to churn.”

  Navarrone smiled. He doubted it was thoughts of William Pelletier causing Cristabel’s stomach to churn. He only hoped he could glean a bit more information from her before the rum she had consumed found her unconscious.

  “Would you speak of pirates?” he inquired.

  “Pirates?” she asked, her pretty brow furrowing with curiosity. “What might I know that you do not already know when it comes to pirates, Captain Narr…Narravone?”

  He chuckled, amused by the easy manner the rum had washed over her.

  “Oh, I know plenty of famous pirates,” he began, “of Jean Lafitte, Bully Booth, Henry the Merciless, and the like.”

  “Narravone the Blue Blade?” she asked, smiling and winking at him.

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “Certainly Navarrone the Blue Blade.”

  “Then why ask me about pirates?”

  “Because I am a pirate…and I think you own a knowledge of pirates that I do not.”

  Cristabel’s eyes narrowed as she studied him a moment. “How long do you spend in grooming your mustache and goatee of a morning?” she asked. Reaching out, she pressed her index finger to the small triangle of whiskers beneath his lower lip. “It all must be quite time-consuming…for it is perfectly manicured.”

  Brushing her finger from his chin, for her touch had caused goose flesh to ripple over his arms, Navarrone continued in leading her into possibly illuminating conversation.

  “The pirates you have knowledge of that I do not…those who took you from your home in New Orleans and sailed you to the Chichester.”

  “They weren’t pirates, silly man,” she said, shaking her head with exasperation.

  “Who were they then, if not pirates? British?”

  Cristabel Albay’s soft, berry-pink lower lip began to quiver. Navarrone saw moisture rise to her eyes.