The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “I-I don’t want to speak of it,” she whispered.

  “Of course. Of course,” he said. He was in danger of losing her reciprocity. He must be patient—glean what he could before she realized she was offering information to him she might not share when clear-minded once more. “What would you like to speak of, love?” he offered. “Anything at all. What would you have us discuss with one another?”

  Instantly, her frown curved into a smile, the tears in her eyes retreating.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  “Yes.” He nodded his assurance, adding, “In fact, it does not take so long as you think to maintain well-groomed facial hair.”

  She giggled, and he was pleased. She was with him once more.

  Her eyes narrowed, and she studied him a moment, still smiling. “Is it true you seduced the governor’s wife in South Carolina?” she asked.

  “The truth?” he countered.

  “Yes,” she assured him, though he thought she looked somewhat uncertain—as if she dreaded hearing the answer.

  “Then no,” he confessed.

  She sighed with visible relief. “Oh, I like that answer,” she whispered to herself.

  “Do you have more questions for me?” he prodded.

  “Will you answer each one truthfully?”

  “Yes,” he chuckled. “You have my word.”

  “Have you seduced many women?” she asked.

  “Seduced them to what, love?” he volleyed.

  “To romance,” she answered plainly.

  Navarrone frowned, bewildered. “Romance? Do you mean to ask if I have seduced them to flirting…or do you mean to ask if I have seduced them into my bed?”

  Cristabel gasped, and Navarrone chuckled as she reached out, clamping a hand over his mouth.

  “For shame, Captain!” she scolded in a whisper. “You must know I mean to flirting…to allowing you to steal a kiss.” She frowned. “I would not like to think you would take women to your…to you otherwise.”

  He was flattered that she should be so sweet—so pure and, he sensed, somewhat jealous.

  Removing her hand from his lips, though keeping it clasped in his, he answered, “I’m a pirate, love. Of course I’ve seduced women to…romance, as you put it.”

  “To kissing you?” she asked, concern still evident in her expression.

  “To kissing me, yes,” he said. She sighed and smiled with relief. He was glad, for he knew it was the answer she most wanted to hear.

  “If I were not your prisoner,” she began, “would you then try to seduce me to romance?”

  He smiled. “Oh, most certainly, love,” he admitted. “Most certainly.”

  She giggled, blushed, and pulled her hand from his grasp.

  “I’ve always dreamt of romance, you know,” she sighed. “I suppose all women do.” She frowned. “But I daily grow more doubtful of its existence.” She was pensive, and Navarrone sat silent, a feeling of sympathy for the fairer sex. “I’ve always thought it odd…the way God made women such creatures of the heart when men are so very carnal in nature.”

  “Do you think all men are born without hearts in their breasts?” he asked. He thought of the pain in his own—of the agony of loss—of Vienne.

  “No…but I think many are,” she admitted. She smiled then. “Not my father, of course. He loved well. He loved me, and he sorely loved my mother. I could see it in his eyes…in the way he touched her cheek. My mother knew romance…once. My father romanced her, but William Pelletier…” She shook her head, frowning once more. “He loves nothing…nothing but power and money.” She looked at him, lowered her voice, and began, “Do you know, the night I was taken…I thought perhaps he…that perhaps my stepfather…” She paused—bit her lower lip as if she were uncertain as to whether she should continue. “You’re a pirate, you know,” she told him.

  Navarrone understood at once. He was a blackguard—a man not to be trusted. She was reminding herself of this, not him.

  “I am a pirate,” he said, smiling at her. “And that is why you have so astounded me tonight.”

  “Astounded you?” she inquired.

  “Yes, love,” he told her, “for you hold your rum as well as any pirate.” He could not help but grin, for the girl was as weak for the drink as a pirate was to wenching.

  “I do?” she asked with obvious delight. She hiccoughed, and he chuckled. “That’s astosh-astoshining…for I’ve never drunk a drop before.”

  “No!” he exclaimed with dramatics. “Are you certain?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Not a drop.” She reached up, running her fingers through his hair—tugging at one strand at his forehead until it tumbled down over one eye. “Yes indeed!” she said, gently slapping his cheek twice. “You are a handsome devil, are you not?” He chuckled as she continued, “If I were a pirate wench and you came wenching into the inn one night…I might romance you first.”

  Though he smiled, Navarrone experienced an unsettling discomfort at her confession. She was his prisoner—possibly a traitor to the country. He could little afford to risk attachment to her of any sort.

  “Now tell me, love,” he began to prod, “tell me the tale of how you came to be aboard the Chichester.”

  Cristabel shrugged and sighed. “There’s not so very much to tell, really,” she slurred. “The men came for me; they took me, put me aboard the Shishester…” She winked at him and sighed, “And then you rescued me from that Bully Boof.” She giggled. “He was a loathsome creature, was he not?”

  “Yes, he was,” Navarrone agreed—for it was true.

  “His breath was effluvial…like rotting fish heads,” she mumbled.

  “You say men came for you…took you,” he coaxed. “What men?”

  She shrugged. “Men. Men are men. Aren’t all men the same?” She winked at him, adding, “Except in your case.”

  Navarrone endeavored to ignore her growing flirtation. She was not in her right mind, nor was she the first pretty woman to compliment him.

  “These men…were they British or American?” he asked.

  “Men,” she answered. “They all had gruff voices and Adam’s apples at their throats. You know, Cap’n…men.”

  “Very well. They were men. Yet think hard. Were they British or American? You heard their voices. Did they speak as Americans or British?”

  Cristabel frowned, obviously struggling to remember through the cloud of confusion the rum had caused in her mind.

  “French!” she exclaimed suddenly. “They spoke French…Acadian French.”

  Navarrone smiled and sighed, “Acadians. So…they were Americans.”

  “Americans that spoke French,” Cristabel corrected.

  “Not British,” Navarrone mumbled. “Yet they took you to a British ship. They were traitors.”

  “Or employed by traitors…mercenaries,” she suggested, winking at him again.

  “Yes. Perhaps employed by traitors.” He smiled, for he admired the cunning she retained while sloshed by rum. “And they took you to—”

  “To a boat!” she interrupted. She frowned, tears suddenly filling her eyes. She reached out and placed an unsteady hand on his forearm. Her touch was far too affecting, yet he attempted to ignore it. “They bound me…my hands at my wrists…my ankles.” She gasped as an expression of true horror leapt to her face. “They touched my ankles!” she exclaimed in a whisper. She bit her lip and covered her mouth with one hand. “I am a ruined woman now!” she breathed as tears spilled from her eyes.

  Navarrone’s inclination was to laughter, but he would not glean information from her if he did not show pity.

  “It was not your fault,” he said, stifling a smile. “They were bad men.”

  “Worse than pirates,” she told him. She shook her head. “Even pirates would not touch a woman’s ankles!”

  Navarrone ran a hand over his mustache and goatee to conceal his smile. “No. No, I suppose not.” He must distract her from her humiliation over her ankles having bee
n sullied. “They took you then to a boat?”

  “Yes,” she said, brushing at her tears with the back of her hands. “And sailed out into the night.”

  “To meet the Chichester.”

  “Yes! The Shishester!” she confirmed. “It was swarming with those bloody British sailors!”

  Navarrone bit his lip to keep from chuckling once more.

  “Only the Shishester’s captain spoke to me. No one else would,” she continued. “He said very little—only that I should be well fed and watered…as if I were no more than a dog! Do I look like a dog to you, Captain?”

  “No,” Navarrone said. “Not in the least.”

  “He said we were sailing for the Empire…that I was to be taken there to wait.”

  “To wait for what? Ransom?”

  She wept again, shaking her head. “I do not know. Only that I was to be taken to England to wait.”

  “To England to wait,” Navarrone mumbled. He knew no more than when he had begun, and frustration caused him to feel hot and angry. He pulled off his shirt, tossing it behind him to his berth. “To England to wait,” he repeated, still thoughtful. Suddenly, something about her tale did strike his curiosity. “You say the men took you. How did they take you?”

  She frowned, confused. “With their hands and lengths of rope,” she said, rolling her eyes as if his question had been purely asinine.

  Navarrone smiled, a breathy chuckle escaping him. “No, love. How did they so easily gain entrance into the house? Did you not tell me before this that they came into your stepfather’s house and took you?”

  She nodded. “Yes. They came in and abducted me.”

  “No one heard them enter? No one sounded a warning? Does not your stepfather have servants about at night?” he asked.

  “Of course,” she grumbled.

  “So these men simply came into the house and took you? Did you scream or cry out for help?”

  Again the girl rolled her eyes with exasperation. “Of course, you ninny!”

  “And no one came to aid you?”

  “No one. Naturally, the abductors promptly gagged me for screaming.”

  “But yet you did cry out,” he reminded her, “and no one came to you.”

  “No. No one.” She shook her head and giggled. “As you know, I’ve suspected all along that my stepfather, the gentleman William Pelletier, had something to do with it all. He loathes me, you see.”

  “Why is that?” Navarrone asked, wildly intrigued with her revelation.

  “I suppose for the sake that I loathe him,” she giggled.

  “And you are sure you were not to be ransomed?” he asked.

  “Quite certain, my bonny pirate captain,” she slurred, again winking at him. “I heard one of those bloody British sailors inquire of the Sh-shishester’s captain. ‘Is she to be ransomed?’ the sailor asked. ‘No. She is to be taken to London…to wait.’ That was all I ever heard concerning myself.”

  Navarrone inhaled a deep breath—exhaled it slowly. “A wealthy politician’s daughter is taken from his home…without one alarm having been raised.”

  “Stepdaughter,” Cristabel corrected him.

  “Stepdaughter,” he said. She nodded with approval. “Abducted, taken out into the Gulf, and boarded onto an enemy merchant vessel.”

  “You forgot to mention that I was violated,” she whispered.

  “Violated?” he growled. He could feel the rage welling up within him. “They…they violated you?”

  She nodded. “Remember?” she asked. Then lowering her voice, tears welling in her eyes, she added, “My ankles were touched.”

  Navarrone sighed. “Oh yes. Yes, I forgot. Your ankles were touched.”

  “Y-you’re not planning to…to touch my ankles are you, Captain?” she wept, suddenly fearful. “It’s not why you rescued me from Bully Boof’s clutches, is it? To violate me by touching my ankles?” She brushed tears from her cheeks, and again Navarrone had to struggle to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “No, love,” he assured her. “When I flung us both from the deck of the Screaming Witch and into the sea, it was not your ankles I was thinking of.”

  “Oh, good,” she breathed—and he was amused by her profound relief. She was silent a moment and then began to study a ring she wore on her right ring finger. “I feel impressed to give you this, Captain Narr-Narravone,” she said, pulling the ring from her finger and offering it to him. “It must serve as my thanks to you…for saving me from the clutches of Bully Boof. I am surprised you did not plunder it before this.”

  Navarrone had indeed noticed the large ring on her right ring finger. It was a valuable piece, fashioned of gold and diamonds. Yet he and his men did not plunder from civilians as a rule.

  “Do not thank me for taking you from Bully Booth’s ship to mine,” he told her. “We pirates are akin…the lot of us.”

  She smiled at him, wagging a scolding index finger. “But that is not true, now is it? Did you not hear your quartermaster tell me that it would be far better to be ravaged by you than it would have been to be ravaged by Bully Boof?”

  “Yes…but—” he began.

  “Well, then…shhh. Let me tell you a secret, Captain,” she said, lowering her voice. “I’m certain he was correct. You are ever so much more handsome and virile than that heinous Bully Boof! But do not tell yourself that I told you that. It’s a secret that only I can own.”

  He chuckled as she took his palm, pressing the ring into his hand.

  She began to weep once more then, and Navarrone’s chivalry and guilt heightened.

  “So take the ring, pirate. I want you to have it. It means little to me anyway…only a betrothal gift from my fiancé.”

  “Fiancé?” he asked, astonished. “You are engaged to be married?” If she were to be wed, why then did she not wear the ring on her left hand as was tradition?

  “Yes. To Richard,” she sighed.

  “Richard? Richard who?”

  Cristabel puffed a breath of exasperation and rolled her eyes. “Richard. Richard my fiancé,” she answered.

  “Tell me about Richard,” he urged.

  Cristabel shook her head as if disgusted. “He is my fiancé, and he’s ever so irksome.”

  “And yet you are betrothed to him?”

  “It was not my choice…not really.”

  “Tell me. Whose choice was it?” he asked—but she melted into tears.

  “I feel so hopeless suddenly, Captain…so fearful,” she wept. “As if…as if I’ll never feel joy again…as if the sun will not rise on the morrow.”

  Navarrone exhaled a breath of self-disgust. He was a vile devil to trick her so—to take advantage of her intoxication. He silently cursed his father for the conscience and silver streak of chivalry he had inherited from him.

  “The sun will rise on the morrow, love,” he said, cupping her fair, soft cheek in one hand. “Yet I fear you might feel ill as the day dawns even so.”

  She gazed at him a moment, and Navarrone felt his heart begin to hammer—his mouth begin to water. She was far too tempting and vulnerable. Her eyes were glassed, and he could see the weariness mingling with the rum. She would soon be overwhelmed and unconscious.

  Unexpectedly, she leapt up from the chaise—frantic!

  “My ankles!” she cried. “They’re entirely exposed! Any man may touch them! Any man!” Sobbing, she fell to her knees. Placing her head on his thigh, she wept, “Oh, help me, Captain! Please! Don’t let those men touch my ankles! I cannot endure it again!”

  Navarrone was unsettled. He wondered how the girl could endure abduction, kidnapping, being put aboard a vessel of men bound for England, and falling into the hands of bloodthirsty, lustful pirates, only to worry about her ankles being touched.

  “Here, love,” he said, slipping the ring she had given him onto his smallest finger and stripping off his boots. “Here. Wear these. Your ankles will be well protected this night.”

  She smiled and whispered, “Thank you
, Captain Narravone,” as he helped her pull his boots on where she sat on the floor. “Thank you,” she repeated as he helped her to stand. “I feel quite protected now.”

  “Good. Now tell me of this Richard,” he said.

  The ship pitched slightly to one side, however, and the girl lost her balance. Navarrone caught her easily enough in his arms, and she smiled at him.

  “Remember, Captain,” she whispered. “Do not tell yourself that I would rather be ravaged by you than…than…whomever that other pirate was. Keep it secret.” Raising an index finger to her lips, she slurred, “Sshhh.”

  Navarrone swept her into the cradle of his arms then as unconsciousness claimed her.

  The Blue Blade shook his head as he placed the intoxicated woman on his berth. For a woman to be so concerned over the touching of her ankles—a woman who was brave enough to have weathered what Cristabel Albay had weathered—it was inconceivable that such a trifle should worry her. Awkwardly, he removed his strewn clothing from beneath her—laid her out straight and as comfortably as he could. It was not very difficult, for she was limp as a cloth doll.

  He chuckled as he studied her a moment—his shirt enveloping her, his large boots on such tiny feet. Her hair was spread over the pillow and linens like midnight waves of the sea, and he smiled as she suddenly sighed. He would fetch another chamber pot for her—in case she woke to the contents of her rum-filled stomach manifesting itself all over the floor. He frowned, angry with himself for leading her to believe he would truly have denied her food and drink. If she survived her encounter with the rum, he would approach her more agreeably in order to glean information. Such a courageous and beautiful woman deserved better treatment than he had exacted thus far. Any woman did, for that matter.

  Navarrone thought of Vienne, and the ache in his heart caused him to double over a moment—to gasp for breath.

  Glancing to the portrait hanging near the cabin door, Navarrone whispered, “I do not ask your forgiveness, Vienne. I am not deserving of it. Thus, do not forgive me. Never forgive me. Tell the angels I do not merit any mercy.”

  He glowered at Cristabel Albay, peacefully asleep on his berth. Mercy from the angels or not—forgiveness from his angel Vienne or not—yet he would not allow traitors and treason to linger in New Orleans. If the pretty wench he had found in the clutches of Bully Booth owned some knowledge that would lead him to one traitor or more—and his guts pure boiled with the sense that she did—then he would retrieve it from her.