The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  James swallowed his food. “A mother,” he answered. “No wife and little ones…but a mother.” James smiled, and Cristabel was delighted when he said, “She’s like a mother to me as well. Treats me like her own.”

  “You’ve met Captain Navarrone’s mother?” she asked—though wildly relieved to hear he did not own a wife. The boy’s story was astonishing, too astonishing to possibly hold an ounce of truth.

  “Oh yes, miss!” he answered. “Whenever we—”

  “James Kelley!” Navarrone growled from the open doorway.

  “Aye, Cap’n?” James said, leaping to his feet.

  “Return to your post, boy,” Navarrone ordered. The scowl on his face showed plainly his irritation with having found James in such comfortable conversation with his prisoner.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James said. He nodded to Cristabel, his cheeks pink with humiliation.

  Cristabel watched James hurry away. She mused he looked like a scolded puppy.

  As Navarrone closed the door behind him, she began to worry that perhaps James’s punishment for speaking so casually to her might be far more severe than she liked to imagine. Would Navarrone have the lad flogged? She could not bear the burden of knowing she may have brought the boy to such a punishment.

  “He only told me you have a mother, Captain,” she began. “Please do not harm him. He’s only a boy.”

  “He’s a pirate, love,” he mumbled. “And as such, he is subject to all the punishments any of us are.”

  “But please—” she began to plead.

  “Even Black Beard had a mother. Thus, so do I. So settle your concerns, love. I’ll not flog James Kelley for telling you I have a mother.”

  Cristabel sighed with relief. She could not have endured watching the boy be punished simply for being kind to her.

  Navarrone did not stride to her—did not take his seat on a chair. Simply, he sat down on the floor with his back against the door. His eyes narrowed as he studied her, and Cristabel began to feel overly warm. As ever, Captain Navarrone’s alluring presence disconcerted her. She considered for a moment that perhaps something was wrong with her—that she had somehow been overcome by an illness of the mind—for what decent woman experienced such an overwhelming attraction to a villain?

  “Tell me, pretty pomegranate,” he began then. His eyes narrowed as he studied her. She remained where she sat on the chaise, attempting to appear indifferent to his presence. “How wealthy is your stepfather…this William Pelletier? And from whence comes his great wealth?”

  “He is very wealthy,” she answered. “Immorally so…though I do not know from whence he derived it.” She blushed, remembering a matter included in their previous conversation. “Though you may well have stumbled upon one venue of his collecting it.”

  “White slavery,” he mumbled, nodding. “Yes…and that would perhaps explain…”

  He paused, as if he had not meant to muse aloud.

  “Explain what?” she asked, however.

  Navarrone sighed. Cristabel watched as his strong, squared jaw clenched and released several times. He was obviously considering whether to answer her.

  “You understand that I am a pirate…that I keep what I plunder,” he said.

  “Of course,” she affirmed. Yet as a tiny flicker of anxiety began to flame in her mind, she added, “Meaning things of value…not people.”

  “People are of much greater value than things, love,” he told her.

  Cristabel rolled her eyes. “Another moral lesson from the Blue Blade of righteousness? I only meant you do not keep people. You will not keep me.”

  “I have not decided whether I will keep you,” he said. “That remains to be seen. What events transpire in New Orleans will determine your fate. Meanwhile, I was speaking of the fact that the crew of the Merry Wench and I have captured a British ship…and the ship and the contents of its hold are mine to do with as I please. Do you understand?”

  “Yes. But what has that to do with—”

  “We found small barrels and crates aboard the Chichester,” he interrupted. “The men thought them filled with only grain and trinkets. Yet they seemed heavy to me…too weighted for mere trinkets and food stores. Therefore we opened each one…sifted through its contents.”

  “And what did you discover?” she asked.

  Navarrone tried not to be amused by the sudden light in her eyes—her obvious voracious curiosity.

  “Jewels,” he answered. “Gems. Spanish pieces of eight…gold coin as well. A fortune, all hidden in barrels and crates marked New Orleans.”

  “Do you think William was attempting to transfer his riches to England? Perhaps planning to follow?” she asked.

  Navarrone shrugged. “I do not know what his plans were. Yet I will be interested to hear of his reaction when he discovers that the crew of the Merry Wench has plundered the Chichester. That is why I will send a boat ahead of us…to spread the news that a British ship has been captured and send a message to Governor Claiborne to schedule our meeting to discuss it. If William Pelletier is as close to the governor as you say he is, it might well be that he may manage to have himself invited to the assemblage.”

  “You want to see his face when he hears the Chichester’s hold is empty,” she said.

  “Yes,” Navarrone confirmed. “The governor will be so pleased by the acquisition of ship and prisoners, he will not suspect that the Chichester carried any more than merely the expected supplies. Yet William Pelletier—if he is the traitor behind your abduction and the owner of the treasure cached in the Chichester—William Pelletier will be enraged.”

  “Yes! He will!” Cristabel giggled then. Navarrone was pleased by the expression of pure delight on her face. “Oh, I wish I could see it! I would love nothing more than to witness William Pelletier being bested. Perhaps he will be so angry, he will reveal himself as a traitor before Governor Claiborne! For he cannot suppress his temper.” She sighed, overjoyed with hopeful dreaming. “And then you will ransom me to Richard, and he will pay the ransom, and I will return to Mother, and they will hang William Pelletier for treason, and she and I will be free of him!”

  Navarrone worried for her in that moment. He was certain events would not unfold so ideally as she imagined.

  “I have not decided whether I will ransom you, love,” he reminded her. “Perhaps I will keep you…for my own amusement.”

  Cristabel Albay laughed. “You do not intend to keep me, especially not when the price I would bring as ransom is within your reach. And if you wanted to amuse yourself at my expense, you would have done so already.”

  Navarrone scowled. In his youthful naïveté, James Kelley had revealed too much to the little vixen. He sensed he was losing his hold over her. If she did not remain intimidated by him, she could well unravel his plans.

  He stood and strode to her, grinning when he saw her eyes widen.

  “What has James Kelley told you, love?” he asked.

  “That you do not go wenching when the ship is in port,” she answered without reserve. He could see the confidence in her eyes. She did not fear he would ravage her or ill-treat her in any manner. He had been too soft with her—too careful—and it may have already jeopardized the lot. He remembered the night before, something she had asked while she had been overcome by the rum. She had asked him if he had indeed seduced the wife of South Carolina’s governor. He told her the truth of it—that he had not—but he was certain she did not remember speaking to him of seduction and romance.

  “That is true,” he said, taking hold of her arm and pulling her from her seat on the chaise. “I do not go wenching in taverns and back alleys. I prefer much more delicate women than are found there. Wealthy women…the neglected wives of politicians…the wife of the governor of your home state, in fact.”

  Cristabel gasped. Were the rumors indeed true? Had the pirate Navarrone the Blue Blade truly seduced the wife of the governor as she had heard the gossips whisper? She put her palms to his broad chest, pushi
ng at him as his strong arms encircled her waist.

  “Stop it!” she said, attempting resistance. She struggled, but he simply turned her body in his arms, pulling her back against him. Taking hold of her wrists, he easily crossed her arms over her bosom and held her tight.

  “You see, love…I prefer women who are soft and warm,” he whispered into her ear. He pressed his cheek against the place—allowed his whiskered chin to lightly brush her neck. She tensed and struggled, yet he did not miss the goose flesh breaking over her arms.

  “Unhand me!” she growled.

  Still, he held her tight—placed a lingering kiss to her shoulder.

  “I prefer women who would not normally think of taking a man like me to their bosom,” he whispered. He smiled, for he could feel the trembling in her. “Women like you, love.” He again kissed her shoulder. He wondered then why had she not taken the time to put a dress over her chemise and corset. He had allowed her to have her trunk, and he knew it held several dresses within. “Pretty women who own a sweet fragrance to their skin…who tremble in my arms…who dress to please me—or in your case, love…undress to please me.”

  “I have not remained immodest to please you…vile blackguard that you are,” she growled through clenched teeth. “In truth…I-I neglected to dress for the sake that James Kelley arrived with a plate of supper for me before I was able. Release me, and I will gladly dress…though not to please you.”

  Navarrone sighed, relieved that she was once again intimidated by him, and he knew she was—for she was combative once more. Yet he hesitated in releasing her, for she was indeed soft and warm in his arms, the fragrance of her skin that of some whimsical nectar. His considerations were fast moving from holding her for the purpose of intimidation and control to that of heightening desire to have her. He must seal his dominance quickly and set her away from him, before his heart found some attachment to her that might interfere with his purpose.

  “How can I release you, love…when it is so very obvious that you delight in my attentions?” he baited her.

  “Delight in your attentions?” she near squealed. He was amused by her riled indignation. “Your attentions churn a nausea in me that even the rum could not equal!”

  “Oh, but that is not true, is it, Cristabel Albay?” he teased her. “For you’re trembling.”

  “Because I am angry!”

  “So you claim,” he began, allowing his lips to travel over her shoulder—to her neck—to her tender cheek. “And yet you are found out, love…for you are riddled with goose bumps…a certain evidence that your flesh savors my touch. Thus, though your mouth will not speak the truth to me…your body does.”

  “Oh, unhand me! Unhand me!” she cried.

  Cristabel was frantic to escape him—not because she feared he might indeed ravage her but because her trembling and goose flesh were evidence of her pleasure at his attentions.

  Navarrone the Blue Blade was a rake! A rogue, a blackguard, and a pirate! There was nausea churning in Cristabel’s stomach—nausea borne of the sudden knowledge that she was as affected by his charm and allure as easily as any other woman he had endeavored to seduce. Yet she would not be as weak-minded as the others—as weak-willed as the wife of South Carolina’s governor.

  He raised her wrist and somehow spun her in his arms so that she faced him, her hands pinned at her back in his strong grip. Her body was flush with his, and she was breathless as she glared up into his face—breathless with fear, morbid desire to be kissed by a rogue, and self-disgust in even owning attraction to him.

  Cristabel felt tears fill her eyes, though she struggled to keep them from escaping—to show no further weakness. Still, her heart was aching, for she had hoped there was some measure of good in his character—entertained notions that he might not own so black a heart as it was said he did. Yet now—now she knew the truth of it. Navarrone was a pirate. Whether or not he went wenching in taverns while in port, he was a seducer and defiler of women, and the disappointment frothing in Cristabel’s stomach was insufferable.

  “Do not struggle so vehemently, love,” he said. The soothing tone of his voice drew her attention, and she frowned at him—did cease in her struggles. “It will go better if you simply choose to—”

  “Is that why you returned?” she interrupted. “After all I’ve confided in you…after all your proclaiming that you wish to ransom me for a price…to best the traitor that is William Pelletier? You returned to your cabin to…to…”

  “Ravage you?” he finished when she could not speak the words.

  She nodded, frustrated with herself for not being able to hold back her tears.

  “No, love,” he said. He still held her hands at her back, but she felt his grip loosen. “I returned to take rest in my berth. But opportunity presented itself…and you are a tempting little morsel after all. What man would deny himself such a savoring of succulence?”

  “Please, sir,” Cristabel begged in a whisper as near panic overtook her. “Please…I am certain Richard will pay you well to have me returned…unharmed.”

  He had her! Navarrone had her in his power once more. Certainly he felt sickened with himself for having been so brutal—at having threatened her with despoiling. Still, he yet sensed much was at stake—much more than simple wealth gained in besting one British ship. And Cristabel Albay was too willful and undaunted a woman for him to allow her to own much confidence, else she endanger herself and the crew of the Merry Wench.

  He chuckled and released his hold on her, certain she understood she should yet fear him.

  “I would not have harmed you, my ripe little pomegranate,” he told her. He leaned forward—whispered in her ear, “I would simply have bathed you in such ambrosial bliss that you—”

  He startled as her slap stung his cheek.

  “Enough!” he growled. The little vixen was too pertinacious for her own good. “I’ll bed you this moment or slice your throat and forsake any ransom you might bring!”

  Cristabel gasped—cried out as the pirate Navarrone stooped, scooping her up onto one broad shoulder.

  “Don’t you dare to touch me!” she cried. “Don’t you dare!”

  She gasped once more as he indecorously dumped her onto the berth. She began to evade him—to try to move from the berth—but the blade of his cutlass was at her throat in an instant.

  “Do you know why I am christened the Blue Blade, love?” he asked. He stood looming over her, his dark hair tumbling over his forehead to slightly shade one eye. His scowl was intense, and Cristabel knew she was bested by his will.

  “Y-yes,” she stammered, breathless with dread.

  “It is for the sake that I am as quick with a blade as blue lightning is at striking,” he explained nevertheless. “Therefore, remember this, girl. I am weary…for the bloody Chichester and its troublesome female passenger have robbed me of my sleep for two days and a night. Thus, I will take my rest now…there on the chaise.” He nodded toward the chaise lounge. “And you will not move from this berth. You have spoiled my appetite for ravaging you this night, love…but I still wish to rest. Hence, remain where you are, else you provoke my temper again and I keep good my threat to slit your pretty throat.”

  “Aye,” she whispered. She had vexed him too far. She sensed he would tolerate no further obstinacy from her.

  Navarrone sighed—returned his cutlass to its place at his hip.

  “Here is another moral lesson taught you by a pirate,” he said, glaring at her. “Strong will…it is a strength in character. However, pure belligerence leads to foolishness, recklessness for the sake of pride. Do not let your pride keep you from your righteous goals, love. You and I own the same desires.” His eyes narrowed; a mischievous grin tugged at one corner of his mouth. “That is to say, our desires own congruence where the outcome of the mystery of traitors and the Chichester is concerned. Consequently, it would bode well for you if you were to cease in attempting to do battle with me at every turn. I want the bloody bastard wh
o is aligned with the British and selling women abroad. You want to return to your home…to your beloved Richard. Then do not let your arrogance and determined defiance defeat you.”

  Cristabel said nothing, for she could see there was wisdom in his sermon. She was at the mercy of pirates, and yet she did naught but provoke her captors. In that moment, she again realized how fortunate she was to be the pirate Navarrone’s prisoner, instead of the vile Bully Booth’s. She frowned, wondering why it was she could not hold her tongue and remember her good fortune whenever he provoked her.

  “You have nothing to say?” he asked. “No retort dripping with sarcasm?”

  Cristabel only shook her head—brushed the tears from her cheeks.

  “Good…for I am very worn and need my rest,” he mumbled.

  She watched as he turned toward the painting on the wall—seemed to study the image of the beautiful woman it owned.

  “And do not disturb me while I sleep,” he said. “I would hate to be startled and accidentally run you through.”

  Cristabel watched as he sat down on the chaise and raked a strong hand through his dark hair. He removed his boots and stretched out on the chaise. He was, of course, too large to fit on it properly, and she owned a moment of guilt for his discomfort.

  “This bloody day is nearly over,” he mumbled. “I expect you to be asleep before the green flash of sunset, love.”

  He closed his eyes, and Cristabel lay down in his berth. She rolled to her side—watched him for long moments as the light in the cabin further dimmed—until the sun dipped below the sea’s horizon and only the moonlight shone through the portholes to illuminate his form lying in pure masculine repose on the chaise.

  She did not know how long she wept, though it seemed hours. Cristabel Albay wept for the sake of the anguish and fear she had kept buried in her bosom. She wept at the horror of what might have been had Bully Booth bested Navarrone and the crew of the Merry Wench. She wept for the revulsion welling in her at what may have become of her if the Chichester had reached England. She wept for her mother—a pawn in the hands of a treasonous monster. She wept and wept—until, at long last, her tears were spent and sleep claimed her.