The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Too much rum and too much adventure, love,” Navarrone said. He watched anxiety overtake her as the shock began to abandon her mind to make way for realization.

  “I’m spinning,” she breathed. She began to panic for the sake of her muddled, whirling senses. “Help me! Help me!” she breathlessly begged. She reached out, taking hold of his shirt, fisting its fabric in her tiny hands. “Help me, help me, help me!” she cried.

  “Hush now, love,” Navarrone soothed. She did not fight him when he laid her down on the chaise—only clung to his shirt, still whispering her pleadings for help.

  “I killed that man!” she wept as perspiration sprung to her fragile brow.

  “You saved the boy,” he reminded her.

  “Oh no! Please, no!” she gasped. “Oh no! I’ve become a pirate!”

  Unconsciousness overwhelmed her then—blessedly.

  Even for the dead men being dragged from his cabin by his own men—even for the deep wound at his back that now pained him—he chuckled. He did not know what to make of a woman who would worry over her ankles being assaulted when she had only hours before been stripped to her undergarments by a pirate and thrown into the sea. He did not know what to make of a woman whose last thought before fainting would be that, because she had killed a murderous, bloodthirsty pirate to save the life of an innocent lad, she had somehow involuntarily converted to piracy. Moreover, he did not know what to make of a woman who drew such an intense interest from him—a woman who evoked such a desperate protective nature from him—a woman who had awakened such a ravenous desire in him as to cause him to entertain thoughts of genuinely ravishing her in pursuit of quenching it.

  Navarrone glanced to the painting of Vienne on the wall. As ever, the dagger of guilt, regret, and self-loathing plunged into his heart. He did not deserve the affections of a woman the likes of Cristabel Albay. Even if he were not a pirate, he would not deserve her—should not even fancy she would find in him any worthy thing to adore.

  Still, as he studied her now peaceful face, he thought of the feel of her flesh against his face—beneath his lips. The very center of his being began to quiver in slight at the memory of holding her to him, of placing soft kisses to her shoulder and neck. He wondered then—if her skin felt as velvet as a rose petal to kiss, how much more sweet and succulent would be her mouth?

  “She’s a pretty one, ain’t she, Cap’n?”

  Navarrone did not startle at the sound of Baskerville’s voice so close behind him. He was a pirate, after all—and whatever in the world could startle a pirate?

  “She is that, Baskerville,” he agreed.

  “I see the incident overwhelmed her in the end,” the quartermaster observed. “Poor little thing. Yet I don’t know that I’ve seen such bravery in a genteel woman.”

  “Nor I,” Navarrone admitted.

  He stood then—turned to face his quartermaster.

  “The crew of the Screaming Witch ought to do a might more considering when electing their next captain, eh, Baskerville?” he asked, forcing a triumphant smile.

  “Aye, Cap’n!” Baskerville chuckled. “We may be bleeding, but there’s fifteen dead men on the deck of the Merry Wench…and not a one of them from our crew.”

  “Aye…but did you expect any different?” Navarrone asked, heartily slapping his friend on the back.

  “Not when we’re sailing with the Blue Blade, Cap’n!”

  Navarrone smiled. “Then let’s swab the deck and be on our way to our meeting with the governor.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville said. He paused in following Navarrone out of the cabin, however—studied Cristabel Albay a moment. “Do you think she’ll be out long, sir?”

  Navarrone frowned. He was concerned for the girl, yet he knew swooning was most likely the best recourse for her frantic mind.

  “No,” he answered. “And do not worry, my friend. She’ll be awake and pricking my temper soon enough.”

  Baskerville chuckled. “Oh! Is it your temper she pricks then, Cap’n?” he teased.

  Navarrone grinned. “Among other emotive sensibilities, yes.”

  Further amused, Baskerville said, “Emotive sensibilities. I like the way you put things, Cap’n. So polished and refined.”

  Navarrone smiled. “I’m glad I can amuse you, Baskerville. Now let’s see to the men and the ship, eh?”

  “Aye aye, Cap’n.”

  *

  Cristabel slowly opened her eyes. She felt dizzy—disoriented. Still, her bewildered state quickly passed, and she gasped, sitting up quickly as memory washed over her. She looked to the other side of the room—to the place where the man she killed should be. Yet there lay no dead pirates there, or anywhere about her.

  For a moment she mused that perhaps she had simply dreamed it all up—the return of the Screaming Witch, the Devil Wallace wounding James, her hands running a cutlass through a man’s body. She knew she had not dreamt it, however, for the horror lingering in her soul was too genuine.

  Glancing around the cabin, she found that she was alone. Navarrone was not near. Instantly, her concern was for James Kelley, for he had been terribly wounded. Captain Navarrone had been well, but was James?

  Ignoring the dizziness still clinging to her mind, Cristabel stood and made her way to the cabin door. She was surprised to find that no one guarded it from without. In fact, as she opened it and for the first time in days stepped into the open, no one was there to halt her.

  Timidly she made her way forward, for she saw Captain Navarrone, the quartermaster Baskerville, James Kelley, and several other men sitting in a circle together middeck near the mast. It seemed they were engaged in some kind of intensive conversation. She glanced to one side to see a boatswain near.

  She gasped, but the man only nodded, greeting, “Feeling better, miss?”

  Cristabel nodded, managing a polite, “Yes, thank you.”

  Though she was yet distrustful, it seemed she was not to be barred in the captain’s cabin any longer. With great hesitation, she moved toward Navarrone and the group of men sitting on the deck. Yet as she approached, she could better see their activity. She gasped once more—covered her mouth in astonishment as she realized the pirates and their captain sat stitching one another’s wounds!

  The quartermaster glanced up, catching sight of her.

  “Cap’n,” he mumbled. Navarrone looked to Baskerville, and the man nodded toward Cristabel.

  The moment his attention fell to her, Cristabel Albay began to tremble. It was strange to be outside the cabin and see him. She somehow wished she had stayed on the chaise—waited for him to return to her.

  “Feeling better, love?” he asked as he knotted a thread at the wound of a crewmember.

  “I-I suppose,” she stammered. She watched as Captain Navarrone drew the dagger from its place at the back of his trousers’ waist to cut the thread he had used to sew the man’s wound closed.

  “There you are, Cap’n,” Baskerville said as he cut a thread at Navarrone’s back. “A might nice job of stitching too…if I do say so myself.”

  Cristabel felt tears welling in her eyes once more.

  “Thank you, Baskerville,” Navarrone said, rising to his feet. He strode toward her, shirtless, the lacings at the front of his pants loosed.

  Cristabel blushed and cast her gaze to the deck as he approached.

  “It’s all right, girl,” he said, taking his stance directly before her. “All the men are well. A little scratch here and there…but we’re well stitched up now. Nothing to concern yourself over. Your James Kelley is fine.”

  She looked up to him then, for she had been ever so worried for James.

  “Assure the lady of your health, James Kelley,” Navarrone ordered, though he still looked at Cristabel.

  “I’m fine, miss,” James called from the stitching circle.

  Glancing up to Navarrone for reassurance, Cristabel stepped around him and hurried to James.

  “Oh, James!” she breathed as she
saw the deep, still seeping wound at his side. “I-I am so sorry!”

  “Sorry, miss?” James asked. He smiled—even chuckled a little. “You saved my life, miss…and I ain’t ashamed to admit it. Thank you, miss.”

  “I-I did nothing…nothing but bring this upon you,” Cristabel whispered.

  “The crew of the Screaming Witch brought this upon us, miss,” Baskerville reminded her. “Not you.”

  “Were…were any of you lost?” she asked. She remembered then that James had told her most of the men had families. The thought horrified her—that perhaps some husband, father, brother, or lover had been lost in the battle with the Witch.

  “No, miss,” James Kelley answered, smiling. “But we heaved twenty bodies into the sea…including the Devil Wallace and the one you killed, miss.”

  “James!” Navarrone scolded.

  Cristabel felt nausea begin to rise in her stomach at the memory of having forced the cutlass into the torso of the enemy pirate. Yet as she glanced up to James Kelley—as she saw the life and delight in his young, cheerful countenance—the misery in her stomach subsided a little.

  “Are you recovered then?” Navarrone asked.

  Cristabel turned to answer him—gasping and covering her mouth with one hand at what met her sight. He stood turned away from her, gazing up in seeming scrutiny of the rigging. Yet it was not the long, freshly stitched wound at his lower back that took her breath from her in horror but the evidence of many, many old and now healed lacerations there.

  When she did not answer his question, he did turn—to see her standing with tear-filled eyes, aghast at the scars on his back.

  “Ah, yes,” he mumbled, craning his neck in an attempt to look where her gaze was fixed. “It seems few men endure the cat-o’-nine-tails without a few scars to keep their memories fresh. Eh, Baskerville?” he said.

  “I-I’m so sorry, Captain,” Cristabel stammered. She was not horrified by the existence of the scars. Where Navarrone the pirate was concerned, the scars served only as further evidence of his powerful masculinity. It was the notion—the knowledge he had been whipped by a cat-o’-nine-tails—that horrified her.

  “Do not apologize for a wound you did not inflict, love,” Navarrone said, smiling. “Look at her, Baskerville. One would think she was the wielder of the cat.”

  “Turn ’round, Cap’n,” Baskerville suggested. “Your front is still as pretty as any man’s.”

  Navarrone did turn, but Cristabel blushed and glanced away, for the lacings at the front of his trouser were still loosed.

  “Oh. Forgive me, love,” Navarrone chuckled. “I suppose we must attend to our modesty, lads,” he called to the crew, “for there is a lady on board the Merry Wench after all.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” went up the unanimous agreement.

  “There,” Navarrone said. Cristabel looked to see him tie the lacings of his trousers in a knot. “Modest once again.”

  He moved to her, stood looming before her. Cristabel was certain she could feel the heat radiating from his body, for she felt overly warm—thirsty.

  “And whilst we are discussing modesty,” he began, “for your bravery today in the face of certain death—for the fact you defended James Kelley as if he were indeed a member of your crew and not mine—I have decided to relent…to allow you to wander the deck during the day, if you please.”

  Cristabel Albay looked up to Navarrone at last, and he could not keep from smiling at her. She wore an expression of profound bewilderment. He knew she was yet overcome with having killed the pirate—that she was more uncertain of herself than ever she had been since he had acquired her. His heart softened a bit, and he fought to keep it unfeeling.

  “James Kelley,” he said.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James replied.

  “Have you gathered the clothes for our prisoner that I requested?”

  “Aye, Cap’n! The best I own, they are,” the boy said with excitement.

  Cristabel frowned. “Clothes?” she asked. “But you already allowed me my trunk.”

  “If you are going to wander the deck, love—parade before pirates and whomever we might encounter otherwise—I think it best you do it dressed…differently than you are now.”

  “What?” she asked, entirely confused.

  Navarrone snapped his fingers, and the poor boy—who he knew was enduring the worst pain of his life thus far—got to his feet and gathered the clothing.

  “Your pirate togs, love,” Navarrone said as James offered the pile of garments to her.

  “Pirate togs?” Her expression was delicious—that of entire ignorance.

  “Yes, love,” Navarrone explained. “Trousers, a shirt, boots, and even a hat…all contributed by James Kelley.”

  “Trousers?” she asked, wrinkling her nose. Baskerville and the others chuckled—amused by her expression of distaste.

  “Yes. This way you can roam the deck without offering too much distraction to the men…or to any ship we might encounter,” he explained. “Agreed?”

  Still she frowned, and Navarrone struggled to keep from bursting into laughter.

  “You wish me to dress as a man?” she asked, the indignation he liked in her so making its reappearance.

  “Yes, love,” he answered. “That is, until your Richard pays the ransom and I return you to him…if I return you to him.”

  She sighed, unconvinced.

  “It is the only way I will allow you to roam the ship,” he added. He leaned forward, lowering his voice and provocatively whispering, “Let us save your delicate curves for the captain’s pleasure, shall we? No need for all the men to relish the delights of your feminine figure.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he had her once again.

  “Very well,” she said. He fancied her posture straightened. “It will be well worth it…to have some semblance of freedom from being isolated in your company.”

  Navarrone chuckled, amused by her dramatics.

  She looked to James. “These are yours, James Kelley?” she asked.

  “Yes, miss,” James replied. “The best and cleanest I own.”

  “Then I thank you, James.” She turned to Navarrone, glaring at him. “If you will excuse me, Captain Navarrone. It seems I must attend to my wardrobe.”

  “Of course, love,” he said. He bowed slightly and gestured she should move past him. He smiled as she lifted her nose to the air with her now familiar determination, grasped the clothing and boots James had offered to her bosom, and started toward the cabin.

  His eyes widened when she paused, quickly taking hold of one of his trouser laces and tugging on it to release the tie.

  “You’re an appallingly immodest man, Captain Navarrone,” she scolded.

  “I’m a pirate, love,” he told her. “I have no need of modesty. It’s the nature of my trade.” He reached out, taking hold of her arm and pulling her close to him. Leaning toward her ear, he quietly spoke, “As is plundering ships…and seducing women.”

  Her eyes narrowed, and he knew he had got her temper up. She puffed a breath of disgust and hurried toward his cabin.

  “Now who’s pricking whose temper, Cap’n?” Baskerville asked, smiling with amusement. Navarrone grinned and nodded to his friend. The quartermaster chuckled to himself and mumbled, “Emotive sensibilities. What a way with words you have, Cap’n Navarrone. What a way indeed.”

  Chapter Seven

  Cristabel leaned on the railing of the quarterdeck—gazed over the side of the ship into the waves of the sea. Baskerville had told her only that morning that Navarrone’s schooner should be nearing them at any moment, sailing out to meet them from “the bay.” In the five days she had been aboard the Merry Wench, Cristabel had gathered enough information from Navarrone, James Kelley, Baskerville, and the others to surmise that the crew of the Merry Wench made their homes and community on an isolated shore somewhere in Lake Borgne. She knew the ship had already entered the mouth of the lake—that one of Navarrone’s schooners was sailing o
ut to meet them. The schooner would take Navarrone and several of his crew to the secret meeting with the governor, regarding the Chichester and the British sailors.

  Navarrone had explained to Cristabel that she would wait aboard the Merry Wench. He would meet with Governor Claiborne, perceive whether William Pelletier were in attendance, and then decide how to proceed where ransoming her was concerned. She sighed, discouraged at having to wait. She wondered if Richard would pay a ransom for her. Part of her hoped he would not, for she held no affection or esteem for him and did not wish to return to marry him. In truth, the thought made her nauseous. Yet she had decided weeks before that for her mother’s well-being, she would endure a life with Richard Pelletier—forsake any home of true love and happiness herself. Still, what would become of her if he did not pay the ransom Navarrone would demand? She owned Navarrone’s promise that he would not kill her—but what would he do with her?

  With all her heart, Cristabel wished she could attend the secret assembly between the pirates and the governor—if not to simply observe the goings-on, then at least to set foot on dry land. Yet she most wished to attend in order to witness William Pelletier’s response when he discovered there was no longer any treasure cached aboard the Chichester.

  Cristabel smiled—giggled in slight—as she thought of Navarrone’s clever plan to best William Pelletier. Navarrone had ordered the crew to remove the jewels, gems, gold, and silver from the barrels and crates—to replace them with stores from the Merry Wench. Thus, when Governor Claiborne’s men opened them to investigate their contents, William Pelletier would either reveal his treasonous ways in inquiring after the riches he knew were once there or keep silent and live all his life in knowing he had been bested by a pirate!

  Cristabel thought of her mother again—as ever she did—and struggled to keep from weeping. Oh, how she hoped her mother was well and safe—that perhaps William’s ill-treatment of her had lessened since Cristabel had been taken. Shaking her head, she determined she would not think on it. She would anticipate only one event at a time. The schooner would arrive soon and take the pirates to meet the governor. Then, if Navarrone were able to locate Richard, the pirate captain might collect a ransom, and she would be freed. Again she felt discouragement threaten to overwhelm her at the thought of marrying Richard Pelletier. But she would see her mother again—and she so longed for that.