The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  “Yes!” Claire agreed, handing a fistful of silver pieces of eight to Cristabel. “Trevon is a clever boy. After all, who would think such a thing as this old floating house would secret such riches, eh?”

  “Indeed,” Cristabel giggled.

  “Now, I like best the old pieces of eight, darling,” Claire said then. “Help me search out a few older coins, will you?”

  “Are the oldest coins rare…more valuable in some regard?” Cristabel asked.

  “Not as the world sees them, love,” Claire began, “but to me they are. The old ones have character. They have been weathered by adventure and experience. I like to sit and ponder them—wonder where they have been and what they have seen, whose hands once held them.”

  Cristabel smiled, delighted by the woman’s dreamy sentiments.

  “You see, here’s one, dear,” Claire said, offering Cristabel a worn-looking coin. “1739 is its date. See it there?”

  Cristabel gazed at it—studied it with intrigued interest. The arms of Castile and Leon were hardly discernable on the reverse of the coin, as were the Pillars of Hercules on the obverse. Still, the date was there.

  “1739,” Cristabel whispered.

  “And where do you think this coin has traveled in nearly one hundred years?” Claire asked. “Has it been held in the hands of kings or queens? Paupers and pirates? What was it used to purchase? Rum? Food or clothing?”

  “Your pondering of this simple coin…I find it fascinating,” Cristabel mumbled as she studied the coin with even more intent.

  Claire giggled. “So do I,” she agreed. “But think of the truth in it. That very coin you hold was most likely first held by a man or woman who has long since gone to heaven. What mark did that person leave upon the soul of that coin?”

  Cristabel smiled at Claire, entirely intrigued by what she had submitted to her thoughts.

  “So this treasure…all of it,” Cristabel began, “it is not the monetary worth of it that intrigues you but rather its value as a thing that has traveled through history as an adventurer.”

  “Exactly!” Claire exclaimed, smiling. Her eyebrows arched as she said, “Though do not misunderstand, for I do find the gems and jewels very, very beautiful. I own several pieces of unfathomable beauty, gifts from Trevon. Yet even with rubies and sapphires set in silver and gold, it is their sequence of existence I adore imagining.” She paused, sighing as she studied a particularly shiny gold doubloon. “I own a necklace crafted from silver and set with diamonds and sapphires. There is an inscription on the back of the middle gem’s silver setting. Can you guess what it reads?”

  “Never,” Cristabel truthfully giggled.

  Claire arched one eyebrow. Lowering her voice, she whispered, “The inscription reads, To Anne…this, as my heart…Louis XIII, 1615.”

  “No!” Cristabel gasped. “Truly? The King of France…to Anne of Austria?”

  Claire shrugged, even as she smiled with beaming delight. “It cannot be proven…not without my giving it over to the French. Yet what else could it mean? Furthermore, Trevon acquired it from pirates who had only just plundered a French ship. Therefore, I like to imagine that it is what it appears to be.”

  “Astonishing!” Cristabel breathed. “Purely fascinating!”

  Claire inhaled a deep breath and studied Cristabel a moment. “Mister Baskerville,” she called.

  “Yes, ma’am?” Baskerville asked, approaching.

  “List two pieces of eight under Trevon’s bounty from this treasure hoard,” she explained. “I am gifting them to Miss Albay, for I can see that she is truly appreciative of their origins and travels…just as I am.”

  “Oh no, ma’am!” Cristabel argued, attempting to return all the pieces of eight she held to Claire. “I cannot possibly—”

  “This one,” Claire interrupted, however, pressing the worn coin marked 1739 into Cristabel’s palm. “And this one,” she said, placing a more recently minted coin with it. Claire smiled, knowingly. “If you could only have one…which one would you choose?”

  Cristabel smiled. “The worn one…without pause.”

  Claire nodded. “Mister Baskerville, mark two pieces of eight to Trevon’s share of these spoils.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Baskerville chuckled.

  Claire giggled and then took Cristabel’s free hand in hers. “Now, darling, help me find some sweet trinkets to give as gifts this Christmas, will you?”

  “Of course,” Cristabel said, still studying the coins in her hand. Navarrone’s mother was enchanting! The moment of their first meeting she had fancied her very soul had begun to adhere to the woman’s spirit—yet now—now she was assured of it. They were, as Thomas Gray had written in 1751, kindred spirits, and she was overwhelmed with a sudden feeling of having found an eternal friend. The mother of a privateer she may be, yet Claire Navarrone was a diamond—a rare gem of greater worth than any other that had ever lingered in the crown jewels of France.

  Still clasping the two pieces of eight in her hand, Cristabel smiled as she began to sort through the gold, silver, gems, and jewels cached in the ramshackle houseboat. It was the very stuff of dreams—the treasure, the pirates, and, most of all, Trevon Navarrone. She thought of the handsome privateer captain, and her mouth began to water for want of his kiss, her body aching to be in his arms. It was the stuff of fantasy—all of it.

  *

  In a lowered voice of conspiratorial tone, Trevon Navarrone said, “I have an errand for you, James Kelley.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James whispered.

  Navarrone smiled as he saw the boy’s eyes illuminate with pride and excitement.

  “It is a secret errand, lad,” he began, “and one that may require patience. You are the only man for this errand, and it is of profound importance.”

  “Yes, Cap’n,” James said, smiling.

  “I have been musing, James Kelley,” Navarrone explained. “This conspiracy looming where Cristabel is concerned, it taxes my mind greatly…as some intricate riddle or puzzle in need of solving.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James agreed. “I can well see your frustration.”

  “Cristabel Albay is worried for her mother. Along many venues does her worry meander,” Navarrone said. “I would see one venue eliminated…that being her mother’s misconception that her daughter is lost or dead. Yet I pause in communicating this to Mrs. William Pelletier.”

  “For her husband is a traitor,” James Kelley offered.

  Navarrone chuckled. “You are a wise young man, James. Yes. Part of me fears that Cristabel’s mother may not keep silent…that she might reveal, even without intention, that Cristabel is alive. Yet another part of me owns suspicions that Lisette Albay Pelletier may be more our kin than even her daughter realizes.”

  “How so, Cap’n?” James inquired.

  “Cristabel revealed to me, under the influence of the devil rum,” Navarrone paused, chuckling at the memory of the proper Miss Albay sloshed to the wind. “She rather inadvertently revealed that she and her mother regularly visit Marie Blanchard’s shop.”

  James Kelley’s own brows arched, a smile donning his face as understanding began to wash over him.

  “It is patriots and friends that frequent Marie Blanchard’s,” James whispered.

  “Exactly,” Navarrone said, smiling. “You are a clever lad.”

  “You’re thinking Cristabel’s mother knows her husband is a traitor…and is perhaps gleaning information that she then shares with fellow patriots, who frequently nibble on Marie Blanchard Biscuits.”

  “Yes,” Navarrone confirmed. “That is why I want you to dress as a tattered and destitute orphan boy and give this note to Marie Blanchard,” he said, handing a letter sealed with wax to the boy. “Then wait for Lisette Pelletier to appear. I am thinking she may be frequenting Marie’s shop even more regularly in hopes of gleaning news of her lost daughter.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James Kelley said. “It would seem reasonable.”

  “That it woul
d, lad. Therefore, when Marie indicates to you that Lisette Pelletier has arrived, go to Cristabel’s mother and feign begging for coins, and place this in her hand.” Navarrone offered another letter sealed with wax to the boy.

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James said, accepting the letter. “And I’m to stay—”

  “Until you have completed this errand,” Navarrone interrupted. “Then you know how to send our men a signal. And one of them will sail you back to us. Very well?”

  “Very well, Cap’n,” James agreed.

  “Do this, James Kelley. Do not fail me…and I will reward you very well.”

  “Aye, Cap’n. I will not fail you.”

  “Then go now,” Navarrone ordered. “Fergus is waiting for you on the shore. He will direct you from there.”

  “Aye, Cap’n,” James Kelley said, fairly leaping to his feet. The boy began to leave but paused, turning back to Navarrone. “I owe you my life, Captain Navarrone…and I will not fail you.”

  “And I know I can trust in you, James,” Navarrone said, “as I would trust my own brother, lad.”

  James smiled and sighed with pride and joy. “Aye, Cap’n.”

  Navarrone watched the boy go—hoped James would be careful and that his suspicions were correct where Cristabel’s mother was concerned. He was risking near all he was and owned, the safety and lives of all those who depended on him, in order to ease her mind over her daughter. He closed his eyes and silently prayed that he was not wrong in his strategies and trusts—prayed that he would not fail as he had failed once before—as he had failed Vienne.

  *

  Cristabel stared at the two silver pieces of eight resting in her palm. She found Claire’s interest in the older coin wildly contagious. In truth, Cristabel had spent the remaining hours of the afternoon wondering where the coin might have traveled—what sights it may have seen. The more recently minted coin was lovely as well, shining and fresh, the artistic imprints on it detailed and quite lovely. Yet Cristabel found that her heart was in full agreement with Claire’s; the older coin was far more interesting—far more a treasure.

  “I see my mother has infected your mind with her whimsical tales of the souls of commonplace objects.”

  Cristabel smiled as she turned to see Navarrone standing behind her. He wore a slight grin of amusement and appeared weary. Yet as ever, he was breathtakingly handsome.

  “She makes a fascinating point, don’t you think?” she asked.

  Navarrone smiled and shrugged broad shoulders as he held one hand toward her. Rather unwillingly—for she somehow feared he might claim them for himself—Cristabel placed the two pieces of eight in his warm palm and watched as he considered them.

  “Yes, she does,” he admitted as his eyes narrowed and he studied the oldest coin. “One’s attention is always drawn to the more weathered coin, is it not?” He chuckled and returned the coins to her. “I am glad to know my mother has corrupted you in some virtuous manner. Perhaps it will atone for the manner in which I endeavored to corrupt you…in which I still endeavor to corrupt you.”

  “In the first of it,” she began, turning and lifting the lid of her trunk, “I am entirely incorruptible.”

  “Entirely incorruptible? No one is entirely incorruptible,” he chuckled as she carefully placed the cherished pieces of eight in one corner of the trunk. She smiled, grateful that James and Navarrone had maneuvered her trunk into the upper tier of the tree house. Having her trunk near did comfort her somewhat.

  “And in the second, you would not dare to endeavor to do anything improper to me with your mother so close at hand.”

  “Are you so certain, love?” he asked.

  “Very,” she said. Yet considering him a moment, she added, “At least I think I am certain.” For in truth she was not so certain. In truth, she was hopeful that he would endeavor to corrupt her—but only a little.

  Again Cristabel silently chastised herself for allowing such ridiculous and romantic musings to amble through her brain. Quickly she straightened the top layer of clothing in her trunk. Smiling, she said, “I know your reasons for ransacking the contents of my trunk, Captain Navarrone. Still, I do wish you would at least have left the sprigs of…”

  Cristabel paused—for a startling understanding had instantly begun to wash over her. She could not believe she had not thought of it before.

  “What is it?” Navarrone asked. He took hold of her shoulders, turning her to face him. It was obvious by his curious and rather concerned expression that he sensed her disconcertment.

  “The sprigs of lavender,” she whispered.

  Navarrone’s frown grew more severe. “Sprigs of lavender?” he asked.

  “Y-yes,” Cristabel stammered. “I-I am so very used to seeing them…whenever Lavinia prepares my trunk.”

  The girl appeared far too unsettled—had instantly grown pale. Trevon tightened his grip on her shoulders and asked, “Who is Lavinia?”

  “One of the servants…a servant girl w-who lingers in Richard’s employ,” she whispered.

  “Richard’s servant?” Trevon inquired. “Why ever would she be attending to you?”

  “Richard always and ever has her attend to me. I-I’m very fond of her. There’s a certain lack of pretentious attitude I admire in her. Yet…yet if it were Lavinia who prepared this trunk…Lavinia who prepared my trunk in anticipation of my abduction…”

  Trevon could see the pain and returning fear welling in her eyes, and he felt the need to comfort her somehow.

  “This Lavinia prepared your trunk, love,” he said. “It does not mean she knew for what purpose she prepared it.”

  “B-but—” she began.

  “Furthermore, it may indeed reveal something further to us concerning this ambiguous treason swirling about you,” he continued. “It is true that after our meeting with the governor, we know Richard is somehow dabbling in your stepfather’s treasonous activities. But now I am led to wonder if it was not, in truth, Richard himself who orchestrated your abduction and passage aboard the Chichester.” He paused, for tears brimmed in the girl’s eyes; disappointment and fear the like he had never before seen in her owned her countenance.

  “What is it?” he inquired. “Is there something else?”

  She shook her head, yet his heart felt as if some bloody dagger had been plunged into his bosom as he watched tears spill from her violet eyes.

  “I-I cannot believe it all,” she confessed in a whisper. “I dwelled in that house with William Pelletier as my stepfather, agreed to marry a man I do not even care a wit for. And yet…they endeavored to—”

  “It is all in your past, love,” he interrupted. He was surprised—in truth astonished—for Cristabel Albay had thus far weathered more than some men could manage, but here she stood before him, weak and vulnerable—wounded and frightened. “And I’ll see them hang for what they did to you…and for their efforts to betray this country,” he growled.

  “But my mother…she thinks I am dead…that I have abandoned her to a life of further misery with William Pelletier.” Panic seemed to wash over her, and she reached out, desperately fisting the fabric of his shirt in her small hands. “She is all alone and in the hands of traitors!” she cried.

  He must settle her—was desperate to soothe her.

  Taking her face between his hands, he brushed the tears from her cheeks with his thumbs, saying, “All will be well with your mother, Cristabel.”

  “No! No, she…” she began as near hysteria began to overtake her.

  “Hush, now, love,” he assured her. “I have sent word to your mother concerning your safety and well-being. She will be comforted.”

  Though tears still spilled from her lovely eyes, the expression of panic began to abandon her pretty face.

  “Y-you sent word?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he assured her. He felt his own anxiety begin to lessen as she calmed.

  “Why?” she inquired in a whisper. “Why would you wish to give her comfort?”

&nbs
p; Navarrone smiled. He would not tell her that he wished to comfort the mother who had given birth to such a beautiful, brave young woman. He would not tell her his heart was tender toward her, that he had grown protective of her—wildly protective. It was too much for a pirate to reveal. He was certain she would see it as weakness in him.

  Therefore, he simply answered, “I would not want to witness my own mother suffer in vain over me. Thus, I would not wish to know yours is in unnecessary pain and grief. You have showered the wealth of the Chichester upon me, love…handed me treason and traitors to best. I would be ungrateful to my tempting little prisoner if I did not offer some sort of remuneration.”

  She grinned. “I have no doubt that you’re babbling off some sermon of morality. Yet I am too weary…too relieved in knowing my mother will be comforted to make sense of it.”

  He chuckled. “If you are too weary to take my sermons to heart, then perhaps you should retire, love.”

  “Perhaps,” she agreed, releasing the fabric of his shirt, smoothing the wrinkles she had caused with her warm palms. Her touch was far too invigorating, and Navarrone released her, straightened his posture, and stepped back from her.

  “I bid you sleep well then,” he said.

  The pirate bowed in slight, and Cristabel smiled, charmed by his gallant gesture. He had sent a message to her mother! It was far more than could ever be expected of a pirate—even a privateer. She was assured that her growing admiration of Trevon Navarrone’s character was not so perfectly ill placed, after all. She thought of his compassion, consideration, affection, and love toward his mother. She thought of his philanthropic attitude where distributing plunder to poorhouses and asylums was concerned. She thought of his treatment of James—of his treatment of his entire crew, for that matter. Furthermore, she realized that, though he may have been brutal and threatening toward her, he had never truly harmed her. Rather he had thrilled and delighted her more often than not.

  The privateering pirate Trevon Navarrone was more hero than anything else—a patriot, fighting for the country’s safety under the guise of piracy. It was indeed a ruse of sorts, for what pirate captained his ship with such camaraderie, trust, and respect of his men? What pirate did not violate a young woman when given the chance? What pirate kept his mother in such safe comfort? Furthermore, what pirate would care enough for his prisoner to offer her own mother comfort?