The Pirate Ruse

by Marcia Lynn McClure

  He shrugged. “It’s of no importance.”

  “Tell me,” she pressed, however. “Where would you rather be…right this moment?” She glanced up into the sky. “The sun is warm, even for the fact it is autumn elsewhere. It seems to me a man of the sea would prefer a warm climate. So tell me…where is it you long to be, Captain Navarrone?”

  Trevon sighed. What harm could there be in answering her question?

  “Salem,” he mumbled.

  “Salem?” she asked, smiling at him. “You mean home.”

  He chuckled, amused by her insight. “Yes.”

  Cristabel felt a warmth swelling in her heart—an empathy of understanding. Though she had never been to Salem, though she had never been farther north than Charlotte, she knew what it was to long for the place of one’s youth. When her mother had married William Pelletier, he had insisted they leave Charleston for his home in New Orleans. Cristabel had wept bitter tears over many long nights in missing her true home. She missed the fragrance of the flowers there, missed the kind people she had known. She missed the feel of the South Carolina grass beneath her feet, missed her father and the happy life she and her mother had shared with him.

  “Then tell me about your Salem,” she said. “Tell me what it feels like to be there.”

  Trevon’s smile broadened. “Why?” he asked.

  Cristabel shrugged. “I have never been there. Yet I have heard much about it. Is it truly as beautiful in the autumn as everyone claims it to be?”

  Navarrone sighed, “Yes…indeed it is.”

  “Then tell me of it,” she insisted. “Tell me why it is you would rather be in Salem.”

  He grinned at her, and she smiled in return, for she knew he would tell her.

  “The days are cool and crisp,” he began. “Scenes of harvest are everywhere in the outlying country…shipping and trade at the waterfront.” He paused, wistfully smiled, and said, “Though I prefer the fields and open spaces of the outlying farms.”

  “As would I,” she told him.

  “In the autumn, the leaves of the trees begin to change,” he continued, “and it is as if one awakens one morning to find himself bathed in a pageant of color…as if during the night some master painter dipped his brushes into a palette of crimson and gold, orange and plums that no mere mortal imagination could conjure,” he said.

  Cristabel sighed, contemplative, wondering what such variances of colors in the trees might inspire in herself were she to witness them.

  “Everywhere there lingers comforting aromas upon the air,” he continued, “kettles simmering with warm, hearty stews…the sweet essence of apples as they are pressed to juice. Pumpkins lay in fields, round and plump, sheltered among their lavish, green vines spread over the earth…and looking like fanciful orbs of orange treasure.”

  He closed his eyes a moment and sighed. Cristabel’s smile broadened when she saw his smile broaden.

  “Fanciful orbs of orange treasure,” she repeated, exhaling a dreamy sigh of her own. “Why, Captain Navarrone…you’re a poet and a pirate!”

  Trevon chuckled. “Not a poet, love…just a pirate who would linger forever in a field of ripening pumpkins if he could. All the gems and gold in the world heaped up together would not be so beautiful to me as a field of pumpkins, the rows of cornstalks reaching high, the colors of the leaves in the trees when summer has given way to autumn.”

  “You are a poet, Captain,” Cristabel giggled.

  He chuckled. “I suppose I should tell you the bad of it as well.”

  “The bad of it?” she prodded, curious.

  “In the autumn, as the sun begins to set, the tombstones in the cemeteries cast long, ominous shadows,” he began. “As darkness descends, the spirits of the dead begin to rise and wander the earth—especially the spirits of those wrongly accused in the trials…the spirits of those who were hanged…or met death by more gruesome means.”

  Cristabel’s eyes widened, and Navarrone had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing, for the expression on her face was not so much that of trepidation but of delighted curiosity.

  “You’re lying, of course,” she said—though he knew she hoped he was not.

  “Yes, love,” he chuckled then. “I am lying, though there are stories that abound. And there are those who claim to have seen spirits lurking about in the shadows or beneath the full moon.”

  “Ooo! Then tell me a story of shadows and full moons!” she breathed. “Something deliciously frightening and gruesome!”

  Trevon laughed, entirely amused by her interest. “Is it not enough for you to know that I am descended of one who was hanged as a witch?”

  Cristabel’s violet eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation. “So you are a pirate…descended of a witch?”

  “I suppose that I am,” he answered. He studied her a moment, enraptured by her beauty and charm. “Therefore, why is your smile that of such delight? You should be trembling in the presence of a pirate who is progeny of a witch.”

  “In the first of it,” she began, “you are a privateer, not a pirate. And in the second, the women of the Salem witch trials were not truly witches. Therefore, I do not see how you have any claim to intimidation through your piracy or ancestry.”

  “So to you I am merely a simple man on the shore,” he said, “not so unlike your traitorous Richard might be.”

  He chuckled when Cristabel rolled her eyes. “You are always unlike Richard…very unlike Richard…unlike any man,” she whispered. He chuckled, and she smiled at him. “Yet you do seem somewhat dissimilar to your average demeanor today. How is it you are so varying today, Captain?” she asked. “What is the difference between the pirate captain Navarrone and the simple man on the shore?”

  “A pirate would simply ravage you, love,” he said, smiling at her. Cristabel blushed and was pleased. “But the man on the shore, he would endeavor to charm you…seduce you with tender flirtation void of dominant virility…perhaps beg a pristine kiss.”

  “Would he indeed?” she asked, still blushing. “And this man on the shore…how is it that he could so easily mollify the rogue within him?”

  Trevon chuckled. “I did not say it would be done with ease…only that it could be done.”

  “Pff!” Cristabel puffed with amused disbelief.

  “Are you doubting me, love?” he asked. He was yet smiling, but she could see playful indignation in his countenance.

  “Vastly!” she answered.

  Cristabel giggled as Trevon gasped in pretense of offense. Dramatically, he put one strong hand to his bosom.

  “My lady!” he exclaimed, still feigning assault. “You plunge a dagger of insult into my heart!”

  Cristabel rolled her eyes, simultaneously amused and appalled. “Tender flirtation? A pristine kiss?” She shook her head. “You could not do it. You could not put off your demanding, dominant virility long enough to even attempt the application of either.”

  “You are so certain, are you?” he asked. “So absolute in your opinion that I cannot be tamed?”

  “Consummately,” she assured him.

  “I quite like your selection of phrase there, love,” he chuckled.

  “There! You see? You have only just proven that my determination is correct!” she exclaimed as her blush deepened. “You could not maintain a gentleman’s character for even the brief length of time necessary to…to beg a pristine kiss.” Cristabel cocked her head to one side, frowning inquisitively as she seemed to consider him. “Do you even own a concept of what a pristine kiss would be?”

  Trevon shrugged. “Boring?” he responded.

  Cristabel laughed, and Trevon fancied the sound was like that of perfectly tuned chimes.

  “There you have it!” she giggled, shaking her head. “You cannot even conceive of decency!”

  “Conceive. Yet another interesting choice of word on your part…and you are right there, love,” he said, feigning thoughtfulness. “I cannot conceive. But you…you can. But only with my help, of
course—though it would hardly be deemed a thing of decency.”

  “Captain Navarrone!” Cristabel exclaimed, fairly leaping to her feet. She stomped one foot in the sand, and he chuckled, amused by her indignation. “You must not utter such improper implications!”

  “Oh, sit down, love,” he said, reaching up and taking hold of her hand. Gripping her wrist, he tugged at her arm until she relented and settled in the sand next to him once more. “You know I am merely teasing you. You make it so effortless to do so.”

  “You are an absolute rogue,” she grumbled at him. “A rakish, knavish rogue.”

  “Pirate, love,” he corrected with a chuckle. “Pirate.”

  “Either way, you all sprout from the same bean,” she said, shaking her head. Yet by the scarlet on her cheeks and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, Trevon Navarrone knew she was not so appalled at him as she wished him to believe. “Anyway,” she sighed, “you could not be the man on the shore instead of the pirate. Your own behavior has already bested you.”

  “Try me then, Miss Albay,” he dared her. “Give us a kiss…and I promise to be the man on the shore and not the pirate.”

  Cristabel studied him a moment, her lovely brows arched in an expression of ambiguity. “I would no more kiss you than I would any other blackguard.”

  Trevon smiled. “But you forget, love.” Lowering his voice, he added, “You have already kissed me.” He delighted in the appearance of alarm mingled with indignation on her face.

  “You kissed me, Captain!” she exclaimed.

  “And you kissed me in return,” he reminded her. “Furthermore…you kissed me first.”

  Cristabel hoped Trevon did not see the goose bumps racing over her arms. The memory of their moments together in his cabin the night after settling with Governor Claiborne—the returning sensation of bliss evoked by his kiss and touch—had sent goose flesh rippling over her entire being.

  She swallowed—fought to think with clarity. He was baiting her; she knew he was. Their banter was, as ever, entertaining—wonderful—yet she stood on a precipice of forfeit now. She must think—own wit and cleverness.

  “I suppose…I suppose I did,” she admitted. “But I only did it because…”

  “Because I rouse lust in you?” he offered.

  Cristabel gasped, and he chuckled, amused by her astonished expression.

  “Because you rouse spite in me, Captain!” she corrected him.

  “Lust,” he countered.

  “Spite,” she said in return.

  He laughed, and she thought his smile was the most pleasing sight on all the earth. Trevon Navarrone’s smile ever sent a thrill through her—especially when she was the cause of its appearance on his handsome face.

  “Lust or spite—whatever the reason—the fact remains that you did kiss me first,” he reminded her.

  “Yes, I did,” she admitted. “Though my kiss to you was indeed pristine. Something you could never discipline yourself to apply…pirate that you are.”

  He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Why should I desire it…when the blending of our mouths in full passion’s meld was so much the more pleasurable?”

  Again she gasped; again he chuckled.

  “You are the most inappropriate, ill-behaved man I have ever known!” she exclaimed.

  “Then tame me, love,” he dared her. “Tame the pirate in me to offering only the pristine kiss the simple man on the shore would offer.”

  Cristabel felt an odd disappointment well within her, for in truth, she would never see him tamed. She adored him as the roguish patriot pirate he was—loved his insinuative banter and teasing—loved him. Why then would she ever wish to change him? She did not wish it. Still, she must maintain the pretense of disapproval, else she entirely lose herself to dreaming of what her heart most wished for—to belong to Trevon Navarrone.

  “There is no hope in taming a rogue such as you, Trevon Navarrone,” she told him as she rose to her feet, “for you are not meant to be tamed. You were born to your wild and passionate ways…to your freedom. And it suits you.”

  She was making ready to leave him. Trevon sensed he had pressed her too far—frightened her. Yet he could not give her up—not yet—not until he had known the warm nectar of her kiss once more. Thus, he reached out, caressively taking hold of her ankle with one hand. Oh, it was well he remembered the tale she had told him that first night she had spent aboard the Merry Wench—the tale of the Acadians who had “violated” her ankles. He knew how truly offended she would be at his touching the ankle—either offended or delighted. And when she did not run from him, he smiled, for it was an acceptance of sorts—an invitation.

  “You’re not leaving me now, are you?” he asked, still holding her ankle with one hand.

  “I-I…of course I am,” she managed. “I promised your mother I would not tarry, else you begin to think I—”

  “Stay a moment more,” he said, gently tugging on the hem of her gown, “for you have accused me of being a rogue who cannot be tamed. It is only fair that you allow me the opportunity to prove myself otherwise. Do not judge and hang me unjustly…the way the Salem magistrates judged and hanged my innocent ancestor.”

  She sat down promptly then. Yet he wondered if it were because she had decided to stay with him or because his attention to her ankle had weakened her knees. She sat opposite him, her back to the sea in facing him.

  “As I said,” he began, releasing her ankle, for he did not want to press her to trepidation, “today I am but a simple man on the shore. A simple man…begging a pristine kiss from a lovely young woman of his acquaintance.”

  As Trevon Navarrone sat staring at her, Cristabel swallowed the excess moisture suddenly flooding her mouth. Her body was yet alive with goose flesh, the residual bliss of his having grasped her ankle. She was trembling—weak—mesmerized by the smoldering depths of his dark gaze. As he sat, one long leg stretched out before him, the other serving as support of his strong arm, he appeared quite approachable in a manner. Yet as the breeze caught his dark hair, blowing several long tendrils across his forehead to slightly shade his eyes, Cristabel was suddenly terrified! He held some dark power over her—some dangerous allure she had never experienced in the presence of any other man. It was as if his very soul beckoned hers. She felt that if she were ever to succumb to his beguiling charm, he might actually absorb her somehow—consume her very essence.

  “May I kiss you then?” he asked. His voice was low—provocative—laced with some bewitching tone that echoed in her mind like a reverie. “Just one pristine kiss…politely applied?”

  “Of course…if you are truly able to politely apply anything with a semblance of refinement,” Cristabel answered. She feigned calm, though her heart beat so brutally within her bosom she feared it might beat itself dead!

  “I can do anything I put my mind to, love,” he said, reaching out to brush her cheek with the back of his hand.

  He leaned toward her then, and Cristabel held her breath as he gently took her face between his hands—pressed his lips to hers—applied a sweet, pristine kiss that lingered only several brief moments. He drew away from her then, trailing one thumb over her tender lips before releasing her.

  “There you are, love,” he mumbled, donning a mischievous smile. “Polite and pristine…just the way you prefer it.”

  “I never said I prefer it, sir,” she reminded him, weakly rising to her feet. “I only said you could not do it. And you have proven me wrong. Therefore, I offer my congratulations.”

  An odd mingling of emotion was brewing within Cristabel. She was suddenly overwhelmed with a sad sort of disappointment. Still, in the same moment, the physical effect of his kiss had sent her body into flushing warm and desirous. She wanted to cry—yet fancied giggles were bubbling in her throat.

  “This? Resignation…from you?” he chuckled, rising to his own feet. “Easy acceptance of defeat from Cristabel Albay…the rebellious, rum-drinking vixen?”

  She q
uivered as he trailed the back of his hand over the tender flesh of her arm. He took her hand, loosely lacing his fingers with hers.

  “I have only ever once partaken of spirits…out of sheer desperation of thirst imposed by you, Captain Navarrone,” she said. “And I assure you, I will not be partaking of them ever again.”

  He grinned—ran his palm from her wrist up over the sensitive flesh of her inner arm, sending goose bumps rippling over her in waves of breathtaking tingles. She should run from him, bolt for the tree house and his mother’s company. Yet she could not move—for he had bewitched her.

  Trevon moved to stand behind her. He brushed her hair to one side—trailed his warm breath along her neck and shoulder.

  “Are you fond of me, love?” he asked, his voice low and, again, wildly alluring.

  “Of course not,” she lied, barely able to speak. He exhaled a breathy chuckle, and she felt his hands at her waist—trembled as they slid to her stomach and lingered.

  “Why not?” he whispered, and she felt him press a kiss to her neck.

  “Y-you’re a pirate, for one,” she answered. “And you’ve held me captive for quite some time.”

  “I would hold you captive forever if I could, Cristabel Albay,” he whispered in her ear. He kissed the tender curve of her jaw. “Were I a different man—a better man—I would endeavor to keep you…to own your kiss…your body and your mind. Were I a better man…I would endeavor to hold captive your heart.”

  Tears brimmed in Cristabel’s eyes. His words were those of a lover, and they were as a dagger in her heart, for she was desperately in love with him—in love with Trevon Navarrone and not some pretended man on the shore.

  “Are you not at all fond of me?” he asked.

  “P-perhaps a measure,” she stammered.

  He chuckled again—took hold of her arm at the elbow. “Come with me,” he ordered softly, turning her to face him. “Unless that daring, rum-drinking she-pirate in you has lost her courage.”

  Cristabel was overwhelmed at the sight of him then. His eyes smoldered with desire. His shirt hung open, unlaced and revealing the bronzed condition of his sculpted torso. His dark hair, square jaw, and strong brow all combined to create the most attractive man of her imagination. Her attention was drawn to his mouth, and hers watered for want of his kiss.