“Married?” Claire asked, frowning yet seeming amused somehow. “Oh no, darling. Vienne was my daughter…Trevon and Vortigem’s younger sister.”
“What?” Cristabel gasped.
“Yes.” Claire’s frown deepened. “Oh, surely you have heard the terrible tale from some crew member. And her portrait hangs in Trevon’s cabin aboard the Merry Wench. He keeps it there…a constant reminder of what he views as his consummate failure.” Claire paused, fresh tears spilling from her eyes at the reminiscing.
“The portrait is of his…his sister?” Cristabel gasped.
“Well, yes, darling. Did you not notice the resemblance?” Claire asked, brushing tears from her cheeks. “Of course Trevon owns his father’s dark eyes, and Vienne inherited the blue of mine, but they favor one another all the same. Do you not see it?”
“N-no,” Cristabel whispered. “I-I did not see it.”
“There, there, darling,” Claire soothed, gathering her into a comforting mother’s embrace. “It was a terrible thing, and I am touched that you are so very sympathetic. But please…please do not let Trevon find us both in tears over Vienne. It so breaks him each time he thinks of her. I would not want our weakness to distress him.”
His sister! Trevon’s sister was the woman in the painting! Cristabel was certain she would vomit—certain she might faint dead away. How could she have been so foolish? And they thought Vienne was dead? How could they think it? She lived! Vienne was as alive as Cristabel—or Trevon! Why? Why did they think she was dead? Why hadn’t Cristabel told Trevon of the woman at the inn, of having seen the woman from the painting at the tavern inn—of having seen Vienne at La Petite Grenouille following the meeting with Governor Claiborne and the Pelletiers? Why hadn’t she told him? Yet she knew why. Cristabel Albay had already been falling in love with Trevon Navarrone by that night, and jealousy had kept her from reporting the presence of the beautiful woman from the painting. She had assumed Vienne had been a past lover of Trevon’s, and Cristabel had not wanted to sacrifice his attention to either wanting an old lover or resenting one.
“H-how did she die?” Cristabel ventured.
Claire brushed tears from Cristabel’s cheeks, took her hand, and began ambling toward the tree house once more.
“She was taken,” Claire began, “by pirates.”
“Pirates?” Cristabel exclaimed in horror. Again the contents of her stomach threateningly churned.
Claire paused a moment—frowned. “I am astonished that Trevon has not told you what brought him to privateering.”
“No, ma’am,” Cristabel admitted, disgusted with herself for never having considered the matter previously.
“Well then, I must tell you…for it is all a terrible web of pain and guilt,” Claire said. She sighed and began. “Trevon was a captain in the regular navy, like his father before him.”
“A navy captain?” Cristabel gasped.
“Yes. His advancements in the navy were hastily made. He was well liked and respected by his crew.”
Cristabel brushed at the perspiration gathering at her temples and beading on her brow. A navy captain? As she considered it, she could see it in him then, for he led his pirate crew unlike other pirate captains—with discipline and regular officers.
“It was near the start of the war. The bloody British then had ten times ten the ships the States had. Trevon’s ship was a full rigged ship. Three masts it had…the USS Wasp.”
“I have heard of her,” Cristabel breathed. “She was surrendered to the British…but only after her captain had captured two enemy ships with her.”
“Yes,” Claire confirmed. “It was the British that took the Wasp…but it was pirates that took my Vienne.”
“I feel, from the sound of your voice, that the two are somehow connected, Mrs. Navarrone,” Cristabel fearfully ventured.
“Indeed, darling. They are indeed.”
“W-will you tell me of it?” Cristabel asked. “I understand it may be too painful and that I should not press—”
“Vienne was aboard the Wasp,” Claire began. “She was engaged, to Jacob Capes…Trevon’s first mate. Trevon was against her being aboard, of course, but she and Jacob were so very desperate to be together. It was to be a short voyage, one that would well avoid the regular shipping lanes the British encroached upon. Yet as you know, darling…pirates are not so predictable as the bloody redcoats, are they?”
“No, they are not,” Cristabel breathed. She was so overcome with nausea and anxiety that even her skin felt ill.
“Well, the pirates attacked in the dead of night, a ship called Victoria’s Revenge, captained by Rackham Henry. There had been fog, and the men of the Wasp had not seen the Victoria’s Revenge approach until it was too near to properly prepare for defense. Trevon’s crew battled hard. Nearly all of them were slaughtered. Trevon and two others were the only men remaining when the sun rose. Trevon was flogged with the cat until he fell unconscious.”
“I-I have seen the scars, I think,” Cristabel offered as tears traveled over her cheeks.
“Yes. It is purely a miracle he survived such a flogging. Most men die long before Trevon even fell unconscious,” Claire confirmed. “When Trevon awoke, it was to find himself and the two remaining men of his crew adrift on the sea in a small boat. Vienne was gone…taken by the pirate Rackham Henry. One of the surviving sailors told Trevon of it, for he had been yet unconscious when Henry’s crew took her.”
“But he did not see her murdered?” Cristabel was driven to inquire—for she knew Vienne did not die at the hand of Rackham Henry and his crew.
“No,” Claire answered. “No. But pirates—true pirates, the likes of Rackham Henry—do not keep prisoners…even women. Women are beaten and ravaged near to death…and then killed. At least women who refuse to become pirate wenches. Even then they are not kept aboard pirate ships…rather abandoned on shore somewhere to die. Yet Rackham Henry never allowed a prisoner to live long. He set Trevon and his men adrift without rations of any sort…assuming they would not be found and would suffer dehydration and starvation until they finally died.”
“But they were found.”
“Yes,” Claire confirmed. “A small schooner captained by an elderly Spaniard named Don Gabriel found Trevon and his men adrift. He brought them aboard his ship, sailed them here, cared for them until they were able once more.”
“Don Gabriel?” Cristabel asked. “The man who built your house? The nobleman turned pirate Trevon told me of?”
Claire nodded and smiled slightly. “Yes. He was a good man…pirate or not.”
“So it was Don Gabriel who nurtured Trevon to privateering.”
“Yes…and no. Trevon was furious…madly furious over Vienne’s death and the manner of it…over imagining what she must have endured before her murder.”
“Mrs. Navarrone, I do not wish to—” Cristabel began—for such a tale must indeed be merciless in the pain it caused in retelling.
“I want you to know the whole of it, darling,” Claire said, however, “for you may not understand Trevon’s inner torture if you do not.”
Cristabel nodded, thinking her own guilt and inner torture would near destroy her. Why had she not told Trevon of having seen the woman in the painting? Was this to be yet another choice that had forever altered the course of her life? She knew that it was.
“He felt overwhelmed with guilt and self-loathing,” Claire continued. “He saw himself as a failure and no longer worthy to captain a ship for the navy. Yet he would not abandon his country to the British threat. Furthermore, he owned a deep vendetta and sense of revenge toward pirates the like of Rackham Henry. Thus, he began privateering. He begged Don Gabriel to help him—to teach him and to sail with him—and Don Gabriel did…until he died suddenly just four months ago.”
Cristabel wept even more profusely than she had been weeping a moment before. Such loss! She knew her own heart—how it had nearly broken and died at the loss of her father. Yet Trevon had lost s
o much more—a father, an elder brother, a sister, and a friend.
“I-I…in truth, I feel so sickened that I do not know if I can endure it, ma’am,” Cristabel wept.
“Oh, here, darling,” Claire said, gathering Cristabel into a comforting embrace. “All is well. We endure the unfathomable, Cristabel. You know that as well as we.”
“You do not understand,” Cristabel sobbed. “I have done…I have chosen badly…selfishly…and you cannot imagine the consequences!”
“There, there, love. Hush, sweet thing,” Claire soothed. “Let us both regain our self-possession before Trevon finds us so miserable and wilted. I have come to learn that it does him no good to see my agony over Vienne. He has been so happy in your company, darling. Pray continue to make him happy.”
Cristabel pulled herself from Claire’s embrace. Sniffling, she brushed the tears from her cheeks.
“I would make him happy if I could,” she whispered. “But I see now that one choice truly can change the course of a life…or two…or more.”
“Whatever is the matter, dear?” Claire inquired. “I know it is brutal. The story is difficult to hear…to acknowledge. But it cannot be changed…nor does it change the fact that I know you hold Trevon’s heart in your hands and—”
“Would you mind terribly, Mrs. Navarrone,” Cristabel interrupted, “if I were to walk alone awhile before the sun sets?”
Claire sighed, obviously still thinking Cristabel’s sympathy for Trevon where the loss of his sister was concerned was the only thing that had overtaken her emotions. She could not know that Cristabel’s self-loathing and self-disgust had added hopelessness to her soul.
“Of course, darling…of course,” Claire said. “Trevon will tarry with James awhile longer. Take the time you need.”
Cristabel nodded and, without offering one more word, strode away from Claire—toward the shore of the bay where the Merry Wench was anchored.
Claire would loathe her when she discovered Cristabel’s secret. And she would discover it, for Cristabel would not make the same fatal error in choice twice. She must tell Trevon of Vienne’s existence—of having seen her at the tavern inn. He would despise her, hate her with such abhorrence she could not fathom, but she would tell him. He could not continue to carry the burden of guilt in feeling responsible for his sister’s death when she still lived. Furthermore, Vienne must return to her family. Cristabel’s fevered mind could only guess at why Vienne had not already sought them out. She tried to imagine that it was for the sake Trevon and Claire were hidden. They lived as pirates, secretive in their community’s geography. Yet Vienne had run—escaped being seen when she had been told the crew of the Merry Wench were lingering in the tavern. It was clear she did not want to be found, for it was well known that the Merry Wench was captained by Navarrone the Blue Blade—Vienne’s own brother.
Thus, Cristabel’s imagination took her mind on a journey of pirates having tortured and abused their women prisoners—women prisoners such as Vienne. Was it humiliation and self-loathing keeping Vienne from her brother and mother?
As she stumbled out of the tree line and onto the shore, Cristabel fell to her knees, gasping for breath, for anxiety and fear were consuming her—despair, regret, and an ever deepening self-loathing of her own.
“I did not know, Trevon!” she cried. “I did not know! I love you, and I did not know! I love you…and I will give you up to hating me that I might right the wrong I have done. I did not know!” Sobbing, she whispered, “I love you! I love you!” Over and over, again and again, she whispered her confession to the breeze, to the sand, to the gently lapping waves of the sea.
Chapter Thirteen
She heard him approaching—heard his footsteps in the sand at her back. The sun was setting, casting orange and yellow pillars across the sky, causing the clouds to appear as dark, ominous shadows of foreboding.
Cristabel surmised it had been near an hour since she had left Claire Navarrone—since she had fled in search of isolated mourning. She had wept, sobbed bitter tears of heartbreak and despair. Yet resignation had found her at last, and she knew what must be done. Cristabel knew she must confess the truth to Trevon—tell him of having seen his sister laboring as a serving wench at La Petite Grenouille. He must be told that he could champion her—bring Vienne home to her mother and her brother, who loved her and desperately needed a healing to their pain of loss.
Still, she knew that in telling him all she had seen—all she had kept from him—Trevon Navarrone would never forgive her sin of omission. He was too weathered, too beaten with loss, privateering, battle, and patriotism to forgive her such a thing. Yet she could never, and would never, consider allowing Vienne to linger in the circumstances she endured. Thus, she would confess to Captain Navarrone, and he would do with her what he would. It was all she deserved.
“Mother said I might find you here, love,” Trevon said as he stepped to stand beside her. “The sun will have set soon, and you might not find your way back to the house in the dark.”
“There is something I must tell you,” she said. She did not yet look to him, for she was afraid she would not be able to utter the truth if she did. She feared the look of disgust and loathing that would appear on his face when she told him might strike her dead.
“Very well,” he said—and she sensed the change in his demeanor.
Cristabel closed her eyes a moment—silently prayed for the courage to confess all to the man she loved. Yet when she closed her eyes, such a vision of his features—such a remembrance of the bliss she had known in his arms—washed over her as a warm summer rain. Her mouth watered, and her body began to tremble. She must own his lips once more! She must know the feel of him, the scent of him. She wished to be forever haunted by his memory—by the memory of what might have been.
Turning to him at last, she gazed up into the handsome, alluring countenance and features that were those of Trevon Navarrone. His dark hair framed his face, as ever it did. Rogue raven tresses had tumbled over his forehead, shading his eyes and causing a look of mystery and allure to emanate from him.
Trembling, Cristabel reached up—took Trevon’s rugged face between her hands. His eyes narrowed, yet he did not move to aggress nor evade her touch. Slowly she allowed her thumbs to caress his lips, to gently trace his mustache and goatee. She would study every detail of his handsome face—memorize the fiery smolder of his eyes, the perfect line of his nose. Her hands traveled over his temples to be lost in his hair, for she would know the feeling of the soft, dark lengths of it between her fingers once more. Raising herself on the tips of her toes, she pulled her body against his—shivered with painful delight as his arms enfolded her, as his mouth pressed the sensitive flesh of her neck. Her tears were beginning, though she had hoped to stay them awhile longer.
Pressing her face to his neck, she inhaled deeply the scent of his skin—the aromas that were Trevon Navarrone—the warm spice of masculinity, the salty essence of the sea, the breath of the breeze, and the comforting savor of grass and trees.
Trevon sensed an overwhelming melancholy in her—a strange, sad desperation—and it unsettled him, even worried him. He was careful not to press her, though the caressive manner of her touch caused such a near manic hunger to rise in him, he feared he might falter and aggress upon her. Still, he gritted his teeth, holding her in a firm, protective embrace, for he somehow knew she was fragile in that moment.
He desired to soothe her, to ease whatever anxiety was torturing her. He wanted to be her champion—to vanquish her unhappiness—but he knew not how.
“Cristabel,” he began, “what is this?” But her mouth was suddenly pressed to his in a warm kiss of mingled anguish and passion.
Trevon’s heart swelled, his emotions and bodily desire mounting to a rapturous height. Yet he knew this was a kiss of wretchedness—of regret and longing. He must remain tender.
The kiss they shared was not brief but rather a lingering kiss of loving affection, and though it held
passion barely at bay, at bay he did hold it, and Trevon knew trepidation.
Her soft, quivering lips left his mouth—drifted to his jaw—to his neck.
“I love you, Trevon,” she whispered to his ear. “I would have endeavored to be your pirate bride. I would have remained here…waited on the shore each day…prayed for your safe return.” He felt moisture on his neck and knew she was weeping. “I love you. I love you!” she breathed.
Trevon could scarce draw breath! She was confessing love for him? He could not fathom it at first. Furthermore, he could not fathom her despair. Was it so terrible a thing to love a man the likes of him?
“Cristabel,” he whispered. “I love—”
But he was silenced by her finger pressing his lips.
He frowned as she looked to him then, tears of sheer agony streaming over her cheeks.
“Do not speak the words,” she whispered, her voice breaking with suffering. “For when I have confessed the breadth of my sins…you will not feel such a thing for me any longer.”
“Confess?” he asked, frowning—for what sin could she possibly confess to him that would change his heart toward her? None.
“I wish you to understand that…I meant no malice,” she said.
It was madness, and Trevon had grown impatient.
“Cristabel,” he said, taking hold of her arms and gazing into her eyes, “what are you rambling about? Your touch…your kiss…do you endeavor to destroy my resolve to keep from ravaging you?”
He allowed the corner of his mouth to quirk into a grin, yet her tears only increased in profusion.
“I endeavor to tell you the feelings of my heart before you are forced to strike me dead,” she whispered.
Cristabel watched as his grin faded—as his strong brow furrowed with a frown.
“I would never strike you,” he said. “Dead or otherwise.”
She stepped back out of his reach, her heart breaking—shattering—splintering into a thousand painful shards.
The Pirate Ruse Page 21
