“Leave off your cutlass, Captain,” she said. “Please. And the dagger you wear at your back.”
He took a step toward her, saying, “This is madness, love. There is nothing you could tell me that—”
He paused in his advance as Cristabel raised her palm to him.
“Please,” she said, “if you are to kill me for what I am about to reveal, I want to feel your hands at my throat as I die. I do not want to die by the blade.”
“Cristabel,” he began again, and she saw the expression of near panic on his face.
“Please, Captain,” she begged, “for I have been keeping something from you. And I know that when I reveal it…you will own less mercy toward me than you do any of my traitorous acquaintances.”
Trevon exhaled a heavy breath of frustration. There was nothing she could reveal that would change his heart toward her. If she were about to confess that she too was in league with the Pelletiers in their treasonous strategies, he would love her still. Nothing would keep him from her. She had only just told him she would be his pirate bride—the words had only just fallen from her lips—and he would have her. There was nothing that would stand between Trevon Navarrone and the woman he loved—nothing!
Still, she was overwrought, and he must remain patient. Thus, he removed his cutlass—tossed it to the sand some distance off. He removed his dagger, sending it to join his cutlass on the shore.
“Tell me this thing that is so vile, love,” he said then. “I promise that it will not change my heart.”
He frowned as she took several steps back from him—as an expression of fear, panic, and pain owned her pretty face. He sensed she was truly fearful he might harm her—either her heart or her body.
“I did not know the portrait that hangs in your cabin aboard the Merry Wench is…is your sister’s,” she began. “I did not know it. You never spoke of her being your sister.”
Trevon felt his heart burn with pain, disappointment, and despair. She had discovered his weakness in failing Vienne. In that moment, he did not care how she had come by the knowledge of the circumstances of Vienne’s horrifying demise, for it made no difference from whence the information came to her. It only mattered that it did. He understood then the look of dread on her face. Cristabel Albay had realized she had fallen in love with a villain—a weak man who could not even protect those he most cared for, who had lived while his precious sister had died.
“So you see me for what I am now, is that it? You see me for the weak, failing man I am,” he growled. “You have no secret that will drive me from you. Rather it is mine that drives you from me…for I well see loathing of me in your expression.”
“It is self-loathing y-you see, Captain,” she stammered as more tears flooded her cheeks. “Not loathing of you, for you are a hero…a great man among men.”
Trevon’s eyes narrowed. He did not understand her rambling. What secret could she own that was worse than the one he cached? What could ever endeavor to make her think he would not love her?
“Vienne is not dead, Captain,” she whispered. She must confess it all while courage still lingered in her bosom. “I have seen her. She is not dead.”
Trevon frowned—such a frown as to cause Cristabel’s own brow to ache with sympathetic pain.
“My sister was taken by pirates, Cristabel. By the pirate Rackham Henry,” he said, gazing at her as if she were mad. “She was taken…murdered.”
“You did not see her killed,” Cristabel reminded him, brushing at the tears on her cheeks. “You did not see her body or receive any word that she had truly died…did you?”
“I need no proof,” he told her. “Rackham Henry has defiled and killed every woman he has ever taken.”
“But I have seen her…the night you met with Governor Claiborne to discuss the Chichester. She was there, serving drink at the tavern inn…at La Petite Grenouille.”
She watched the color drain from Trevon Navarrone’s face as he shook his head in disbelief. “No,” he muttered.
“I saw her, Trevon,” Cristabel insisted. “She stood as close to me as you do now…even asked me if she could serve me.”
“No,” he mumbled. She could see he was beginning to tremble—see his powerful hands clench into fists.
“She asked me which ship I crewed, and when I told her…she fled at once,” she continued as Trevon raked a quivering hand through his hair. “I-I did not tell you because—”
“Vienne is dead, Cristabel,” he growled. “No woman could survive capture by Rackham Henry.”
“As no man could survive as many lashings with the cat as you did?” she asked.
“No,” he breathed. “She would have come to me.”
“Y-you have been in hiding…and your mother,” she reminded.
He shook his head, his scowl deepening. “It cannot be her!” he shouted, infuriated. “You did not know her! You could not recognize her from her portrait! You could not!”
“I-I did. I swear on my life that it was Vienne at La Petite Grenouille,” Cristabel cried. “I am not lying, Trevon.”
She gasped—stepped forward as he suddenly dropped to one knee in the sand—pressed a trembling hand to his chest as if his heart would stop.
“Vienne,” he breathed—a breath—a word—a name uttered in torture.
Trevon looked up to Cristabel, his eyes narrowed, blazing with pain and anger. “How could you keep this from me?” he asked. “How could you not tell me you had seen the woman in the painting?”
“I-I was your prisoner…or have you so easily forgotten that I am aligned with traitors and treason?” she wept. “You meant to put both James Kelley and me under the lash of the cat for our farce!”
“You feared me?” he asked. “You did not tell me you had seen Vienne because you feared me?”
Cristabel shook her head—angrily wiped at the tears blinding her eyes. “No,” she confessed. “I did not tell you because I did not know she was your sister. I-I thought she was your lover…a lover you mourned losing. I-I th-thought perhaps she had broken your heart and left you wounded…that you would return and claim her for your own once more if you knew wh-where she was. It was obvious she was fearful of seeing someone from the Merry Wench…and I thought…I thought you loved her.”
“I do love her,” he grumbled. “She is my sister!”
“I did not know!” Cristabel cried, burying her face in her hands. “I did not know…and jealousy bid me not to tell you I had seen the woman in the painting.”
Trevon clutched his chest, for his heart gave him great pain. In truth, he wondered if it would expire and leave him dead on the shore. He had failed Vienne—far worse failed her than even he had thought. She was alive? She lived? He felt tears well in his eyes—burning tears of the knowledge he had not kept searching for Vienne. In truth, he had spent near two months inquiring of Rackham Henry’s whereabouts, his plundering, where he had sought refuge. Nothing had come to him concerning Vienne—nothing—only assurance at every turn, from every person or place that Rackham Henry had touched, that no woman would have survived two days in his possession. Rackham Henry was known to keelhaul the women he captured and abused—toss their remains into the sea. It was well acknowledged in tale and document. There had been no hope; it was what he had been told—what he had believed. Yet now—now Cristabel Albay claimed to have seen Vienne alive. Could it truly be Vienne had been living so near, for two years?
He glanced up when he saw Cristabel collapse to her knees in sobbing. “I am sorry! I am so sorry!” she cried. “I did not know!”
Trevon stared at the woman he loved, knowing then that he should never more endeavor to have her. He was a pitiful man—weak, failing, and unworthy of such a woman as Cristabel Albay. And yet as he studied her—as he thought of her courage, her wit, her soft form and warm mouth—he did not care so much for his own unworthiness. He would yet have her for his own, whether he was worthy of her or not. But he could not have her until Vienne was found, for he would n
ever know one moment of true happiness without repentance of failure—without righting the unfathomable wrong he had done.
Cristabel watched as Trevon struggled to his feet. He straightened his strong back and inhaled a deep breath, his eyes still narrowed. He strode to where his cutlass and dagger lay in the sand, retrieved them, and slipped the cutlass into its sheath at his hip and the dagger into the back waist of his trousers.
She stumbled backward as he strode toward her then, such a look of rage and determination upon his face that Cristabel’s hands went to her throat to defend it from his grip that would easily strangle her.
But he did not strangle her. He simply took hold of her arm in the tight vise of his powerful hand and began pulling her along beside him toward the tree line—back toward the tree house. She had to near run to match his pace. When once she could not match it and stumbled, he paused only long enough to bend and position one broad shoulder at her waist. Hoisting her onto his shoulder as if she were no more than a sack of grain, Trevon continued his hasty march toward the tree house.
Cristabel said not a word—not one word in defense of herself, not one word to question what his intentions toward her were. Her end would be met however he chose for her to meet it. Still, he had once promised he would not kill her, and she thought he was not one to break a promise, no matter what circumstance may arise. She began to think he would simply return her to her mother—to her life with a treasonous stepfather and fiancé. After all, William or Richard might kill her upon her return as well.
It was the very first time in the entirety of her life that Cristabel felt wholly defeated. Despair owned her, and she could not find courage or will within herself.
Trevon set her on her own feet once more as they stepped out of the trees and into view of the tree house. “James Kelley!” he roared. “James! Attend me at once!”
“Aye, Cap’n,” James called from the first tier of the dreamy abode. He ran down the stairs and to his captain.
“Gather Baskerville, Fergus, and three others,” Trevon growled. “Have them meet with us at once. At once, do you understand?”
“Of course, Cap’n,” James said, frowning. He looked to Cristabel—began to speak to her—but she shook her head in indication he should not. She could see the worry on his young brow and wondered whether he would yet be so worried when he knew what she had done.
“Trevon?” Claire called from the tree house.
Cristabel looked up as the sun set, leaving all in darkness—save the warm-lit house in the ancient tree. How she would have cherished to live in it forever! How she would have slept happy in Trevon’s arms there.
“One moment, Mother,” Trevon called. He looked to James again, glowering as he ordered, “Now, James Kelley! I mean to have the men here now!”
“Aye, Cap’n,” James said as he nodded, glanced to Cristabel once more, and then hurried off in the direction of the houseboat.
Again taking hold of her arm, Trevon began to fairly haul her toward the tree house. He still did not speak to her, yet she never expected he would ever utter another word meant for her ears.
“Trevon?” Claire asked as Trevon pushed Cristabel up the stairs ahead of him. “What is all this?”
Cristabel brushed new tears from her cheeks as Trevon sighed. He yet wore a frown, and she knew he was considering whether he should tell his mother of Vienne.
“Trevon,” Claire prodded. She looked to Cristabel, reaching out and placing a warm palm to her cheek. Cristabel turned from her, however, knowing the woman would not feel such affection for her if she knew what she had done. Claire frowned, asking, “Whatever is the matter, darling?”
“Cristabel has told me that…that she has seen Vienne,” Trevon said.
“Well, of course you have seen her, darling,” Claire said, smiling with reassurance as she gazed at Cristabel. “Her portrait hangs in—”
“No, Mother,” Trevon interrupted. “She says that she has seen Vienne living…that my sister was one of the serving wenches at the tavern inn, La Petite Grenouille.”
Cristabel watched—wept as Claire frowned a moment in considering what Trevon had told her. Quickly, however, her frown faded, and a smile spread in its place.
“Oh, darling…it is often one person can be mistaken for another,” Claire offered.
“I was not mistaken, Mrs. Navarrone,” Cristabel managed. “It was Vienne. I saw her. She spoke to me. I did not know then that she was your daughter. I…I…”
The frown that now puckered Claire’s brow was that of deep disbelief mingled with wild optimism.
“I would not give you false hope, Mother,” Trevon began, “but I cannot dismiss the sense that it is indeed Vienne that Cristabel saw.”
Tears welled in Claire’s eyes, yet she bravely straightened her posture. “You mean to sail and find her?”
“Yes,” Trevon answered.
“Then I will sail with you,” Claire announced.
“No, Mother. I think it best—”
“I will sail with you, Trevon,” Claire stated. “Vienne will need her mother when she is found. I cannot imagine what atrocities she may have endured, and I will be there to comfort and reassure her.”
“She fled when the Merry Wench was mentioned, Mother,” Trevon explained. “It may be that she does not want us to—”
“Why would she not want us to find her, Trevon?” Claire asked. “Of course she will want to come back to us.”
“Mother,” Trevon began. Cristabel could sense his barely restrained emotions—anger, frustration, impatience. “There is certainly a reason she has not sought us out…a reason she avoided contact with anyone from the Merry Wench. We may indeed have to…well…rather abduct her.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Trevon!” Claire scolded. She was weeping now, her hands trembling. “She will see me and know utter relief and instant soothing.”
“She may not, Mother,” Trevon argued—nearly growled.
“M-may I speak?” Cristabel ventured.
Claire looked to her with anticipation, yet Trevon merely glanced away.
“Of course, dear,” Claire said, scowling at Trevon.
Cristabel winced, for it was painful to endure—Claire’s still addressing her so kindly.
“I do not think it would be wise to force her…to abduct her,” Cristabel offered. Trevon still did not look at her—simply inhaled a deep breath of attempting to calm himself. Claire did not respond either but seemed to be waiting for Cristabel to continue. “It is nearly certain that she has been ill-treated, is it not?”
Claire winced then—wept more tears.
“Yes,” Trevon mumbled.
“Then allow me to sail with you—to approach Vienne and explain your feelings and desire to have her with you—before you attempt to force her to come home with you,” Cristabel suggested.
“She will come with me,” Trevon said, finally looking to Cristabel. She saw the pain in his eyes—the desperation toward atonement.
“She will flee if she catches sight of you,” Cristabel gently argued. “I do not know why…but she will.” She looked to Claire then. “I fear the same is true of you, Mrs. Navarrone. I would go to her first—explain that your love and acceptance of her is unconditional.”
“She should know it!” Claire cried out, weeping. “Vienne would know we love her…no matter what she has had to endure.”
“I am certain that she does…deep in her heart. Yet why then would she flee…so desperately flee when Trevon was at her very door? It makes no sense. Why would she not have sought you before now? At least inquired after you? And Trevon would have known of such inquiries…for some person would have informed him.” Cristabel paused and watched Trevon’s frown deepen with pensive thought. Claire dabbed the tears from her eyes with the hem of her apron. Feeling they both understood her case, Cristabel ventured, “I could go before you—approach less…less aggressively and speak with her, explain that you want only to have her with you again…no matte
r what has happened to her. And then…then we must allow her the choice. Vienne must make the choice to return to you.”
Oh, how she prayed Trevon would agree—that he would see the wisdom of her proposal. It was certain he was lingering in loathing Cristabel for her deceit. Yet for Vienne’s sake, Claire’s, and most especially his own, Cristabel prayed he would listen to her.
“We will sail the schooner,” he mumbled. “I will secure lodging for us and Vienne at the inn across the way from La Petite Grenouille.” He turned to Cristabel, glaring with either self-loathing or loathing of her; she could not determine which. “You will speak with her…attempt to convince her to accompany you to us. But if she chooses not to leave La Petite Grenouille with you…then I will extract her from it by force. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Cristabel said, nodding.
“She will need a sanctuary, Trevon,” Claire said then. “Her room at the inn—there must be a warm bath prepared and waiting, clean clothing…perhaps soothing oils and good food.”
“We have no time, Mother,” Trevon grumbled. “Even now she may have left La Petite Grenouille for another path.”
“Bring my trunk with us, Captain,” Cristabel said. “I have clothing. She looks to be of my same figure and approximate height. You well know that when my trunk was prepared, a fine toilette was included—scented oils and lotions, everything a woman would need to feel clean and comfortable. Bring my trunk for Vienne.”
“Yes, Trevon,” Claire said. “In fact, I demand it.”
“Very well,” Trevon growled. “I will plan as a mother and woman would for this, for Vienne’s sake. However, I remind you both…that I will bring Vienne home. Nothing will stand in my way of it. Therefore, if all does not proceed as prettily as you women wish it to…be prepared. I will not fail Vienne again.”
“Cap’n Navarrone?” Baskerville called from the ground.
Cristabel looked to see James Kelley in the company of Baskerville, Fergus, and three other members of the Merry Wench’s crew.
“Aye, Baskerville,” Trevon called. Looking back to his mother and Cristabel, he said, “We sail at midnight. Therefore, do not tarry in your preparations.”
The Pirate Ruse Page 22
