The Pirate Ruse (8 page)

“The sun will rise on the morrow, love,” he said, cupping her fair, soft cheek in one hand.
“Yet I fear you might feel ill as the day dawns even so.”

She gazed at him a moment
, and Navarrone felt his heart begin to hammer—his mouth begin to water. She was far too tempting and vulnerable. Her eyes were glassed, and he could see the weariness mingling with the rum. She would soon be overwhelmed and unconscious.

Unexpectedly, she leapt up from the chaise—frantic!

“My ankles!” she cried. “They’re entirely exposed! Any man may touch them! Any man!” Sobbing, she fell to her knees. Placing her head on his thigh, she wept, “Oh, help me, Captain! Please! Don’t let those men touch my ankles! I cannot endure it again!”

Navarrone was unsettled.
He wondered how the girl could endure abduction, kidnapping, being put aboard a vessel of men bound for England, and falling into the hands of bloodthirsty, lustful pirates, only to worry about her ankles being touched.

“Here, love,” he said,
slipping the ring she had given him onto his smallest finger and stripping off his boots. “Here. Wear these. Your ankles will be well protected this night.”

She smiled and whispered, “Thank you,
Captain Narravone,” as he helped her pull his boots on where she sat on the floor. “Thank you,” she repeated as he helped her to stand. “I feel quite protected now.”

“Good.
Now tell me of this Richard,” he said.

The ship pitched slightly to one side
, however, and the girl lost her balance. Navarrone caught her easily enough in his arms, and she smiled at him.

“Remember, Captain,” she whispered.
“Do not tell yourself that I would rather be ravaged by you than…than…whomever that other pirate was. Keep it secret.” Raising an index finger to her lips, she slurred, “Sshhh.”

Navarrone swept her into the cradle of his arms then as
unconsciousness claimed her.

The Blue Blade shook his head as he placed the intoxicated woman on his berth.
For a woman to be so concerned over the touching of her ankles—a woman who was brave enough to have weathered what Cristabel Albay had weathered—it was inconceivable that such a trifle should worry her. Awkwardly, he removed his strewn clothing from beneath her—laid her out straight and as comfortably as he could. It was not very difficult, for she was limp as a cloth doll.

He chuckled as he studied her a moment—his shirt enveloping her
, his large boots on such tiny feet. Her hair was spread over the pillow and linens like midnight waves of the sea, and he smiled as she suddenly sighed. He would fetch another chamber pot for her—in case she woke to the contents of her rum-filled stomach manifesting itself all over the floor. He frowned, angry with himself for leading her to believe he would truly have denied her food and drink. If she survived her encounter with the rum, he would approach her more agreeably in order to glean information. Such a courageous and beautiful woman deserved better treatment than he had exacted thus far. Any woman did, for that matter.

Navarrone thought of
Vienne, and the ache in his heart caused him to double over a moment—to gasp for breath.

Glancing to the portrait hanging near the cabin door, Navarrone whispered, “I do not
ask your forgiveness, Vienne. I am not deserving of it. Thus, do not forgive me. Never forgive me. Tell the angels I do not merit any mercy.”

He glowered at Cristabel Albay, peacefully asleep on his berth.
Mercy from the angels or not—forgiveness from his angel Vienne or not—yet he would not allow traitors and treason to linger in New Orleans. If the pretty wench he had found in the clutches of Bully Booth owned some knowledge that would lead him to one traitor or more—and his guts pure boiled with the sense that she did—then he would retrieve it from her.

Growling with self-disgust and frustration, he retrieved a discarded shirt from his desk.
As he slipped it over his head, he frowned, however, glancing about the room. Navarrone the Blue Blade kept more shirts about him than the average pirate. As he looked to his clothing spread over the floor, the chaise, and his desk, he realized the girl must have tried every shirt he possessed before settling on one to wear for modesty. Striding across the room, he settled himself before the door—rested his arms on his knees.

“B
othersome little vixen that you are, Cristabel Albay,” he grumbled. “I was looking forward to those biscuits.”

The sunlight seemed to scorch her eyes, even for the fact they were yet closed. Cristabel was certain the hammer and anvil causing the throbbing ache in her head were indeed penned up inside it. Her throat burned; nausea engulfed her stomach; her limbs were so weak she could hardly move. Had she been beaten? Tortured? Was she ill, poisoned? As her mind struggled to comprehend the miserable state of her being, Cristabel vaguely remembered Captain Navarrone’s threat to deprive her of food and drink until she confessed all she knew.

An image of a crate—of a tin of Mari
e Blanchard Biscuits—mingled with a vision of the young pirate James Kelley. Had he, in secret, gifted her a flask of water, or had she dreamed it? She tried to move, for her lips felt parched, her throat continuing to burn, and she was desperate for water. Yet her arms and legs felt as if they were made of lead! The excruciating pain in her head was near unbearable, and when she opened her eyes, the light caused them to tear.

“The best remedy is to take your time, love.”

The pirate’s voice echoed though her mind, causing the brutal aching in her head to increase. Tears escaped her eyes, spilling over her cheeks.

Cristabel opened one eye—a tiny slit—to see Captain Navarrone hunkered down next to his berth
, on which she lay.

“You did this to me,” she breathlessly accused.

“No, love,” he said. He shrugged then, adding, “Well, perhaps in a manner. But you are the one whose belligerence found you sipping at a bottle of rum.”

“Rum?” Cristabel breathed.
“What are you saying?”

“You
went and got yourself sloshed, love,” he answered. He was grinning with amusement, and she wanted to slap him, but she lacked the strength.

“You did not beat me into feeling this way?” she asked.

He shook his head and chuckled. “No. You did this to yourself.”

Cristabel then owned a rather misty memory—a bottle of rum
, in the crate with the tin of biscuits.

“I-I have never had a drink of it before,” she said.
“I did not think it would be so…so miserably affecting…even for it being so loathsome to swallow.”

The handsome pirate sighed.
“Most of us learn a hard lesson or two. Sometimes we make a wrong choice, and there’s not so much harm done.” He frowned, adding, “More often, one decision can change the entire course of a life. You remember that, love…before you take to drinking rum again.”

“Lessons in morality from a pirate?” she grumbled.
Even the sound of her own voice increased the pain in her head.

“Lessons in morality are of value no matter where they come from,” he said.

He took hold of her arms at her shoulders
, and she meant to struggle—but she could not. “Here now,” he said, pulling her to a sitting position. “Sit up, and we’ll get some food into you. Water too. It will do you good.”

“Ow!” she moaned as the hammering in her head
augmented. A wave of nausea overwhelmed her, and she feared whatever contents were in her stomach might make an appearance out through her mouth. “I’m sick!” she sobbed.

“There you are then,” Navarrone said, placing a pot on her lap.

“A chamber pot?” she whispered as heaving nearly overtook her.

“Not to worry
. We scalded it.”

Cristabel looked beyond the chamber pot in her lap
to the black boots projecting from her knees where her calves and feet should be. She wiggled her toes and was disturbed to find that she did indeed wear a pair of pirate boots.

“No doubt your feet were cold,” Captain Navarrone offered.

“Yours?” she asked, nodding toward the boots.

The pirate studied the boots a moment.
“It would seem so,” he answered.

Cristabel looked at her hands
, for they were trembling and somewhat numb. It was then she noticed the far-too-long sleeves at her arms—the lacings at her bosom where only her chemise and corset should be. She gasped as realization washed over. She wore his shirt?

“Yours?” she breathed
, more tears escaping her eyes. “Oh no!”

“Correct,” Navarrone said.
“Apparently you were in need of further attire, being that I kept yours from you. That is all…nothing more to it than that.”

“Swear it!” she begged.

“I swear it,” he assured her.

Still she wept.
“But you’re a pirate. I cannot trust your swearing.”

“Oh, when it comes to my swearing, love
, believe me…you can trust in it,” he chuckled.

Cristabel frowned
, suspicious of her captor. He seemed a great deal more congenial in manner than he had the previous day. Yet she could not fathom why.

“You shared a great deal with me last night, love,” he said, rising to his feet.

“I did?” she asked, tremulous with dread.

“Information, girl.
Merely information.” He smiled, and she was angry with him for finding entertainment in her misery.

There was a knock on the cabin door.

“Enter,” Navarrone said.

“Cook sent the eggs, Cap’n…and quite a pile of bacon,” James Kelley said as he entered carrying a plate heaping with food in one hand
, a large tankard in the other. “A bit of fresh water, as well.”

“You’re fortunate the
Chichester
had fresh stores, girl,” Captain Navarrone said, “else you’d have nothing but hardtack to eat…being that you devoured my treasured tin of Marie Blanchard Biscuits.”

“You threatened me with starvation and thirst,” Cristabel managed.
She watched as James Kelley placed the plate of food on the berth next to her—handed the tankard of water to his captain.

“Thank you, James,” Navarrone said.

“Aye, Cap’n,” James said, smiling at his leader. “Good luck, miss,” the lad added to Cristabel before turning and leaving the room.

“I did threaten you with starvation and thirst,” Captain Navarrone admitted.
He grinned. “Though if you remember…I likewise offered to quench your thirst myself. There was no need to swim in the devil rum.”

“I did not know I would be so…so overcome by so little,” Cristabel confessed.

“Sometimes a spoonful of wickedness leads to a mountain of regret.”

Cristabel grimaced
and gritted her teeth, though it pained her head to do so. She glared at him, wondering what right a pirate had to churn ethical metaphors.

“Yes, I k
now. No more lessons in morality…especially preached by the immoral,” Navarrone chuckled. “I’ll leave you to your convalescing then. Eat a small portion of eggs and then bacon. If your stomach does not refuse it, then eat more. Sip the water as well. Do not be greedy.” He set the tankard of water on the berth.

“I suppose I should thank you for not…for not…” she stammered.

“For not despoiling you when I had the chance last evening?” he finished for her. She frowned, unsettled, and he continued, “Fear not, love. The only parts of you revealed to me last night were memories of your abduction and journey to the
Chichester
.”

Cristabel gasped as Captain Navarrone then took hold of the heel of each boot she wore, s
tripping them from her feet in one swift motion. “Forgive me, but I am in need of my boots, wench.” He chuckled. “Ah! How many times have I uttered that phrase, eh?”

“You’re
vile,” Cristabel growled with disgust.

“
Oh, you have no idea, love,” he said, pulling on the boots. “Hmm,” he hummed, looking at her. “Fancy that. They’re still warm.”

Perhaps he was not so congenial after all—still a vulgar pirate
, only less ill-tempered.

“Now, eat up, love,” he said, striding for the door
, “for you and I have matters to discuss before we reach New Orleans. Though you revealed much last night, you are still keeping secrets…and I mean to harvest them from you.” He paused, glowering at her over one shoulder. “By whatever means necessary.”

Captain Navarrone closed the door
, and Cristabel melted into sobbing.

*

By the warm, orange light in the cabin, Cristabel knew she had been asleep for hours. Very groggy and still weak, Cristabel sat up. As full consciousness was hers, she yet paused, remembering the miserable state of her being when last she had awakened. After a moment, however, she began to feel that her head did not ache so painfully as it had—that she did not feel overwhelmed by nausea. Carefully, she moved to stand, bracing herself against the wall with one hand for a moment, uncertain as to how long her legs would support her. When she did not collapse, she was reassured.