The Pirate Ruse (18 page)

Cristabel was near to bursting into flames with frustration
. All that had transpired—all that had been revealed—she heard every word of it, yes. But she had seen nothing!

“You may dismiss your men, Navarrone,” the
governor said. “We will conclude our business, and you may join them then.”

“Yes, sir,” Navarrone said.

“There are taverns down the way, men,” the governor called to the pirates. “Your captain will join you forthwith.”

Cristabel grew rigid
, for she felt Navarrone’s approach. She did not hear his footsteps or his voice, yet she felt the warm allure of him at her back.

“Baskerville,” he began in a lowered voice
, “take the men to the tavern La Petite Grenouille and wait.”

“We ain’t all of us men, Cap’n,” Baskerville mumbled.

“Oh, I am well aware of that, Baskerville,” Navarrone growled. Cristabel glanced up to him to see him glaring at her with the full fury of hell itself. “I recognized that charming little bottom the moment she turned her back to me!” He leaned forward, whispering in her ear, “James’s trousers could never completely disguise your enticing curves, love. Just be glad it is only I that am so familiar with them as to have recognized you.”

“Captain, I-I
—” she began.

“Off to La Petite Grenouille, lads,” he said loudly.
“And keep a wary eye on our young James here, Baskerville…else he finds himself in more trouble than he can manage.”

“Aye, aye, Cap’n,” Baskerville grumbled.
“Come along, lads. The cap’n will settle with the governor from here.”

Taking hold of Cristabel’s arm, Baskerville pushed her ahead of him.
“You’re a daring wench, miss. Not a soul can deny that.”

“Will he kill me, Baskerville?” she asked as they stepped outside once more.
“Will he flog me with his cat, do you think?”

“I don’t know, miss,” he said.
“The cap’n was pure furious, he was.”

“And what of James?
I-I smashed him over the head with a bottle of rum,” she stammered. “None of this was his fault…only mine.”

Baskerville chuckled
, still holding to her arm as he pushed her along. “Oh, you smashed him over the head with a bottle of rum, undressed him all by yourself, and set out with us, somehow already knowing our ways for going ashore to meet the governor. Is that it?”

“Exactly,” she lied
, though she knew he knew she lied.

Baskerville tugged her hat
, pulling its brim lower still.

“Well, if you can convince Cap’n Navarrone of that story, I can learn to fly like a bird, girl,” Baskerville chuckled.
“Now, let’s have us a drink at the Grenouille, lads,” he called to the pirates ahead of them. “It’s best we all be ready when the Blue Blade arrives to deal with this pretty pirate, eh?”

The men all cheered and laughed
, but Cristabel was only further terrified. What would Navarrone do to James? What would he do to her? She tried to envision the excruciating pain inflicted by the cat at flogging, yet she knew even her vivid imagination could not fathom it.

“Don’t worry, lassie,”
Baskerville said as he opened the door to the tavern and ushered her inside. Lowering his voice, he whispered, “Perhaps the cap’n won’t flog you…in exchange for certain delights you can offer.”

Cristabel gasped
, mortified by his inference. But Baskerville merely chuckled.

“You sit here and wait for Cap’n Navarrone,” he said
, pushing her into a chair at a small table. “He’ll be right along. Indeed he will, and I have the feeling this will be a night you’ll not soon forget, Miss Cristabel Albay.”

Cristabel tried to restrain her tears, but several escaped over her cheeks despite her willful efforts.
Slowly she began to reconcile herself. Her fate would be what it would be, and she fairly deserved it.

Again Navarrone’s warning echoed in her mind.
One decision can change the entire course of a life
, he had said. In that moment, Cristabel thought there had never been truer words spoken—not in all the ages of the earth.

“And you suspect treason is afoot? And close to me?” Governor Claiborne inquired.

“I fear I more than merely suspect it, sir,” Navarrone answered.

“But who? Who would be in league with King George?”

Navarrone paused—for he was not yet certain he should reveal what he knew as yet.
The governor obviously held great trust in William and Richard Pelletier—or at least in William. He did not think Claiborne would easily accept an accusation against his friend. Thus, Navarrone simply fed him broth instead of stew.

“I am certain I will be able to trap the traitors,” Navarrone said.
“I am certain of it, sir. But I ask for your patience…as well as your own wise and wary eye. I must give my men their respite. We have been at sea much longer than I had originally planned, and I have promised them time with their families. Thus, we will take our rest…and I will strategize as we do. For you know there is nothing more repulsive to me than a traitor.”

“Yes,” Claiborne agreed.
“I own the same feelings.”

Navarrone watched as the
governor frowned and was pensive for long moments. He was afraid Claiborne would press him further—that he would not own the patience necessary in waiting for Navarrone’s trap to spring.

Governor Claiborne inhaled a deep breath of resolve
and nodded. “I trust in your character, Navarrone,” he said, “and your judgment where the character of others is concerned. Take your rest. Let your men renew their strength. Then inform me as to how I may assist in revealing these treasonous traitors and bringing them to the feet of justice.”

“Yes, sir,” Navarrone said.
“We will prove them to be worthy of hanging for their crimes.”

Claiborne frowned.
“And you believe these same men are running the white slavery operations?”

Navarrone nodded.
“I believe they are the foulest form of men…those who abduct innocents from the coast of Africa for sale into bondage here…then abduct our virtuous young women to sell in other countries, yes. Any trade and sale of human beings is contemptible and depraved.”

“And you believe the woman my friend William was seeking was taken from
New Orleans for this purpose?” Claiborne inquired.

“I think it very likely.”

Claiborne sighed. “As I said, take your rest, Navarrone, and then root out these traitors among us.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Now see to your men.”

“Thank you, Governor,” Navarrone said as he struck hands with Governor Claiborne.

“Thank you, Captain Navarrone,” Governor Claiborne said. “I have never fully approved of the concept of issuing Letters of Marque…but in your case, I am glad of it.”

Navarrone nodded.
He turned, striding from the old house. He had never favored Governor Claiborne—not in the least. Still, he knew the governor’s loathing for traitors was nearly as thoroughgoing as his own. In this they were allies—and he was glad of it.

Still, as he hastened to La Petite Grenouille
, his vexed indignation where Cristabel Albay was concerned smoldered in his chest like catching kindling. She could have been found out and somehow harmed! Furthermore, she could have ruined everything where his plans to trap the traitors were concerned. And however had she convinced James Kelley into allowing her to take his place in the away party? He felt as if he might literally bend her over his knee and spank her round little bottom when he had her in his hands again. In truth, he was so awash with relief that she was well and unscathed that perspiration gathered at his brow, his strong hands still trembling with residual fear for her safety. Yet he could not allow his thoughts to linger on his relief that she was yet well. He could not allow tenderness of thought to distract him from his purpose. Cristabel Albay was a pawn of war—a game piece desired by each player. He must remember it. She was no more than a pawn—a beautiful, tempting piece of his gambit—and he must remember it, no matter how thoroughly the thought of her put his mouth to watering with desire.

*

The waiting was torturous. Cristabel wondered if indeed the anticipation of being flogged were worse even than the flogging itself would be. She thought—yet she was utterly terrified. She thought about dashing from the tavern—about leaping from the chair where Baskerville had ordered her to stay and racing out in search of assistance. After all, she was being held captive by pirates. Yet to whom would she run for help? The people of the small town who were obviously friendly to those who held her captive? To Governor Claiborne, who was deceived by William Pelletier? To Richard? She thought then of all her ears had witnessed, frowning, for it was obvious that Richard was as steeped in treason as his uncle. It had been Richard who had spun the lie of Cristabel’s false correspondence with a nonexistent British sailor. Yes, Richard was a traitor too. Thus, where could she run? Nowhere.

Cristabel sighed—discouraged, frightened
, and confused. Perhaps she could convince Navarrone not to flog her. Perhaps—as Baskerville had suggested—there was something she could offer in return. Yet she was not so naive as that. She knew what Baskerville’s insinuation had truly been, and that was not a consideration.

“Privateer,” she whispered then.
Full understanding had washed over her during the exchange with the governor. She had perceived it all quite clearly then: Captain Navarrone and his crew were privateers. Pirates of a sort, yes, but not bloodthirsty and murderous the likes of Bully Booth and others. In truth, Navarrone’s offering of the
Chichester
was near an act of loyalty to country! Pirates would have simply commandeered the British ship and fit it with a crew, most likely forcing the British sailors to join them, thereby doubling their chances to plunder. Giving the
Chichester
over to the governor supplied another ship to the United States’s defense.

“Do not romanticize it all, Cristabel Albay,” she whispered to herself.
“He’s a pirate! For pity’s sake, he’s kept you captive…means to flog you!” She gulped as the anticipation of brutality returned.

Desperate for distraction, she glanced up
to the barmaid standing in conversation with a man at a nearby table. Frowning, she looked up once more. From beneath her pirate’s hat, Cristabel stared at the woman—felt her mouth fall agape as she sat in utter astonished disbelief.

“It cannot
be,” she whispered to herself. All thoughts of flogging emptied from her mind as she studied the woman. “It truly cannot be!” she breathed. Yet as she continued to scrutinize the barmaid, the truth was only more and more evident. The woman was beautiful, even for the dark circles of fatigue beneath her eyes—even for the fact her hair was ratted and unkempt. Even for all her disheveled appearance, the woman from the painting in Navarrone’s cabin was as beautiful in the living flesh as ever she was in oils and canvas! The tavern inn light was low, yet the woman’s blue eyes glistened like sapphire stars. The unique dark beauty mark on her lovely face was indicative of her person as well—there at the crest of her right cheek, just below the outer corner of her right eye.

“Indeed, it is her!
” Cristabel said. Quickly she glanced about. Where was Navarrone? Had he not yet entered the establishment? The men of the away party still sat where they had a moment before. Yet where was their captain? Should not he have arrived by now? Cristabel’s first instinct was to rush out of doors to find him. Surely he would want to know that the woman, whose portrait hung in his cabin ever in his view, was standing not five feet from Cristabel. Still, with her next breath she paused. An odd sort of jealousy—or perhaps protectiveness—was rising within her. The woman was no doubt Navarrone’s lover—or once had been—and the thought caused Cristabel’s teeth to tightly clench. She shook her head, disgusted with herself. Why would she own jealousy where Navarrone was concerned? He was a pirate—a privateer in the least of it! Therefore, she chose to be more attentive to the feeling of protectiveness she was experiencing, for there was safety in that. Had the woman spurned Navarrone, once broken his pirate’s heart? Or was she yet his lover? Was the woman in the tavern the reason Navarrone had chosen the place for the meeting with Governor Claiborne? Was it why he had sent his men ahead to wait for him at La Petite Grenouille? She briefly wondered why the establishment had been named the Little Frog but ignored the trivial thought—for Navarrone’s lover stood before her! Still, she mused her considerations were intolerable. What care should she have for Navarrone’s heart, for his lovers? Furthermore, she thought it more likely Navarrone had broken the woman’s heart instead of the reverse.

“May I offer you anything, sir?”
the woman from the painting inquired as she approached.

Cristabel glanced to one side
and then the other. “Me?” she asked, pointing an index finger to herself.

The woman from Navarrone’s painting smiled.
“Yes, sir,” she said, nodding. “May I offer you a drink?”