Authors: Marcia Lynn McClure
Cristabel
glanced up then. She was instantly intrigued by the large painting on the wall near the cabin door—a portrait of a beautiful raven-haired woman. The eyes of the woman in the portrait were as blue as the sky, her lips as crimson as summer cherries. She wore a dress of peacock blue and an expression of contentment. She was, by far, one of the most beautiful women Cristabel had ever seen. She fleetingly wondered if the portrait had been painted from the artist’s imagination or from the sitting of a living woman. The woman bore a small, straight nose, high, well-defined cheekbones, and a dark beauty mark at the crest of her right cheek beneath the corner of her eye.
Glancing back to the captain’s desk, Cristabel realized that the portrait was placed so that any moment the capt
ain was at his desk or in his berth—or even perhaps reclining on the nearby chaise—the view before him would ever be the portrait of the striking woman.
“A lover?” Cristabel inquired of the air.
“Only such a rare beauty could be your equal, I suppose,” she whispered. For it was true: bloodthirsty pirate or not, Captain Navarrone was fully as handsome as the tales told of him claimed. Yet the devil often masked evil with beauty, and though Cristabel Albay had never seen a more handsome and alluring man, she was not so easily swayed to think good of him as some women had been. The stories of the pirate Navarrone’s conquests of women were many—and wildly scandalous! In Charleston it was rumored he had seduced the governor’s wife. Fair half the pirate wenches in New Orleans claimed to have fallen prey to his charms. It seemed the entire coast of the Gulf told tales of Captain Navarrone the Blue Blade and his carnal escapades.
Cristabel wrinkled her nose
, disgusted with the notion of pirates and their riotous, wanton ways. She swallowed a lump of fear that rose in her throat, for only in that moment did the true desperation of her circumstances seep into her thoughts. When she had been bound, gagged, and taken—hauled aboard a British ship with no knowledge of the reason, knowing she was the only woman on board—indeed she had known fear, sheer terror! However, when the
Chichester
had been attacked by pirates—by Captain Bully Booth and the crew of the
Screaming Witch
—her terror had increased one hundredfold. As the pirate Navarrone was known for his exploits with women, so the pirate Bully Booth was known for his lack of mercy—his methods of torture and murder.
Thus (though
only silently admitted), Cristabel had known an odd sense of hope when Captain Navarrone had appeared on the deck of the
Screaming Witch
to spar for her. Her good sense told her that a pirate was a pirate—whether heinous to look upon as was Bully Booth or handsome as was Captain Navarrone. Yet in the depths of her soul somewhere, a whisper breathed to her thoughts that fortune had smiled upon her in delivering her into the pirate Navarrone’s hands.
Cristabel gasped—startled from her thoughts as the cabin door burst open to reveal
a looming, and obviously perturbed, Captain Navarrone. As he tossed his belt, baldric, and cutlass to the floor, she could not help but take two steps backward—even though she had previously determined to appear courageous when he returned. Yet he was such an imposing figure! His dark, jaw-length hair hung wet and still dripping, and he raked a strong hand through it from his forehead, back over the top of his head. His well-groomed mustache and goatee were also darkened from the moisture still clinging to his whiskers. His massive form was sailor-bronzed, the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and torso rigid and tensed. The simmering anger in his dark eyes pierced her resolve at bravery like unto some medieval knight’s broadsword, and she again swallowed the trepidation in her throat.
As he aggressed toward her, Cristabel heard the sloshing of his
sea-saturated boots—saw the determination in his countenance—and it unsettled her far more than she had hoped. Acting too quickly, for he approached with the power and rage of a hurricane, Cristabel drew the dagger, wielding it at the advancing pirate. He did not even slow his gait—simply reached out, taking hold of her wrist in such a vise’s grip that her hand involuntarily opened, releasing the dagger. She watched in astonished horror as the weapon clattered to the cabin floor.
“Why were you aboard
the
Chichester
, woman?” the pirate Navarrone growled. “Who are you? Are you some treasonous wench conspiring with the bloody Brits?”
“No!” Cristabel managed.
She was angry that he should so accuse her. “I am no traitor!”
“No
traitor to whom? To the States…or to the crown?” he bellowed.
“I was born in
South Carolina, sir!” Cristabel answered through gritted teeth. “I am no traitor…though I do not know what right a pirate has to question my loyalty.”
“
South Carolina, is it?” he asked, releasing her hand. “Then why were you sailing with the British?”
“I was taken
,” Cristabel hatefully informed him, “stripped from my stepfather’s home in New Orleans in the dead of night…bound, gagged, and dragged aboard a small ship, which sailed me into the dark and finally to the
Chichester
.”
She watched as the pirate’s eyes narrowed.
“Why?” he asked. “Who are you that you should be taken by the British?”
“No one, I assure you,” she told him.
She could feel the emotions of fear and confusion torrid within her. Yet she struggled to keep them hidden. She could not let this fierce pirate see her weakness.
She watched as he pulled a nearby chair to
position in front of her. He took his seat in it and began struggling to remove his sopping boots.
“Did they mean to ransom you?
Who is your father? ” he asked.
“
I do not know…and my father is dead,” she answered curtly.
She heard him growl as he stood and began unlacing the ties at the waist of his trousers.
“Then who is your stepfather, wench? The one with the house in New Orleans from which you were taken?” he grumbled. He paused in untying the laces at his waist and glanced up to her. A smile tugged at the right corner of his mouth, and he said, “Make your choice, girl. Avert your gaze and trust that I am otherwise occupied with changing these wet trousers for dry and will not descend upon you…or do not trust and offer yourself a lesson in pirate anatomy.”
Understanding his implication, Cristabel gasped, covering her eyes with both hands.
“Who is your stepfather?” he repeated.
“William Pelletier,” she answered
, still covering her eyes.
“A wealthy man?”
“A terrible man,” she said.
“I did not inquire of his character, woman,” the pirate growled.
“Is he a man of wealth or position in government? Perhaps both?”
“
Both,” she answered.
“Then the British meant to ransom you, no doubt.
And you may uncover the innocence of your eyes, love.”
Tentatively, Cristabel lowered her hands and opened her eyes.
The pirate Navarrone the Blue Blade was once again somewhat modest. She watched a moment as he tied the lacings at the waist of a pair of black trousers, produced another pair of boots from beneath his berth, and sat down on the chair before her to pull them on.
“William Pelletier would not pay a ransom,” she said.
“Not for anyone.”
“Is your mother still living?” the pirate asked.
“Yes.”
“Then he would pay it.”
“You do not know him,” Cristabel assured him. “He would be glad to see me gone.” She caught herself only a moment before she might have confessed to the pirate that the thought occurred to her that her loathsome stepfather, William Pelletier, might indeed be the composer of her abduction.
She watched as he tugged on the long bla
ck boots, folding over their cuffs below his knees.
“You’re
keeping secrets, love,” he said, rising to his full height. He raked a hand through his hair once more. Several lengths of hair cropped shorter than the rest tumbled over his forehead to linger over his eyes, resting on his cheekbones. Cristabel noticed then not only the well-groomed condition of his mustache and goatee—the perfectly trimmed triangle of whiskers below his lower lip that met with those at his chin—but also the angled grooming of his side whiskers—the manner in which they bordered his face before each ear to angle to each midcheek. She frowned, thinking surely not all pirates were so well kempt.
“Keeping secrets, love,” he repeated.
“I-I have told you all I know,” she said, still distracted by his unusually attractive and striking appearance.
“D
o you truly expect me to believe that you, the stepdaughter of a wealthy New Orleans politician, were abducted in the dark of night, sailed to an enemy British ship, and put aboard for no reason you can fathom?”
“It is the truth
,” she said. Oh, Cristabel Albay had suspicions as to why she had been taken—or in the very least suspicions of who was behind her abduction. Yet she would not share them with a pirate! “I do not own the suspicious nature of a pirate, Captain,” she told him. “I have told you all I know.”
Navarrone grinned.
“No, you haven’t,” he said.
He turned and strode toward the cabin door.
Opening it, he called to a crew member, who handed him some white garments. He closed the door and returned to her.
“There,” he said, tossing the garments to his berth.
Cristabel recognized the clothing as her own—a chemise, corset, and pantaloons. “Strip yourself of that wet clothing.”
“No dress?” she inquired.
“No,” he answered. “I will allow you a measure of dry clothing so that you do not contract disease and die before I discover exactly why you were aboard the
Chichester
, consorting with the enemy.”
“I was not consorting with the enemy!” Cristabel defended.
“However,” Captain Navarrone continued with a scolding glare, “you will not be allowed to properly attire yourself until I am satisfied…either with the information you have finally revealed or…” He paused, studying her from head to toe with a wanton expression, “Until I have had my fill of perusing your appearance while so immodestly garbed.”
Navarrone chuckled at the astonished expression of indignation on the girl’s face. He fancied she blushed, and he was further amused. Allowing her to attire in only her undergarments would keep her pliable and compliant, until he could determine what she was keeping secret concerning the circumstances that found her aboard a British merchant vessel. Still, he found her indignant expression wildly entertaining. He would have to remember to provoke it again.
“You…you
blackguard!” she growled at him.
Navarrone
chuckled. “I am a pirate, love,” he said. “Did you expect me to be a gentleman?”
She was furious
, entirely overcome with indignation. It was again amusing. However, he could not be distracted, for he somehow knew the girl’s presence on the
Chichester
was significant. He snatched a previously discarded shirt from his berth and pulled it on over his head, neglecting to tie the laces at his chest.
Cristabel watched as the pirate Navarrone gathered a long red sash from the heap of clothes on his berth, positioned its middle at his forehead, and secured it at the back of his head. Picking up the dagger she had dropped, he retrieved its sheath from his desk, securing both at his waist in the back of his trousers. He took a baldric down from a hook on the wall and secured it over one shoulder. He retrieved a belt he had sometime previously discarded to the chaise and fastened it at his waist. At last, he drew his cutlass from the sopping belt on the floor and secured it at his hip.
An intimidating presence indeed was the freshly garbed
, well-groomed pirate Navarrone. Still, Cristabel maintained an air of defiance. He could not know how truly weak and vulnerable she felt.
“Change your garments, girl,” he ordered.
“We set sail for New Orleans.”
“We a
re returning?” she gasped. At once she was horrified—confused by the fact that she was nearly as afraid of returning to New Orleans as she was to be in the company of pirates.
“The surviving crew of the
Chichester
must atone,” he growled. “Furthermore, there is something you’re hiding, love…and I intend to discover it. Thus, since your part in this event began in New Orleans, then to New Orleans we will sail.”
“You plan to simply sail into
New Orleans? Pirates?” she scoffed.
Captain Navarrone smiled, however.
“It’s New Orleans, love…and we’re at war with the British. Pirates come and go nearly as they please. Perchance you have even brushed shoulders with Jean Lafitte himself while strolling past Saint Louis Cathedral or the Cabildo in the Place d’Armes. Besides, I have a captured British ship in tow, its seven surviving crew members as prisoners, and the lovely daughter of a wealthy New Orleans politician…whom I saved from certain despoilment and death. There will be vast rewards and commendations, no doubt.”