The Pirate Ruse (6 page)

Cristabel’s thirst was near excruciating!
She wondered that she was not so thirsty a moment before Captain Navarrone had inquired if she were so. She must find water. Yet she knew water was a rare commodity on ships. Still, she must quench her thirst before her mind could settle on what to do further—on whether to barter with the pirate captain or continue to defy him.

Desperately she rose from the chaise and began to look about the room.
She had already perused the captain’s belongings—his comb, his clothing, several drawers in his desk that held nothing but meaningless trinkets. However, as her gaze fell to a small wooden crate in one corner of the room, her hopes brightened, for she recognized the markings on the box.

“Oh
, please…please let it be,” she breathed as she went to the crate. Quickly, she removed the lid—near giggled with triumphant delight as she saw what lay within. “Marie Blanchard Biscuits!” she said, recognizing the small tin of sweet biscuits. “Complete with an accompanying bottle of rum,” she whispered, pulling the bottle from the crate.

Cristabel had never drunk rum—nor beer
nor port. Still, she knew Navarrone would not allow her water, even if the
Merry Wench
had it in her stores. She must not faint of parchedness, and she must survive the nights and days aboard the
Merry Wench
if she hoped to be ransomed.

Thus, with continued existence as her ambition, Cristabel nourished herself with
Captain Navarrone’s stash of Marie Blanchard Biscuits and a bottle of pirate rum.

*

“Aye, Cap’n,” James Kelley whispered. “But how long would you have me wait before I am to pretend to slip her the flask of water?”

“No more than half the hour, James,” Navarrone answered.
“I do not want her thirsting long, yet she must not know I ordered it. She must think you are disobedient to me…giving her water without my knowledge.”

“Aye, Cap’n,” James said, smiling.

Navarrone patted the boy on the shoulder—though he thought for a moment that tousling his fair hair might be a more appropriate gesture. James Kelley was so young—too young for the life of a pirate.

“Good lad,” Navarrone said.
Handing James the flask of water, he strode away. The men must be told of what little he had learned from Cristabel Albay. All must be prepared before they reached the bay, for this was not to be the normal visit to Governor Claiborne to settle shares of booty. No. There was far more to this visit to New Orleans, and the crew of the
Merry Wench
must be at the ready.

Captain Navarrone allowed an hour to expire before returning to his cabin. His thoughts were that the girl would have had the water James had provided and would perhaps be hungry enough to reveal more information to him. He well believed she knew little about her abduction, yet he sensed she owned suspicions of who had orchestrated it. He further surmised that the blackguard who had her taken aboard the
Chichester
was involved in treasonous activities. Thus, he wanted to know more about Cristabel Albay and her suspicions, for she indeed seemed an intelligent and observant woman—very beautiful as well.

Navarrone paused outside his cabin door to speak with James Kelley.

“Did you give her the flask of water as I asked?” he inquired of the lad.

“Aye, Cap’n,” James whispered.
“She thanked me for it, sir…said she’d be saving it for a moment of desperation.”

Navarrone frowned.
“Moment of desperation? But I left her already thirsting.”

“She was quite happy to see it, Cap’n,” James explained.
“She’s a very merry sort of woman, isn’t she?”

“Merry?” Navarrone asked.
“What do you mean merry, James?”

“Smiling and giggling she was, sir…like she was off on a holiday instead of locked up
in your cabin as your prisoner.” James smiled, adding, “And she offered me one of them biscuits you left for her, sir…them Marie Blanchard ones. I thought it was right kind of her to offer.”

“Marie Blanchard
Biscuits?” Navarrone mumbled. “I did not give anything to…” He winced with realizing his own stupidity. Of course! The crate of Marie Blanchard Biscuit tins and rum Governor Claiborne had gifted him weeks before. He had placed it in his cabin upon sailing from New Orleans and never more thought of it.

“I fear the little vixen has bested me, James Kelley,” Navarrone growled as he opened the cabin door.
“I just hope the rum doesn’t kill her.”

“Captain!” the girl cheerily greeted as Navarrone entered his cabin, securing the door behind him.
“Good evening, you naughty, naughty pirate!” The girl sat on the chaise—a bottle of rum in one hand. Her cheeks and nose were rosy already, and as she raked a dainty hand through the softness of her long hair, she winked at him.

Sloshed—t
he girl was entirely inebriated. Navarrone’s heart near skipped a beat when he saw she had consumed at least a third of the bottle of rum. It was no doubt she did not indulge in spirits as habit. Thus it was fortunate he had not tarried in returning. Had she consumed the entire contents of the bottle, he may well have returned to find her dead!

“I see you found the rum,” he said, striding to her.

She wrinkled her nose, grimaced, and nodded. “Vile stuff it is.” She shrugged. “Yet what was I to do? For you refused to offer me anything to drink.”

Cristabel drew the bottle to her lips, yet Navarrone snatched the rum from her.

“Rum is not for those of a tender constitution, love,” he said. “And I see you’ve been into my tin of biscuits as well.”

“Aye, Captain,” she giggled.
“I adore Marie Blanchard Biscuits. My mother and I often stroll down near the river to sample the biscuits and sweets in her shop. She’s very old, you know, Marie Blanchard.” She sighed with reminiscing.

“Is she?” he mumbled.

Navarrone felt the corner of his mouth curve into an amused grin. She had found one of his discarded shirts and put it on over her corset and chemise. He was pleased in her efforts to find means of defying him. He had not allowed her a dress; thus, she had obviously decided to best him by donning one of his shirts for modesty. Naturally, it was too large for her—sagged off one smooth, porcelain shoulder—hung near to her knees.

“Why, yes,” Cristabel
answered. “Mother says the woman must be near seventy years.” She winked at him once more, adding, “It must be why her biscuits are so delectable…eons of practice.”

“Indeed,” Navarrone said.
Again he pulled a chair from its secured position and placed it before her. Sitting down, he leaned toward her and said, “You say you and your mother often visit Marie Blanchard’s shop.”

“Yes,” she said.
“Quite often.”

Navarrone’s eyes narrowed.
Marie Blanchard was not only a skilled baker of biscuits but also a loyal patriot. The fact that Cristabel and her mother often visited Marie Blanchard greatly intrigued him.

“Tell me about your mother,” he begged.
“She sounds like a good woman.”

Cristabel nodded
, her balance wavering slightly, even for the fact she sat on the chaise.

“My mother is an angel, Captain,” she sighed.
“She so loved my father. He was wounded fighting the bloody British the first time, you know…but survived to marry my mother. She was much younger than he, of course…but they were so in love.” She smiled and exhaled a wistful sigh. “Her name is Lisette…Lisette Ines Chachere Albay. Isn’t it a lovely name?”

“Very lovely,” Navarrone agreed.
“Yet would she not be Mrs. Pelletier now?”

Cristabel’s smile faded.
She frowned, her lovely brow crinkling with disgust.

“Yes,” she admitted.
“Lisette Ines Chachere Albay Pelletier. I loathe William Pelletier. I do not know why Mother ever married him. I suppose she felt an obligation.”

“An obligation?” Navarrone inquired.

She sighed. “You know,” she began, her expression that of irritation. “When Father died, William Pelletier purchased our house in South Carolina. Mother said we would have been driven to destitution without his help.”

Navarrone’s eyes narrowed.
“I see,” he said. And he did. Cristabel’s mother had found means to take care of herself and her daughter—by marrying a wealthy New Orleans politician.

“But I do not wish to speak about William Pelletier,” Cristabel grumbled.
“The thought of him causes my stomach to churn.”

Navarrone smiled.
He doubted it was thoughts of William Pelletier causing Cristabel’s stomach to churn. He only hoped he could glean a bit more information from her before the rum she had consumed found her unconscious.

“Would you speak of pirates?” he inquired.

“Pirates?” she asked, her pretty brow furrowing with curiosity. “What might I know that you do not already know when it comes to pirates, Captain Narr…Narravone?”

He chuckled
, amused by the easy manner the rum had washed over her.

“Oh, I know plenty of famous pirates,” he began, “
of Jean Lafitte, Bully Booth, Henry the Merciless, and the like.”

“Narravone
the Blue Blade?” she asked, smiling and winking at him.

“Yes,” he chuckled.
“Certainly Navarrone the Blue Blade.”

“Then why ask me about pirates?”

“Because I am a pirate…and I think you own a knowledge of pirates that I do not.”

Cristabel’s eyes narrowed as she studied him a moment.
“How long do you spend in grooming your mustache and goatee of a morning?” she asked. Reaching out, she pressed her index finger to the small triangle of whiskers beneath his lower lip. “It all must be quite time-consuming…for it is perfectly manicured.”

Brushing her finger from his chin
, for her touch had caused goose flesh to ripple over his arms, Navarrone continued in leading her into possibly illuminating conversation.

“The pirates you have knowledge of that I do not…those who took you from your home in
New Orleans and sailed you to the
Chichester
.”

“They weren’t pirates, silly man,” she said, shaking her head with exasperation.

“Who were they then
, if not pirates? British?”

Cristabel Albay’s soft, berry
-pink lower lip began to quiver. Navarrone saw moisture rise to her eyes.

“I-I don’t want to speak of it,” she whispered.

“Of course. Of course,” he said. He was in danger of losing her reciprocity. He must be patient—glean what he could before she realized she was offering information to him she might not share when clear-minded once more. “What would you like to speak of, love?” he offered. “Anything at all. What would you have us discuss with one another?”

Instantly, her frown curved into a smile
, the tears in her eyes retreating.

“Anything?” she asked.

“Yes.” He nodded his assurance, adding, “In fact, it does not take so long as you think to maintain well-groomed facial hair.”

She giggled
, and he was pleased. She was with him once more.

Her eyes narrowed
, and she studied him a moment, still smiling. “Is it true you seduced the governor’s wife in South Carolina?” she asked.

“The truth?” he countered.

“Yes,” she assured him, though he thought she looked somewhat uncertain—as if she dreaded hearing the answer.

“Then no,” he confessed.

She sighed with visible relief.
“Oh, I like that answer,” she whispered to herself.

“Do you have more questions for me?” he prodded.

“Will you answer each one truthfully?”

“Yes,” he chuckled.
“You have my word.”

“Have you seduced many women?” she asked.

“Seduced them to what, love?” he volleyed.

“To romance,” she answered plainly.

Navarrone frowned, bewildered. “Romance? Do you mean to ask if I have seduced them to flirting…or do you mean to ask if I have seduced them into my bed?”

Cristabel gasped
, and Navarrone chuckled as she reached out, clamping a hand over his mouth.

“For shame, Captain!” she scolded in a whisper.
“You must know I mean to flirting…to allowing you to steal a kiss.” She frowned. “I would not like to think you would take women to your…to you otherwise.”

He was flattered that she should be so sweet—so pure and, he sensed, somewhat jealous.

Removing her hand from his lips, though keeping it clasped in his, he answered, “I’m a pirate, love. Of course I’ve seduced women to…romance, as you put it.”

“To kissing you?” she asked
, concern still evident in her expression.

“To kissing me, yes,” he said.
She sighed and smiled with relief. He was glad, for he knew it was the answer she most wanted to hear.