Authors: Marcia Lynn McClure
The vile
st taste lingered in her mouth, and she remembered the tankard of water. She hoped she had not already drunk it all. She glanced about for the tankard, surprised to see a small glass vial sitting on the floor next to the tankard. Picking up the vial, she removed its lid and was immediately met with the strong, rather frosty scent of peppermint.
“Peppermint oil,” she whispered
, and she could not help smiling, for Captain Navarrone had proved his intelligence once more. Peppermint oil was rare, wildly expensive, and very effective in treating nausea and ailments of the stomach and bowels. Cristabel knew the vile taste lingering in her mouth would also be vanquished with a drop of the oil derived from the leaves of a species of herb plant. Carefully, she tipped the vial, allowing two drops of the oil to alight on her finger.
Placing her finger to her tongue
, she smiled and sighed, “Mmm!” Lifting the tankard lid, she allowed several drops of peppermint oil to mix with the water it contained. Gripping the tankard handle, she swirled the water and oil a moment before drinking of its heavenly refreshment.
Cristabel sipped the peppermint-laced water as she combed her hair with Captain Navarrone’s bone comb.
She removed the pirate’s shirt she’d slept in, straightened her chemise and corset, and even dabbed some of the water from the tankard beneath her eyes and on her neck to freshen herself. Within half the hour, Cristabel felt much recovered. She likewise considered that it might be best to dwindle of thirst before ever pilfering rum again. It was no wonder rum was referred to as the demon drink. Cristabel was inwardly disgusted with herself for owning such ignorance—in owning such thorough belligerence that she had attempted to best Captain Navarrone by drinking rum when he had threatened to let her linger in thirsting.
She thought again of his threats—as well as his vile offering to quench her thirst with the moisture of his own.
“Blackguard,” she mumbled. Yet in the next moment, she wondered how many pirate wenches had known such a manner of thirst quenching from him. “Filthy pirate!” she exclaimed to the air.
Cristabel went to a porthole near the berth
, opened it, and inhaled a breath of salty sea air. She had survived her first night as captive aboard the
Merry Wench
, and it was more than many men had done.
She frowned
, remembering then that Navarrone had claimed she had revealed information to him—information regarding her abduction and journey to the
Chichester
. She tried to remember exactly what she had told him—what had transpired the night before—but she could not. There were only wisps of memory, and those were clouded and nonsensical.
Navarrone had promised he would return to extract further information from her, and Cristabel knew she must own far more wisdom in dealing with her captor than she had previously.
Thus, she contemplated—reviewed the events that now found her, yet alive, aboard the
Merry Wench
and on her way back to New Orleans.
The abduction was terrifying!
In fact, Cristabel mused that enduring abduction was most likely why she was not as astonished as she perhaps should be at lingering in the company of pirates. Strangers had come in the middle of the night, dragged her from her bed, bound her, gagged her, and carried her to a small boat. As remembered fear began to wash over her, she chose not to linger on those moments but to think instead of her time aboard the
Chichester
.
“Are you feeling better then?”
The sound of his voice startled her. Still, she looked to him, feigning courage—as ever she did. Oh, but he was handsome! A weak-minded maiden might well be seduced by his physical allure alone. Cristabel was thankful she was not a weak-minded maiden, though she further mused that were he not a pirate—were he a gentleman—she might allow herself a morsel of weak-mindedness. She gritted her teeth, inwardly scolding herself for thinking any good thoughts of a pirate.
“Yes,” she admitted.
“And thank you for the peppermint.”
He nodded.
He then turned and called out, “James Kelley…bring the trunk.”
Cristabel
watched as James Kelley and another member of the crew carried in the trunk she recognized as being her own. She looked to the pirate captain, and he nodded to her once more. Thus, she made her decision. In that very instant, she chose to be compatible with the pirate—not combative. After all, had he wanted her dead, he would have killed her already. Had he wanted to ravage her, he would likewise have ravaged her already. Therefore, in those brief moments, Cristabel Albay began to believe that perhaps she did know something of worth to Captain Navarrone. Furthermore, if she did own some knowledge he desired to glean from her, it may well be the further saving of her life.
James Kelley smiled at Cristabel before taking his leave, and she sensed he was a kind sort of boy.
After all, he had also in secret slipped her a flask of water the night before. She thought him brave, for he had defied his captain’s orders—risked a no doubt harsh reprimand in the least.
Captain Navarrone closed the cabin door
and then turned to her and said, “I am allowing you to have your things.”
“May I dress?” she asked.
Oh, she would not be combative, but she would not be too demure and agreeable, lest he think she was weak.
She felt a blush rise to her cheeks as Captain Navarrone cocked his head to one side
, studying the length of her.
“You are dressed, love,” he said.
“As modest as any other woman of my acquaintance. No need to cause yourself discomfort in this balmy air by adding another layer of attire.”
Cristabel must proceed with care—this she sensed.
She must not attempt to best him in constancy, yet she could not forever lean to forfeit.
“You make a point,” she said.
“The air is balmy, and you are used to women donning less attire. Furthermore, I do not sense that you plan to allow me to leave this room in the near future. Thus I will remain comfortable as I am.”
Cristabel was far from comfortable lingering in the presence of a man (any man) dressed only in her undergarments.
Still, she would not allow him to know he yet intimidated her. Even for the intoxication that had overtaken her from drinking the rum—even for the weakness and vulnerable state it had forced her to—Navarrone knew he could not easily bully her into obeying his will. She must keep the pretense that she would not be bullied.
“Still, I would like my hairbrush,” she said, going to her trunk
, “since you are allowing me the freedom of accessing my things.”
“Of course,” he said.
He stood near her, watching as she opened the trunk.
As she lifted the trunk’s lid—as she saw the ransacked state of its contents—she sighed
. “I see you have already taken inventory here.”
“We took inventory of everything we brought aboard from the
Chichester
,” he said. The right corner of his mouth curved. “Though admittedly, I did not trust that you might try to kill me with some feminine article buried in its belly. Thus, I took the liberty of making certain there were no sharp items within.”
“Well, it’s certainly obvious pirates do not own the organization
al concerns or care for clothing and delicates that British sailors do,” she said. “All my things were perfectly ordered…all my clothing well folded when I first opened the trunk aboard the
Chichester
.”
Navarrone frowned. He thought of the tale of her abduction—the one she had shared so openly while intoxicated the night before.
“You say…all you
r things were in order?” he asked. “The clothes neatly folded?”
“Yes,” she said
, and he saw the bewilderment on her pretty face.
“Yet you told me it was not
the British who took you from your home…but men speaking French…Acadians,” he said. “Mercenaries would not pause to pack a trunk…especially with care.” He saw the understanding begin to wash over her. “The trunk was—”
“
Prepared before I was taken,” she finished.
“
Cristabel Desiree Albay…you are aligned with traitors,” Captain Navarrone said.
She gasped.
“I never revealed my name to you…nor am I aligned with traitors!” she insisted. Doubt puckered her brow then, and he knew she was thinking she had revealed her identity the night before, influenced by the devil’s rum.
Navarrone pointed to the inside of the trunk’s lid—to her name printed there.
Her gaze followed his indication, and she breathed a relieved sigh.
“
Still, I am no traitor,” she reiterated. “I have told you before that I—”
“Yet you will not tell me all you
know concerning the
Chichester
…your abduction,” he reminded.
“You’re a pirate!” she exclaimed.
“Even so, I am an American—American bred, American born, American raised—and I protect her,” he growled.
“American born, eh?” she asked.
“And where might you have been born, Navarrone the Blue Blade?”
Navarrone knew he must win her trust—at least a measure of it.
He knew that he could expect her to share nothing if he did not offer something in return.
Thus, he answered, “
Salem.”
“
Massachusetts?” she asked, smiling. “Salem, Massachusetts? The township of the old witch trials a hundred years ago?”
“Over a hundred years ago,” he corrected.
She laughed, and he fought the urge to enjoy her laughter.
“Well, of course!
A pirate…born of witch country. I should have guessed at it,” she giggled.
“Puritan country as well,” he interjected.
He was pleased by her enthusiasm—though somewhat astonished.
“Indeed…though I think history will find those acc
used and hanged for being witches owned the better character.”
“Then you should be comforted to know that I
am descended from the condemned…and not those who sat in ignorant judgment,” he confessed.
“Truly?” she asked
. He could not keep from smiling, for her face purely radiated with interest. “Are you in earnest?”
“Of course, love,” he assured her.
“A pirate I may be…but why would I have reason to deceive you over such a trifle thing?” He wagged a scolding index finger at her. “You, however…you I found aboard a bloody British ship! Your trunk was neatly packed and ushered aboard as well. Thus, how can I believe you are not aligned with the enemy?”
Navarrone watched as she bit her lower lip
, pensive. He had her! She would tell him the full breadth of all she knew—at last.
“What will you do to me once you know my thoughts…my suspicions
? And they are only that, Captain,” she said. “I only have thoughts and suspicions.”
Navarrone’s eyes narrowed as he considered her a moment.
“In truth, I cannot say, love,” he confessed. “For if you are a traitor, I will give you over to Governor Claiborne…just as I will the remaining crew of the
Chichester
. If you are not traitor…” He shrugged. “I can promise only that I will not kill you.”
She was silent a moment—appeared suddenly awash with anxiety.
“If you determine that I am not a traitor—which I am not—will you give me your word that you will not take me to Governor Claiborne…even if you think it would be in your favor to return me to New Orleans?”
Navarrone was wildly intrigued.
The girl did know something.
“I promise,” he agreed.
“Then ask your questions, Captain Navarrone,” Cristabel Albay sighed. “And I will tell you all I am able.”
He was astonished
, for it seemed she was truly resigned to speak to him. He watched as she retrieved a hairbrush from the depths of the trunk, sat down on the chaise, and began brushing her hair.
“Why do you not wish to be returned to
New Orleans?” he began. “In particular to Governor Claiborne?”
“I
-I…” she stammered. She paused, inquisitively frowning at him. “How could you return me to Governor Claiborne? How can you expect to take your captured British ship and sailors to him? You’re a pirate! He would have you hanged!”
She was quick
-witted—perhaps too quick-witted. He must proceed with care, else he reveal too much of himself.
“It’s a British ship, love,” he answered.
“And seven bloody sailors. Do you really think the governor would refuse such prizes simply because a pirate offers them? We are at war, Cristabel Albay. Or didn’t you know?”
Cristabel considered Navarrone for a moment. She had heard of such things—pirates entering New Orleans without fear of punishment simply because they owned information or goods desired by New Orleans citizens. Her thoughts lingered on the matter of weeks before, when Commodore Daniel Patterson set out aboard the
USS Carolina
to Barataria Bay, the bay south of New Orleans where Jean Lafitte and his brother Pierre anchored a fleet of privateers and smugglers. The
Carolina
and six other gun ships attacked Jean Lafitte’s Baratarians, scattering or capturing Lafitte’s men and ships—though Jean Lafitte himself escaped.