A Pirate's Ruse Page 5

"Really? Then why are you so adamant that I withdraw from this competition?" Her voice shook slightly as she spoke. She was more upset than her words let on. He did appreciate her sticking to her guns and giving as good as she got. It was clear she wasn't going to cower in fear, even if she felt it. She flatly refused, apparently. Maybe she was even one of those women who did the exact opposite from what she was told. It didn't matter. Chances were the first round would knock her out of the competition anyway.

  "Just thought it best to save everyone the hassle, and the awkward silence when every man gathered here acknowledges that you have neither the skill nor inclination to run a pirate town. How else is this going to play out?"

  "I guess we'll see," she said tartly.

  "You should just go. There is nothing here for a girl like you. No husbands around these parts, unless you'd like to revisit the whole whore conversation. In my experience, when it comes to whores—and I know the species well—convent girls make the very best."

  The girl rolled her eyes in vexation. "I will take it upon myself to speak for all females on this island, and probably any nearby islands: we would all appreciate it immensely if you would spend your ardor on the nearest coconut tree." She pushed past him, angling her bony shoulder into his chest. She marched back to the stairway up to the town boardwalk and he turned to watch, rubbing the spot where she'd rammed into him to get past.

  Well, that was interesting. She hadn't exactly cowered as expected, but she wasn't stupidly confident either. She'd shown bravado, almost shaking with nervousness and fear as she stood up to his intimidation. Although that wasn't intimidation, that was just testing her for a response. "I won't go this easy on you on the waters," he called to her and she flashed him a glowering look. She had more guts than he'd anticipated. She'd also spoken to him in a way few would dare, but he'd been too amused to be truly annoyed. Still, she had been warned.

  He walked back into the township and back to the tavern. The little exchange had been revealing of her character. And he would be seeing her and Havencourt on the waters tomorrow.

  Chapter 9:

  * * *

  It felt like tension was dripping off Clara's body after her confrontation with that pirate. She knew who he was and he was one of the pirates Havencourt had told her to watch out for. But what worried her was the ease he felt in harassing her. It hadn't been threatening, but whenever she went to move, he would block her, as if she wasn't leaving until he was ready.

  Clara wanted to scream with frustration. It wasn't particularly anything he'd said, because he had been expectedly crass, warning her off, insulting her; it had been the teasing. He had been amusing himself, playing with a toy like a petulant child. It was also the unfairness of it all that infuriated her. He was so strong, so powerfully built, all muscle and lean mass, and he had imposed his will on her—admittedly in a small way. It went against everything she’d been raised to believe—that a person's value was not in imposing their will on others; it was apart from physical strength, but Christian Rossi had just physically intimidated her.

  She'd been close to drawing her sword and what goaded her the most was his amusement in seeing it—probably because he knew she had no chance against him. Did she really have no chance fighting off someone like him?

  Marching back to Madame Guerier, she entered the back door leading to the kitchen, finding the women sitting there. Madame Guerier was there as well, dressed for the day, with her hair in an elaborate coiffure.

  "Where can I find Lieutenant Havencourt?" Clara asked.

  "He has a set of rooms in one of the buildings here in town," Madame Guerier answered. "Do have some rosewater. You look a bit piqued."

  "I suppose I am a bit."

  "Has anything happened?"

  Clara frowned for a moment. "I had a run-in with Christian Rossi," she admitted. Madame Guerier brought her cup to her lips and considered the statement, but said nothing.

  "Oh, Christian," one of the girls said wistfully. "There is nothing I prefer more than a run-in with Christian Rossi." The other girls around the table sniggered and giggled, and Clara blinked in surprise. "He is just so … firm," the girl continued and then smiled mischievously above her glass rim.

  "He's an outright bully."

  "They all are," Madame Guerier said.

  "But Christian particularly likes things his way," the girl continued. "His real name is Christiano, did you know? He's Genoese originally." Clara hadn't picked up on that. His speech had suggested he was English, but apparently not. "But he goes by Christian."

  "You had a run-in with Christian Rossi?" Lieutenant Havencourt said from the door. Clara hadn't noticed him arrive.

  "Yes," she said, turning to him.

  "You should stay away from him."

  "He goaded me to the point where I almost drew my sword on him."

  "You should absolutely never draw your sword on him."

  "He warned me to leave this competition."

  "Did he?" the lieutenant said, walking to the table and receiving a cup of coffee from Madame Guerier.

  "I don't really know what it is he fears."

  "I don't know if he fears anything as such. He will do everything in his power to win this competition. He will likely achieve it, too. He is the most likely contender and he would make a strong heir for this place."

  "But why warn me off?"

  "I suspect he was inspecting you. You are the most unknown element in this competition."

  "How am I possibly a threat?"

  "He is aware, but you are also Guildford's daughter and an unknown. That alone would make people cautious of you. No one will know where you stand until the first challenge is completed. If you survive it, you will be a threat, and we will have more to fear from Christian Rossi than tense words."

  Clara considered the warning. Was she really at threat? She kind of liked the idea—unlikely as it was. It was nice to think she could face down all these people who were trying to bully her—her father, and a pushy pirate who was apparently very 'firm', whatever that meant. "Perhaps we need to practice sword skills further," she suggested. If she would ever be in a position to need them, she had to be better than she was. Her life may well depend on it.

  *

  At dark, Clara retreated back to the whorehouse, fearing being caught out alone. She had practiced with her sword most of the day, with renewed determination, taking on board and considering every piece of direction or advice from Havencourt. Tomorrow they would sail—to Port Royal no less. Nervousness shivered through her body. It might all be over tomorrow. If she finished in the bottom half of the race, she was disqualified. It would be over and she would be free to leave.

  Sighing, she considered the impossibility of the following day. She had to sneak into an English port and steal something. It was so absurd it was almost comical. But then there was the larger issue—it was illegal, and very illegal to boot. She would be hanged if caught. How were things going to go if a fleet full of pirates descended on Port Royal in the morning?

  "Come play cards," Madame Guerier said, striding into the kitchen where Clara was sitting by herself.

  "I don't know," Clara said with uncertainty. "I'm not sure it's a good idea."

  "You have nothing to fear in the parlor. No one will attack you, or your virtue. Besides, Havencourt is there. Come play." She swept out of the room just as quickly, carrying a carafe of wine.

  For a moment, Clara considered what to do. Perhaps going to the parlor was better than sitting here alone. It was just that in the parlor, the women here plied their trade. Well, not the nitty-gritty of it, but the rest of it. The whole thought of it made her uncomfortable. What she really didn't want to deal with was some pirate being confused and thinking her services were on offer.

  She had to be brave, she told herself. She was about to sail a ship into an enemy port tomorrow, and she was shuddering at the thought of going into a parlor. Steeling herself, she stood and slowly made her way to the door, first peeking thr
ough into the brightly lit area. Soft murmur of talking and laughter escaped through the door and Clara took a deep breath and pushed the door open. She walked straight to the table where Madame Guerier and Lieutenant Havencourt were sitting. "Wine?" Madame Guerier asked when Clara sat down.

  "Yes, please. With water."

  Havencourt sat relaxed, perusing his cards. He had been here the other day, too. Not just here—upstairs. That had meant he'd been with one of these girls. Even he had used the services of these girls, and she had trouble reconciling his properness with the fact.

  From everything she'd been told in the convent, whores were degenerates, gravely lamenting their damnation and the abysmal existence of their lives, having fallen out of righteousness to nothing but pure suffering. In actuality, the picture looked somewhat different from what the sisters and the priest had painted. These were discrepancies she didn't quite know how to deal with. She had believed everything the sisters had told her, but it just didn't reflect reality.

  Lieutenant Havencourt rose and retreated to the back where the latrines were.

  "Do all men come to establishments like these?" Clara asked.

  "Most do."

  "But not all?"

  "No," Madame Guerier said and considered her. "There are many people in the world who judge a person's value by how they thread the pleasures of this world, but it is a measure you should be careful of. In my experience, I have found that men who deny themselves pleasure are some of the more cold-hearted men in existence."

  "Or just able to show restraint."

  "There are many nuances between God and man. Men make poor gods, and sometimes are better off accepting themselves as men."

  "I don't understand," Clara said, frowning as she looked around the room, where women were entertaining men, filling their glasses and letting them look—touch in some cases. Clara didn't understand this. "Isn’t this just lust?"

  Madame Guerier smiled. "It is a powerful thing, with powerful rewards. For many men, lust is as much love as they can handle. They are more closely linked than you'd think."

  "They are not linked at all."

  "Is that what the sisters who have never known men say?" Madame Guerier snorted. "They think it's the church that keeps men civilized, but it's really women."

  "These men are hardly civilized."

  "Perhaps not, but more so than they would be without us. What cannot be denied is that this is where they want to be, where they strive to be. It is a very powerful instinct—one you should not forget. A weapon when needed."

  Clara blinked. She couldn't imagine using it as a weapon. It certainly wouldn't have served her today, confronted and bullied by Christian Rossi. Using that weapon would just have had her up against a coconut tree, ravished. A heated flush spread up her cheeks, suspecting she had better chances with her sword.

  Chapter 10:

  * * *

  "You can't just all sail into Port Royal. What will the English say if a dozen pirate ships sailed into town? It is hardly going to go unnoticed. Guildford is all but delivering you to the English, who will hang anyone they catch," Madame Guerier stated. Clara listened as she sat at the kitchen table with Lieutenant Havencourt. They were sailing in an hour.

  "Luckily, they don't readily expect the pirates to come for them."

  "But a dozen ships. Few of these idiots are unlikely to not give themselves away."

  "I think Guildford set the challenge to discourage the element that are too clumsy to fulfill it."

  "Or get the rest hanged, which I'm sorry to say is probably not a great loss to anyone."

  "So what are we going to do?" Clara asked, having kept quiet so far.

  "One option is to anchor on the other side of the peninsula and trek over land into Port Royal. There are roads."

  "It would take time."

  "Yes."

  Clara stroked the pads of her fingers over her mouth, trying to consider what was right. Unfortunately, she knew nothing of Port Royal.

  "You will be recognized," Madame Guerier said to Lieutenant Havencourt, who nodded. "You cannot go."

  "How else are we supposed to do this? Miss Nears does not know where to find the stores."

  "Then draw her a depiction. You cannot go."

  "I agree," Clara said. "It is not worth it to get caught."

  "It will probably be night-time when we get there."

  "Still, it is not worth it," Madame Guerier said. "Clara can go. No one will suspect her."

  "Unless she is caught red-handed."

  "I will take something from the stores if I can, but this is not worth dying over. Even so, we'll go. I will walk into town and see if I can take anything," Clara said with a smile.

  Havencourt sighed. He didn't like this; Clara could tell. She, on the other hand, was probably lucky that she didn't know where they were going and what had to be done. Sometimes, not knowing was probably better.

  "We better take to the ship," he said. "If you are sure."

  "I'm sure."

  With a nod they rose from the table. Clara felt nerves bubble through her. "Take the dress you came in," Madame Guerier said. "You couldn't look further from a pirate in that."

  Clara ran upstairs and grabbed the uncomfortable dress so ill-suited to the tropical climate. She'd grown used to wearing breeches and had been amazed how marvelously comfortable they were.

  They walked through town and down to the port where one of the crew waited for them in a dinghy, ready to take them to their ship sitting out in the harbor.

  Looking around, Clara saw some of the other crews getting ready. She saw Christian Rossi push his dinghy off the beach and leap in with cat-like smooth movements. He moved so effortlessly, turning to sit as two of his crew began rowing. His attention roamed back and he spotted them, giving them a naval salute. Clara felt Lieutenant Havencourt tense beside her.

  "He is arrogant, is he not?" she said.

  "He is young and full of himself. But in some respects he is not misguided to be, unfortunately. A bit of humility would likely serve him as a person. On the positive side, I couldn't care less what would serve him. Let's go."

  "Wait," Clara said. "Can you bring the ship to the jetty?"

  "Why?" the lieutenant said, eyeing her suspiciously.

  "I need to go get something."

  "We don't have a lot of time."

  "It will be worth it. It will save us time when we need it."

  The lieutenant looked set to argue, but then decided not to, climbing into the dinghy. "I'm serious, though. We don't have much time."

  "Please," she said and ran off, back into the township. She ran down streets and alleys until she found what she was searching for—the donkey. Finding a rope, she furnished a make-do bridle and led the beast back to the dock, waiting for the ship to slowly sail toward the jetty.

  "Have you lost your mind?" Havencourt asked when they got close enough.

  "You said there were roads and that we'd lose time anchoring on the other side of the peninsula."

  "There is no jetty there. How are we going to get him on the island?"

  "I know for a fact that donkeys can swim. We can lower him down and he can swim ashore." At the convent, she’d seen a donkey swim across a stream once on one of their rare outings, and when the girls all worried for it, they’d been told in no uncertain terms that all donkeys could swim.

  Two of the crew set down planks between the jetty and the ship and Clara pulled the beast to the planks. It looked like the animal was about to refuse, but speaking softly to it, she managed to coax it across.

  "It's not customary to go on raids with livestock," Havencourt said with a huff.

  "Come on. Admit it; it's a brilliant idea. And whatever I take, I might need help carrying it."

  Seemingly against his better judgment, he smiled. "I'm sure that donkey is not going to thank you for the day you have planned for him."

  "Who knows? He might have been hankering for a bit of adventure."

  Have
ncourt shook his head, and a cannon sounded across the bay. "That's the starting gun. Shall we sail?"

  Clara smiled and nodded. They were a little behind, being at the jetty, but she was sure it would be worth it in the end. If not, they would lose and she didn't really care that much what would happen in that case.

  It didn't take them long to sail out of the bay and into open water. The wind caught the sails and her hair, which she tied back with a ribbon, having spent great portions of time during their last sail clearing her hair out of her eyes.

  There were seven ships sailing and it was a magnificent sight, their sails billowing as they raced toward Jamaica.

  Clara couldn't help much with the sailing, but she listened to every order Havencourt gave. When she had some time, maybe she could take the ship out and give the sailing instructions. Excitement coursed through her at the thought. The feeling of freedom returned.

  *

  It was close to dusk when they arrived, anchoring off a stretch of beach along the far side of the island. The donkey had objected to being strapped up and the crew had to chase him around the deck before they had him sufficiently trussed up to hoist him off the side of the ship and into the water, where it brayed its indignity.

  Clara sat on the dinghy watching and they rowed in at a slow pace alongside the swimming donkey. She'd changed into the dark-gray wool dress, which she would attract less attention in.

  Holding up her skirt, she jumped into the water and waded up the beach. The donkey marched out of the water and shook himself similar to a dog, walking around, avoiding people. If Clara didn't know better, she would have said the donkey was grumbling at its treatment.

  "The beast will save time," Havencourt admitted.

  Clara grabbed the soggy harness and led the animal toward the edge of the beach. "The road is back here?"

  "Yes. I'll walk you." They found a way through the vegetation. "There's a settlement a mile or so that way," he said, pointing down the length of the beach, away from the direction she needed to go. "If you reach it, you've gone too far." Clara nodded. "You remember where the store is?" Lieutenant Havencourt had drawn her a map while they’d sailed, describing the town and the fort where the supply warehouse was.