The Pirate Ruse (27 page)

He shrugged. “It’s of no importance.”

“Tell me,” she pressed, however.
“Where would you rather be…right this moment?” She glanced up into the sky. “The sun is warm, even for the fact it is autumn elsewhere. It seems to me a man of the sea would prefer a warm climate. So tell me…where is it you long to be, Captain Navarrone?”

Trevon sighed.
What harm could there be in answering her question?

“
Salem,” he mumbled.

“
Salem?” she asked, smiling at him. “You mean home.”

He chuckled
, amused by her insight. “Yes.”

Cristabel felt a warmth swelling in her heart—an empathy of understanding. Though she had never been to Salem, though she had never been farther north than Charlotte, she knew what it was to long for the place of one’s youth. When her mother had married William Pelletier, he had insisted they leave Charleston for his home in New Orleans. Cristabel had wept bitter tears over many long nights in missing her true home. She missed the fragrance of the flowers there, missed the kind people she had known. She missed the feel of the South Carolina grass beneath her feet, missed her father and the happy life she and her mother had shared with him.

“Then tell me about your
Salem,” she said. “Tell me what it feels like to be there.”

Trevon’s smile broadened.
“Why?” he asked.

Cristabel shrugged.
“I have never been there. Yet I have heard much about it. Is it truly as beautiful in the autumn as everyone claims it to be?”

Navarrone sighed, “Yes…indeed it is.”

“Then tell me of it,” she insisted. “Tell me why it is you would rather be in Salem.”

He grinned at her
, and she smiled in return, for she knew he would tell her.

“The days are cool and crisp,” he began.
“Scenes of harvest are everywhere in the outlying country…shipping and trade at the waterfront.” He paused, wistfully smiled, and said, “Though I prefer the fields and open spaces of the outlying farms.”

“As would I,” she told him.

“In the autumn, the leaves of the trees begin to change,” he continued, “and it is as if one awakens one morning to find himself bathed in a pageant of color…as if during the night some master painter dipped his brushes into a palette of crimson and gold, orange and plums that no mere mortal imagination could conjure,” he said.

Cristabel sighed
, contemplative, wondering what such variances of colors in the trees might inspire in herself were she to witness them.

“Everywhere there lingers comforting aromas upon the air,” he continued
, “kettles simmering with warm, hearty stews…the sweet essence of apples as they are pressed to juice. Pumpkins lay in fields, round and plump, sheltered among their lavish, green vines spread over the earth…and looking like fanciful orbs of orange treasure.”

He closed his eyes a moment and sighed.
Cristabel’s smile broadened when she saw his smile broaden.

“Fanciful orbs of orange treasure,” she repeated, exhaling a dreamy sigh of her own.
“Why, Captain Navarrone…you’re a poet and a pirate!”

Trevon chuckled.
“Not a poet, love…just a pirate who would linger forever in a field of ripening pumpkins if he could. All the gems and gold in the world heaped up together would not be so beautiful to me as a field of pumpkins, the rows of cornstalks reaching high, the colors of the leaves in the trees when summer has given way to autumn.”

“You
are
a poet, Captain,” Cristabel giggled.

He chuckled.
“I suppose I should tell you the bad of it as well.”

“The bad of it?” she prodded
, curious.

“In the autumn, as the sun begins to set, the tombstones in the cemeteries cast long, ominous shadows,” he began.
“As darkness descends, the spirits of the dead begin to rise and wander the earth—especially the spirits of those wrongly accused in the trials…the spirits of those who were hanged…or met death by more gruesome means.”

Cristabel’s eyes widened, and Navarrone had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing, for the expression on her face was not so much that of trepidation but of delighted curiosity.

“You’re lying, of course,” she said—though he knew she hoped he was not.

“Yes, love,” he chuckled then. “I am lying, though there are stories that abound. And there are those who claim to have seen spirits lurking about in the shadows or beneath the full moon.”

“Ooo!
Then tell me a story of shadows and full moons!” she breathed. “Something deliciously frightening and gruesome!”

Trevon laughed
, entirely amused by her interest. “Is it not enough for you to know that I am descended of one who was hanged as a witch?”

Cristabel’s violet eyes fairly sparkled with anticipation.
“So you are a pirate…descended of a witch?”

“I suppose that I am,” he answered.
He studied her a moment, enraptured by her beauty and charm. “Therefore, why is your smile that of such delight? You should be trembling in the presence of a pirate who is progeny of a witch.”

“In the first of it,” she began, “you are a privateer
, not a pirate. And in the second, the women of the Salem witch trials were not truly witches. Therefore, I do not see how you have any claim to intimidation through your piracy or ancestry.”

“So to you I am merely a simple man on the shore,” he said
, “not so unlike your traitorous Richard might be.”

He chuckled when Cristabel rolled her eyes.
“You are always unlike Richard…
very
unlike Richard…unlike any man,” she whispered. He chuckled, and she smiled at him. “Yet you do seem somewhat dissimilar to your average demeanor today. How is it you are so varying today, Captain?” she asked. “What is the difference between the pirate captain Navarrone and the simple man on the shore?”

“A pirate would simply ravage you, love,” he said, smiling at her. Cristabel blushed and was pleased. “But the man on the shore, he would endeavor to charm you…seduce you with tender flirtation void of dominant virility…perhaps beg a pristine kiss.”

“Would he indeed?” she asked, still blushing.
“And this man on the shore…how is it that he could so easily mollify the rogue within him?”

Trevon chuckled.
“I did not say it would be done with ease…only that it could be done.”

“Pff!” Cristabel puffed with amused disbelief.

“Are you doubting me, love?” he asked. He was yet smiling, but she could see playful indignation in his countenance.

“Vastly!” she answered.

Cristabel giggled as Trevon gasped in pretense of offense. Dramatically, he put one strong hand to his bosom.

“My lady!” he exclaimed, still feigning assault.
“You plunge a dagger of insult into my heart!”

Cristabel rolled her eyes
, simultaneously amused and appalled. “Tender flirtation? A pristine kiss?” She shook her head. “You could not do it. You could not put off your demanding, dominant virility long enough to even attempt the application of either.”

“You are so certain, are you?” he asked.
“So absolute in your opinion that I cannot be tamed?”

“Consummately,” she assured him.

“I quite like your selection of phrase there, love,” he chuckled.

“There!
You see? You have only just proven that my determination is correct!” she exclaimed as her blush deepened. “You could not maintain a gentleman’s character for even the brief length of time necessary to…to beg a pristine kiss.” Cristabel cocked her head to one side, frowning inquisitively as she seemed to consider him. “Do you even own a concept of what a pristine kiss would be?”

Trevon shrugged. “Boring?” he responded.

Cristabel laughed
, and Trevon fancied the sound was like that of perfectly tuned chimes.

“There you have it!” she giggled, shaking her head.
“You cannot even conceive of decency!”

“Conceive.
Yet another interesting choice of word on your part…and you are right there, love,” he said, feigning thoughtfulness. “I cannot conceive. But you…you can. But only with my help, of course—though it would hardly be deemed a thing of decency.”

“Captain Navarrone!” Cristabel exclaimed, fairly leaping to her feet.
She stomped one foot in the sand, and he chuckled, amused by her indignation. “You must not utter such improper implications!”

“Oh, sit down, love,” he said, reaching up and taking hold of her hand.
Gripping her wrist, he tugged at her arm until she relented and settled in the sand next to him once more. “You know I am merely teasing you. You make it so effortless to do so.”

“You are an absolute rogue,” she grumbled at him.
“A rakish, knavish rogue.”

“Pirate, love,” he corrected with a chuckle.
“Pirate.”

“Either way, you all sprout from the same bean,” she said, shaking her head.
Yet by the scarlet on her cheeks and the smile tugging at the corners of her mouth, Trevon Navarrone knew she was not so appalled at him as she wished him to believe. “Anyway,” she sighed, “you could not be the man on the shore instead of the pirate. Your own behavior has already bested you.”

“Try me then, Miss Albay,” he dared her.
“Give us a kiss…and I promise to be the man on the shore and not the pirate.”

Cristabel studied him a moment
, her lovely brows arched in an expression of ambiguity. “I would no more kiss you than I would any other blackguard.”

Trevon smiled.
“But you forget, love.” Lowering his voice, he added, “You have already kissed me.” He delighted in the appearance of alarm mingled with indignation on her face.

“You kissed me, Captain!” she exclaimed.

“And you kissed me in return,” he reminded her.
“Furthermore…you kissed me first.”

Cristabel hoped Trevon did not see the goose bumps racing over her arms. The memory of their moments together in his cabin the night after settling with Governor Claiborne—the returning sensation of bliss evoked by his kiss and touch—had sent goose flesh rippling over her entire being.

She swallowed—fought to think with clarity.
He was baiting her; she knew he was. Their banter was, as ever, entertaining—wonderful—yet she stood on a precipice of forfeit now. She must think—own wit and cleverness.

“I suppose…I suppose I did,” she admitted.
“But I only did it because…”

“Because I rouse lust in you?” he offered.

Cristabel gasped, and he chuckled, amused by her astonished expression.

“Because you rouse spite in me, Captain!” she corrected him.

“Lust,” he countered.

“Spite,” she said in return.

He laughed, and she thought his smile was the most pleasing sight on all the earth. Trevon Navarrone’s smile ever sent a thrill through her—especially when she was the cause of its appearance on his handsome face.

“Lust or spite
—whatever the reason—the fact remains that you did kiss me first,” he reminded her.

“Yes, I did,” she admitted.
“Though my kiss to you was indeed pristine. Something you could never discipline yourself to apply…pirate that you are.”

He shrugged his broad shoulders.
“Why should I desire it…when the blending of our mouths in full passion’s meld was so much the more pleasurable?”

Again she gasped
; again he chuckled.

“You are the most inappropriate, ill-behaved man I have ever known!” she exclaimed.

“Then tame me, love,” he dared her. “Tame the pirate in me to offering only the pristine kiss the simple man on the shore would offer.”

Cristabel felt an odd disappointment well within her
, for in truth, she would never see him tamed. She adored him as the roguish patriot pirate he was—loved his insinuative banter and teasing—loved him. Why then would she ever wish to change him? She did not wish it. Still, she must maintain the pretense of disapproval, else she entirely lose herself to dreaming of what her heart most wished for—to belong to Trevon Navarrone.

“There is no hope in taming a rogue such as you
, Trevon Navarrone,” she told him as she rose to her feet, “for you are not meant to be tamed. You were born to your wild and passionate ways…to your freedom. And it suits you.”

She was making ready to leave him. Trevon sensed he had pressed her too far—frightened her. Yet he could not give her up—not yet—not until he had known the warm nectar of her kiss once more. Thus, he reached out, caressively taking hold of her ankle with one hand. Oh, it was well he remembered the tale she had told him that first night she had spent aboard the
Merry Wench
—the tale of the Acadians who had “violated” her ankles. He knew how truly offended she would be at his touching the ankle—either offended or delighted. And when she did not run from him, he smiled, for it was an acceptance of sorts—an invitation.