The celebration of her birthday is executed in style, pirate style to be exact. Rum, whiskey and gin, pass through the hands of all at some point or another. Songs are bellowed out and cheers are voiced to the world, the Roses are sure is listening this night. Margaux at one point is hoisted into the air by one small band of particularly rowdy pirates, an act insighted and cheered on by the blasted Christophe himself, and one she doesn't condone ... but still she can't help but smile. After they set her down on the sandy beach and she gives a half hearted attempt at reprimanding the men, they all smile and nod, not looking the least bit remorseful.
When they all saunter off into the night, joining in with the merry chant that had started up, Margaux turns back to Lorin who is grinning, seemingly quite pleased. A mischievous glint suddenly makes its way into her eyes, which in turn, causes Margaux to worry at what the girl is about exactly. Before she can ask, what seemed to have been a barely suppressed smile before, breaks into a full on grin, as Margaux is swept off her feet and is once again and quite suddenly, in the arms of one relentless pirate.
"Christophe you idiot," she gasps as he twirls her around, her feet not once skimming the ground. "Put me down."
Her captor merely chuckles and says, "I have yet to wish you a happy birthday, sweetheart."
"You just did. Now, release me. I promise you that there won't be much talking done if I have to ask you again."
"Awww." He groans, though that handsome grin is still on his face."Forever raining on my parade. I don't know why I put up with this. I am proud to inform you that there are infinite number of women who'd gladly humor me, and much more if you grasp my meaning," he adds in a seductive undertone. "If I so much as glance in their general direction." He sets her on her feet but does not free her from the circle of his arms.
"You may kindly go to them if you wish. Though I fear you may be disappointed, for there is certainly no woman would be foolish enough, to come within arm's length of you, even if she were in the depths of desperation and despair." She nudges herself away from him even as one of his beautifully sculpted hands, fly up to his chest, a look of mock hurt on his face.
"Never in my life have I been so insulted, if it had been anyone else but you who had said those shameless words to me, I fear I would have taken offense."
"Christophe," she says in exasperation. "You're a blasted pirate, for Pete's sake! You've darn well been far more insulted than you may or may not have just now in the entirety of your career, which has been your whole life!"
Christophe sighs, running a hand through his midnight black hair, his eyes sparkling and dancing in the light of the flames blazing around them, "I suppose you are right. So like you to point that little detail out, but it matters not. I have come with a purpose, a request that you might indulge me for a spell, sweetheart."
Stars above, she groans internally. When Chris came to her like this, asking her to "indulge" him, she knew that there was trouble on the horizon. For her and him both. He seems to always be getting her into trouble, now that she thought of it, with his schemes that she could never resist following along with.
She knew that she could be a bit inverted, always staying on the edges of situations, calculating and finding the best possible approach before she went in. But her sense of adventure had always been something that she constantly struggled with and Christophe ... he usually had that adventure she was longing for.
Memories of late nights dashing through the streets of sleeping towns and cities, crashing high in society balls and masquerades unannounced, and fooling the fat cats into believing that they were truly one of their own ... until the masks came off that is. She smiles at the thought.
But there was always the Captain to look out for. He tended to be very protective of her at times, most times, though he was well aware that she was fully capable of taking care of herself. He had seen to that himself, early on. In spite of herself, she wonders at how on earth she would sneak away on the night of her twenty second birthday.
"What did you have in mind?" She asks, crossing her fingers and praying it's something good. She is feeling quite daring tonight.
* * * * *
Some hours later, Margaux and Christophe vault themselves over and onto the main deck of the Dead Rose, hauling their loot with them, and being careful to make sure that their feet make no sound that could incriminate them for their actions. Skipping over all the especially creaky planks of the floor because the deck is not empty for the night watch. They silently and quickly make their way into the sleeping quarters of the ship, a floor below. Once before her door, she opens it wide and motions him inside. He raises an eyebrow at her, suggestively, but when she scowls at him, he chuckles soundlessly and slips through the open doorway and into the dark space. She follows behind him, closing the door behind her silently.
As Christophe makes his way around the room, lighting the candles on the walls with a lighter he had resurfaced from the depths of his coat pocket, Margaux steers straight for her bed in the corner of the room. Dumping the contents of her satchel onto it. She smiles in contentment at the size of her haul. She would start selling the stuff off at their next docking point ... her thoughts are cut short by the unusually soft quality of Christophe's voice.
"I take it that you are quite pleased with yourself." He says, his long and lithe frame, leaning against the wall. His face awash with the ever flickering light of the candles surrounding them. He studies her intently, waiting for her answer.
"Aye, I suppose I am. I guess you are fishing for a thank you from me?" She asks, still in the process of studying the contents that she had spilled on the top of her bedding. Golden candle sticks, silverware of the same, some good coin ...
"No, not really. Though one would be appreciated, if you have it in you to give one," he gives her a wry smile. "But, because I know well, that that would come at a price, I am willing to let it slide this once." He conceded.
Margaux shakes her head, "No, Christophe, I am quite alright in saying thank you. So ... yes, thank you for a delightful time on my birthday. Seeing the faces of the spoiled and filthy rich as they realized that they had been fooled in a matter of wits and money..."
"Always the best part." They laugh quietly together in remembrance of their night. They had quite successfully crashed and looted the seasonal masquerade ball of Maryvonne Beaumont. One entitled rich person that Margaux doesn't care for in particular. There was just something about her ...
"Sweetheart?" Christophe asks, pulling her out of her thoughts.
"Hmmm?" She says, making room on the bed for her to have a seat.
"Do you ever think of how you could have just as easily been one of those fat cats? How you really are, by blood?"
She frowns, "I'm nothing like them, Christophe. You should know."
He crosses over to where she sits and has a seat himself, shaking his head, "I never said you were. I was just pondering it, and with the notice we found yesterday, the past was pretty much dredged up again, hard not to think about how you're feeling about the whole thing."
Margaux shoves a hand through her thick, raven black hair in frustration, gets up and crosses the room to door. Sweeping it open with a flourish that she doesn't care if is overheard, she says, "I don't think about it, Chris."
Taking the hint, he blessedly gets up to leave without a fight, but before he fully crosses the threshold he says, "I know you better than that, sweetheart."
Before she can throw a fiery retort back at him, he's gone. Off down the hall and out of sight. She closes the door behind him and leans back against it, that part of my life is ancient history, she thinks to herself. But ... he's right ... isn't he?