Ramblings and Musings of a Troubled Mind

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Fifty-four

Tue, 27 Oct 2009 01:35:30 GMT

Title: Off the Map
Rating: R
Pairing: Jack and Kate (I can't consider her an OFC anymore)
Disclaimer: I own none of the POTC. I would, if I could, but I can't, so I don't. I would like to claim Kate as my own, but she would probably have a few things to say about that.

Final Thoughts: This is probably the hardest thing I have ever posted. Even the end of the first fic came a little easier than this. Even though I know I'm not, I still can't help but feel a sense of finality that is more than a little disquieting.

In the beginning, many, many, many pages ago, I was advised not to go this route. OFC's were markedly looked down upon. I was bluntly told that there was no reason why Jack would ever be attracted to Kate (after about chapter 5 of the first fic) and that I'd best change, or there would be no interest.

Obviously, I didn't listen. (Never have been very good at that). It hasn't been a popularity contest winner, but it's been my journey, made possible by the select few who have stuck it out. You are the ones that have and will keep me going!

There's not room to thank everyone..... hopefully you all know who you are................... (taking a moment here..........) Thank you!!!!

After Jack’s push-off from the wharf, the skiff drifted. Once clear of the protection of the other craft, the breeze caught it, and pushed it on a spiraling, downwind drift. Grasping the gunwale, Kate marveled at Jack’s seaman’s ballet, executed from bow to stern and back, as if he was still walking the docks.

“Now, do you recall what I taught you on the Pearl?” he called over his shoulder from the mast, busy with the lines.

“A little… I think,” she added with a rising sense of unease.

“Great! Everything is the same, except different. This one has a tiller.”

She followed his direction as he pointed out a long, stout handle at the stern. The mechanism wasn’t unfamiliar; she had seen them many times on the longboats.

“Which means…?”

“Which means,” he sighed, barely patient. “You grab hold here and steer.” Seizing her hand, he planted it firmly on the wood and gave a concise lesson. “Push this way and it goes there; pull this way and it goes there. Savvy?”

Mute, she nodded, trying to sort out the boat’s minute responses with each action.

“All right.” He settled the rope—err… sheet in his grasp. “On my command, come about into the wind.” He paused, looking skyward. “All right, now!”

Confused, firstly by trying to find the wind, and secondly at what to do with the tiller, she gave a solid push.

“Belay! Belay! No! The other way!” Feeding the line out, he backed up and grabbed the tiller. “That way!” he barked, shoving it the opposite direction. “Now, hold!”

Clearly the little boat knew who was in command and swung obediently about, at the same time leaving Kate to desperately wondering, if he meant for her to keep the tiller where he had left it, or if she was expected to do something else. A small voice told her not to worry; if there was something Jack wanted. There would be no doubts.

As if the wind were at his beckon as well, it came around directly in her face. With several yanks, and an emphatic grunt on Jack’s part, the sail was raised.

“Now, fall off,” he shouted over the erratic flapping of the canvas. Bent to secure the line, he straightened, bellowing. “No! Have you no idea where the bloody wind is? The other way! Easy! Are you trying to throw us both to the fish?”

Bristling, she bit back several unkind remarks and corrected their course. With a solid whompf! the sail snapped full, the skiff rolling slightly as it picked up speed. One hand on the mast, the other on his hip, Jack stood looking ahead.

“Bearing well.” Twisting, he grinned at her over his shoulder. “Right proper seaman you are.”

“I’d do even better, if you didn’t keep yelling.”

He turned and lightly kissed her. “Gotta yell, luv,” he said quietly, smiling against her lips. “Captain’s orders must be heard.”

“It’s only a twenty-foot boat,” she pointed out, still ruffled.

“Aye, and over twenty years of habit.” He looked over her shoulder at the harbor behind, then toward the bay ahead. “Fall off a bit, so’s to allow that brig a bit o’ sea room. Then come back up.”

“You want me to what?”

Rolling his eyes, he wove his hand from one side to side as he explained, his voice dropping to the tenor of a nursemaid. “Turn that way, to go around the dear, little three-masted ship in front of us, lest we hit her broadside. Then come back this way.”

She frowned with a ferocity that drove him back a step. “I’m not a child.”

“Barely a minute ago, you didn’t want me yelling.” He exhaled sharply through his nose, and shook his head. “This is going to be a long trip.”

The headsail was set with a minimum of effort and their speed increased, the boat biting eagerly into the low chop of the harbor. The Pearl’s masts soon separated from the combined forest of the others. Rounding one ship, she came into full view. Kate’s heart soared at the sight of the dark queen sitting regally on her moorings, the ant-like movement of the men on the decks and rigging, preparing to make way. A small trail of longboats approached the ship from the opposite direction, and Kate wondered if Gibbs might be among them.

It had been a long time, a very long time since she had seen the Pearl. She felt some regret at never having properly taken her leave of the ship, the thought occurring that perhaps the ship might be bearing hard feelings. Yes, it was true: she had been around Jack and Gibbs to see the ship as a living entity, with all the foibles that brought.

Without fully realizing it, Kate steered for the Pearl. There were a few moments of erratic sails, colorful swearing, and Jack scrambling, ultimately their boat resuming its original course.

“But the Pearl’s that way!”

“Aye,” Jack nodded somewhat testily as he readjusted his hat on his head. “And we’re going that way.” The angle of his head indicated the mouth of the harbor.

“It’s too likely those sods will be looking for us there. If they chose to give chase, it will be the Pearl they pursue,” he said in response to her doubtful look. “If they opt for us, we’ll bear to the shallows. By the time they go out and around, we’ll be long gone.” That last thought came with considerable relish and confidence.

“What if the Pearl doesn’t get away?” she asked, with visions of cannonade and hand-to-hand battles.

“They will,” he said shortly, full of pride.

Kate’s initial impulse was to be skeptical, but then how could she question Jack’s seamanship. If he claimed their craft could out-distance another, then she had no option than to believe it were so.

For the next bit, Jack busied himself with trimming the sails, loosening here, tightening there, the boat responding with speed and steadiness under his hand. Kate focused on her own task, trying to remember the boat would respond opposite to the direction she steered: push left, veer right; push right, veer left—no, port!—and remembering to duck when she heard “Jibe ho!”

Finally, he slid onto the seat between her and the tiller, and took over.

Gripping the gunwale, she watched Jack maneuver the boat, cutting in an out between ships, using the wind like it was meant for him and him alone, wind and wave willing to be harnessed only so far as to provide safe passage for their prince. On the Pearl, he was the captain. Here, in a little skiff, he was a creature of wind and wave, hair whipping, a zealous gleam in his eye and a wickedly happy curl to his mouth.

Soon, they broke out into the open waters. Void of land’s impediments, the wind stiffened, driving the little skiff to dig harder against the stronger waves. Once into the freshness of open water, leaving the smells of the harbor behind, their boat proved to have its own special aroma of rotten fish, stagnant water, wood gone wet far too long, and another that was indescribably offensive.

“Dead turtles,” Jack said, after one off-handed sniff following her inquiry, and gave her a queer look. “Makes sense, seein’s how it’s a turtler’s boat.”

Kate looked around the small confines wondering which clues she had overlooked for that bit of information.

Kate watched the horizon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the Pearl coming out of Sint Maarten’s bay; to her disappointment, she saw nothing. A positive note, it meant neither were they being pursued.

“You look worried.”

Jack’s observation caught her off-guard; she would have liked to have thought that she was doing a better job of hiding her discomfiture. “I’ve just never been out in this much open water in a boat this small.”

“You’ve been at sea for months and months.”

“On a ship.”

He grinned. “What, no faith in your captain?”

How could she not? Even as he spoke, he was steering by instinct, anticipating wind and wave as naturally it was for most to breathe.

“No faith in my ability to manage this,” she replied uneasily, looking around at their confines.

Chuckling softly, he pulled her onto the seat next to him. “I wouldn’t have you out here if I didn’t think you could manage.”

He kissed her, quickly but gently. “You’re the strongest person I have ever met. Something a menial as an ocean isn’t going to overcome you.”

Leaning against him, she hooked her arm in his, resting her head on his shoulder.

“Where are we headed?”

“Parrot Island. We’ll rendezvous with the Pearl there.”

“How did Gibbs know where to go?”

He regarded her with a scolding look, disappointed in her failure to comprehend. “Contingency plans, darling. Can’t live to be an old pirate without them.”

“Do you always have those?” It seemed a bit incredible, but then Jack’s ability to slip away seemed far more than just luck.

“Just about,” he said, after brief consideration.

“How far is it?”

Closing one eye, he regarded the sails and sky with a mariner’s eye. “We should be there sometime tomorrow night, maybe the next morning.” Looking down at her, he tilted his head. “What’s wrong? Worried?”

“No, I’m not worried; it just seems like a long time in such a little boat.” She longed for a portion of Jack’s agility. At the moment, moving about the craft seemed highly ill-advised.

He shrugged and batted a casual hand. “Spent loads longer in something considerably smaller,” he said glibly. “Besides, if anything goes wrong, a great tide of sea turtles will rise from the waters and carry us to our appointed goals.”

Kate had the uneasy feeling that he was only partially jesting on that conjecture.

At one point, Jack pointed with the toe of his boot to a turtle shell amid the rubbish-like flotsam floating in the several inches of water in the boat’s bottom. “Better start bailing.”

Kate looked down with alarm. “Is it leaking that much?”

“It’s a boat,” Jack said bluntly, smiling at her discomfiture. “Could be rainwater; could be from hauling in the nets. I don’t think it’s leaking… much… at least that much… yet,” he added on a faltering note.

As the day wore on, the sun bore down. For a small time, their course allowed for the sail to cast a shadow large enough for Kate to sit, and gain a bit of relief. Jack looked at her critically when he saw her squinting in the merciless glare.

“You need a hat.”

The comment thankfully came with only that small reference to the dozens of times previous that they had that very discussion. The fact that she wore none bore out how well his insistences had fared. On the Pearl, the sun hadn’t been an issue, a means of relief always near to hand. Now, so much nearer the water, the combination of the sun from above, and its reflection off the water, was nearly blinding.

Jack pointedly eyed the turtle shell, and then her head. Kate gave him a narrow look.

“Don’t even think it.”

Shrugging off her attempt at menacing, he fished into his pocket. “Here, try this then,” he said and produced a familiar tin, flicking it open with his thumb.

“What is that stuff?” she asked from a distance, cautiously touching it. She had seen him apply the contents around his eyes daily, sometimes more, and had never ventured to ask about it. Rubbing the small bit between her fingers—instantly staining them black—it had a greasy feel, with an exceptionally fine grit.

“Tallow, wax, a bit of tar or lamp soot… kohl, if it’s to be had.” Clucking his tongue, he dipped his finger and swiped under both eyes before she could duck away. “It’s not killed me all these decades; you’ll live to tell about it.”

He sat back, laughing at the sight of her as he dropped the tin back into his pocket. “The right barbarian you are, now!”

Seething, it was even more galling for her to have to admit that he was right; she could see.

As the day passed, her thirst grew. It pained her to have to admit to such a weakness; Jack seemed completely unafflicted.

“Have a drink, then,” he said, gesturing toward the gourds.

She picked up one from the boat’s bottom. It was heavier than expected, and sloshed gratifyingly when she shook it. “There’s water in here!”

His face curled with disbelief. “What did you think I was looking for back there?”

“I don’t know,” she said, wiping her mouth. The water was terribly stale, and tasted of rotten turtle and dusty vegetable, but it was something wet. “The best looking boat, I suppose.”

He laughed heartily at that. “Darling, I wasn’t choosing a whore. I was looking for a boat.” His brows gave a wolfish waggle, the shadow of his hat brim falling across his face. “It’s not always the prettiest that provides the best ride.”

Sunset came in a blazing glory of orange and purple, punctuated by the indigo anvil-head of a thunderstorm. Kate watched the brilliant blues of the Caribbean waters become ominous as they were immersed into darkness, the obsidian satin screening a host of imagined threats. Chanting that it was the same water as it had been a few hours ago, only the light source had changed, helped only slightly.

She spelled Jack as she could—as he would allow—but as the night deepened, she could see fatigue dragging at his shoulders, wincing more often at the increasing discomfort from his ribs and side. Admittedly, they made better headway with Jack at the helm, as opposed to her uneven, jerky management, but he was sagging badly. Absent his usual animation, every movement was an effort. His smile came with less frequency, and with increasing effort.

“Lay your head in my lap and let me try for a while,” she finally suggested.

His eyes flickered dubiously, pinched by temptation.

“C’mon,” she urged, patting her leg. “Just give me something to steer at; I can manage long enough for you to get a little rest.”

“I’ll do.”

“No, you won’t,” she pressed. “You’re struggling to keep your eyes open now.”

“I need to be alert.”

“Well, you won’t be at this rate,” she said, acerbically. “Is it you don’t trust me, or is it that stubborn streak that makes you too proud to admit that you’re human enough to be tired?”

The darting look from the corner of his eye, said that she had hit a cord. He looked to the sails, and then the sky and water, finally slouching in surrender.

“Very well.” Conceding he might be, he wasn’t about to go down without a final barb, and grumbled, “Thought I’d left me mum back there.”

“Keep a weather eye,” he instructed as they switched places. “If the wind comes sudden-like, either let her come about, or loose the sails and she’ll drop dead in the water.”

Only half-listening, Kate nodded, putting her trust in Jack being awake long before any of those decisions would need to be made.

He leaned over her shoulder as she got situated at the helm, squinting one eye as he pointed. “See the North Star; aim for that. Keep it between the spreader and the shroud.”

Tossing his hat aside, he laid down, curving his body into the seat and pillowing his head on her thigh. Still unsettled, he jerked and lurched upright, as if having forgotten something. Hooking her by the neck, he pulled her down for a kiss.

“There,” he said softly, his smile sparking gold in the night’s dimness. “Need to give the soul a reason to come back to this ol’ world.”

He lay back down, and exhaled; then gave another, longer and slower. By the third, his head grew heavy, body going lax. With an eye to her beacon, she snuck a look at him. One arm was flung carelessly across her lap in innocent abandon, bejeweled fingers bright. The other curled around underneath his body, his hand ultimately poised at the butt of his pistol. It seemed a summation of his life: carefree, on the one hand, but always on alert on the other.

Cautiously, she pushed the bone that dangled from the side of his head away from his face, along with several errant strands of hair. He stirred, mouth moving in sleep-laden mutterings then quieted. The moon’s silver limed his profile, straight and sharp, his eye sockets shadow-blackened to near skeletal. She wondered what his dreams might consist of, if they were as churned and agitated as the rest of his existence.

Peacefulness befell the boat. Even the sea seemed to understand its prince slept, and fell quiet, the night’s breeze easing, the waves flattening. She couldn’t help but feel she was being watched; she was sure she had caught glimpses of eyes of different shapes of see-dwelling creatures peering up from just below the satin surface, silver bodies flashing in the crystalline black. Preferring to think of them as escorts, she wasn’t fully familiar with the nocturnal creatures of the sea, but logic dictated that there had to be as many as there were in the wilds of land.

Instead, Kate focused on the boat. Experimentally working with the tiller, she learned to find the wind, use the waves, and gauge their speed by the vibration through the handle. More and more, she grew to appreciate Jack’s love of the water, and wondered if her thrill was anywhere near what he felt. It was intoxicating, bringing her just that much closer to understanding him. She knew better than to think that she would ever achieve his level of knowledge and skill. A bit of his confidence and sense of belonging she would consider a victory.

At times, the sky and water tended to merge, the star-studded velvet reflecting in the glittering slate, one back into the other, until virtually inseparable, only Jack’s weight across her lap preventing her from drifting away. The moon finally raised, as a bride-like vision of ivory, the thin skim of clouds her veil, her train the reflection flaring across the waves, rendering a distinction between sea and sky.

Her shoes were thoroughly wet from the water sloshing in the boat’s bottom. She grew chilled, grateful for Jack’s heavy warmth. At times weariness came over her, prompting imagines lying next to him, luxuriating in the coziness of him curling around her.

“Are ye well, mo cridhe?”

The voice was startling only because it had been many, many months since she had heard Brian’s deep, soft Highland clip.

“Yes, I am.” She could say that with confidence. Even with a pirate in her lap, and virtually alone in something barely larger than a longboat, on her way to who knew where, she was better than she had been in a long time.

Her fingers brushed Jack’s temple as she pushed back an elf-lock that strayed across his face. The corner of his mustache twitched, lifting the corner of his mouth into a faint smile. He stirred, his hand flexing on her leg, languidly tracking up her thigh to briefly squeeze her bottom, and then fell limp.

“Aye.” The word came gentle with satisfaction. “I thought as much. He’s a good man; he’ll serve ye well.”

A pressure warmer than the night air, brushed her cheek, and he was gone.

The first pink twinge of dawn was just blushing the sky when Jack stirred, to Kate’s relief. With the coming of dawn, her homing star was quickly fading. The corner of a smile could barely be seen among the folds of her skirt as he hooked an arm around her hips. He grunted softly with contentment, rooting his head into her lap.

“A man couldn’t ask for a better smell in the morning,” he sighed beatifically.

“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I haven’t washed in days.”

“Trifles, darling.” His fingers danced a dismissive tattoo against her side. “A man’s sensibilities go far beyond.”

Reluctantly groaning, he gave her a final squeeze, and then rose to meet the next morning, a quick check of the surrounding waters, and a glance toward the sails prompting an approving nod..

“You did well, luv! A natural seaman—seawoman—whatever,” he finished with a flick of his fingers. “You’ll excuse me whilst I made a small donation to Calypso’s pool.”

Balancing on the gunwale, his back to her, he undid his flies and proceeded to urinate.

“Looks like we should be right on schedule,” he announced, scanning the horizon. “Did you know that the Tahitian navigators—and I have personal knowledge, having seen this with me own eyes—can cross the South Seas—with impeccable accuracy, I might add—by only the stars and the swing of their scrotum… what?”

Hearing her sputter, he looked down at his hand, and then back to her.

“Nothing.” She blocked her smile with the back of her hand. Avoiding his gaze, she demonstrably focused ahead.

“Yes, you are!” he demanded, hastily refastening his breeches. “You were definitely laughing.”

“I’m sorry,” she giggled, covering her mouth. “It just strikes me funny that a man can’t wait to pull out his cock when he’s wooing a woman…”

“Wooing?”

“But when it comes time to pee, he turns his back, as if he’s afraid someone will see something.”

He planted his hands on his hips and straightened with indignation. “I did not!”

“You did too.”

“Did not!”

Her eyes rolled with irritated dismay. “Did, too!”

Taking a breath to retort, he hesitated, narrowing a critical eye. “Has it ever occurred to you, during this perverse and jaded observation, that there could be some minor, yet eloquently significant size issues?”

“Size?”

“Keep your eye on your course, darling,” he warned quietly, then reassumed his indignation. “A man’s attributes are not always at their best, in the presence of unexpected company.”

“You weren’t expecting me?”

He stepped down and slid behind her on the bench, wedging between her and the gunwale. Slipping an arm around her waist, he rested his chin on her shoulder.

“Just discussing it has given me a right firmness,” he murmured in her ear. Tightening his hold he gave a suggestive nudge with his hips.

“Jack, you can’t mean it! In a twenty-foot boat?”

“In a twenty-foot?” he muttered thoughtfully. Frowning with the effort of recall, he ticked them off on his fingers. “Fifteen, sixteen, yes. Eighteen, twenty-one… Nope, never a twenty; you’d be the first,” he added brightly.

“Don’t you think… ahh!” She gasped when his tongue found her ear. “Jack, we can’t…”

Her words faded as he moved his attentions to her neck—Damn him, he knew every spot—his hand cupping her breast.

“You forget, luv,” he murmured against the nape of her neck. “I’m Captain Jack Sparrow; nothing is impossible.”

“I’m thinking this whole thing is rather improbable. What about the tiller?” she asked with her final lucid thought.

In a liquid motion, he extricated himself from behind her, and flicked a rope free of its cleat.

“You haven’t moved this tiller more than the width of your hand since I woke. Winds are steady; seas are easy. It would appear the gods are with us.”

With a flourish, he secured the handle with an impromptu harness. Straightening, he held out his arms in victorious display. “We now have all hands free, to do as we please.”

“I’m still not sure about this.” Familiar with the phenomena of more than just the sun rising in the morning when Jack was around, she cast a dubious look at the bottom of the boat, awash in several inches of water and flotsam, finding nothing conducive about the current circumstances.

“It’s not going to work.” She shook her head more adamantly. “No. Not here.”

“C’mon, me darling.”

“Jack, no.”

“You’re telling me ‘no’?” Baffled, he looked around, as if looking for verification from an bystanders. “Do you realize this is the first time you have ever told me ‘no’? Is it something I said?”

“No, it’s not you, I just don’t see how…”

“Leave the ‘how’ to me,” he coaxed, pulling her with him as he sat. “Believe me, luv, this won’t take long.”

Leaning against the gunwale, eyes half-lidded in anticipation, the bulge in his breeches as he undid his flies was testimonial to that. Wheedling, he used determination and charm to his advantage; he would be gentle, but he would not be refused.

“Not until you do something with that pistol,” she warned, resisting his clutches. “I suggest that we only have one loaded weapon aboard at a time.”

He glanced down at himself, proudly smiling. “I’ve never fired a pistol lest I knew what I was aiming for.” He did, however, oblige.

Mindful of the unsteady footing, she hitched her skirts and lowered herself over his thighs. His hands fumbled at the edge of her skirt then slid his up her legs. Fingers splaying wide, he cupped the curve of her bottom.

Grunting softly, his eyes slowly closed. “Slippery as kelp.”

Already eager, the silky length came up quick, rigid with but a few strokes of her fingers, and then she guided him home, the force causing her to gasp. At first she had intended to prolong this as long as she could, deny, make him beg. The day before had been a farewell, mourning a loss. This was a celebration, flesh that thought there would be no more wanting doubly so now.

His grip tightened on her hips, he slipped lower, for better penetration. They moved together, the rocking of the boat echoing their motions. Bracing her hands on his shoulders, head dropping between her arms, she rode him, the roughness of his breeches abrading the tender skin of her thighs.

His hips arched against hers and her senses spiraled downward, building, wanting more, needing just that little bit more, feverishly clutching at him, begging to be taken. She teetered for an eternal moment on a precipice then fell over the edge to her own shattering conclusion, his release lost in the throes of hers. Collapsing on top of him, they laid boneless, struggling for the breath that would bring them back to lucidity.

At length, she felt him smile against her cheek. “Now I can add a twenty-foot boat to me list.”

“Does this mean that I’ll have my own place in the Captain Jack Sparrow record book?”

He laughed. Holding her hips, he moved inside of her. “Darling, you’ve a book all your own.”

His humor dissolved; eyes half-lidded and hazed with their love-making, searching hers.

“And there will be no others.”

Epilogue

Kate sat with her head resting on Jack’s shoulder, his arm hooked around hers. He had a tendency to slip off into his thoughts, leaving her to hers. It was her first time to experience the quiet solitude of sailing. The skiff bore its small collection of sounds, but it was nothing compared to the relative cacophony of planks and rigging of a ship. Here was nothing more than the gurgling rush of water past the bow, with the occasional slap of an erratic wave, and the gentle creak of the shrouds. Jack had a tendency to drift off into his own thoughts, leaving her to her own: wondering what lay ahead, but in a sense, not really caring.

At one point, she looked skyward, checking the sun. “We’re heading north?” she asked, idly.

“For a bit, and then west.”

“And then where?”

His arm tightened possessively around her shoulders. “Away… until we slide off the map.”

Away. The word hung in the air, heavy with longing and uncertainty. He looked off, his profile dark and sharp against the azure. Kate held her breath, waiting and wondering. She was afraid to think it, but there it was, ramming about in her mind like a boar in a pantry: she was glad the Company was chasing them, either one. It gave them a reason, a common goal. In a sense, it made no difference where they were heading. She was with him; they were together. The rest was just… trifles.

To a degree, she hoped that it was she that the Company men sought. It would mean less of a threat for Jack, and that was fine. She knew there was the danger of him doing something rash—no power on earth could stop him from that, when he took the notion—but if they were seeking her, it removed the target from his chest.

“I’m fancying Cartagena, at the moment,” he finally said, a bit surprised at his own admission. The dark-framed eyes slid a sidelong look, worry lurking. “Are you game?”

She had only a remote notion of where Cartagena was—someplace in the general vicinity of Mayans, gold and South America—but that was of little consequence.

“Well, at least I speak the language,” she said with some relief, recalling her first torturous weeks on Sint Maarten, coping with her faulty French. Her heart beat a little faster at the prospect of what lay ahead, and doing it at Jack’s side… for a while, at any rate, until the wanderlust took him away again.

“See horizon?”

His hand swept a general arc. He pressed his lips to her forehead, the walnut-colored eyes going bright with devilment.

“It’s yours, Kittie. Let’s go see what’s on it.”

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Fifty-three

Sun, 18 Oct 2009 23:10:17 GMT

The Path of the Sparrow
Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a broad host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse, and there is a bit of saying good-bye to be done.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (Well, there’s a few OC’s that I don’t mind claiming.) I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
I’m Having a Thought Here: Caution prompts me to warn everyone that this fic is fast drawing to a close. There will be one more chapters after this, just because my anal side won’t allow me to end this with an odd number. (Obsessive, I know!) As I said, fear not! (Ha! There’s a bit o’ ego!) Jack and Kate will soon be back… he’s already grumbling at me.

Breakfast was declared complete by virtue of the women of the house being called away to business. It was unusual for the brothel to be so busy that early, but no one questioned the vagaries of carnal appetites.

Back in their room, the tension between Jack and Kate thickened the air, rendering it nearly too heavy to breath. Kate felt its dizzying effects when she attempted to draw a breath; the constricting band around her chest had returned. There were several awkward moments, neither knowing quite how to avoid the obvious. Desperate to bravely face the inevitable, she felt her grip slipping, seized by violent tremors every time she began to speak. Too preoccupied, Jack didn’t seem to notice.

“Those dressings should be changed in a day or two,” she finally managed to squeeze out, her hand as shaky as her voice. “The sticky plasters can be removed, too. You don’t want to leave them on too long, or your skin might go raw.”

Jack gave her a queer look, apparently having forgotten the matter. Frowning, he disinterestedly nodded.

The clank of coins broke the awkward silence, startling Kate. Turning, she found Jack standing by the bedstand, pointing off-handedly toward the leather pouch that he had just dropped there. “That’s for… well, while I’m… away.”

The last work came with difficulty. He swallowed hard, as if just having taken a dose of medicine. For the first time in days, he looked as though he was in desperate need of a drink.

Kate picked up the leather bag, feeling its weight. It was heavy—very heavy.

“It’s a lot of money… for one month.” She let the unspoken question hang in the air. Did he really think she was going to need that much for a month, or was he going to be gone longer, and this was his way of telling her?

“Ehh… it’s just in case. I swear, a month, two at the most, and I will be back.” He angled his head, indicating her skirt pocket. “You have me pledge… yes, I know it’s still there,” he added hastily.

He was, of course, referring to his single-word note, a declaration wrapped around a lead shot. It had been her talisman once before, and looked to be the same again. The fact that he had looked to see that she still had it said a great deal.

“If you’re inclined to believe it,” he said, caught between nonchalance and sincerity, “then there’s naught more to be said. If you’re not believing it… well, naught much more to be said there, either.” He had a strained look, like a man facing a firing squad.

“Be that as it may, it’s all arranged,” he went on quickly, cutting off her reply. “You’ll be wanting to stay here, I assumed, but you’re a guest,” he said with emphasis. “You’re no longer… employed.” His lip curled slightly at that.

Kate was flattered that Jack had gone to such measures, but was a little dismayed, her independent side rearing its head. “But, I… I can’t just sit. I have something...”

He ruffled at having his best intentions being declined. “Very well, have it as you will. You can work your fingers to the bone, if you wish, but it will be because you wish it, not because you’ve been compelled.”

“But Marguerite…”

“Has been paid, and handsomely, I might add.” A rueful smile flickered across his face. “Don’t allow her to make you feel sorry for her.”

Conceding, Kate pensively rolled the bag in her hands.

“It’s a lot of…” She faded off at the sight of the letters “SD” monogrammed on its side. She shot Jack an accusing glare, who only gave an elaborate shrug in return.

“Pirate.” He offered the single word as if it was an all-encompassing explanation. In many ways, it was. “Keep that away from the good Monsieur Gicquel and his goodwife.”

“How did you know?” It was startling and troubling that Jack had been able to learn so much about what all had happened during his absence. She thought it had been her secret, in the spirit of keeping Jack from going off on another search for vengeance. Considering the morning’s revelations, it would seem she had failed at that, too.

“Really, darling!” He began pacing as much as the small room would allow—four steps, turn, four steps and turn again—his hands carving the air as his agitation grew.

“I might be daft, but I’m not dense. It’s a small town, figuratively speaking, and I can add two and two, and come up with something eloquently more accurate than three and a half. Gaubert has assured me you’ll be seen after; you should be able to walk the streets unhindered.”

Kate wished that she could have been a small mouse in the corner during that conversation.

He paused in mid-step, to smile crookedly, with a great deal of gratification. “I strongly suspect that Monsieur Dungheap has the sense to walk to the other side of the street when he sees you coming. Can I depend on you not to go do something even more daft than I?”

One of the concerns Jack had voiced most often was regarding her safety while he was away. He understood well that his absence meant not only being unable to provide her with protection neither could he control her actions. In spite of what Jack had done to Doncker, it wouldn’t preclude Doncker from taking his own vengeances on her while Jack was gone.

“Are you thinking that if you leave enough of this,” she said, holding up the purse, “that it will guarantee that I’ll be here?”

“If I thought it would work, I’d leave double. Hold your course and speed, luv. I’ll be back before you know it.”

Rocking on his toes and drumming his fingers on his belts, Jack looked in every direction but hers. Finally, he blew out noisily between his lips.

“Well, I’ll be taking me leave here.” He gulped, his eyes clouding. “You’ll spare me the ugliness of doing this down at the docks?”

She wasn’t quite sure what happened. One moment, he held her, with the intention of kissing her farewell, knowing it was to be the last, and afraid to make it so. The next minute, he was digging his fingers into her hair, ravaging her mouth. Triggered by blind panic, and began frantically tearing away each other’s clothing. Tumbling backwards onto the bed, they came together in a shattering collision, sheathing himself to the root in a desperate plunge. She clawed, urging him deeper, enough that he might never leave.

They didn’t care who might hear their cries as flesh pounded flesh. She bit his shoulder, to mark him, to make him hers to anyone who happened to see. She came first, her body calling his, stroking, heated. Rigidly straining, his fingers dug her shoulders, and he cried out with a choking anguish that verged on heartbreaking.

They collapsed after, his breath a ragged rasp in her ear, their heartbeats echoing through their joining, a slow unified throb.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured into her hair. Sometime in their tumult, the ribbon had come free. “Shouldn’t be taking you like a rutting boar.”

“I wanted it, too.” She smoothed his mustache, and he kissed her finger when it brushed his lips.

He made to move, but she stayed him with a hand at the small of his back, to keep him hers for that bit longer. At last, he rolled aside, and they lay quietly. She closed her eyes to recall the last few minutes, each sensation a final treasure to be hoarded.

She felt his gaze. Opening her eyes to find him watching, she asked, “What are you looking at?”

“If you must know, I’m looking at the most beautiful woman I have ever laid me eyes upon, and wondering how daft it ‘tis to think that she’ll be here in a month.”

“Oh, that. One month,” she mused, shaking a cautionary finger. “If you’re not back on Day Thirty, I’ll be gone on Thirty-one.”

The molasses-colored eyes sparked with mirth. “Ah, but you forget: I said a month. October comes; it’s thirty-one.”

“Very well, on Day Thirty-two.”

“But then you’ve shorted me a day already…”

She narrowed one eye. “Don’t press it. Thirty-one, it is. Do we have an accord?” she asked, holding out her hand.

He took it, tracing the delicate bones with his thumb. “We have an accord.” He kissed her knuckles, the touch of his lips bringing her gooseflesh anew.

She pressed her palm the tattoo over his heart: a ship with a banner emblazoned with a single word: “Freedom.” Was she giving him his? Or was it even hers to give? He was exercising what came as natural as flight to the bird depicted on his arm. She wondered how much swallows are like sparrows. Swallows were known for their thousand-mile journeys across the seas, to return to the one they left, making them the symbol of luck and good fortune to mariners.

And sparrows? How could such an unassuming little bird possibly have the temerity to argue with the swallow’s wisdom?

Freedom. In so many ways, it was such a simple request.

To love Jack was to give him what he needed; he had asked no more. To rob him of it would be to condemn the essence of what he was. He would hate her for that; it was a death she wouldn’t want on her hands. As elusive as Jack might be, he had never misrepresented what he was. The “who” of it might have been up for question, but as to the “what,” there had never been any doubt.

She kissed the image over his heart, her pledge to his credo, and then lifted her mouth to his, trying to instill in that kiss all her faith and trust, in both him and his ability to make his promise come to pass. His kiss told her everything she needed to know: he would be back. Short of death—and knowing Jack, he could probably manage something even after that—he would be back, earth, nor sky, nor sea being too great to be moved.

“Good-bye, Jack.”

Everything there was to be said had been; anything more would be to flail what had already been striped. Her throat tightened, her heart pounding dully in her head.

He made to reply; with a startled look, he found he was stricken speechless. He made a few strangled sounds, and then bit his lip, baffled. “I can’t bring meself to say it.”

There was a sharp rap at the door, and it burst open. In one fluid move, Jack dove for his pistol on the bedside table, shoved Kate down into the mattress behind him, rolled up on his knees, and brought the pistol to bear toward the door, only to be aiming squarely at Marguerite’s nose. Unfazed, she quietly pushed the door closed.

“Ruby just told Minnie that her customer is here with the East India Trading Company,” she reported without preamble, in a hushed, urgent voice.

“Bugger!” Jack hurtled from the bed, and snatched his breeches from the floor. “I knew I didn’t like the looks of that ship. Get dressed!”

“This is French territory!” Kate protested, scrambling for her clothing. “How can the Company….?”

“Explain that to them,” Jack shot back. “There’re here, aren’t they? The balance strikes me as wholly self-explanatory. They bloody well don’t care!”

“They’ll be looking for you!” Kate paused until her head popped clear of her shift. “Don’t wait for me, just go!”

There was another rap at the door. Pulling Kate behind him, Jack brought his weapon up again. Minnie slipped in around the edge of the door, and went ashen at the sight of the barrel aimed squarely at her. Balking, she tried to speak, but could only produce a squeak.

“Out with it, child!” Marguerite hissed.

Round-eyed, Minnie tried again, more successfully after Jack lowered his weapon.

“I just brought punch and biscuits to Camille’s room. Her man is from the East India Trading Company.”

“That’s two,” Marguerite reported needlessly.

“Has Beckett found me?” Heart pounding, Kate was beginning to feel as panicked as Minnie.

“He’s dead, darling. Remember?” Jack said with cold finality.

That point served to calm Kate’s fears only slightly. It was becoming difficult to think rationally. Royal Army, Royal Navy, the Company: her recent experiences with anyone of authority hadn’t gone well. She had no basis to believe treatment at the hands of anyone else would go any differently.

“Who’s his replacement?” asked Kate, groping for her skirt.

“I haven’t the foggiest, and what’s more eloquently relevant, I don’t give a bloody damn!” Jack grumbled through the folds of his shirt as he pulled it on.

“But I thought you said the Company was defeated.”

His head clear of his shirt, he propped his hands on his hips to glare.

“Really, darling, must we play silly questions now? A ship of the line was blown to bits, taking His High-handedness to the depths. The Company proper was otherwise unscathed, living to persecute another day, only to be deterred by the minor inconvenience of having to promote another pompous, bungling fop.”

“Why would Beckett’s replacement want me?”

“Most likely he doesn’t know you from the neighborhood fishwife, with all due respect. Someone, however, greatly appreciates the color of Doncker’s money.”

“Doncker? You think he sent for them?”

“No reason to believe otherwise. He has the money, and the connections. Not much else is required.”

“How can that be?” she pleaded to Marguerite, who casually shrugged.

“Happens easily enough: they come in, take who they want, and are long gone before the authorities have any notion. Filing complaints with the Company or the Crown brings little in these waters.”

“So, this is all because of… “

“Me, most likely,” Jack cut in, wincing with guilt. “No one has to guess what’s under that bit o’ lace you wear at your wrist, especially after you were dropped off from the Black Pearl, but chances are…”

“I got caught in the middle,” interjected Kate, “again” being the unspoken word, not in accusation, just a statement of fact. “Then we don’t know if they’re after you or me.”

“A point I’m not prepared to stand about in order to find out,” said Jack tersely, hastily stuffing his shirttail into his breeches.

“Isn’t it a bit of a coincidence that they just happened to be here today?”

“The coincidence is that he just happened to get his just deserts today. The wheels had been set in motion for this, months ago. Where’s Gibbs?” Jack demanded of as he strapped on his belts.

“He’s coming,” she said. Distracted by Minnie, who had begun packing Kate’s sewing box, she waved a hand, shooing the maid toward the door. “Never mind that! There’s no time. Mind the door.”

“Just go!” Kate shouted at Jack as loudly as she dared, fumbling to hook her skirt with fingers that had gone maddeningly numb. “Don’t wait for me. Go!”

“I’ll not!” Jack growled, sitting on the bed to pull on his boots. “No one’s getting hold of you. We have to get her out of here,” he added, looking to Marguerite, stomping his foot into a boot.

“Take the servant stairs. Then you can go out through the carriage house and into the alley. You know the way.”

Nodding, Jack beat on the boot on his other foot as Gibbs eased into the room, cautious not to shut the door too loudly. Sword in one hand and pistol in the other, he was disheveled but ready, the sight of him bringing Kate a renewed sense of security. With him at Jack’s side, it seemed nothing could go wrong.

“Orders?”

The small room was becoming crowded, everyone urgently talking in hushed voices, to avoid alarming anyone in the surrounding rooms, one question colliding with another.

“Get her out of here,” Jack said, pointing to Kate with his chin, as he slipped on his baldric. “I don’t care what else happens, I want her gone. Any idea how many are aboard by now?”

“By my count, enough,” Gibbs said confidently.

“Good! Gather up whoever else you may, but we’re not waiting. If they can’t make the Pearl on time, they’ll find themselves crewing another ship.”

Briefly nodding a salute, Gibbs turned on his heel to leave, his step slowing as he met Marguerite by the door. “T’was good to see ye again, ol’ gal.”

It was evident to anyone who cared to look, that there was much more Gibbs wanted to say, but duty called, and it was a stern master. Witnessing the tender moment was exceptionally uncomfortable for Kate.

Marguerite cupped her hand to one of Gibbs’ mutton-chops, and kissed him gently. “Don’t make it so long before your next visit.”

With a reluctant roll of his eyes, Gibbs was gone.

Jack swiveled on Kate, and huffed, “Aren’t you ready yet?”

“I’m trying to find my shoes.” On the far side of the bed, she was on her hands and knees. “Maybe, if you hadn’t been so anxious to get into bed… Got ‘em!”

“Be sharp about it!” Jack urged.

While Kate struggled with her shoes, Marguerite came around, ostensibly to help tighten her laces. As Kate straightened, the madam shoved a small velvet pouch into Kate’s hand, the soft, metallic clink of coins revealing its contents.

Marguerite glanced over her shoulder to make sure Jack was far enough away. “Here, you take this,” she murmured, with motherly urgency.

“No, I couldn’t!” Kate was taken by surprise by the uncharacteristic generosity.

“Take it!” Marguerite hissed. “You’ve earned that and more. Jack’s a good man, but his sort is hard on women. Put it away somewhere.” She winked conspiratorially, patting Kate’s arm. “You may need it. It doesn’t seem right that someone as decent as you should get mixed up with the likes of him.”

Kate could see Jack over Marguerite’s shoulder, near the door, settling his hat on his head, and then calmly checking his pistol’s primer, and her heart swelled.

The pirate was back.

“He’s difficult not to love.”

Marguerite followed Kate’s gaze. “He’s a charmer, that’s for sure,” she sighed, with reluctant admiration.

Weepy-eyed, they hugged, Marguerite roughly wiping her cheek. “If you ever find yourself in need, there will always be a place for you here.”

“I think that’s what Jack is afraid of,” Kate mused, stashing the coin bag into her skirt pocket.

“Never mind Jack; he’s a man, he can manage. We women have to take care of each other.”

“Is there any hope of this hen party breaking this up soon?” Jack growled.

“Very well!”

Stopping at his elbow, Kate turned to give Marguerite a short wave then followed Jack out the door.

It was safe to assume that the women were doing their best to keep them distracted, but getting away without discovery was preferable. Anxious to be away, but ever-vigilant, Jack was mindful of making noise that might announce their escape.

Once down the steps and through the kitchens, they crossed the dooryard and entered the carriage house, checking cautiously at every turn. Wedging past the wheels of the barouche, Kate’s stomach plummeted when she thought they had reached a dead end at the back wall, but it seemed she had forgotten who she was with. A door fashioned out of the wall itself seemingly appeared from nowhere, and they passed from the shed’s dusty shadows out into the glare of the alley.

Running behind Jack, his grip crushing her fingers, Kate felt like a piece of flapping laundry. His usual levity gone, Jack was maddeningly calm as he wove through the backside of the town. It struck her that he had done this many, many times before. Just short of the docks, Jack dove back, slamming her against the stone, backtracking to duck into the shadows of a stack of puncheons.

“Company men,” he whispered, soliciting her silence with his eyes. “Best not risk it.”

Breathing hard, she held it long enough to hear a group of men approaching on the street, amiably talking. As they crossed the alley’s mouth, she caught a glimpse of green coats, the uniform of the East India Trading Company.

Waiting, Jack held her firmly against the wall, shielding her, pistol at the ready, the heat of his body radiating through her clothing. At one point, he glanced down at her.

“Best laid plans, eh?” he grinned, and then averted his attention back to the street.

Once satisfied it was clear, they stepped out from the alley, and melted into the crush of activity on the docks.

The wharves were a wall of noise—shouting, swearing, hawkers selling their wares, the clang and clatter of moving stores, and the bleat and bray of livestock—the air thicken to the point of barely breathable, heat and dust only adding to the miasma of smoke, dead fish, sweat, tide flats, manure and tar.

Keeping up as best she could, Kate tried to appear as nonchalant as Jack, but found it nearly impossible with a pounding heart and limbs gone wooden with fear. Her head whirling with the rapid change of affairs, a different kind of tightness seized her chest, sweat running down her face, and between her shoulder blades. Men were after them; which one, who or why was beside the point.

Jack wove through the jostling press of people, beasts of burden, handcarts and drays with well-practiced agility. Kate guiltily couldn’t help but think that she was slowing him down; if it weren’t for her, he could have been well away, safe. As they fell in stride between a cooper’s dray and its team of oxen, using them for cover from both the warehouses on the one side, and the harbor on the other, it occurred to her that Jack was actually enjoying this.

Her eye caught a green ship amid the dozens of others in the harbor, and she wondered if that were the one Jack had spotted a few days before, if that were the Company ship. It looked as much like one ship as another to her. She strained to see the Pearl, but her rigging was obscured by the forest of masts and yards.

They worked their way down to the lower docks, where the smaller boats—fishing, turtling, longboats, skiffs, dinghies, jolly mons, bumboats and barges—were tied off.

To her relief, Jack’s step slowed, striding down the docks as if he owned them, merging into the eclectic array of men that milled about with the same ease as his ship’s rigging melded into that of the other ships. He scrutinized every boat they passed, shaking his head and muttering.

Finally, they came upon one that drew his attention, a single-masted skiff that tended to list. He lightly leaped down into the clutter of turtle shells, grouds, buckets, gaffing hooks and ragged pieces of net, and gave it a quick inspection, experimentally prodding the gourds with his toe.

“Yup, this one,” he declared with a satisfied nod and extended his hand. “C’mon, get aboard!”

“You’re just going to take it?” Kate gave a furtive look over both shoulders, expecting the owners to appear any moment.

“No, I’m borrowing it. Now, will you just get in!”

“How are you going to get it back?”

“I’ll turn it loose and it can find its own way home like a bloody pigeon.” Irritated, his eyes bulged, and his teeth bared. “Now, will you please get in, oh conscience of mine!”

Kate eyed the craft, dubious of the likelihood of it remaining afloat long enough to make it across the harbor, to the Pearl. Hitching her skirts, leaning heavily on his arm, she clamored down. Pointing her to a seat at the stern, he marched to the bow, a distance of barely twenty feet, by her measure. With a deft swirl, the painter was cast free. Planting a boot against the dock, he gave a shove, and they were away.

Treasured Treassures, Chapter Fifty-two

Mon, 12 Oct 2009 00:36:30 GMT

Making Your Mark

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a broad host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse, and there is a bit of saying good-bye to be done.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. (Well, there’s a few OC’s that I don’t mind claiming.) I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
I’m Having a Thought Here: Caution prompts me to warn everyone that this fic is fast drawing to a close. There will be two more chapters after this, just because my anal side won’t allow me to end this with an odd number. (Obsessive, I know!) As I said, fear not! (Ha! There’s a bit o’ ego!) Jack and Kate will soon be back… he’s already grumbling at me.

Kate wormed deeper into the bedclothes, experimentally moving her bottom. That small gesture ordinarily would be sufficient to trigger Jack, even in the depths of slumber, move closer and bring his arm around her. Even in the extra space of her bed, they still slept as they had on the Pearl, fitted like two spoons. His injuries had changed their ways a bit, the broken ribs requiring that he lie half-upright. Starting out that way, sometime in the night he would work his way around, and by morning, they would be as always.

She knew it was early; the air bore that lighter, freshness of morning, the sun’s path across the floor indicating as much. She waited, and then squirmed further, searching for his warmth and the reassuring press of Jack at her back. It was then that she found the bed was empty.

At first, she dismissed it, thinking he had gone to the privy, or maybe for coffee, as he did many mornings. Like an annoying bee buzzing around one’s head, a thought nagged, until she finally sat up. Shoving the hair from her eyes, she looked across the room toward the table where he tossed his clothing and effects.

They were gone. Not just his shirt and breeches, but everything: hat, coat, baldric, boots… everything.

She rose and went to the table, running her hand over the empty space, as if it might prove to be an illusion. It wasn’t. Sickened, she began to shake, and braced against the edge, vacillating wildly from disbelief to anger, to despair and back, filled with self-loathing for having fallen into the trap of believing him. A small voice argued that perhaps that final good-bye was too much for him to face, but she furiously slapped it away. Jack had specifically promised.

Disappear and she wouldn’t be there. That had been her threat, and he had called her bluff. Her only choice now was what to do about it. She snorted, making an angry noise to the empty room. No hurry there; she had a month, or two… at least.

It was galling to think that he might be laughing at her, daring her to make good on her threat. Was she really that ready to leave Marguerite’s?

Damn right! If nothing else than to disappear the moment the Black Pearl pulled into the harbor, just to make Jack suffer a little more.

The Black Pearl. Was she still there? Feet turned to lead, Kate couldn’t bring herself to look. She wondered which would be worse: confirming her fears by finding the ship gone, or find it there, and know that Jack had opted for his ship’s company as opposed to hers. Never had she asked him to choose between her and his ship. It would have been no contest, and she knew that well. All she had asked were a few more hours, and then the Pearl, the sea and his men could have him.

Balling her fists, she drew a deep breath, and turned. It was then that she discovered which was worse: the Pearl still sat in quiet repose on her moorings.

“… What with everything to be done…” Indeed! Jack had been making his excuses then.

Voices in the hall and a familiar clatter broke her stare, and Jack burst in the door. Flushed and breathless, face a faint sheen of sweat, he looked first toward the bed, surprised and a bit disconcerted to find her standing at the window.

“Ah, there you are!” With a self-pleased smile, he pushed the door shut behind him. “I would have thought you would be tired after…”

She crossed the room in three steps and slapped him, full and hard.

“Ow! What the bloody…?”

“Damn you! You’re here!”

Her blood was up and she took another swing. He easily caught her hand in mid-air, and managed to fend off the next several flailing blows. Finally he managed to catch both her arms, and pinned down her arms.

“You bastard!” she seethed, struggling to wrench free. “You’re still here!”

“And you’re angry about that?”

She hit him in the side—accidentally to be sure, but was gratified to hear him grunt with pain. His arms loosened and she pulled away.

“Yes!” She stood back, panting, rubbing the twisted skin of her wrists.

With an accusing look, he rubbed the offended side of his face. “And would have been happier if I were not?”

“No!”

“Really darling, you aren’t making any sense a’tall! Before I got slapped for coming back; I get it for being here. Bloody woman, will you make up your mind!”

Embarrassment and anger was giving over to tears of relief, and she began to crumble. He shied when she raised a hand to dry her eyes.

“I woke up… and then everything… but you…” With a choking sob, she fell against him, weeping, unmindful of his pistol digging into her middle, one of his belt buckles gouging her ribs.

Hesitant, his arms came slowly around her. “Shh… shh.. It’s all right.” He quivered with suppressed humor.

“Don’t you dare laugh!” she said, kittenishly thumping his chest with her fist.

He made a feeble attempt, and failed miserably. “Shh… I promise… shh…” he said, still fizzing. She stiffened, and he renewed his efforts to sober, patting her on the back with increased vigor. “I shan’t… it’s just… it’s been a while since I was attacked by a naked woman.”

“It’s happened before?” Her head resting on his shoulder, her breath came in shuddering gasps and hiccups. His thumb hypnotically brushing behind her ear was working its magic.

“Aye… once or twice, come to think on it, maybe three,” he added as an aside. “But never one as beautiful, or as good of an arm,” he said wryly, touching his cheek.

“I thought you were gone,” she said, in a high, thin squeak. “I woke up, and you were… and then I thought…”

He held her back by the shoulders, and took her by the chin, lifting her head in order to look straight into her eyes. “I’ve upheld my end of the accord, have I not? I was thinking after our… night last night,” he said with a suggestive lifting of his brows, “that you’d be sleeping a bit longer. I was flopping about, and didn’t want to wake you. You’re so lovely when you sleep.”

It was an interesting barrage of excuses. The fact that he was offering them instantly negated each one as valid.

“You must think I’m a sniveling dolt.” Suddenly, it seemed that was all she had been doing for the last days, last year, for that matter.

“If that were to be of any consequence, it would have been imminently apparent the first night you were aboard. Me shirt’s gone moldy since; need to go to the bilges, just to dry out.”

She snickered at that; it was difficult to be maudlin around him, and he knew it.

He smoothed her hair from her face. “You’re a woman of passions… many of them,” he added with wryly. “It would be against me best interests to hold that against you.”

“Where were you?” She flinched at the desperate, beseeching sound of that.

He looked in every direction but hers, one eye narrowing as he mentally clicked off possible responses, finally opting for the entirely lame, “Nothing.”

His face fell at the sight of scowl. “Not believing that one, eh?”

“Not remotely.”

Noticing something on his collar and shoulder, she frowned at the reddish smears. “That looks like face paint… or lip rouge.”

She took a step back to see him more fully, only to find more on the front of his breeches.

“You are jumping to conclusions and assumptions that are not to be concluded,” he said, turning his hips to avoid her investigation. “I could say that it’s not, but I’m thinking that I might could save me breath on that score.”

Keenly aware of Jack’s ability to play anyone, Kate considered the possibilities. He was fully dressed, weapons, hat and all. As ever-alert to danger as he was, he might have gone fully armed, but wouldn’t have taken the time to fully dress if he were only going down the hall for an affaire. On that score, in the week’s time that he had been there, she hadn’t witnessed the slightest suggestion of wandering eyes, on his part, at any rate.

On the other hand, guilt was written all over him. If anything, he was overly innocent. Judging by his surprise at finding her up, he had been planning to sneak back while she was still sleeping, and then pretend he’d had been there all the time. It was an odd game of hot and cold: his tepid indignation pointed directly toward he had something to hide; the closer she drew to the truth, the more heated his innocence would become.

She leaned closer. He flinched and shied, but held his ground as she sniffed, first one side of his neck, and then the other.

“You sound like a truffle hog,” he grumbled warily.

Congested from crying, her sense of smell was still sharp enough. There was no hint to perfume, powder or another woman, or of a carnal nature. Aside from morning air, street dust, leafy greenness—as if he passed through the garden—a fruity tang and rum—probably Marguerite’s punch—and something else familiar that she couldn’t quite name, she detected nothing other than Jack.

“Do I pass inspection?” He lifted on brow in an “I told you so” fashion. “I tell the truth all the time, yet no one believes me.”

“It’s because you can hide honesty so well,” she said tartly.

The breeze stirred the curtains, carrying with it the smells of cooking onions and sausages, rolls, and—miracles of miracles—coffee! Jack’s stomach growled loudly in anticipation, prompting him to look censoriously down his nose.

“I suppose we might consider fulfilling appetites of more than just the flesh.”

Kate gave him a mildly curious look; by her recollection, she had never heard his stomach do that. “I supposed we’d better get you fed, before you fall over. Marguerite doesn’t approve of men lying about in the halls.”

While Kate dressed, Jack doffed his hat. Filling the basin, he vigorously washed, splashing water in his face, sputtering, and scrubbing his hands. Kate stopped in mid-motion as she pulled on her skirt, staring. It seemed it was a morning of many surprises.

“Allow me,” he said, his voice muffled by the towel as he dried off. Tossing the towel aside and gestured her nearer as she struggled with her stays. “I’d like to eat before they throw it to the pigs.”

Kate bit her lip as she obligingly turned around. She couldn’t argue. After a lifetime, of wearing them, laces that closed in the back were still a tribulation, often requiring several minutes of wrestling and huffing, leaving her sweating and in a foul mood. Water droplets glistening in his lashes and mustache, Jack nimbly handled the task.

Finished, he slipped his arms around her waist. She turned as he drew her closer, and kissed him, tracing the sharp peak of his lip with her tongue at the end.

“I’m sorry.” Kate knew words could be hollow, and yet not to make amends seemed worse.

Groaning, she nestled her head under his chin. They held each other, afraid to let go, knowing that they must.

“When?” she finally ventured to ask.

His chest slowly rose and fell, and then she felt him look toward the window to judge the time. “Not long. Tide’s out, but we’ve a fair wind to clear the harbor.”

Her heart squeezed a little tighter. Not long. An hour? Two? Not long.

Making little “Pft! Pft!” sounds, he tried to clear his mouth of her hair. He regarded her with a critical eye. “Let’s see if we can bring some sort of order to the world today, eh?”

Aware that it as another attempt to distract and cajole; Kate played along and sat on the stool, while Jack fetched her brush.

The silver-backed brush still bore the initial “W” on the back. It had belonged to Mrs. Whitstead, a fellow passenger during her crossing from England. The matriarch had died of a fever, her trunk becoming part of the plunder when the ship was raided by the Black Pearl. The men had brought it to her the next day, but had always been unclear if they had done so out of their own volition, or if Jack had prompted them. It was one of her few possessions, and she treasured it, not just because of its value as a tool.

Muttering under his breath, with a determined set to his jaw, he set to brushing, firmly but gently demanding obedience as he would a crewman. Kate closed her eyes to focus on the soft rasp of the brush, and the feel of Jack’s finger’s gliding up the nape of her neck and over the curves of her scalp. It was a special sensation, and a rare luxury.

Given the chaotic state of his hair, it seemed highly unlikely that it had seen a brush in years, and yet Jack deftly manipulated her stubborn tresses into smooth coils around his fingers, carefully arranging them around her shoulders. But then, nothing Jack did with those hands came as unexpected. The mental image of them performing the simplest of tasks gave her a thrill that penetrated every crevice, often rendering her a bit breathless.

Once order had been established to his satisfaction, he poked through the pile of ribbons on the worktable, finally coming up victoriously with a peacock blue one that echoed the hues of the harbor.

“This one! It matches the color of your eyes today,” he declared, and sliced off a length with his boot knife.

Normally, those ribbons were reserved for her dressmaking for the women of the house, not personal use, but she said nothing; Jack seemed to have a carte blanche when it came to anything he wanted. With equal dexterity, he tied her hair back, and arranged the ribbon. A courtly bow declared the job done.

“Would madam care to accompany me in a bit of le déjeuner?”

Kate rose and squared her shoulders, settling herself to meet what would probably be their last meal together, with strength and grace. She didn’t want his last memories to be of her red-eyed and snotty-nosed.

Before they were to the bottom of the steps, they could hear the merriment spilling from the dining room into the hall. Rounding through the doors, they walked into a jocular mood, Camille and Analise sliding apart on the benches to make room for them. By most standards, it would have been considered a large room, but it was dwarfed by the press of bodies and voices, the curtains seemingly pressed against the wall.

Breakfast, given was often the only meal in the house that was allowed its due time, and in typical French style, bordered on decadent, relatively speaking. The sideboard and table groaned under their burdens of bowls, baskets, platters and pitchers: pain bâtard, warm rolls, bread, hash, sausages, fish, porridge, fruit, eggs, game pies, dried beef, cheese, jams, honey, marmalades, battercakes to eat, with bullion, bavaroise, made with maidenhair syrup, pitchers of ale, café au lait, hot chocolate with whipped cream, fragrant with cinnamon and vanilla to wash it down.

For Kate, it was no different than at home with her brothers. Breakfast could be a raucous affair, with conversations colliding across the table, often ribald, one trying to be heard over the other, yet above the clatter of cups and silverware. From all appearances, brothels gave everyone involved a healthy appetite, in more ways than one.

Not yet dressed for the day, the house’s women didn’t suffer from modesty. Unpowdered or rouged, still pink-faced and pale-lipped, hair down about their shoulders or hastily pinned up, they were clad in not much beyond a shift or a wrapper. Those garments offering precious little cover, the women were indifferent to the revealing gaps as they bent and twisted.

Kate watched curiously from one the corner of her eye as Jack single-mindedly devoured a wedge of game pie, sausages, and eggs, alternately washing it down coffee and ale. Looking toward the end of the table, she noted that there must have been a contagion afoot; Gibbs was eating with equal verve.

“Mind your fingers,” Marguerite observed dryly watching the two as Novella brought more platters. “We’ve men at the table today.”

Jack would be stricken mute if he couldn’t use his hands, and carried on in full bent. Slathering rolls with honey and butter, busily licking his fingers, he never missed a word. His animated conversation with Camille went unhindered as he speared two battercakes from a passing platter, dropping one on Kate’s plate, and one on his. As Kate listened, she was stabbed by the thought of how much she was going to miss the sound of that graveled voice.

At one point, Jack pause warily, the fork half-way to his mouth. “What are you looking at?”

“You,” she said bluntly. “I’ve never seen you eat that much since I’ve known you.”

He winked, then wiped the marmalade from his mouth before kissing her on the cheek. “Worked up an appetite.” He spoke loudly enough for the benefit of all, the women giggling like schoolgirls.

Kate watched Marguerite, sleep-snarled and still in her wrapper, at the end of the table, and Gibbs on her right, and wondered if they had the same conversation the night before as she and Jack. Had Gibbs told her that he was leaving?

Marguerite didn’t strike Kate as one to go misty-eyed or sentimental over something as basic as a man leaving, although seeing her and Gibbs together did give one pause. The angle of their bodies, and the sly glances when they thought no one was looking; it made them seem years younger. Marguerite’s girlish glee when she first saw him certainly pointed toward something more than just a matter of the flesh.

Reflecting back, since her arrival, Kate could only recall two or three men being invited to Marguerite’s rooms. Perhaps there was more in that than what had originally appeared.

The doorbell rang and a muted group groan went up, restrained by the presence of their mistress. Gaubert, ever vigilant in his corner, promptly left, discretely pulling the door closed behind him.

“Hate it when they come before my breakfast properly settles,” grumbled Analise from Kate’s side. “Disrupts the digestion. Makes a soul’s airs go all wrong.”

“He’s Ruby’s,” said Severine from across the table, with a sidelong look toward the end of the table, where the hapless nominee sat, evoking a twitter from everyone. “She’s the youngest; she has to go.”

Marguerite lifted a brow over the edge of her cup of hot chocolate, but said nothing.

Years upon the earth wasn’t Severine’s meaning. In fact quite the contrary. Ruby was among the oldest, Marguerite notwithstanding. She was, however, the most recent to the house, and therefore was obliged to take the least desirable customers.

Analaise familiarly elbowed Kate in the ribs. “Marguerite should hire you.” She peered around Kate to gesture toward Jack with her fork, and winked. “I’ve never seen him happier.”

Overhearing, Jack stopped in mid-bite of egg to half-rise and graciously bowed to the enthusiastic applause. Kate’s face heated.

Chloe came in with additional pitchers of ale in her arms, bearing the look of a person fit to burst with news.

“Did everyone hear what happened to Monsieur Doncker?” she announced, her eyes rolling with mystery.

Kate’s fork rattled to her plate, Jack’s face already carefully arranged in an unnaturally innocent blank when he turned his way. At quick glance at Gibbs found an identical countenance; they could have been twins.

A chorus of feminine inquiries prompted Chloe on. “He was found this morning in the pillory,” she began, near breathless with the import of her message. “His head had been shaved and he was wearing nothing but a corset…”

She was obliged to raise her voice to be heard over the hoots and peals of laughter. “He’s purple from the shoulders up, and his cock was bright orange.”

Kate shot a stony glare at Jack, realizing then what she had smelled on him earlier: Doncker’s cologne. How could she have ever missed that?

“My hands are clean!” Jack declared, illustrating.

“Jack! You didn’t!” Kate hissed under the gleeful din.

“Very well, I didn’t,” he said agreeably.

“I told you I didn’t want him killed.”

“And he’s not,” he pointed out shortly. Little finger elegantly aimed skyward, he sipped his coffee. Setting down the cup with utmost delicacy, he smacked his lips, fluttering his lashes. “But you said nothing about dying.”

Gaubert came in behind Chloe, taking up his customary position at the corner near the doorway.

“Interesting point,” he intoned his inordinately deep voice readily audible over the melee. “If one were to look closely, it appeared as though he had been beaten.”

“Mindless violence and malfeasance!” Jack declared, with an emphatic thump on the table.

Gaubert seemed to be caught between his customary disapproval of Jack—a bit spared for Gibbs as well—and his pleasure at Doncker’s misfortune. “It appeared he had a couple of broken ribs, too.”

“Is there no end to the effrontery to be perpetrated upon such an upstanding member of the community?” Jack declared, waving a righteously indignant arm. “Roustabouts and malefactors mucking about. Where’s the law when it’s needed!”

Lifting his cup, Jack’s gaze meet Gaubert’s over the heads of the women. “If he had been shot in the side, the irony would have been stretched credulity.”

Mindful of her pique, Jack cautiously leaned Kate’s direction. “Monsieur might wish to be using the chamber pot in private,” he said judiciously as an aside. “He’s going to be peeing bright red for the next few days. Madder root, you know; burns worse than the French pox, by what I’m told. Nasty business that.” He ended with a dramatic shudder.

Hesitant, as if approaching an explosive, he gave her a quick peck on the cheek. “Chapeau, darling. I would have never thought of it by me onsies.”

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Fifty-one

Sun, 04 Oct 2009 22:03:23 GMT

Catalogues

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a broad host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse, and there is a bit of saying good-bye to be done.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
I’m Having a Thought Here: Caution prompts me to warn everyone that this fic is fast drawing to a close. There’s another couple weeks, and then it will then be over. But fear not! There will be a month or 6 weeks hiatus, as I address my attentions to another project, but then Jack and Kate will be back in all their glory!!

It proved to be an odd day for Kate, an otherworldly, disembodied experience.

In the spirit of self-preservation, she carefully removed any emotion, thought, or feeling that hinted it might prove too fragile, and placed it safely away from what promised to be an agonizing day. A shattered heart would have meant devastation, and so she set next to the others with the same care.

At the same time, it was a day of collection, harvesting every look, word or moment, hoarding before a famine, storing up what is required to survive. She saw Jack struggle, with the same battle, and from that she drew the strength. Through the day, he was prone toward falling off in mid-sentence, drifting away into blank stares. More than once she turned to find him intently watching her with a remote look. She couldn’t blame or reproach him; she caught herself doing the same thing. As much as she didn’t want to let go of him, Jack seemed much of the same mind. Hovering, they reached to touch often, just to assure the other was there. And so they busied themselves, with what they could.

Kate carried on an internal argument of how much better… how much easier Jack’s absence was going to be. At least now, she wouldn’t have to endure the derision and scorn from the women. She had proven that her faith in him hadn’t been folly.

She wouldn’t allow herself to think in timeframes; that would be torture. And yet, how could she not notice the change of the moon and tides, the garden’s blooms fade, or the chicks in the yard go from yellow fuzz to feathers, and not realize the passing of time? Her own moon cycles were too irregular to be of any guidance, but with nearly twenty women residing in a single household, the monthly increments were difficult to overlook.

She steeled herself anew. She had done it once, survived; she could do it again. He would be back. This time she knew it, and that knowledge would be her strength. She had to believe that—believe him. Otherwise…



“I have a surprise for you,” Jack announced.

When they returned to their room, it was well past the midday meal. Under Jack’s close scrutiny and specifications, Kate’s hands had been cleaned of the smashed flower remnants.

Kate’s hopes soared that he’d had a change of mind. That would have been too good to be true; life rarely lavished her with such kindness.

He read her face, and sobered. The furrows between his brows deepened under the edge of his scarf. “No, not that. The die is cast, darling. I can’t; woe that I could, but…” His voice trailed off, his Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed.

“Instead,” he went on, brightening. “I’m thinking turnabouts, in ever so many and infinite ways, should be fair play.” A glint touched the amber in his eyes as he rolled them dramatically. “I’ve been bathed and pampered for a week. I’ve watched you tend me until you swayed with weariness, and then smile with utter tenderness with I’ve asked for a drink.”

He steered her backwards toward the bed, the tenderness of which he had just spoke filling his eyes then. “Well, luv, now it’s your turn.”

As if on cue, there was a familiar, coded rap at the door. In came Minnie, half-bent under the burden of two copper boilers filled with steaming water. Close on her heels came Chloe, weighted by a basket towering with towels, and a large pitcher under one arm. Once rid of their burdens, Minnie and Chloe both instantly excusing themselves, curtsying and then quietly pulling the door closed behind them.

“The absolute essences of a lady,” he declared with a courtly sweep of his hand.

“I’m no lady…”

He cut her short with a finger to her lips. “We’ll be relying on the resident expert in these matters. Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, and I am most beholding. I’d ply thee with jewels and silks, riches fit for a queen, but it would seem the gift that would bring your greatest joy—and smile—would be this.” He bowed elaborately, beckoning her toward the basket.

She lifted the towels, and was met with an intoxicating fog of rose, jasmine, lavender, lemon balm and elderflower, mingled with spiced rum from the pitcher. On top sat a bar of finely-milled soap, colorful with bits of embedded flower petals. Under that was a black lacquer tin of talc, and a flowered porcelain jar of cream, rich with honey and almond.

He waited, watching anxiously as she picked up each object. “Ah! There’s what I’ve been waiting for.” A bit open-mouthed, she realized that she was indeed smiling hugely.

There was a small bundle of candles, earthy-sweet with beeswax as opposed to the more familiar tallow-based ones.

“In case we tarry so long, we might need extra light,” he said, divining her question. He touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth. “Although illumination might not necessarily be what we’ll be needing.”

“Where did you…? I mean, how did you manage…?”

“Ah-ah!” Jack wagged a reproving finger, already busy tugging free her laces, and the ribbon of her shift, he dismissed her questions with a loose-wristed wave. “Gift horses and all that, darling.”

He scurried about with the deliberation of a person who had carefully considered every aspect: arranging the stool, placing the basin, smoothing the pillow and straightening the bedclothes. His intentions grew increasingly clear as he carefully arranged her on the bed.

“You’re up too high. No, not there. Ah! Now just over a bit. No, not clear over there like you’re afraid of me, or something! Ah! There! That’s me darling!”

“You realize that there is a tub downstairs,” she asked while he filled the basin.

He smiled at her through the curls of steam. “You needn’t remind me. Believe me,” he said emphatically, “it crossed me mind. But I also recognize me limitations. I am a man of weaknesses, a slave to the flesh. One look at you in that tub, with your hair floating about your lovelies, and those lovely legs…” He bit his lip, and lamentably shook his head. “I could never resist diving in. Me personal physick would have me by the curlies before I could plead me case.”

“Inconsiderate wench.”

“Aye well, don’t be too judgmental. I have ways of softening her up.” A vague gesture dismissed the thought. “Besides, this will be so much more… intimate.”

The purr in his voice brought a rush to her face, and elsewhere.

Flipping his hair back behind his shoulders, he wetted the sponge and squeezed it out. As he brushed the soap over it, he wore a meditative and slightly distant look. And then he began.

It was heavenly!

If a conjurer had asked her of three wishes, a bath might have been one of them. One administered by Jack was quite another issue, one that she hadn’t previously imagined. Besides, her imagination wasn’t near as good as this!

The most heavenly part possibly was watching him. He’d never gotten around to putting on his shirt, off-handedly tossing it aside upon returning to their room. Now, as he sat on the edge of the bed, with the quiet clatter of beads and metal bits, she followed the twist of his body, tightly wound, lithe and elegantly built, and the muscles flexing under his tattoos.

It was a mild shock when she realized that he was memorizing her, cataloguing her, and she knew then exactly what the separation was costing him. Once, seemingly a lifetime ago, they had bathed each other in their cabin on the Pearl. That had been different; it had been over-shadowed by a powerful need, a coming together, melding and merging.

This was good-bye, every touch lingering a fraction longer than usual, knowing it could well be the last. He traced every bone and curve, the knobs of her fingers and spine, the arch of her foot and small of her back or slope of her throat, pausing to encircle her wrists and ankles, closing his eyes at each, committing each detail to memory.

She recalled a similar ritual the night before he left. Unbeknownst to her, he had been taking his leave then. He had said now was for her, but in so many more ways, it was for him, atoning, seeking her patience and faith. It was a tactile pact, an accord; to submit was to accept.

His soap-slicked hands, a cat’s-whisker touch skimmed her ribs and legs. Loose-jointed and languid, her eyelids grew heavy. With gentle thoroughness, he draped her over his shoulder like a rag doll and did her back, following the arch of each rib. Every finger was addressed with utmost care, kissing each tip. When he came to her wedding ring, his expression faltered, his thumb pensively brushing the carved silver. The mouth that had been so somber and immobile moved, murmuring something, and then he re-gathered himself and moved on.

Eyelids lowered, the sable lashes veiling his thoughts, he was absorbed, and yet teased: a playful nip on her shoulder, a kiss at the back of her knee. At times there was a glimmer of a smile; others, he wouldn’t meet her gaze.

His dark eyes gone tender with mischief, they held hers as he washed her breasts, slowing with deliberation, nudging her legs apart to gently wash her tendermost places. He was taking his time, as if time was all they had. It was a decadent consumption of a precious commodity.

When she thought she could bear it no more, she reached to pull him to her, but he resisted, quietly chuckling. “All in good time, luv,” he said, not in denial, just delay, but promising so much more.

Finished, he toweled her dry until she glowed. The cream was next, a luxuriant emollient of honey, rosewater, almond oil. The corner of his mustache lifted faintly as he scooped out a generous amount, and meticulously revisited every inch of her body, carefully massaging between every finger and toe, until she felt full and ripe.

She laughed when he sneezed into the powder tin, an explosion of jasmine-scent blanketing his hair and face in a ghoulish coating of white. When he opened his eyes and smiled, he looked like a gold-toothed skeleton, his nostrils two dark slits.

She took the sponge, and cleaned his face, taking care to wipe away the Kohl from around his eyes.

“There you are,” she whispered, smiling. “I’ve missed you.”

It had been a very long time since she had seen him unmasked. The amber highlights in the walnut-colored eyes became more dominate. Gentle, even a bit shy, they were aged beyond their years, by hardship of every sort, distrust, betrayal, treachery, and violence all unwanted guests. Incongruous with the rest of him, they were hostage in an existence for which they were never intended.

Her skin radiated, flush with a heat from more than just the water, he plied her with punch, and they drank from the same cup. He produced a palm-sized book of Spanish love poems from the basket, his graveled voice lowered to a sueded rasp. As he read, she listened, she toying with his hair, and tracing his shapes.

When they could bear it no longer, he put down the book and turned to her. They kissed for some time, a languorous exploration of tongues and hands. He carefully rolled, taking her with him, the quiet tinkling of silver marking their movement. They moved against each other like eels, effortlessly slithering on the residual skin of cream, her sensitized skin tingling, each pore alert to the smallest sensation.

He brought her again and again in long, rolling sequences, bubbling and bursting like champagne, until she begged for no more. Stretched comfortably between her legs, he rested his cheek on her thigh and waited, a pair of sable-and-amber eyes watching over the damp auburn curls for when she had sufficiently recovered. The second time, her world spiraled to a single point at the base of her spine, where it stopped in agonizing paralysis that, when it finally broke free, left her shattered and rubber-limbed.

When her joints were no longer jelly, she carefully rolled to rise over him. “Your turn.”

“No, this was to be for you.”

The oiliness on her hands helped bring his silken stiffness quickly alive. “Mmm…. Is this all for me?”

He started to respond, but she slipped lower and suddenly speech became superfluous.

She knew his body now; knew the way of it, every curve and groove, length of bone and scripted patch. It was a warrior’s body, scarred and battered not only by the blade. She could call him with a touch or a look, make the pulse in the vein at his throat throb, and make him shudder and gasp at the end. She knew the places that made him laugh, and the ones that brought his breath short. It was hers, as it had been for no others.

“Where did you learn that!!” he wheezed. His eyes clamped shut, then bulged open.

She laughed softly, and kissed the tender skin just inside crest of his hip. “I had to do something with my time. What do you think all these women sit around and talk about, knitting and pie baking?”

Lifting his head to peer down his torso, he arched a speculative brow. “What else did you learn?”

She resting her chin on his abdomen, and batted her lids. “What’s it worth to you?”

He dropped his head, looking toward the ceiling, his throat moving as he swallowed. “Me coin purse is on the stand. Take it all, darling!”


They spent the day in bed. They read and talked, dozed and drank, and pleasured in varying sequences and combinations, consciously maintaining a constant connection, afraid to let go, desperate for every additional moment.

Loud voices outside their door broke their idyll, just as the breeze stirred the curtains, marking its nightly shift to off-shore. Suddenly, Kate couldn’t bear being indoors with Jack; she didn’t want to share him with a houseful of people. He seemed too much a creature of air, sky and sea to be confined in a small room. When she closed her eyes, she didn’t seek visions of windows and walls; that wasn’t him.

Hastily dressed, they crept down the servants’ steps. Days earlier, they had found the front stairs to be unwise. It seemed Jack could go nowhere without encountering someone—the women notwithstanding—who knew him, most especially in the front parlor of the West Indie’s best brothel, and wouldn’t be able to extricate himself from their clutches without a tale or two, amid several toasts.

Being the height of business hours, the late meal at the house was often casual, served with an eye toward what could be eaten briefly.

“Time is money,” Marguerite had intoned more than once to those thought to be malingering. “Sitting around eating is money lost both ways.”

Cold fish, meat pies, mushroom and leek tarts, filled rolls, biscuits, or anything that could be consumed hastily, preferably without sitting, was common fare to be found on the sideboard, protected from insects with layers of gauze and sprigs of mint, pennyroyal and hyssop sprinkled about for further deterrence.

Jack procured a basket from the kitchens, and in it they piled their pilfered, culinary treasure from the sideboard, along with several bottles of ale. Giggling like two puckish children, they snuck out the back door. Jack snatched a horn lantern from the doorpost, and sheet from the clothesline, ignoring Kate’s warnings of what Marguerite might do if the bed linen was to be damaged.

“Then don’t be too rough on me, eh?” Jack leered.

He led them to the water’s edge and a secluded nook, where they spread the sheet. Pragmatic as ever, Jack had grabbed the beeswax candles from Kate’s room, and stuck them in the sand at the four corners, and in the dancing light, they enjoyed their repast.

Propped against a tree, he sat with his arm resting on a bent knee. Outside did indeed suit him; he was in his element, overlooking the water, with the sound of the waves as their backdrop. He was visibly more relaxed, and ate with more enthusiasm than usual. The corners of his eyes would crinkle, his laugh becoming more genuine.

It was a rarity, but it happened then. On a few isolated occasions, they had been able to be together, and the world dissolved, wherever they happened to be, their island. The pretenses and facades peeled away, and became just she and Jack. Not captain or pirate, or renowned brigand… just Jack. They could talk and laugh, and tell each other their hearts, foibles and failings, dreams and aspirations, and fears and fantasies. They kissed and familiarly fondled, not in suggestion, but because it felt right.

His hands illustrated and punctuated as he told more of his convoluted lore of the constellations. Many nights on the Pearl he had done the same, but he possessed a bottomless repertoire of tales that were a staggering tangle of Roman, Norse, Mayan, Chinese, and Fijian.

His hands illustrated and punctuated as he related his convoluted lore of the constellations. Many nights on the Pearl he had done the same, but he possessed a bottomless repertoire of tales that were a staggering tangle of Roman, Norse, Mayan, Chinese, and Fijian.

“D’ye see that star up there?” He pointed skyward, Kate leaning to follow the angle of his arm. “That’s the Boreade’s star.”

“I thought it was the North Star.”

“No, no! Rampant misconception perpetrated by those misinformed misfortunates who are unenlightened.”

“How sad for them. Are they aware of this shortness in their education?”

“Probably not, but you shan’t hold one responsible for simple ignorance. I, however, have the unique privilege of being one of the few in this world—and maybe even beyond—that knows the true identity, and the true story.”

Kate’s premonition that a story was coming proved to be valid. It was difficult not to miss Jack winding up for one.

“Boreade, the god of the north wind, lived in a time when the night sky was naught but a black shell, a wall between the here and the there. Came the day, Boreade sought a bride, someone to bear his children, and carry on his line. Gods are always concerned about such things,” he added as a sage aside.

“Ah,” she said, struggling to keep a straight face.

“He searched the heavens, but could find no one who fit his fancy. So he asked Artemis—knowing that she was a huntress and would have a sharp enough spear—if she would allow Boreade to look below, and see if there might be someone suitable to be his wife. Artemis, being an innate romantic, obligingly poked a hole in the night sky.” He gestured with his chin, indicating the star was the result.

“Boreade spotted the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes upon, and he came down to Earth, wooed her and married her. Except he overlooked one small detail: she was mortal, and couldn’t go with him. So he went back to the heavens—lest he lose his godliness—and used that hole, every night to watch her as she slept.

“One night, he looked down, and found her lying with another man. Broken-hearted, Boreade flew into a rage—most gods weren’t blessed with self-control. He took Artemis’ spear, and stabbed the sky…”

“Creating all the other stars.”

“Exactly. But the original one, the first one, still exists, for anyone up there, who wants to look down.” He brought his gaze down from the sky to her, his eyes gone ebony. “If anything should… if you ever wonder as to me whereabouts, just look up of a night. I’ll be up there, watching.”

They felly quiet, as they had many times before, enjoying each other’s company. The candles’ warm halo marked their island in the midst of the moonlight’s silver. Having burned down into molten pools in the sand, their flames puttered and flapped in the breeze, their shadows wavering. A nightjar’s querulous cry came from high above, in search of its nightly insect feast.

Lying on her side, head propped in her hand, Kate felt the weight of Jack’s gaze and looked up to find him staring, his fire-rimmed profile sharp against the night’s studded velvet.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.” Jack paused to swallow, in wide-eyed awe. “With your hair all in a maddening tangle, and your breasts peeking out, with your nipples like cherry pits.” He bit his lip, and slowly shook his head. “God, you’re so lovely.”

She felt her face heat.

“You’ve the loveliest arse,” he murmured, tracing the curve of her hip.

Caught off guard, her blush deepened. “You never mentioned that before.”

“Didn’t I?” He frowned demonstrably, and shook his head, pretending to be puzzled. “Huh, should have. That first day, I said to meself…”

“I was wrapped in a quilt; you couldn’t have seen much.”

“Ah, but you forget,” he said, holding up an exclamatory finger. “We brought you aboard, soaking wet, in naught but a pitifully thin shift that was ripped clear to…”

“And men being men…” she teased, prodding his leg with a toe.

“We did the only manly thing: we wrapped you in me coat.”

Her smile faltered. “I don’t remember that.” Scared, half-drowned and shocked, much of her first day or two aboard the Black Pearl was a blur.

“I do,” he said confident smugness. “All of it.” He winked. “Made an impression, you did.”

His eyes went distant, and he smiled crookedly, the tails of his scarf stirring at his bare shoulders. “God, I wanted, so badly I could barely walk; limp was more like it.”

He shifted slightly, his cock enlivening. “You were so brave, covered in goose-flesh, dripping all over me rug.”

He looked up at her and his eyes softened. “And then you cried yourself to sleep in me arms…and I was lost. You could have asked for the moon… hell, I would have given you the Pearl, if you’d asked.”

“But I didn’t… luckily.” She ran a finger along his arm. “You could have had me then, you know.”

“Christ, don’t tell me that,” he groaned, then his mouth dropped. “Surely not! Doesn’t speak much for your scruples, if you were ready to give yourself to a perfect stranger without so much as a…”

“Well, fair enough, but within a week, or so.” She found it amusing that he would be so scandalized, and yet he seemed to regard her with a different standard than himself or others.

He shook his head. “It took a prodigious amount of forbearance to keep from taking you, right there on the spot.”

Something caught his eye. He looked over his shoulder toward the edge of the shadows. Under a low-growing clump of sea holly, the light caught in pinpoints on the stalk-eyes of several land crabs. Drawn by the smell of their foot, but leery of the light, they crabs looked on interestedly.

“Ah, so you’re still following me, eh?” Kate was only mildly surprised that Jack would be talking to crabs. “I have no idea where your mistress is, so bugger off.”

“Why did you wait?” asked Kate, when Jack’s attention came back around to her. “Surely you knew?”

“I wasn’t positive; I feared you’d either go running off, or do something daft, like jump overboard.” His concerns weren’t unfounded: she had jumped from the Melody, when the Black Pearl had attacked. Given the opportunity and the motivation, she might well have done it again.

He drained the bottle of ale they had been sharing, and pitched it aside. It landed in the sand with a hollow thunk. Seizing another, he pensively stroked the stoneware with his thumb. “What did you fancy?” he asked shyly

She sat up, facing him, resting her chin on her arms across her bent knees. The beach was a pale, ghostly blur behind him. The breezed touched the palm fronds, lifting the stray hairs at his shoulders.

“You’re handsome you know,” she said, evoking a sputter and scoffed from him. “Surely you’ve been told that before?”

“Oh, aye,” he said, with overt innocence. “A couple of times… after I paid her.”

They laughed quietly.

“Why do you hide under all that…?” she asked, indicating the pile of his clothing, hastily tossed earlier.

Stalling for time to arrange his thoughts, Jack broke off a corner of a roll, and tossed it toward the crabs still waiting patiently, and they scuttled hungrily after it.

“In this world,” he said, indicating everything beyond where they laid, “’tis bloody difficult to demand the respect of others, when they’re calling you ‘darlin’”. His voice held the strain of experience.

“Jealousy?”

“Not so much,” he conceded reluctantly, shifting. “It’s just seen as a weakness. Envy. Distrust—lots of that. I discovered the best way to remove those issues from the table was to meet the blackguards as equals.”

“But you’re smarter than most of them.”

“A bit more difficult to hide, but there are ways, if you’re crafty enough.” He winced at that.

She considered further, watching him watch her. How does one pinpoint what attracts them to another? A laugh? A smile? A look? A moment? All of the above? “I was touched that you didn’t come after me that first night.”

“Very well,” he said, nodding amiably. “You appreciated me manners. That would have done Mum’s heart good to hear that.”

“Your eyes,” she said, tracing the dark arch of his brow.

She could feel the subterranean vibrations as he held back a laugh. And realized her blunder: the very first day, he had accused her of having cursed eyes, being able to see through to his innermost regions. It would seem he was right.

The Kohl hadn’t been replaced; those same gentle eyes were there now, narrowed slightly at the corners, wondering what she was going to say next. His defenses were gone, the curtains lifted, allowing her access to everything there was to see.

“I could see… that inside you were a good man…”

“Praise the heavens that you weren’t inclined toward blabbing that about! I would have been mutinied upon the next day. I never would have lived to bed you.”

At one point, conversation lagged, his tales gone forgotten. Their gazes met, and there was nothing more to be said. The night sky and vault of stars overhead, and the moon’s silver liming his shoulders as he made love to her. That was Jack. That would be her memory.



Returning to the house, they stumbled up the back steps, giddy with exhaustion and drink, loudly shushing each other as the house slept. The back door had been thoughtfully left unlocked. A light showed under the door of Gaubert’s room off the kitchens, when they passed, waiting up until they returned, so that the house could be secured.

With fumbling hands, they undressed each other and fell into bed in a tangle of limbs that would have to wait until the ‘morrow to be sorted out.

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Fifty

Tue, 29 Sep 2009 23:01:04 GMT

The End of Time

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a broad host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse, and there’s a bit of Jack rambling.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: To every beginning there is an end.

Kate lay staring at the dark ceiling, watching the circling shadows of a moth, feeling as if she were seeing her life in that same aimless spiral. In spite of there being no clock or calendar in her room, she knew exactly the time: it had run out.

Restless, she slipped out of bed. Jack stirred, frowning in his sleep at her absence, but then settled. Padding quietly to the window she sat on the stool. The moon was only halfway through its nightly path. The harbor in clear view, the Black Pearl lay at anchor, an ebony blot against a gunmetal moonscape, a dark queen beckoning her knight.

If you have to take him, at least keep him safe. You brought him back once, please do it again.

Kate waited. Like watched a pot, the bubble of anguish, that she had kept suppressed since that afternoon, rose. For the last six days, she had kept a tight rein on emotions that threatened to run rampant, but she could no longer pretend. Too soon, the dream would be over, and she would wake up to the nightmare that she had been living for over a year. When at the brink of finally bursting, she wadded up the hem of the curtain, buried her face into it and fell apart.

Jack hadn’t intended for her to overhear him and Gibbs earlier that day, of that she was sure. The only question was whether his stealth had been in the spirit of thoughtfulness, while he strove to find a way to tell her, or if he were planning to sneak away, as he had done before. The balance of the afternoon and evening had passed; he had said nothing. If anything, he had been withdrawn.

A week. She had agreed.

And yet, all that time she had hoped that somehow she would be able to change it, or by some miracle, convince Jack to either stay longer—a highly improbable proposition—or take her with him. So far, nothing had been said… because nothing had changed.

A week.

She couldn’t help but feel that she had put more credence in that agreement than Jack. And yet, he had done as he had said, stood by his word to the letter, no less, but no more.

She looked around her small room with loathing. Marguerite’s was the closest thing to a home, in over five years. The Black Pearl had come close, for a few months. Marguerite’s was her home now, but the house had also become her prison.

Sniffing, she leaned against the window’s glass to cool her heated face. Tears pooled in the creases of her skin, and spilled over. She was already weary of crying. The cycle was too familiar: the darkness, the staring… and the weeping, to the point of both emotional and physical exhaustion. There had only been one other person in her life that had cost her more tears than Jack; she wondered if there was a life’s limit.

She tried to take a deep breath but there was a band around her chest, squeezing like a rat snake with its hapless prey. She realized then that band had been there for over a year, holding her breath, waiting. When Jack had returned, the constriction had eased but only briefly, a day or two, at most. With the completion of their pact, the constriction had returned, full force… and she hadn’t breathed since.

She barely heard Jack come up behind her. It was a small room; it had only been a vague hope that he wouldn’t hear her. Yet she needed him to—they needed him to; so much to be said, so little time. He lifted a hand toward her. She rose, sidling away, wanting to maintain a safe distance, as if that space might help prevent further pain. Seeming to understand, his hand fell limp to his side.

“You heard.” It was more a confirmation than a question, dull with resignation. He sighed, his breath stirring her hair. “In a way, I think I had hoped as much.”

Hesitant, he made several starts and stops, before he finally blurted out, “It’s because of the crew, Kitty.”

She made a skeptical noise deep in her throat at such a thin excuse. She had expected far better from him. “Why don’t you just tell the truth for once, Jack? You don’t want me with you. Why can’t you just come out and say it?”

“Because that wouldn’t be the truth.” The bluntness of that smacked of surprising honesty. “Bloody hell, don’t you know that by now? I came back to you, and through Hell to do it, I might add,” he said testily.

He shifted sideways in an effort to see her face, but she ducked away. “It’s the crew,” he said again, with more conviction. “This isn’t the old crew; they’re new.”

“Which means?” She glared at him over her shoulder.

“Which means,” he began, enunciating each word, “that I can’t have you aboard…”

She stiffened at that. He saw it, and quickly pressed on. “Some of them are fine… probably, but I can’t… I won’t risk that. There would be six others that I could trust; seven men cannot bear a constant watch on over a hundred. You can caterwaul all you want, but I’ll not risk finding you in the hold or the cable tier, ravaged… or worse.”

“There’s nothing worse than this.”

“Aye, there is, and you know it well.” The hoarseness of his reproach was evidence of how difficult it was for him to bring up something that he knew to be painful. “You still carry those scars. I’ll not be responsible for adding more.”

He laid a tentative hand on her arm, stepping closer. “Please, Kitty…”

“Don’t call me that,” she hissed, jerking away.

“As you wish it, luv…”

“Don’t call me that, either.”

“Very well.” Perturbed but determined, Jack maintained a careful distance. “Mrs. Mackenzie, a month, maybe two, is all I’ll need.”

“That’s what you said before,” she said bitterly.

“Yes, but that was matters entirely beyond me control. In a month or so, I can weed out the bad seeds, toss out the rotten ones. Gibbs has wrought miracles already; at least they aren’t a danger to themselves and the ship, but it’s still going to take time.”

She heard a small snap. Her heart cracked, because she knew he was right. He didn’t need to elaborate; she was all too familiar with the damage that can be wrought by men. Unabashed and unapologetic, Jack had made his decision, no matter how unfortunate or uncomfortable for anyone involved, including himself. He could be a lot of things, but once his mind set on what he wanted, he could be mulish.

“Look at it this way.” He risked taking her by the arm, and drew her closer. “You’re saving me life, because if anything were to happen to you, I’d have to kill the blighter, and then meself.”

“Don’t you dare joke about this.”

“If I didn’t joke, darling, I’d be crying right along with you, and these ribs aren’t ready for that.”

She watched a moth tapping frantically at the glass in front of her, a force of nature driven, unable to comprehend the invisible barriers it faced, insurmountable no matter how desperately it tried.

Her hand trembled as she roughly swiped her face. “When you came back, you said….”

“I know what I said,” he seethed, stiffening. “You think I don’t know what this means? But what could happen on that ship would be worse.”

Jack drew several breaths, steeling himself. “Will you be here?”

“Don’t ask me that.” She tried to turn away, but his fingers dug into the flesh of her arm.

“I swear I’ll be back. Will you be here?”

“I don’t know,” she groaned, dropping her head in her hands. “You expect me to spend the rest of my life waiting for you?” Every inner voice screamed otherwise. What else is there? You knew this was how it had to be.

The grip on her arm let go; from behind came the sound of bare feet on the painted floor, as he went to the table where he had dropped his effects earlier. There was a rustle of clothing as he briefly rummaged.

“I have this compass,” he said, coming up behind her.

Shying away, she hunched a shoulder. She didn’t need to be reminded of the thing; he had been staring at it the night before he had left, just as he had been doing for weeks. She knew exactly what it was for. It had led him away.

His arm came around in front of her, the ebony and silver box dully gleaming. “I know what I want, and I fought back from Hell, in all its forms, to get it.”

“Then tell that thing, because all I’ve seen it do is spin.” Her tear-thickened voice shook with frustration; in too many ways, nothing had changed.

“True enough,” he admitted regretfully. “The irony in that was that, in the end, it was doing exactly what it should…”

“Jack, please, I can’t bear…”

“It was telling me that what I wanted most was all around me….” He said determinedly over her sobs.

“God, if only I could believe that,” she choked, grinding the heel of her hand into her forehead.

“Observe.” He brought the box closer, and with an adroit move of his thumb, flipped open the lid.

Unable to bear to look, Kate turned her head, and closed her eyes. Jack stubbornly held his ground. Her curiosity finally prevailed, and through tear-blurred eyes, she could saw the fuzzy-edged needle. She swiped her eyes, but it was no mistake. It steadily pointed toward her, unwavering and solid.

“And if I turn around, will I find the Pearl directly behind me?” she asked skeptically, looking from the dial to him. There was no reason to believe that this wasn’t another one of Jack’s endless ruses.

Moonlight caught the gold in his smile. “Oh, ye of little faith. And if that were so, it would be so much more better; both of me ladies together, as they should.”

Eyes narrowed, his humor faded. “Hide where you will, I’ll find you. Anywhere you go, any ocean you sail, any corner of the map you try to hide, I’ll find you. You’re mine, Kittie.” The emphatic snap of the lid closing cracked the heavy night air. “And you know it.”

Screwing his mouth with determination more than the discomfort, he seized several hairs and jerked them free of his scalp. His eyes still holding hers, he fumbled for a lock of hair, looking away only long enough to bind his dark strands around hers, knotting it off with a flourish.

“What about you?” Touched by the symbolic gesture, the words came out in a tremulous squeak.

From amid his tumble of cords and braids, he readily seized one that lay on his chest, just above his heart. He held it up in display, the moon glinting on the bright copper binding his sable. She wanted to question the source of his wizardry, but thought those might be questions best left unasked. Still, she wondered how long ago, and what had prompted him to such step.

“We’ve proof it works; I came back, didn’t I?” he said, as if divining her thoughts.

“Rely on these, if you will,” he said, touching the hole stones on her necklace. “I’ll rely on mine. We’re connected, tied, bound; neither of us will ever be complete without the other.”

He broke into a heart-stopping grin. “Whether you will it or no, you’re stuck with me, and there’s naught to be done about it.”

She felt her will to resist crumble, and slowly fell apart. He put out his arms, and she stepped into his embrace. He held her close, swaying gently, his little shushing sounds and thumb softly stroking behind her ear having more effect than any potion or nostrum, her weeping soon reduced to shuddering breaths.

As difficult as it was to admit Jack was right, they were bound; half beings without the other. She could feel the subterranean vibrations as he held himself in check. He was afraid, but of what? The answer seemed obvious, but with Jack, assumptions could be lethal. He was the master of leading an unwitting soul to the brink, and then tossing the bait into one of those black holes.

“When were you going to tell me?”

His shoulder moved under her cheek. “I couldn’t find a way. I knew something was amiss tonight, when you’d barely let me touch you. I fancied that it meant you knew somehow and I wouldn’t have…” His words choked off as he realized the folly of that.

“I’m a coward; not much more to be said on that. But I can’t take you with me; there’s no more to be said on that either.”

She tightened her grip on him. “Don’t you ever disappear on me again.” Tear-choked and nasal, her threat didn’t carry the force that she had intended. “If you do, don’t bother coming back; I won’t be here.”

Jack nodded, solemnly. “I’ll consider that a fair warning; no man could ask for more.”

“When?” she asked as he wiped her face with the towel from the stand. “Tomorrow?”

His mouth twitched at the discovery, and then relented. “Maybe.” The admission didn’t come easy. “It depends on how quickly we can gather up enough for a crew. Tonight was to be our last; I should be aboard tomorrow, what with all that there is to be done before we make way.”

Kate groped wildly for ways she could coerce Gibbs into smuggling her aboard, but at the same time knew better. He was leaving, and she was staying; there was no way around it.

“Why so soon?” A wave of panic seized her at the realization that she was wasting their last night together. “Why can’t you wait another day or two… or three,” she added lamely.

“Because that would be two or three days more, before I can come back.” Waver in his voice told her that this wasn’t any easier on him.

“Just one more, please? I promise, I won’t cry or carry on or…”

“Caterwaul?”

“Not that either,” she said, struggling to smile. She looked up into his eyes, searching for some spark of hope. “Please? I promise to make it worth your while.”

He wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “Considering tonight isn’t going exactly as I had imagined.” He attempted a smile, but it never reached his eyes. He shook his head in wonderment. “You could negotiate the horns off the Devil. Very well, darling, as you wish it.”

He brought her face up to his, and kissed her. Not out of passion or sympathy, or good-bye or regret, it was Jack, resorting to something other than words. She found the solace in the warm, soft of his mouth, and knew then his anguish and fear, resolute in his conviction, while fearing his ability to fulfill his promise. Words came easy; a kiss could say what he couldn’t.

“If I’m not back, I’m dead.”

He was keenly familiar of how twisted fate could be. Intentions, plans, needs and desires could be washed away, dissolved like a wave through sea foam, scattered, never to be seen again.

Her hands ran over the hard lines and curves of his shoulders, and the groves of scars that laced his back, each divot and arch of his body more familiar to her than her own. He vibrated like a taut string, her skin glowing from the heat of his touch. Her breast pressed to his, she felt the echo of his heart in hers, his pulse throbbing at her same rate.

So alive now; so soon to be lost.

The thought caught her unawares. Like a stab from Jack’s sword, it sliced away every other thought. Sagging, she clung to him tighter, sobbing anew.

She sniffed hugely. “I’m sorry.” Even that came out a garbled mess. She was beginning to realize his wisdom of having disappeared the last time, rather than lingering to say good-bye.

“No more than I,” he said genuinely. “S’all right.” He smiled, absent any humor. “You’re weeping for two. ‘Tis a tall order.”

She looked up to see his eyes filling, lids fluttering to blink the wateriness away. “You too?”

“Great minds, eh? I told you, you’re never alone.”

Wetting the towel in the ewer, Jack dabbed her face. He kissed her on the nose, and then crossed his eyes, and she sputtered a giggle. “Ah, that’s me girl,” he said, pleased.

Making a face, he gingerly wiped his tear-slicked chest, his lip curling in mock disgust. “Be wrinkled before me time with all this.”

He was working his magic. She settling against him again, allowing him to quell her fears, lifting her away for at least one more time.

“Come back to bed, Kittie,” he said in a throaty purr.

“I can’t sleep… I don’t want to sleep.” Knowing Jack, sleep was the last thing on his mind, but given her emotional state, she inclined toward either prospect.

“Very well.” He exhaled heavily through his nose, and reached for his shirt. “I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?”

“If you must know,” he began pragmatically, his head popping clear of the shirt opening. “I know where Marguerite keeps her private stock, and she usually has a very fine brand of port. It will be just the ticket for this melancholia. If we’re to be up all hours, we might as well have something decent in which to drown our sorrows.”

Thumbing a tear from her cheek, he rubbed the wetness between his thumb and forefinger, scrutinizing it. “There has to be some kind of acid in a woman’s tears, because they can certainly eat through to a man’s heart.”

Jack woke abruptly to a strange pounding. At first, he thought it to be his head. God knew he had woken enough times in his life with a head fit to burst. This would only be one more in a long sequence. Gradually, as the fog of sleep cleared, he negated the persistent beat as being cerebral, but he could still feel it. Wound? He experimentally flexed his body and winced. Yes, it was still there, a throbbing burn, but categorically not the source of his vexing botheration.

Sound, that was it! Not a feeling or sensation, but sound. But where in the bloody hell was it coming from?

Cracking open one eye, he cautiously rolled from his side to his back, balefully inspecting his surroundings. Kate was gone; the small space beside him empty. It was a markedly unusual, and a lot disquieting to find her gone; he was always first to rise, and with good reason. He took great joy in watching her sleep. She took sleep very seriously, frowning as if it required some great concentration. Having her next to him of a morning was his anchor; it gave the rest of his day—his life direction, setting his course with utmost clarity.

Turning his head, he sniffed the pillow. It still smelled of her, that heady mix of her natural sweetness and bedding. Like a rutting boar, he could find her with just that as his guide, although his cock proved to be better than that wretched compass in pointing the way.

Groaning, he stretched luxuriously and lay spread-eagle. Staring at the ceiling, he basked in the ebbing glow of completion. A quick glance toward the window told him it was mid-morning. Amazing, the feeling could linger this long! It had been barely daylight when he drew Kate to him, inhaling her sleepy warmth. Absentmindedly scratching his balls, he smiled. He could still feel her there, hot and slick. The woman certainly knew how to leave her mark.

Rubbing one eye, he yawned. Under the best of circumstances, it took every ounce of energy he had to bed her. Bloody gunshot had ebbed his strength, had to finish lying there like a beached fish, flopping around. Lucky for him, Kate came to his aid, with that lovely mouth. He had been asleep, before the old dodger had a chance to soften.

Damn! There it was again! What the devil was that pounding?

With a grunt, he pushed up from the bed and shuffled to the window. It seemed to be coming from outside. His hand flexed, longing for his pistol. It might be was just as well that he didn’t have it; probably would shoot the bastard if he did. Marguerite tended to go a mite testy at such things, entanglements with the authorities, and all.

The pounding came again just as he batted the curtains aside. He shoved his head out the window, glaring for the offender. There, just below, standing at a barrel was….

“Kate?”

“Good morning!” The chickens picking at her feet peered upward, following her gaze as she twisted toward the window. “Awake, finally?”

“Obviously,” he grumbled. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

“Pounding.” She held up a small mallet in exhibition.

“I’m not daft. I can damned well see that!”

“Then what did you ask for?”

Rubbing his hand brusquely over his face, he made a guttural sound in the back of his throat. “Deliver me.”

“What?”

“Nothing, darling,” he called back, pasting on an artificial smile. “Do you have to do that quite this early?”

“If I wait too long, the color fades.”

“What in God’s name…?” he moaned, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration.

“You might want to consider at least putting a shirt on.” Squinting one eye closed, she shielded the sun from her face with a hand. “You’re naked, in case you haven’t noticed.”

He glanced down at himself, and then scowled at her. “It’s a whorehouse! Nobody cares!”

“A bit of a grump this morning, aren’t we?”

“I was fine, until some bloody, gigantic woodpecker began pounding away with a sledge just outside me bedroom window.”

“The rest of the world rose a while ago; you’re the only one laying about in bed.”

“I’m injured.”

Sputtering a laugh, she shook her head, waving him away. “I’ll come up,” she sighed, lacking any suggestion of sympathy.

“Don’t bother,” he pouted. “I’ll come down.”

Snatching his breeches from the chair, he jerked them on, grumbling. The world seemed wholly unsympathetic of late, by his way of thinking. Not of a mood to bother with his shirt, he tossed it over his shoulder as he made his way down the stairs and through the house. Several of the women were still at the breakfast table; a chorus of female voices chimed a ‘Good Morning, Jack’ as he passed the dining room door.

“Good morning, ladies!” He paused to sweep his courtliest bow, showing everyone just how amenable he could be of a morning. The effort was cut short by a sharp stab in his side. Damn! He didn’t remember whores smelling so much like bad wine and perfume.

He shook the thought from his mind, and pressed on through the kitchen, and to the dooryard, pulling up short to avoid colliding with Kate on the step.

“Here.” She unceremoniously thrust a cup of coffee in his hand, arching a heavy, auburn eyebrow. “It would seem someone is in desperate need of this, this morning.”

“It would seem the pot is calling the kettle black, this morning,” he shot back, and then took a drink. It was elixir, but be damned if he would allow her to know that.

“What is that supposed to mean?” She turned, heading back to the barrel, the scene of the heinous crimes against his repose.

“Don’t be so defensive, darling.” Narrowing an accusing eye, he followed on her heels. “I recall more than one morning, when someone I just happen to know, who for all intents and purposes shall remain nameless, woke up well beyond the dark side of Damnation; made it a positive Purgatory for everyone about.”

“Sorry to be such a burden,” she said good-naturedly. “I’ll just make sure I sleep somewhere well away. Heaven forbid I should cloud your sunny mornings!”

Holding the cup well aside, he snaked an arm around her waist and pulled her back against him. “Sleep somewhere else, and I will be in Purgatory,” he murmured, seeking the crook of her neck, evoking a squeak when he nipped her ear lobe.

God, she felt good in his arms! From the first, she had felt a good fit, custom-made, like the grip of a sword. And her smell was there too, mixed with flowers and green, but her—all her—and no mistake about it.

“Pace yourself,” she warned, wriggling her bottom; the vixen knew exactly how. “You’re supposed to be recuperating; tax yourself and you could have a relapse.”

“It’s been ages since I’ve had you.”

“It’s been hours,” she corrected tolerantly over her shoulder.

“Can’t think of anything better from which I’d prefer to die.”

Maintaining his firm grip, he propped his chin on her shoulder to idly watch as she picked up the mallet, and arranged a folded piece of cloth on the barrelhead.

“What are you doing?” he asked, mildly perplexed.

She gave the cloth several solid whacks. “I’m flower pounding.”

“I know I’m going to regret asking,” he said to himself, “but what, dear luv, is flower pounding?”

“You put flowers in here.” Unfolding the cloth, she displayed a pulpy mash of what he could only assume were once flowers. “Then you put your thread on top,” she went on, groping through the slog to come up with a small lump of what he could only assume to be thread. “And then, you pound.”

“And what, pray tell, me darling lovely,” he said, bending to inspect the barrel top more closely, “is the purpose of this exercise?”

“I’m dying thread,” she declared proudly. A gesture of her head indicated a makeshift drying rack of a branch suspended between two posts, from which hung several dozen loops of thread. Wafting in the breeze, they displayed a broad variety of hue and colors.

“What happened to all the thread Prudence gave you?” he asked as he ran a finger along the fiber rainbow.

As he took a drink of coffee, he stole a cautious look her way over the cup’s rim. As much as Kate wore her emotions on her sleeve, she was also a marvel at putting the worst behind her. Given what he knew of her life, that gift would be a blessing. Her eyes—they were nearly blue just then—were usually her window, what little she would allow to be seen. Those cursed eyes would rarely let him see far. Bloody unfair, that! They could see straight to his soul, and yet…

There was still a bit of puffiness at their corners, and red-rimmed, as was her nose, but other than that, there was little sign of aftermath from the night before. Her roughened velvet laugh rang clear and honest in the dooryard; that had to be a good sign. Gone, but not forgotten then, to be sure. She was trying her best, as was he. This wasn’t easy.

A month! How the bloody hell did he thing he was going to manage that? Worse yet, would she be there when he came back? She had said as much… more or less. He’d pressed for more—a pledge, a promise, an oath, something—but for naught. She’d been elusive, at best.

Learned that from the master, did she not?

He looked down at his feet to find a chicken that had paused, giving him a beady, one-eyed scrutiny.

Bugger off! He thought, glaring. Not the same.

Ah, but it is, is it not?

He growled threateningly under his breath like a cat. Its point made, the chicken resumed its chickenly duties.

The bloody beast had a look about it; probably sent by someone, to do… something or another.

“That was over a year ago,” she said tolerantly. “Most of it is gone, and there are still colors I could use.”

He blinked, jerked back to their conversation as Kate paused to bat a strand of hair away with the back of her wrist. “Ma Mere told me about using flowers or berries, or leaves or roots for dying,” she said.

“Bloody ingenious!”

Using elements of nature for dying was certainly nothing new; coloring textiles was often an expensive and exhaustive process. Ask any captain with a hold full of indigo bricks or pastillas of cochineal. Such a direct approach was a novelty.

“So, all you need is white thread?” he asked, taking another drink.

“Not necessarily. I’ve been experimenting with starting with a colored thread, and then dying over that, and then another color over that. There’s no end to what you can do!”

His smile grew at her exuberance, even more so at the excitement and pride in her eyes. He found thread to be altogether boring, but her enthusiasm was contagious. She gave off a fervent glow that was only equaled by when she grasped his cock. It was a rare gift to see her so excited; he took joy in her joy

Caught up in that thought, he went to hug her, but recoiled at the sight of her discolored fingers, flower mash hanging from her nails.

“Does that come off?” he asked warily.

“With time,” she said, flicking away some of the larger globs. “Sometimes, it takes days. There was one berry I used that left me with purple fingers for weeks.”

He took another step away, shrinking from her touch. “Does it stain everything it touches?”

She considered for a moment then chuckled. “Is there something you’d like to have dyed?” Wriggling her hag-like fingers, she inched closer, advancing as he shied away. “I could leave some very intriguing fingerprints.”

“I don’t believe I like the sound of that,” he said, retreating in the face of her advance.

“You’ve never considered having green or yellow…parts?”

“Me parts are already a very lovely color.” Still backtracking, his goods tightened. “Bloody woman, you’d do it too, just to spite me.”

“No, just mark you,” she said, with that throaty laugh of hers again as she stalked him. “I wouldn’t have to worry about you wandering about; not many women would allow a bright orange cock anywhere near them.”

A part of him knew these were idle threats, and yet his goods tightened despite those assurances. It would be just like her, some convoluted female sense of justice, to mark him, lest the call of the flesh call a bit too loudly. Whores tended to be a tolerant lot, but he doubted many would be willing to overlook something so perverse… at least without being paid extra.

“You know bloody well, I’m not going to wander anywhere, so no worries there.” He swallowed hard, groping for another tactic. “Besides, you’re not strong enough, I could fight you off.” He jerked a nod, pleased with the strength of that point.

“Hmm, maybe,” she mused, thoughtfully. “But then again, you’ll have to go to sleep some time.”

He came up against the kailyard’s fence, trapped. “I’m injured. You shouldn’t worry an injured man; it could cause damage. I need peace and rest.”

“Go ahead, rest!” Holding her hands out to her sides, she leaned closer, pinning him against the fence with her hips.

“What’s it worth?” She teased him, her tongue tickling his mustache. “Bargain with me, Captain, or it’s orange balls for you by morning.”

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-nine

Sun, 20 Sep 2009 21:05:57 GMT

Pastimes

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Kate’s discovering what domesticity can mean with Jack about.

It was evening, the house beginning to quiet, its business for the day drawing to an end. Every house has its language, its life translated through its own unique chorus of sounds, and through them, any inhabitant that cared to listen could trace that life.

Kate had learned. The tread on the steps creaked; a prolonged groan under Gaubert’s foot, a brief, bare squeak if it was Minnie. Camille’s bell to call Minnie was higher pitched, than Analise’s. A bull-frog scraping of a hinges was Julia’s door, a cricket-like sound, Severine’s. The voices of the regular customers were becoming familiar to Kate, even each one’s unique ring of the front bell.

Once the human presence abated, voices, bells, footsteps, cooking smells and pipe smoke, a house is able to make its own voice more clearly heard: a vibrating shutter told of wind direction, the hollow thump of its siding marking off the temperature drops, or the whistle in the chimney warned of impending storms. A tree limb outside Kate’s window scraped the glass; the sea breeze had just shifted to the evening’s off-shore.

Family. Home. Belonging. All words that she had longed to use. In many respects, the brothel was her home, her domestic mood showcased in the little vignette in her room: Jack propped in bed, reading a book, while she sat on the stool, sharing the candle, sewing.

After their return from burying Jack’s mother, they had slept deeply, exhausted by both the emotional strain and physical. In the amber flare of the day’s fading light, Kate had been awakened by a gentle nuzzling at her breast, and butterfly hands. Jack’s every movement had been a measured effort, but with the visage of the little graveside bright in their minds, they sought each other to celebrate their survival, needing the reassurance of warm flesh. In the end, they shook in each other’s arms, afraid to let go, keenly aware of the fragility of life.

Sated, the rustle of a page or the pluck of the needle through the fabric the only sound between them they bided their time, until a look or a gesture would signal more.

From the house’s nocturnal sounds emerged another from overhead. Faint at first, it built in both in vigor and volume, a bed or chair, something heavy being driven against a wall in a rhythm that wasn’t unique to a brothel: the spirited act of two bodies coming together. Two voices, not wholly unfamiliar, one bass, one soprano, soon joined in.

Looking up, Jack and Kate exchanged self-conscious glances; they too might have been responsible for much the same thing, several times. Reddening slightly, they went back to what they were doing with exaggerated focus.

Unable to ignore the obvious any further, Jack finally rolled his eyes to the ceiling as the crescendo built, and asked conversationally, “Is the third floor still Marguerite’s?”

Kate lowered her sewing to follow his upward gaze. “Yes, it is.”

The house’s mistress claimed the entire third floor as her own. Aside from the expansive space, the top floor afforded a sweeping view of the harbor from its balconies and gave full advantage of the breeze. Kate had been invited to Marguerite’s private sanctum only a few times. To her surprise, it was tastefully elegant, indicative of one who appreciated luxuries only for the sake of personal enjoyment, not to impress, a woman who was confident that any visitor would have eyes for her, not the quality of the damask.

“I have the impression that she and Gibbs have known each other for some time,” Kate said, raising her voice, the ewer and basin beginning to vibrate on the washstand. Enthusiastic didn’t begin to describe Marguerite’s reaction when Gibbs had come through the door.

The corner of Jack’s mouth wobbled with a suppressed smile. “You could say that.”

His measured innocence was a sure hint that there was more of a tale for the asking. Unlike his First Mate, Jack often required an extra bit of prodding before telling what he knew. She gently nudged his leg with a foot.

“You know something, don’t you?”

Marking his place in the book with his finger, Jack twisted his jaw sideways, taking a moment to decide where to start.

“T’was before I knew him—right after the Royal Navy had decided that they were no longer in need of his services—Gibbs was down near Sao Luis, Brazil, or thereabouts.” A short wave indicated the exact location was of little importance. “Having just made port, and eager to see the town, he comes upon a man abusing a woman. Gallant that he is, he rescued the fair lady, soundly beating the scurrilous lout, so much so that he succumbed to his injuries the next day.”

The sounds overhead reached a tremulous, pleasure-laden moan, and then fell to a deafening hush. One brow twitched as Jack glanced upward then continued, considerably more sotto voce in the lull.

“As luck—or lack thereof, as the case might be—would have it, the man was the fair lady’s husband, a man of substance, and the owner of a large plantation. Needless to say, Gibbs was arrested. He was standing on the dock in chains, awaiting sentence, when a solicitor comes forward to vouch for him.

“What did Gibbs do?” Kate leaned interestedly closer, propping her chin in her hand, the sewing going forgotten in her lap.

“What the bloody hell was he supposed to do?” Jack said without anger. “Someone was trying to save his arse, keep him from a certain appointment with the gallows. Both the solicitor and the magistrate had dined numerous times at the deceased’s home, and were personally familiar with said man’s abusive nature. In other words,” he explained judiciously, “the bastard had gotten what he deserved. Being of good conscience, and a reasonable sense of right and wrong, the magistrate dropped the charges.”

“Solicitor’s never act on their own volition,” Kate said. “Someone had to have paid him.”

Not entirely pleased with Kate’s interruption, Jack nodded. “The fair lady herself: Marguerite.” He allowed the impact of that to settle before going on.

“Suffice to say, she was overflowing with gratitude, and a warm friendship ensued. The ol’ sea worm knew how to charm even then. Make no mistake,” he said, wagging a finger, “a few of the decease’s complaints weren’t entirely without basis; Marguerite did have an eye for the men, and they certainly had an eye for her. But without the protection of her husband’s position, it became in her best interest to leave.

“So, Gibbs took her to Barbados, and saw her settled there. Being a man of the sea, he left, only to return a year or so later, to find she had taken up residence with a baronet, a man wealthy enough to keep her in the manner to which she preferred. ‘Course, said dupe was away attending business, so there was no reason why she and Gibbs can’t resume their… ehh… warmth,” he said, with a suggestive arch of the brows.

Anyone knew that storytelling was thirsty work. Jack angled his head toward the nightstand, with a hopeful look darted between her and the bottle of rum sitting there. Kate obliged, swiveling around on the stool to pour. Properly refreshed, Jack continued.

“A couple years pass, and Gibbs returns to find that the gullible ne’er-do-royal had learned of her affaire de amor with Gibbs—and apparently several others—and put her in the street, both figuratively and literally. Now she was with a toad of considerable lesser means, and was mean to boot.

“Always a gull for flashing eyes and a sad story,” said Jack disdainfully, as if he would never be fooled by such trickery, “Gibbs couldn’t bear her suffering, so he brought her to Sint Maarten. He’d turned pirate by then, had a pocket full of gold, and in a fit of magnanimity, he bought her a house.” He ended with a tilt of his head, indicating their surroundings.

“And set her up in business?” Kate asked. Marguerite’s history had been the subject of discussion whenever the house’s residents gathered absent its mistress, the talk rife with speculation on past wealth, husbands and rich benefactors.

“It wasn’t exactly his first thought,” he said grimly, then brightened. “But you’ll have to admit, she is an enterprising one,” he said with not a little admiration, lifting his glass slightly in salute.

Kate couldn’t disagree. Even after allowing for his heedlessness of facts, Jack’s story confirmed several questions, although several more arose.

“So, they still …?”

“’Maintain the friendship’.” He angled his attention toward the ceiling. “One would have to assume that his shilling is categorically not on the table.”

Kate thought that assumption could well be a bit ambitious. Judging from her experience, Marguerite was fair, but her generosity never came without a price.

“How did you and Gibbs eventually meet?”

Jack’s discomfort grew at that. He took a drink, rolling it pensively in his mouth as he decided how much to tell. “He started out as part of me crew, but made First Mate within the month; natural-born leader he is. Met him right here; Marguerite and I had… well, you don’t need…” He fluffed away the thought with a flip of his hand.

“Yes, I do need.” Kate narrowed her eyes, refusing to allow him off the hook he had just impaled himself upon.

His eyes darted several directions, in an effort to avoid her stare. “Bloody woman,” he finally surrendered, huffing. “All right! I had taken up residence… temporarily. Satisfied?”

“And Gibbs went along with that?”

“Certainly… until he returned,” he said defensively, moving his legs under the sheet. “He can be quite the formidable foe, when properly provoked. It struck me that, given Marguerite’s profession, it was overreaction on his part.” he sniffed. “I still carry the marks.”

He displayed an arm, and several hairline scars nearly lost in the creases of his skin. Kate shook her head, marveling. Her understanding of men ended at how they could go at each other hammer and tongs with fists, knives, broken bottles, pistols and swords, and walk away best of friends.

Still, she couldn’t help but notice there was one person in town that was categorically not a friend. When she and Jack had encountered Doncker on the street, the latter clearly knew Jack. The tension between them had been palpable, two tomcats hissing, squaring off for battle.

“How is it that you and Doncker dislike each other so much?”

“You don’t need to be concerning yourself with that bit of flotsam.” Jack drained his glass and shoved it back to her, punctuating his point.

His portentousness tone was concerning. “Jack, I don’t want anything happening to that man just because of me.”

“No worries, luv.” His bare shoulder took a definitive jerk under his hair. He waved her away, the candle flaring on his rings. “Death will be the least of his concerns; he won’t be that lucky.”

He opened his book, and pointedly began reading. The subject was closed.

They were quiet for some time. Jack read while Kate picked up her sewing and distracted herself with the hypnotic path of the needle. Eventually, their quietude was interrupted by the resumption of voices and thumping from above. Less vigorous at the moment, they quickly built.

Jack’s eyes rolled up from his book and lingered on the ceiling. Slowly shaking his head, he sighed. “It’s going to be a long night.”

“I don’t want you going into town alone.”

The next afternoon, Kate and Jack sat in the dooryard of the brothel, in a nook of shaded greenery nestled between the dovecote and the kailyard. Multi-colored chickens pecking around their feet periodically paused to peer with benign interest as the two of them sat over a chessboard. Jack perforce leaned back in his chair, his ribs and side intolerant of prolonged bending. So he sat with his arms crossed high on his chest… and waited.

Kate was only a marginal foe for him; delaying the toppling of her queen for an hour would have been considered a victory. Kings, queens, pawns, knights and rooks, there was a staggering array of rules that seemed remarkably amorphous with every re-clarification Jack gave. She had attempted to play many times before, both as a child and with Brian; Jack’s version didn’t seem to compare to any of those.

Playing chess with Jack required the fullest amount of concentration, which was nigh impossible to achieve. Clad in only breeches and a shirt haphazardly stuffed into his waistband, from time to time he would inch a bare foot over to hers and caress her shins with his toes.

His deliberate distractions aside, she found she was too readily lost in watching him, fingers dancing delicately from one game piece to the next, his shoulders moving under his shirt as he reached to make his move, or look up when he felt her staring, and wink. By the same token, she could feel his gaze, laden with anticipation of more than just her next chess move. It was altogether disquieting to have him so close, so much. And yet, she cherished every moment, every irritating, grating second, knowing that soon…

His expression clouded at her mention that one of the shops in town had received a new arrival of ribbons. In light of the fact that he had left her there to live alone, his sudden protectiveness was a little surprising.

“What are you worried about?”

“The same thing you should be,” he shot back with an accusing look.

“Maybe I could have Gaubert go with me.”

It was a cautiously made suggestion, hazardous of affronting Jack’s dignity. On the surface, he was impervious to insult or umbrage, but underneath, he could be as thin-skinned as any other man, and too willing to go to unnecessary measures to remedy it.

She looked up from the chessboard and met Jack’s dubious glare. “I rather doubt you would be successful in prying him from Marguerite’s clutches,” he said.

“I might be able,” she said mildly, dropping her attention back to the jet and ivory pieces. “He likes me.”

“How charming for the both of you,” he sniffed with his usual edge. “It’s your move, you know.”

“Yes, I know,” she said evenly. “Don’t rush me.”

A rude rumble was his response. He tipped up the jug, emptying the punch they had been sharing into a horn cup and quaffed it down.

As Kate was coming to learn, punch was a common drink in the West Indies, French, Dutch, Portuguese or British alike. A combination of rum—most importantly—fruit juices, a sweetener as in honey, molasses or sugar, and spices, ranging from cinnamon, nutmeg, cardamom, allspice or a host of others. Its flavor was as varied as the people who made it, each recipe more closely guarded than the secrets of the Vatican.

As it had turned out, Marguerite’s recipe was one of the most appreciated, and served it only to her customers, for a price, of course. The house often was a chorus of bells ringing from the rooms, for Minnie and Chloe to fetch more. Made almost daily, the drink was stored in stoneware jugs and stored in the well for cooling.

In spite of Kate’s lack of appreciation for rum, she had grown to enjoy a sup on a hot afternoon. As a resident and employee of the house, her consumption was strictly limited, but by some means or guise, into which Kate knew she dared not delve, Jack was allowed free access. Still he groused regularly about what he considered “an adulteration of perfectly good rum.”

“How is it that you and Doncker came to dislike so much?”

He gave her a sharp look from under his brows. “I told you, you needn’t be worried about him. He’s no more worry to you than Beckett. Anytime, darling,” he said, gesturing with increased irritability at the board.

Kate had long ago learned that with Jack, it wasn’t a matter of what he had said, but what he didn’t say that could be most telling… and he had just spoken volumes.

“You went after him, didn’t you?” She gave him a sharp look from under her own brows. “Was that why you were gone, to go after Beckett, after I specifically asked, and you promised not to?”

“Yes!” he declared, his eyes rounding then quickly reverted. “I mean, no. That had nothing to do with that scourge of humanity… initially,” he added as an afterthought. “He sort of… presented himself, as it were, and who be I to throw such an opportune moment back into the face of Providence?”

“He’s dead.” In the face of Jack’s obfuscation, she needed to be clear on that point.

“Yes!” He plucked a biscuit from the plate, and munched it. “And suffering quite nicely, if you’re of a mind to care,” he said around the mouthful.

“Did you kill him?”

“No,” he shot back. The quirk of the corner of his mouth was grounds for doubt. “But I watched him go to the depths; he’s exactly where he belongs.”

Kate braced her head in her hands, and berated herself for ever having taken Jack on his word in the first place. It was exactly what she had wanted to avoid, and yet there it was.

“Am I to assume you have plans for Doncker?” she asked, peeking at him through her fingers.

“Let’s just say matters are on shifting sands,” he said, re-crossing his arms assuredly.

“But you are planning.”

He broke into one of those gold-laced smiles designed to charm. “How could I not? Would you please indulge me, and make a move?”

“Don’t rush me. You could be the better man, and just walk away,” she suggested lightly, cautiously hopeful.

Jack scowled. “Not bloody likely. Might I point out that from all appearances, our fair Monsieur Doncker has no intentions of being the better man either?”

Sarcastic, his point was still made. The line was in the sand; the casus belli, the male sense of justice coming to a full head. The animalistic response of infringement of one’s domain wasn’t a new phenomenon to Kate. Her brothers, father, Brian and now Jack had all responded the same. In defense of pride or honor, blood lust, stubbornness or fear, call it what you will, the final effect was always the same.

Drumming his fingers on the table, idly waggling a foot, Jack’s attention deviated to the harbor. “Huh.”

“‘Huh,’ what?” Kate looked up, unsure if it really was a point of interest, or another one of Jack’s attempts at distraction.

“That ship out there.” Narrowing his eyes against the afternoon glare, he studied it more fully. “Something’s not right.” He spoke more for his own benefit than hers.

Kate craned her head, following the line of his attention. “Like what? You don’t like green ships?”

“No.” Annoyed, Jack shook his head. “Just something about it that doesn’t fit.”

“Are you worried?”

“About what?” He waved the matter away, and wrinkled his nose at the jug. “It’s nothing; probably a by-product of having to drink this stuff all day.”

“If you want rum so badly, go get it yourself,” she said intent on the game. “I fetched the table and chairs, the board and the pieces, the drink and something to eat.” She angled her head toward the plate of biscuits at his elbow. “The least you could do is go get your own rum.”

Demonstrably sticking out his lower lip, he fluttered his lashes. “I’m ill, impaired, unjustly injured in the line of…”

“Forget it, Jack,” she sighed.

“Bugger,” he muttered. “Are you going to move sometime today? I think I just heard Novella ring the supper bell.”

“She did no such thing; that’s hours away. Don’t rush me.”

“Time and tide, darling.” He exhaling noisily through his nose, and slumped.

Voices drew their attention, and they looked up to watch a small cluster of men pass the yard’s fence. Dandies, they were decked out in their finest gaudery, rollicking with false courage, heading toward the front door.

Jack’s foot patted the soft grass, cocking a measuring eye toward her. “All these men about, and you never…?” He allowed the lilt in his voice to finish his query. Even for Jack, the mind could be a horrific place, full of illusions and fears.

A part of her knew that he was asking, just so that she could confirm what he already knew; his lack of trust was hurtful to another part. It seemed like a long time since they had met, but the fact of the matter was she had only known him a grand total of barely four months. Four months, the grand total of a new life, but hardly the stuff of enduring relations.

“All this time, and you don’t trust me?”

“I should… I do!” he declared, covering his faux pas quickly. “Trust is a luxury rarely has visited upon me threshold.”

Now she was the one to flutter her lashes. “I’m hurt that you would feel compelled to even ask that,” she said without heat.

“Too often, darling, I have been a slave to compulsion. What with all these men about, surely sometime or another, you…?” Uncertainty pinched the corners of his eyes, and he suddenly couldn’t meet hers. She reached over the board, and took him by the chin, bringing his face back to her.

“What would be the point?” She had her own smile that could charm, and used it. “None of them would be you, so what would be the point?”

The end of his mustache hooked up a corner of his mouth in a crooked grin that broadened as her foot journeyed up his calf. “So, it’s that way, is it?”

In overt gallantry, he took her hand and fervently pressed her knuckles to his lips. “Wiser words were never spoken, m’lady.”

“What is it between you and Doncker, anyway?” she asked, resuming their conversation and her attempts to choose her next chess move. She was thoroughly convinced now that her encounters with the man had gone far beyond chance meetings. As with Beckett, she had been caught in the middle of Jack and his past.

Jack shifted, looking off in several directions. When it became apparent that she wasn’t going to let him off the hook, he sighed. “We had an arrangement, all right?”

“’Arrangement?’”

“It was while I was searching for the Pearl.” Hiding his irritation wasn’t one of Jack’s gifts. “He gave me a ship…”

“Gave you?”

“Really, darling, you’re beginning to sound like Cotton’s bloody parrot. If you keep interrupting, I’ll never be able to finish. He gave me a ship,” he repeated emphatically. “I was to pose as a pirate—no stretch of the imagination there,” he preened, “and do what I did best: plunder.”

He picked up the cup and peered disappointedly into it.

“He wanted you to raid his ship?” Kate asked, straining to understand.

“I’d steal the cargo, and sink the ship, making sure there were enough survivors as witnesses before sailing away. There’s a back bay on Sint Maartin, only a short distance from town by land. I would put in there, unload. It would all be taken back to town, where he would load it on another ship, and send it out again…”

“For you to steal again.” Her head was reeling. “What was the point of all this?”

“Insurance,” he said, setting down the cup. “He’d inflate the value of the goods, and then collect the losses on that and ship, a double win. How could any claims panel deny him, what with eyewitnesses to verify it?” He chuckled. “Believe me, a merchant is only as good as his broker. Really, luv, by the time you make a move I’m going to be too aged and infirmed to be able to remember how to play.”

Kate was shocked that Jack, pirate extraordinaire, would be involved in something as mundane as insurance fraud. “Obviously you two aren’t in business anymore, so what happened?”

“I sailed off.” His annoyance increased at her failure to comprehend. “I needed a ship; I didn’t give a bloody damn about a percentage! Besides, it was only a matter of time, before he found someone who would work for less, and I’d be dead.”

“So, you stole his ship.”

“Not bad, eh?” he beamed. “What was he going to do, report as a loss the very ship that had sunk his? A bit o’ awkwardness there, to be sure. I just took the problem off his hands, so to speak. Wait! I think I just heard something,” he whispered, dramatically rolling his eyes, as if straining to hear something. “Yes! There ‘tis, a little voice announcing: Hell just froze over!” He divided his glare between her and the board.

“Now you’re being nasty,” she retorted, unperturbed. She tried to refocus on the chess pieces, but it was blessedly difficult with Jack’s incessant finger drumming. “And he’s hated you every since?”

“Well, that…” He groped for words, finally settling on, “How was I supposed to know his wife’s nephew was on the last one?

Startled, Kate’s head jerked up. “You killed him?” Jack was a lot of things, but a plundering killer had never been one.

“Cannonballs are non-selective,” he pointed out acerbically. “I’m sure Monsieur Dungheap is probably wondering when I’m going to finally get around to blackmailing him.”

“But you didn’t… won’t.”

“Why should I? What does he have that I could possibly want—besides a ship,” he added thoughtfully. “Which I don’t need—but I might—if ever I had….” His voice faded, screwing his mouth as he followed that train of thought.

Out of desperation, Kate seized a chess piece—a knight—and moved it. Jack leaned closer, looking censoriously down the length of his nose.

“Do you really want to make that move?”

“Certainly.” Kate looked down, and then again, her resolve already wavering. “Why shouldn’t I?”

“This one over here would be better,” he suggested, pointing.

Relenting, she took his advice, returning the knight and moved the other. She had barely taken away her hand, before Jack’s bejeweled fingers, with delicate flair, moved his piece and plucked away her queen.

“You told me to make that move!”

He looked up, breaking into a crooked smile. “Of course! How else could I win?”

“You cheat!”

“Of course!” To him, it was a point of pride. “How else am I going to win?”

“You cheat at everything we’ve played.”

It was no exaggeration; she had been forced into playing chess with him out of desperate default. No one else would play with him, and she hadn’t been able to resist the forsaken puppy look—How did he do that?—his martyrdom soaring, until she finally relented. Draughts, chess, dominoes, or cards, with equality and impunity he cheated at them all.

The sound of a throat clearing interrupted them. Gibbs stood at the bottom of the porch steps.

“Cap’n.” Addressing Jack as he came closer, Gibbs nodded to Kate. Pulling up beside the table, he folded his hands behind his back and shifted uncertainly, straining for what to say next. Kate and Jack exchanged surprised looks; since his arrival, Gibbs had been conspicuous in his absence.

“A fine afternoon, is it not?” he ultimately declared, gesturing skyward.

It was Kate that finally responded. “Yes, it is.”

“Surprised you can walk,” grumbled Jack under his breath.

A bright red rose from Gibbs’ collar and Kate turned her head to cover her smile.

“Perhaps, darling, you should bring us some refreshments.” Jack canted his head suggestively toward the empty stoneware. “I’m sure our guest is in dire need of a drink.”

Kate rose and was nearly around the house, halfway to the well, before it occurred to her that punch, even as renowned at Marguerite’s, was probably the last thing Gibbs would wish to drink. Her steps slowed as her suspicion rose that Jack had asked her to do so, because he wanted her gone. It could only mean one thing: that he and Gibbs had something to discuss that he didn’t want her hearing.

As she pulled another jug from the well, her mind raced from one possibility to the next. Coming back around the house, she slowed at the sound of the men’s voices.

“The Pearl’s as ready as she’ll be,” Gibbs was reporting. “At least, so far as what’s to be had, and the time given.”

“She’ll make it,” came Jack’s voice. “Very well, hoist the flag, start gathering the crew.”

“T’will take a day, at least, sir.”

“Then a day is what we’ll take.”

Kate’s knees buckled. She sagged against the paint-peeled wooden siding, the stoneware gone forgotten in her arms. Caught between unable to breath, and the choking need to cry, a rushing filled her ears that prevented her from hearing anything further. Tears welled, and she squeezed her eyes shut, several rolling hot down her face.

Gibbs rounded the corner, catching them both unawares. Roughly dashing her face dry, Kate sucked in her breath and held it in a desperate attempt to contain her emotion. Uncertain, Gibbs ducked his head and brushed past. She watched over her shoulder as he strode away; there was no mistaking the look of the First Mate of the Black Pearl on a mission to carry out his orders.

Drawing a quivering breath, Kate summoned what little strength remained, and went back to where Jack sat, busily setting up the board for another game.

“Did Gibbs leave?” she asked, attempting to assume the same nonchalance as Jack; she failed miserably.

Jack frowned at the sight of her. “You must have just passed him.”

He followed her with a stony gaze as she went around the table and set down the jug. Unable to face him, she kept her head turned. “No, I didn’t see him.”

Her voice failed, not nearly as firm as she had hoped. Still, she took a bit of justice from the small lie. Afraid to attempt to say anything further, she took up the awkwardness by filling the cup at his elbow. Mentally, she was giving him one last chance to be honest, one last opportunity to tell her. Her hand shook. He saw it, eyes sharpening.

Stepping back, Kate stood with her hands knotted into the folds of her skirt, struggling to swallow down the ball of bile that had rose, Jack’s frown deepening.

“You look bloody awful. Why don’t you…?”

Suddenly, she couldn’t bear the sound of his voice. “I think I hear Novella calling.”

It was another blatant lie—two, now in as many minutes—and Jack knew it. No servant would dare stand calling someone above her station.

In a whirl of skirts, she spun away, her pain sharpening when Jack didn’t stop her.

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-eight

Sun, 13 Sep 2009 21:28:25 GMT

A Mother’s Day
Author: compassrose7577
Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: It would seem that Jack still has a few matters to attend.
A/N: I offer this in celebration of the official (for a second time, at least) that POTC4 is on the horizon. Amid all the doubts, I hope that the fandom manages to find a little joy.

As predicted, forced to remain—against his will, Jack added pointedly and often—in a whorehouse for a week, was nasty business, so nasty in fact, that the only remedy was long afternoons and nights in bed—with Kate. The glory was that no one seemed to notice or care. They were left alone, no urgent summonings, no injured crew, no unexpected wind changes or course adjustments, no decisions to be made. Nothing.

Kate knew the more Jack grumbled, the better he was feeling, inching daily closer to his usual cheerful, grating self. He lamented his hindered performance with equal frequency. By most standards, the bed in Kate's room was small, but compared to their narrow bunk on the Black Pearl, it was expansive, with white linen sheets and soft down pillows. His frustration stemmed from not being able to take advantage of the newfound space, because of his injuries, and so he endured his confinement with martyr-like grace.

A chasm did exist between them, one that neither would acknowledge nor address.

One week… and then what?

In his own charm-laden style, Jack blithely ignored the matter, and Kate couldn’t garner the courage to ask. In a sense, she knew the answer already; hearing it would only make it too real to be able to pretend. And yet there were those moments, when Jack had made pledges of never leaving, of togetherness, and all the other heartfelt confessions she had longed to hear. It led her to wonder, if he said such things only because he knew it was what she wanted to hear, or if for once, he spoke the truth.

And so, they laughed and kissed, and languished in bed… and never spoke of it.

The shooting had delayed Jack’s desire to see his mother’s remains—for lack of a better word—properly interred, but as soon as he was able to rise and stagger across the room—over Kate’s objections—he had been intransigent on the matter. While living in the Highlands, Kate thought she had witnessed every variety of stubbornness; Scots could take mulishness to a unique level, but none compared to the epic proportions exhibited by a determined Sparrow. It didn’t take long for her to come to the conclusion that opposing him might cause more damage than whatever exertion a burial might entail.

Pale but determined, a shovel slung over one shoulder and a small canvas bag on the other, Jack led the way, his prolonged silence a strong indicator of the emotional weight he carried. Skirting the town, he took a circuitous path along its fringes, ultimately picking up a small, barely travelled lane. In light of Jack’s physical impairment, Kate was concerned about the chances of encountering Doncker. Jack’s pistol had necessarily been shifted to his opposite side, but even with that accommodation, carrying it caused him considerable discomfort. Kate’s worries were allayed, however, as they left the town behind.

Always eager to be outside, Kate ordinarily would have greatly enjoyed such a walk, but given their mission, and her concern for Jack, her enthusiasm was hampered. As Kate followed behind him, she tried to divert her attention with the passing scenery, but her eyes were inexorably drawn to the grisly head swinging from his belt, bumping his hip with each step.

A stone wall soon rose to one side, paralleling their path. Nearly shoulder high, humped under a cloak of vines, the wall coursed in and out of shaded patches. Further on, buildings could be seen crouched behind the wall. Lurking under an expanse of trees, the abandoned structures struggled to keep their heads above the vines’ grasping green fingers.

They came upon the main entrance, defined by stout pillars and a gap wide enough for a carriage to pass. A lone wrought iron gate dangled from a single hinge, a final, desperate connection, before falling into obscurity with its lost partner. Out of the midday glare and into the cave-like dark cool under the trees, the place proved to be a virtual compound. Certain respects indicated that it had once been an estate or plantation, while other aspects, cross-emblazoned lintels, a sizeable chapel, and extensive outbuildings, suggested it may have been an abbey. Half-buried in overgrown shrubbery, the house was barely visible, dove and swallows darting with abandon through its gaping orifices. Kate couldn’t help but wonder how Jack had ever come to find such a place.

Shadows laced Jack’s shoulders as he crossed the yard to pick up a lesser path. A small, furred creature, alarmed by their intrusion into its sanctum, loudly filed its complaint, and then scampered off in a rattle of leaves. Their footsteps were muffled in the carpet of leaves and debris, stirring the smell of rotting vegetation.

A mosaic of greens, emerald, jade, lime, bottle, sage and chartreuse, studded by eye-dazzling flares of sun and sky, the grounds were a testimonial to Nature’s inexorable crusade to reclaim what had been taken,. Marble sculptures, amputated by time, ghostly pale against the lushness, peeked out from the grown over gardens. The branches overhead teemed with the flitting bodies of brightly-plumed birds: thrushes, orioles, parrots, and warblers, boisterously reporting their progress.

Rounding through a smaller iron gate, they came to a secluded, grotto-like space. Over the chorus of birds, the sound of water gurgled invisibly from a shaded corner. Jewel-toned hummingbirds took advantage of the protection offered by the garden’s walls and foliage, hovering at blossoms of scarlet, orange and fuchsia. The smell of a rose, spicy and sweet, reached Kate, before she saw the rambler in one corner. Doubly intense against the verdant backdrop, it clambered in gay, yellow abandon, tumbled along a wall, and then scampered up into a jacaranda, in vivid purple bloom.

Jack chucked the tip of the spade into the dirt at the rambler’s foot, indicating that they had finally arrived at their destination.

“She liked roses,” he said, a bit breathless. “Just like you.”

As determined as Jack had been regarding the journey, he was forced to yield to Kate’s insistence when it came to digging the hole, albeit no more than a few scoops in the soft dirt were required. Now ashen, he stood resolutely beside the little grave. In a cold sweat and swaying, he cradled the head in his hands.

“I promised, Mum, and here I am—we are,” he corrected awkwardly. “She’s someone more than special.” He looked up at Kate and his gaze softened. “You would have liked her, although you’d have to look up to see her face; she’s a tall one. She has your… spirit, although wretchedly more determined, by a damn sight.”

Since the human invasion, a clutch of warblers, their sulfur-color more brilliant than the roses, had scolded from their perches overhead. As if in respect for the small ceremony, they fell quiet, canting their heads inquisitively.

The bulge in Jack’s throat moved as he swallowed. “I haven’t seen Charles since…” He shrugged, the sentence fading. “And Miriam, well… I expect you two are together now… or will be, soon enough.”

Kate assumed that Miriam was Jack’s sister, younger by several years. He had mentioned her only the once; the opportunity to inquire further had never risen.

Heaving a deep sigh, wincing at the discomfort that movement brought, Jack looked off across the deserted yard. “Things have changed. I tried to heed what you said, but I can’t say that all has gone the way I had imagined. You’d be knowing too, that by now, I expect. Knowing Teague, he couldn’t help but gloat.”

Kate stole a look at Jack from the corner of her eye, and wondered if one day, she might repeat the scene, standing at the edge of a hole, laying him to rest, the penance for the privilege of having him. Next week, next month, next year, next decade; there were no guarantees of when the price would be exacted. The only option was to treasure every moment allowed.

A frisson passed through her—a goose crossing her grave, Brian would have said. She balled a fist in the folds of her skirt. Never! If the Devil presented himself, she would make any deal necessary to prevent having to witness Jack’s demise. She bit her lip, instantly knowing better. Her only hope was that she could be the first to go; she couldn’t bear it otherwise.

“I’ve not managed to find Father,” Jack went on. Kate couldn’t help but notice that his accent had softened considerably. “I kept thinking, sooner or later, someone, somewhere or another, would come up and say, ‘Eh! You look just like… what’s-his-name,’ but it never came to pass.” Shoulders drooping, he looked down at himself and frowned. “Maybe I’ve made a things a bit too difficult for that.

“I just went through Hell, a bit ago. Somehow, I can’t help but think that you had a hand in all that. Otherwise, there is no way of explaining how I ever lived to tell of it,” he added, shaking his head in bafflement.

“Teague said you’d finally had your fill of him.” He couldn’t suppress his pleasure at that. “You’ll be knowing already, how I feel on that matter, so I’ll say no more. This isn’t the place to be rehashing old… unpleasantness.” His fingers danced, as if he were waving something away.

As Kate watched him continue to sway, she grudgingly was thankful for the stubbornness that he had exhibited earlier; it was the only thing keeping Jack upright at the moment.

His eyes lit, and there was a ghost of his familiar smile. “That was a grand ol’ chat we had in the boat, eh? I’ve missed those.” The gladness fading, his eyes saddened. “Seems like once we arrived at Shipwreck, there wasn’t much time for those anymore.”

Kate didn’t consider herself a religious person, but gravesides tended to make one reverent. She said a silent prayer for Brian, feeling guilty for stealing from Jack and his mother for her own purposes. It was an opportunity she had never been allowed: to see Brian’s soul set to rest, to give the final benediction that closes the door on one life, allowing the other to live on.

Since one morning over a year ago, on the Black Pearl, Brian hadn’t come to her as often. She still felt his presence, a guiding hand at her back, steering, watching, and waiting to see her safe. It had been the thing he wanted most, no differently than the man who stood before her now.

“Well, unless you have something else to say.”

Kate started, thinking that Jack was speaking to her. It was a great relief when she saw his attention was fixed on the blackened face in his hand. Screwing his face with the effort, Jack fished a large square of rose-patterned silk from inside his shirt. Kate recognized the pattern as Severine’s wrapper, and wondered how he had procured it. She instantly dismissed the suspicion, scolding herself for being petty. With tender care, he wrapped it around the head, and then knelt to place the small bundle on its side in the bottom of the hole.

Kate reached for the shovel, but he gently pushed her away. “I’ll do it,” he said, stiff-jawed with firmness of purpose.

Wincing with every shovelful, beats of sweat dripping, and requiring several breathers, he finally tamped the dirt down.

“A marker?” Kate was already visually scanning the deserted garden for something that might serve.

“No.” Jack shook his head firmly, drug by both emotional and physical pain. “She never could abide anything weighing her down. Mum was more of the earth, as opposed to anything created by man.” The loathsome look he threw over his shoulder toward the chapel caused Kate to wonder what history laid there. He touched the silver ornament that hung at his shoulder. “I’ll always know where she is.”

Kate groped for something to say. It was too easy to recall standing at her mother’s graveside, the old pain suddenly fresh and raw. She had been considerably younger—barely in her teens—with little idea of how to cope with such a devastating loss.

“No worries, luv.” Jack’s voice broke her thoughts. He smiled, but it faltered. Then he took her hand and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “There’s naught to be said; Mum was lost years ago. ‘Tis only a simple matter of tidying up.”

Unwilling to leave, Jack led her to a nearby tree, and bid her to sit. Kate watched helplessly as squirmed, swearing under his breath as he strove to find a tolerable position propped against the trunk. Once satisfied that he was comfortable, Kate stretched out in the grass, their feet inches apart. From the canvas bag that he brought, he extracted a stoneware bottle and a battered silver cup.

“She never approved of drinking from the bottle,” he explained. “She claimed that was reserved for barbarians and drunks.”

He winced, either from that thought or his ribs. Uncorking the bottle with his teeth, he filled the cup.

“Lemon shrub,” he announced around the cork. “It was her favorite. Ol’ Teague plied her with everything from the most exotic to the most valued, from bumboo to Constantia. Mum always like this better.”

His chest rose and fell with each breath as he stared introspectively into the cup, seeing something past its pale, yellowish contents. Finally he lifted it toward the garden corner and the mound of drying dirt in salute.

“To you, Mum.”

He seemed inclined toward saying something further, but ducked his nose into the cup instead. His mustache glistening with droplets of moisture, he handed it to Kate, and she took a drink.
Refreshingly lemony, the shrub’s combination of tart and sweet was tempered by the rough bite of brandy. She looked up to find him watching her carefully, waiting for her reaction, gratified to see that she liked it. It was delicious.

“I guessed that you would fancy anything with brandy.” It was a gentle jibe, but then he sobered, shaking his head in wonderment. “You two are two peas.”

As per custom, Kate drained the cup, handing it back. Jack obviously wanted to linger, and so he refilled the drink, and they companionably shared it. It was just as well, Kate thought. His hand shook slightly when he wiped the droplets from his mustache. He tried to appear casual, but he was still ill at ease, and justifiably so. Burying one’s mother, not matter how delayed, would be a strain.

Talking seemed to ease him. No surprise there; it was Jack. She did the only thing she could, the only thing it ever seemed she could do for him: be there. And so she listened as he rambled through the disjointed tumble of recollections. No one’s memories are an organized compendium, a tidy atlas in tight sequence from beginning to end. His spirit lightened with each memory, benefiting from the opportunity to take them out, examined them, and then returned them.

“Do you miss her?”

Dropping his hat at his side on the ground, he only briefly considered her question. “Not really.” He saw her surprise at that. “She’s with me near every day. I hear her… scolding most of the time,” he added with a wry lift of one eyebrow.

“What would she have told me about you?”

Startled at the thought, he reddened. “Not much,” he mumbled, waving her inquiry away.

“Come now,” she chided. “No one knows us better than our parents. We all have something we pray no one will ever hear.” She nudged his foot with hers. “C’mon. There has to be something.”

“She called me loscann,” he said at length, measuring each word. He avoided looking her way, his color heightening. “It’s Celt for frog, because me eyes were so big, and I was always hopping around; I could never sit still for long, always mucking about. I think I ate me share of bugs when I was a tyke, too,” he added as an afterthought. “She said she pitied the guardian angel assigned to me, t’ would be old before its time trying to keep up.”

Kate struggled to keep from smiling in the face of his discomfiture. Falling quiet again he took a drink, softly smacking his lips then leaned his head back, looking skyward.

“She worried for me, wanted me to be as educated as I might; she claimed me brains were going to be me only means to survive.”

The profundity of that made him grimace. Then he peered down his nose, disdainfully scrutinizing himself. “It would have killed her to see me now.”

“I rather doubt that,” Kate said with certainty, her throat thickening at his dispiritedness. “A parent loves a child regardless, because no matter how old you are, you’re still that child.”

“Really?” His features eased, relieved but at the same time intrigued.

Kate shifted, the movement stirring the mossy damp of the grass. “I wish I could have met her.” She couldn’t help but wonder what kind of a woman could have had him for a son.

“No more than I, luv,” he said genuinely. “It would have done this ol’ heart a world o’ good to see you two standing together.”

A mockingbird alit on the chapel rooftree and began a less than melodious outpouring of calls. Kate leaned closer, propping her chin interestedly in her palm.

“Describe her for me.” For some time, she had been trying to picture what his mother might have been like; a dried, shrunken head had been of little guidance. “Was she dark, like you?”

A metallic clatter accompanied the shake of his head. “No, her hair was darker, like a raven’s wing. Her eyes were blue, like that bird up there.” He gestured with his chin toward a jeweled-indigo hummingbird hovering at a trumpet-like cascade of scarlet flowers.

“And your nose?”

He crossed his eyes slightly, judging. “A bit rounder at the tip.”

“And your mouth?”

His mustache took a downward turn, his nose curling. “Unfortunately, yes. Girly mouth, ‘tis what the lads called me, until I was old and big enough to stop them,” he added on a prideful note.

“I never fancied you to be a fighter.”

“No,” he chuckled, his humor coming easier; the lemon shrub was having its effect on both of them. “But I could run fast, lead them right where I wanted, and then ambush them. Got me bum whipped after by Mum for me efforts.”

He turned his attention on her, closing one eye. “You’ve never spoken much of yours.”

Kate was a bit taken aback by that; it seemed her mother was always in her thoughts. It was a perplexing question: how does anyone summarize someone so significant in one’s life?

“She was always busy,” she said at length, “seeing to the house or the servants, or my brothers and I. It was rare to see her sit, until after supper.”

“Not unlike someone else I know,” he grinned admiringly. “’Tis no stretch of the imagination to see how five boys and you kept her busy.”

“Father was her biggest concern.” Now it was her turn to flinch. As much as time could soften the sharp edges of hurt and pain, memories are not necessarily always pleasant. “Everything revolved around him.”

“Demanding sort, was he?” The sharpness in Jack’s question revealed that he was acutely aware of how much she was understating reality.

She shifted, taking a drink before answering. “Let’s just say no one wanted to be in the room with him.” She suppressed a shudder. “If he was in one of his tempers, she was the only one that had the courage to go in.”

“Then you are a product of your lineage: temper from one, and courage from the other. Did you fancy your mother?” He took pleasure in turning the tables on her.

“No, she was Spanish; she was dark, like you. Most of my brothers looked like her. I took after my father, which made it easier when he sent me east, to go live with his family. I think Father would have preferred to think that I wasn’t his—having a daughter being a weakness and all—but there was no denying me.

“What did you get from her?” A slight cant of Kate’s head indicated the barely visible grave.

It was Jack’s turn to be surprised. Lowering his lids, his thoughts veiled behind his lashes.

“She spoke with the auld ones; it made her seem wise, as if she could see that there was something better… somewhere,” he added with a fluttering pass of the hand. “She knew how to do what she must to get what she needed. And she could make people smile, win them over with just one look. A charmer, she was.”

“Not unlike her son,” Kate said before she realized it.

He took a drink, rolling it in his mouth before swallowing. “What was it like, to see the two of them, your mother and father together?” he asked with guarded curiosity, looking up from under his brows at the end.

“You mean did they love each other?” It was a question that could be easily understood, coming from someone who had never had the privilege of seeing his parents together for any length of time.

“Yes, I think so, at first at any rate. Mother’s family was horrified that she married a criollo; he wasn’t even Catholic, but she defied everyone, and married him anyway. She bore ten children, six of us lived.”

She knew well that many married couples came together only for the sake of making a child. A trait typical for arranged marriages, her parents had been far from that. Regardless, it was an awkward and uncomfortable thought. No child, of any age, wishes to contemplate what happens behind his parent’s bedroom door. Every adult knew what was necessary to create him, but knowing and calling the images to mind were two entirely different matters.

“They fought.” She rolled her eyes. Needing a distraction, she plucked free a blade of grass, twirling it in her fingers. “Believe me, they argued, battled, but always kept it between them, especially when it was about one of us… well, mostly me. Father claimed there was only enough money for tutors for my brothers, but Mother snuck me in, at least when he wasn’t about. She was determined that I was going to be raised a lady.”

“I’d say she did a right proper job.” Jack’s sincere praise was punctuated it with a gold-laced smile.

Kate’s cheeks heated from more than the effects of the shrub. Jack wasn’t one to toss about frivolous compliments, but every inner voice negated the thought.

“Mum was a great believer in books.” Crossing his ankles, Jack idly wagged one foot. “She claimed the entire world was at your fingertips. She made sure I and Charles could read; she would have done as much for me sister, had still lived. Had her learning her letters,” he bragged as an afterthought. “But then…”

His voice faded. Then he shook himself free of what was about to lead him down a morose path that he didn’t want to journey.

Kate strained to recall what Jack had told her regarding his childhood. In search of his long-absent father, Jack’s mother had only managed to travel just so far. Out of money and with three young children in tow, she was forced to the same decision as thousands before her: to sell herself. Then she had met up with Teague, a virtual step-father that Jack harbored little compassion toward.

“Do you think she cared for him… Teague?”

Jack’s mouth pressed into a firm line. “Ol’ Teague was smitten with her, right enough… and I think he was more than just shelter and a warm bed to her,” he grudgingly admitted, idly scratching an arm.

“Is that why he took her, all of you, to Shipwreck?”

He shook his head then grinned in anticipation of her reaction. “I killed me first man at the ripe, old age of ten.” He allowed her shock to abate, before he went on to explain.

“I hated it when she would bring the men back to our shack.” His countenance clouded; the muscles in his jaw working. “Most times, I’d run, leave until they were gone. If not, I’d hide me head, and cover me ears, so I wouldn’t have to listen to those rutting bastards panting all over her.”

He took a drink, audibly swallowing. “One time, I came back in time to find one of them beating her. I grappled with him, finally got his pistol, and I shot him,” he said, with blunt satisfaction. One corner of his mouth tucked up in frustration.

“It didn’t kill him right off,” he went on, almost apologetic. “He bucked and kicked in the floor. He still had enough breath to call me names and scream for help. Mum finally took the slops jar and bashed him over the head with it.” He shrugged, smiling faintly. “That was the end of him. It turned out, he had connections, and I was to be arrested, if they could ever catch me,” he qualified. “Mum was beside herself. As luck would have it, Teague was in port. He gathered us up, and took us to Shipwreck.”

“Galling as it is, I think she loved the old barnacle, and he certainly thought the world moved in her tracks. It used to turn me blood cold to see how he looked at her, but I was too young and full o’ meself to realize that I should have been happy for her. She’d found someone that truly cared.” Brimming with moisture, his eyes came up to meet hers. “That’s a tall order in this ol’ world.”

Much to his displeasure, it was necessary for Kate to help Jack up from the ground. Swaying slightly at first, he finally found his land legs, but still walked woodenly back to town.

Drooping with exhaustion, he was leaning heavily on Kate, by the time they returned to Marguerite’s. Once back at the house, it was necessary to call Gibbs and Gaubert to get him back up the stairs and to her room. They lowered him carefully on the bed, and Kate tugged off his boots.

Kate bit back several urges to scold Jack as she stripped him down and saw him to bed. While she washed him and changed the dressings, his eyes were steadily on her, never leaving her face.

“Thank you.” He said with such a meek, but heartfelt sincerity that made her glad she hadn’t berated him. He lay back in the pillow, heavy-lidded and worn, but the most at peace than he had been since his return.

“You look tired, darling.” His voice was a bare whisper.

“I am.” The admission surprised her. Until then, she hadn’t realized that every bone ached, her muscles complaining at every move. “It’s not easy keeping you alive.”

He gave a low chuckle. “Tell me about it. All things considered, I’ve come to the conclusion that death doesn’t suit me, so alive it ‘tis, still here in all me glory!” he beamed, lifting his arms slightly in display.

“I wish you would have told me that.” She narrowed one eye at him as she tied off the dressings. “I could have saved myself a lot of effort.”

They both fell quiet as Kate finished up her tasks. “She would have been proud of you,” she finally said conversationally.

Exhaustion-dulled eyes lit at that. No longer a ship’s captain, or a famed pirate, he was once again a child hoping for a parent’s approval. “D’you think?”

Kate understood his anguish. Her father’s approval had been an elusive commodity, somewhere in the range of hen’s teeth; finding the Fountain of Youth would have been easier.

“Have I ever lied to you?”

“Once.” Tease brightened the dark orbs further, and then he winked. “But in the end, me ever-vigilant cleverness saw through.”

It was a hot afternoon. The heat lulled Jack to sleep before Kate had picked up the basin from the stool. She moved quietly, tidying up. She pulled back the sheet, to rearrange it on him, and paused.

Damn. It was so difficult to love him, but impossible not to.

It was a wonder how someone with bullet scars on his chest, a brand on his wrist and a bone in his hair could look so innocent. Relaxed, his mouth curved sharply downward, his lower lip gently pouting, so very kissable.

It took every bit of willpower to keep her hands from him. Her body ached with the need to touch him, feel his flesh ripple under her fingertips, hear his breath quicken when she cupped her hand between his thighs. She wanted him as badly now as she did over a year ago, when a kiss from him was too much to hope for, to feel the pulse at his neck throb under her lips, or taste the saltiness of the moisture that pooled at the hollow of his throat.

He was an addiction; the more she had the more she wanted, like a sot who could barely finish one drink before worrying about the next. Her body was ever-ready for him, moist and slick just at the sound of his step, a spiraling rush that centered at the base of her spine, and radiated to every nook

Even in his state of exhaustion, a kiss on the neck, a soft blow in his ear, would bring him rigid, and possibly never waking. It seemed highly likely that he had made love to her in his sleep. It certainly spoke to his degree of practice, but also his need for her.

Resisting temptation, she undressed. Slipping under the sheet, she inched next to him, to share the pillow, his face inches from hers. The dark crescent of lashes never moved on his cheeks as he groped for her hand, not satisfied until his fingers laced through hers. The corners of his mouth lifted in the briefest trace of a smile, and then he was still.

He was at peace, his features more placid than any time since she had come to know him, but was still a weight, one that had been lingering since the day she had met him. Something else was on his mind. Was the man never to be allowed any peace?

Maybe that finally came with the grave.

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-seven

Mon, 07 Sep 2009 00:05:43 GMT

Being of Service

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Jack’s gunshot rears its ugly head, while life in a brothel presses on.
A/N: Still not far enough ahead to be able to have someone beta this, so here goes…

Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.

Propped up against the pillow, Kate’s door never closed as Jack held court, basking in the attention lavished upon him as the brothel’s women filed through their room, cooing and clucking over him. Lavishing flattery, he coquettishly engendered his own accolades and endearments. While Jack flirted with women clad in nothing more than a silk wrapper or corset and stockings, Kate sat quietly at the table or before the window sewing, keeping a watchful eye for the first signs of Jack tiring, all the while with a growing confidence that, when their door was closed, it would be her shoulder that he sought to lay his head.

Gibbs did appear on their bedroom doorstep the next morning, gloriously cheerful, bright-eyed and with a remarkable spring in his step. The sound of the footsteps in the hall should have been sufficient warning, but Kate didn’t heed anything, until she heard a gruff clearing of a throat.

“Gibbs!”

Overcome with joy, she seized him by the neck and gave him a great hug. Caught in the moment, his arm came around her, but then quickly fell away.

“Mr. Kate, ‘tis good to see ye!” Discommoded by such a personal display, he cleared his throat again, louder. “Yer lookin’ well, sir! A sight for sore eyes, to be sure!”

“It’s about time, bloody sea worm!” Jack interceded good-naturedly. “I could have been lyin’ on me deathbed…”

“Aye, Cap’n, but ye weren’t,” Gibbs countered with evenly, swiveling his attention.

Moving closer, he scrutinized his captain with the same acuity as he would the set of a sail.

“I’ve seen ye worse, Cap’n, but I’ve seen ye better more oftener.”

Kate was ecstatic to see Gibbs, not only because she considered him as a friend, but more so because of his friendship with Jack. To the best of her knowledge, Gibbs had been with Jack through the last year; if anyone could offer further enlightenment, it would be the shepherding First Mate of the Black Pearl. Roosted back on her stool, Kate bubbled internally with questions, but resisted, knowing that Gibbs was there for another reason.

“Anchor watch is on, Pintel and Ragetti,” Gibbs pointedly specified. Jack had made no inquiry, but none was needed; the First Mate knew exactly what would be foremost in his mind. “The blockmaker and shipwrights are a-workin’ on the Pearl as we speak. Canvas seems a bit on the short supply, hereabouts, but provisions have been made.”

Between two pirates, Kate knew that proviso could only mean one thing, and money certainly played no part.

“There be a decent armorer, so’s the swivel guns can be replaced. No guns available,” Gibbs sighed with considerable regret, “but we can at least have the vents and such rebored on Bucephalus and Bellerophron.”

“Bucephalus and Bellerophon?” Kate echoed.

Both men were caught by surprise, but it was Jack that finally responded. “Certainly! Number Seventeen and Number Twenty-three gun.” He blinked, baffled. “You didn’t know?”

“Know what?”

“Really, darling!” Jack huffed, dramatically rolling his eyes skyward. “How could a gun crew ever lavish the loving care a gun requires, and not even give her the courtesy of a name?”

“Her?” Jack’s bafflement seemed to be contagious. Kate recalled seeing words scrawled on the carriages of the ship’s guns, on both the Black Pearl and the Melody, but they had been considerably more basic: Beelzebub, Spit Fire or Widowmaker.

Jack and Gibbs looked from her, and then exchanged looks, as if they suspected that she was trying them on.

“Why would you give her a man’s name?” Jack’s query was barely patient.

“I have no idea,” Kate murmured, bracing her fingers to the bridge of her nose. She knew she was going to regret it, but felt compelled to make one final point. “But, those aren’t her names.”

Neither man was abashed by that, but it was Jack who ventured to explain.

“Thirty-some guns, including the swivels, and one can start to run out of names.”

“Can’t be a-namin’ one the same as one’s what’s been lost,” Gibbs was quick to point out.

“Of course. Why did I even ask?” Kate muttered under her breath. “I’ll have to confess, I’ve never heard of guns being referred to as ‘her’ before,” she said, already wondering why she had ventured further. Her experience with cannon wasn’t limited; the Rising hadn’t been devoid of them.

Waving an irritated hand, Jack’s face screwed with disgust. “Pa! Can’t help the ignorance of others.”

The two men shook their heads, their final statement on the matter.

“How long ye figgerin’ to be laid up?” Gibbs rocked on his heels, his overt innocence highlighting his true motivation in that inquiry: the longer the stay, the more time he could be spending on the third floor where Marguerite’s rooms were. Judging by the levity in his step, and the smile permanently etched, Gibbs and Marguerite had already enjoyed a portion of their reunion.

Realizing that more than anyone, Jack was only able to curtail a small part of his smile. “I’ve been given to believe at least a week.”

“Them ribs won’t be ready fer sea by then.” Gibbs’ disbelief, and disappointment, was apparent.

“Maybe not, Gibbs,” Jack agreed easily, “but I will be.”

Kate stiffened. A week. She swallowed, balling her fist in the folds of her skirt, feeling the clock ticking already, like a wretched time bomb.

It was what you wanted, she thought. You agreed.

Agreed, yes. Wanted, no. She had wanted much more; a week had been Jack’s suggestion.

A week.

Jack would stand by their accord to the letter. Anger surging, her first thought was to tell him to be gone, if that was all that bound him. Closely on that came the rationalization that a week could have been far more than she might have had otherwise. His injuries weren’t severe enough to prevent him from setting sail, if he wished. There was only one conclusion that could be drawn from that: he wanted to stay. But was it for her, or was there another driving force?

“The Pearl will be a-needin’…” began Gibbs, entering his objection.

“Far more than can be obtained here,” Jack interrupted, his resolve firming. “T’will be a week’s rest, Master Gibbs. Hopefully, the entire crew won’t shirk their duties in these joyous times.”

A direct look punctuated the broad hint.

“Aye, sir!” Gibbs straightened, drawing to attention. “Ye can count on every man-jack.”

Jack’s levity faded, his fingers soundlessly drumming on the bed. “They’re green, Gibbs. Can they be trusted?”

“Aye, green they be,” Gibbs sobered, nodding confidently. “But their pride o’ bein’ aboard the Black Pearl will go a long ways. They’ll be there when ye get there, Cap’n.”

Jack was visibly gratified. “Very well then. Tend your duties.”

Gibbs had sketched a salute before he fully caught the lilt in Jack’s voice. To Kate’s shock, she discovered that Gibbs wasn’t above blushing. “Aye, sir.”

Ducking a nod, first to Jack and then to Kate, Gibbs was nearly to the door when Jack stopped him.

“Gibbs?”

Halting in midstride, an expectant lift of the brows was the elder’s response,

“You’re aware of our houseguest?”

Gibbs gave circumspect look from under his brows. “Yessir. That poxed bit o’ worm’s meat won’t be a-hindering anyone else.”

There was a long silence filled with meaning between the two. Kate felt a brief wave of guilt. For some odd reason, she felt a responsibility toward the attacker from the night before, and whatever further misfortune might have befallen him. She resisted asking what had happened to the man; every voice told her that she was better off not knowing.

She glanced at Gibbs. His kindly manner when with her had obscured a darker side. It was another keen reminder of the world she had come to live in, drug in actually, by Jack and the men of the Black Pearl, a pirate’s world, one of violence, living by the sword and dying by the sword. Granted the nameless, faceless person hauled away to the carriage shed by Gaubert wasn’t a pirate, but he had the misfortune of having stumbled into it, and had done violence to their captain. Nothing more need be said.

“Very well,” Jack said, at length, visibly relaxing. “The world will be a better place.”

Nodding, Gibbs spun on his heel and left.

Struck with a thought, Kate rose quickly. Once Gibbs returned upstairs, she might not see him for the remainder of the week. Her curiosity burned too brightly to wait.

“I think I heard Minnie calling!” And she scurried out.

It was a horrible lie, so grossly transparent it left Jack thinking that perhaps it was meant to hide something else. No matter. It provided her with the excuse to speed out of the room.

Not surprisingly, Gibbs was en route to the third floor stairs, and Marguerite’s rooms, and was a bit flustered when Kate caught him up at the base. It seemed absurd to be embarrassed by such things in a brothel, but then maybe she was becoming inured to it.

“I want to ask you something, Gibbs.”

“Aye?” He gave her a wary look from the corner of his eye.

“I promise, I won’t ask any questions that we both know you would have to lie to answer.”

Gibbs’ relief was obvious.

Kate understood the delicate balance Gibbs walked between subordinate and friend to Jack; doubtlessly there would be thing that Gibbs had been compelled to keep secret. She wasn’t afraid to face the fact that there were many things she was probably better off not knowing. After all, ignorance could be bliss.

She bit her lip; having rehearsed this opportunity several times, she was still unsure of how to begin.

“What happened?” It was a lame beginning, but the best one she could articulate, at the moment.

Exhaling through his nose, Gibbs’ wide mouth worked. “Some things I can be sayin’ fer sure, and some, even seein’ ‘em with my own eyes, I’m still not so sure.”

“Gibbs.” Kate laid a hand on his arm. “What happened to him?”

His brows nearly touched as he carefully considered his answer. At one point, he started to say something, and then was interrupted. The tinkle of a bell came from one of the rooms. Dutifully beckoned, Minnie appeared from one room and went into another, softly closing the door behind her.

“Someday,” he finally began, “when we’ve a watch to spend, and a bottle each, I’ll try to explain to ye.”

“Jack’s told me some things.” In spite of the day’s heat building in the hall, she shuddered. “I don’t know what to believe. You know Jack; you never know where the truth ends, and his version of reality begins.”

Gibbs’ mouth quirked as he reluctantly concurred. “Believe me, sir. Whatever he told you, is still not as confounded, doubly-damned or God-forsaken as what it really were.” Gibbs shifted his feet, and cast a furtive glance up the stairs, his desire to be somewhere else apparent.

“The Cap’n… Jack swore me to secrecy,” he said, that preamble but a repetition of what Kate had been thinking. “All I can say, is he tried to do the right thing, and was near gutted for his efforts. So, he did what anyone would do—what everyone expected him to do—and went and served hisself, and t’ blazes with the rest. Turned out,” he shrugged, at his own puzzlement, “everyone was the better for it.”

He surveyed her as he decided how much more to say, finally leaning closer in confidence. “The Cap’n’s one o’ those souls that, once he takes a notion, he’s like a ferret: there ain’t no shakin’ ‘im loose.”

He was interrupted by Minnie exiting the room. A ewer under her arm, she made her way down the servants’ steps before he continued. “Out o’ that whole blazin’ mess, all I can say fer sure, is Jack only had two thoughts: the Pearl n’ you.” He shook his head in wonderment. “Can’t say as I could always defend his means, but ye gotta admire the man for his convictions.”

In a way, Gibbs had told her nothing, and yet, Kate heard everything she needed to hear. A few more pieces fell into place, but she already knew that she was going to have to resign herself to a puzzle that would never be complete. Too many pieces of Jack’s life had been lost for that—several of which had probably thrown overboard by his own hand.

Kate returned to her room to find Jack soundly asleep, exhausted. His head sunk in the pillow, turned slightly to the side, eerily still compared to his usual animation. It was a rare occasion to see him sleep. His lips parted somewhat, one hand splayed on his stomach, the bandages cut a stark swath across the ivory of his chest.

Cautious of the creaking floorboards, Kate tiptoed to the corner table, and quietly resumed her work. Jack’s arrival had been a disruption, and she was behind. Her head still throbbed, and sudden turns could result in light-headedness. Against the backdrop of the routine noises of the house, the quiet that befalls a sickroom was only disrupted by the pop of her needle pulling through the fabric, and the soft rasp of Jack’s breathing.

Kate might have made an inadvertent noise when she looked up, and saw Gaubert standing in the doorway. Years of constant danger, ever on the defensive, had made its mark, and Jack jerked awake, swearing colorfully at the resultant pain from the sudden movement.
“Bloody ghost, popping up like that!” groused Jack, grumbling unkind remarks under his breath. “‘Tis wholly unwise to be startling a soul who’s on their sickbed—near death, I might add.”

Gaubert’s impassive face was unmoving. There was a palpable tension between them, two territorial dogs bristling; Kate was curious, but not enough to cause her to ask. It was starkly apparent that both preferred to be somewhere else.

“I should be thanking you for what you did for Miss Clarice.” For such a large man, Gaubert’s voice was inordinately soft. He took the safety of the women in the house as his personal, life’s charge, and was disconcerted at having to thank Jack, of whom his disesteem was patently obvious, for helping when he couldn’t.

“I’m sure you would have done the same,” Jack said with a magnanimous gesture, his discomfiture stemming from being caught in such a noble act. “I just happened to be… closer. Opportune moment, and all that.”

“Miss Minnie was cleaning, and found this.”

The already small room was further dwarfed by Gaubert’s entrance, in order to place something in Jack’s palm. Kate strained to see, but couldn’t, until Jack held it up, displaying it between his thumb and forefinger. Dull and grey, it was a piece of shot, its perfect roundness marred by a flattening of one side.

“She found it in the door,” the strong-arm reported flatly.

With a mixture of distaste and curious intrigue, Jack frowned slightly as he scrutinized it. “Perhaps I should smelt it down, and return the favor,” Jack said, rolling it in his fingers.

Kate was struck with a chilling thought that perhaps then she knew the motivation behind Jack’s willingness to linger in Sint Maarten for a week.

Kate’s dreams swirled in wild, incoherent directions, with slanted floors, twisted faces, and distorted voices. Then came the clang of a blacksmith’s hammer on an anvil, but the anvil became her pillow, the hammer bashing her head. The blaze of a blacksmith’s fire rose up, only to be overtaken by the glare of a bald-faced sun on a white sand beach, shimmers of heat like curling fingers rising to engulf her. Jerking awake, she rolled her eyes, searching the room, only to discover that the heat radiated from Jack.

She touched his bare chest and pulled away. His skin was hot and dry, his cheeks and lips were two bright red patches. It was as she had feared, but was surprised that the fever had come so quickly. It wasn’t a good sign. Jack was as healthy as a horse, usually. Given what he had been through the last year, his unease, his thinness—even for him—inability to sleep and total lack of appetite, it wouldn’t be surprising if his body was weakened... his spirit certainly was.

Her hand shook slightly as she undid his dressing, and lifted the packing to take a peek. Sweet oil had been dribbled on the cotton to prevent it from sticking, but it still did in a few small spots. To her relief, the wound was clear, no oozing or seeping, nor telltale odor. She touched its margins lightly; it was hot, far more than the rest of him. Jack stirred, weakly attempting to twist away then quieted.

Mouthing a few of Jack’s best oaths, she went into the hallway, hoping to catch someone still about, but the hall was empty, the house typically quiet for that hour. Making her way down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen, her quiet entrance startled Novella, the house’s cook.

“I need some cool water and cloths,” Kate asked. “And a poultice.”

“He’s fevered?”

Kate only nodded; Novella’s golden eyes showed no surprise. The only thing now was to prevent Jack from succumbing; not as easily done as said. Armed with a pail of vinegar-laced water and cloths, Kate returned upstairs, leaving Novella to the poultice preparations.

Whetting the cloths, Kate wrung them out and packed them at Jack’s neck and forehead then set to the laborious process of sponging. A fever needed to run its course, but it also needed to be stopped from ravaging the victim’s body. Novella arrived shortly, a sleep-mudded Marguerite close behind. She inspected Jacks’ side with an experienced air.

“None too bad yet,” the madam murmured.

Novella dipped pieces of bread into warm milk, crushed carrot and linseed oil, and pressed it to the wound, front and back. Feebly moving, the furrows in Jack’s face deepened.

“We’ll give that a day,” Marguerite announced. “If it doesn’t work, we’ll send for Ma Mere.”

A chair was brought in, from which Kate maintained her vigil, through the night and into morning. His eyes occasionally slit open, to mutter something unintelligible, and then fall back to sleep. A few times, he tossed and churned, but then fell quiet. His fever never seemed to worsen, but neither did it abate. The hole in his side remained hot, but clear, the most encouraging sign of all.

Kate had watched too many men, initially hale and in the peak of health, pitch a gallant battle against fever, only to weaken and succumb. Some years before, it had occurred to her that the failing might come from what every man needed: food, nourishment. Beef broth would have been the common regimen, but too often it was not well-received by delicate stomachs, ravaged by fever and trauma. Besides, broth was impossible to come by, especially on the fringes of a battlefield. As she had administered sips of water through their parched lips, the idea of adding a bit of honey came to her. After seeing the ill and injured flourish, it became a cornerstone of her repertoire of cures, and she forced as much down Jack as could be tolerated.

At one point, she lifted Jack’s head to administer some willow bark tea. He batted a feeble hand, mumbling dark oaths.

“It’s for the pain and the fever. Drink it,” she insisted in her most motherly tone.

Obliging, he did, and made a face, growling a protest. “Must you wash the chicken’s feet in it first?”

“It’s what gives it the potency,” she said tolerantly. “Now drink, or I’ll have Novella bring something worse.”

He shot her a red-rimmed look of resentment. “Bloody woman would too, just to prolong me agonies. You’ve been looking forward to this,” he added with a narrowed eye.

“You’re right.” Kate rose, lowering his head back to the pillow, smiling. If he could still crack wise, then maybe he wasn’t so ill after all. “I arranged this entire ordeal, just to keep you humble.”

Chloe and Marguerite came and went, drawn away by the duties of the house, but Kate remained unwavering at the bedside. Tea and biscuits, or trays of food were brought, but were taken away untouched. Kate’s arms and back ached from the constant bending over the bed, and twisting the cloths and sponge. As if coming from Jack’s radiant body, the sultry heat building announced the arrival of afternoon, spurring Kate to work faster, replacing the wet cloths packed around him more often, the mattress growing sodden.

Chanting silently, Kate clung to a single, talisman-like thought that Jack had survived too much to fall victim to something as menial as a fever resulting from a bullet in a whorehouse. On the other hand, it could be seen as a fitting end to an illustrious and colorful life: dying in the best brothel in the West Indies, fighting to defend a whore.

She stopped in mid-motion of sponging his fever-taught skin, to look at him. “No, Jack. You’re not getting off this easy.”

She rose to fetch more water and swayed dangerously; luckily Chloe was there to catch her. Kate tried to wave her away, but the maid was insistent, ensconcing her in a chair drug to the corner. Determinedly resistant, Kate tried to rise, but her knees failed; the room pitching. Hands gently pushed her back, and darkness overtook her.

Kate woke, and was instantly angered with herself for having fallen asleep. It was still night, the single candle burning on the bedstand casting long, distorting shadows, an eerie silence filling the air. A dark shape was hunched over the bed, but what made Kate’s throat clutch was Jack’s motionless figure. Half-obscured in the darkness, profile sharp against the whitewashed wall, he was deathly still, his eye sockets and lines of his face almost skeletal. His arms resting on his stomach, he looked as though he had been laid out, in final repose.

Hearing Kate’s panicked gasp, the bedside shape moved, revealing Chloe’s face. “He’s fine,” she whispered, over her shoulder.

Kate blinked in disbelief, unable to ignore the morbid atmosphere and Jack’s stillness.

“He’s fine,” Chloe repeated more firmly as she wearily rose to leave. “He’s just resting; he’ll be up in no time.”

Unconvinced, Kate laid a hand on Jack’s cheek, and closed her eyes in relief. Considerably cooler, the true proof of Chloe’s assessment was in the sheen of sweat on his skin; the fever had broken.

Jack stirred at her touch, his eyes opening a slit. He attempted a smile then licked his lips, with the intention of speaking, but it seemed too much effort and he drifted off again.

“I always perform better when there’s a bonnie lass in me bed.”

Jack’s words echoed back; it was an enticing thought. If that simple act would help him heal, then who was she to argue? Exhaustion tugged at every bone, the simple act of blowing out the candle or tugging her laces loose being herculean efforts. Leaving her clothes in the floor in a careless puddle, she slipped under the sheet and wormed closer. She found his hand and gently squeezed. Faint but definite, the contented curl of his mouth barely visible in the moon’s dim light, he squeezed back.

Kate was awakened with an uncomfortable feeling, the strange, nape-of-the-neck-prickling sensation that she was being watched. Cautiously cracking one eye open, she found two sable-brown ones inches away, staring back.

“Good morning, luv.” Jack’s voice was roughened with sleep and fever, but the words still purred. The sun’s brilliant path banding the floor was further testimony to his declaration.

“What are you doing up?” she asked muzzily, rubbing one eye.

“Watching you sleep. I've yearned to do this. Don't move.” A light hand stilled her. With a faint smile, he brushed hair back from her face. “Not yet. The morning light suits you.”

Uncertain at first, she settled deeper, and watched him watching her. She wanted to tell him that the morning sun was equally fascinating on him, gold and bronze hyphenated with flashes of white.

“You must be feeling better,” she said. Despite of the corners still being pinched, his eyes had regained some of their brightness; his smile came easier and was more genuine.

“A little,” he granted then grinned. “Told you I always rest better with you next to me.”

He risked lifting on shoulder in a half-attempted shrug, and winced. “Not the first time I've been shot; probably not the last either. They do say Blackbeard had been shot twenty-two times.”

“Is that a goal?” She reached up to trace the harsh lines along his mouth. The angle of his mustache, a sure barometer to his moods, still curved sharply downward, but his color was better.

“You are hurting aren't you?” She sat up, more squarely before him, so that he didn’t have to twist his head so much.

“A little,” he conceded, pointedly looking away.

“A lot.” Putting a finger to his chin, she brought him back around. “A lot.” It was more of a confirmation than a question.

“Oh, all right!” he grudgingly huffed, wincing again when he inhaled too sharply. “Not a lot, but some. Must be at least the third, maybe the fourth time these ribs have been broken. Satisfied?”

Kate glanced toward the angle of the sun through the window; it was well past mid-morning. “I should get up. Novella or Minnie will be here…”

“Already have, twice,” he said, stopping her with a hand on the shoulder. “Slept like the dead, you did.”

Kate shuddered at the reference. “Don’t say it that way.” She shuddered again, and he chuckled, only to have it cut short by the catch in his side.

“You should be lying quiet today,” she said in her most motherly tone.

“Thoughts of quiet did occur to me.” His mustache slyly lifted one corner of his mouth. If there was any doubt as to the line of his thinking, the lilt in his voice as his hand drifted along her collarbone erased it. “And with a bit of managing, I could be lying, as you so indicated...”

“Jack, you couldn't possibly!”

Even as she protested, her eyes rolled closed as his fingers slid lower. She started to speak, but gasped as he cupped her breast, his thumb delicately brushing her nipple. “You’ve been shot night,” she said, with some effort, “and ran a fever all night.”

“Don’t tell me, tell me cock.” He glared censoriously down his nose at the offending member and the telltale lifting of the sheet. “I told you, the bloody thing has a mind of its own, especially when you’re about,” he said, accusing. “I’m just a pawn in…”

“I surrender,” she chuckled softly. She gasped, quivering under his hand as his explorations grew more persistent.

“Then, may I suggest you have me best interest at heart, and assure I don't over-exert meself?”

Carefully shifting, he brought her with him, his eyes holding hers with a delighted glint, emitting a pleasured groan when her hand found him.

“Mm!,” she murmured appreciatively, palming his weight. “That's not fair; you're way ahead of me.”

“Sorry, luv,” he sighed, unapologetically. “Time waits for no one.”

His hands rested on her hips, guiding her, gentle but urgent. As she rose over him, she jostled him and he flinched, biting back a pained gasp.

“Jack, this isn't going to work,” she said, pulling away.

“I need you, Kittie.” His eyes were pleading, half-lidded with longing. Given the evidence, it wasn’t an exaggeration. “You've ruined me, there are no others. Take me now, or leave me to die from the wanting.”

Her hand had found his need, silky and hard, and stroked him even firmer. “I certainly don't want to have your death on my hands,” she said slowly, her fingers flexing for emphasis. “If you know what’s good for you, don't you dare move.” Giving him a stern, warning eye, she slipped lower.

Encircling him with one hand, she took him deep, but gently, ever watchful, maintaining a fine balance between pain and pleasure; serving him enough to provide what he needed, but not so much as to cause him undo pain, all the while wondering why she was so self-conscious of doing so in a brothel.

Leaving him spread-eagle and languid, Kate stretched out next to him after.

“You owe me,” she warned, lightly propping her chin on his shoulder.

“Take a close look, luv, your coin is on the table. I’ll be your whore,” he declared, breathless in his afterglow, “just as soon as I am able.”

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-six

Sun, 30 Aug 2009 20:33:45 GMT

Scratched Surfaces

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: I suppose it could be said that life is never dull, with Jack around.
A/N: Life is finally back to normal, and I’m back on schedule. Still not far enough ahead to be able to have someone beta this, so here goes…

Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.

Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse, but all you're really going to see is Jack talking to his goods AGAIN!

That night, Kate dreamed one of those nondescript dreams that rambled in spiraling circles to nowhere, with no beginning and no end. In a sense, the lack of detail in the faces was a welcomed relief to the months of black holes and wrenching terrors she had endured, and was satisfied with mindlessly riding along.

A sudden pitch, and a sense of being heedlessly tossed aside, dissolved that world. Like a drowning soul, she swam upward from the murky dim, and broke the surface of reality of Jack swearing as he lurched out of bed. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she rolled in time to see him jerk on his breeches, seize his pistol and race out the door.

“Jack?”

He was already out of hearing. Shielding her eyes from the relative blaze of the lights in the hall, Kate struggled to pull further from the tarry depths of slumber, caught between the enticement of a warm bed, and the need to know where he had gone.

A woman’s shriek yanked her fully awake. Emanating from down the hall, there were more screams, Jack’s graveled voice audible amid male shouting. There were the sounds of a scuffle, feminine shrieks, and then a pistol shot, closely followed by a second.

“Oh, God, no!” she cried leaping out of bed. “Jack! No, Jack!”

In one of those strange flashes of clarity one has in a time of emergency, she snatched Jack’s shirt from the floor and tossed it on as she raced to the hallway. She heard the sound of someone running toward her. With no chance to stop, she was hit by another body. The collision knocked her sideways, sending her skidding across the floor, headlong into the stair banister. Sprawled, her legs tangled with those of her inadvertent aggressor. In a whirling haze of black spots and ringing ears, she heard the rhythmic thuds of a body tumbling down the stairs.

Groping blindly, she found the banister and hauled up to her feet. “Jack!”

Her instinct was to find Jack was to follow the crowd. The half-clad or naked men and women were an arrow, pointing the way. She stumbled down the hall, pressing her way between through the gathering crowd; the center of focus seemed to be Clarice’s room at the hallway’s end. Frantic, Kate wedged past, and finally broke free.

The room was a shambles, the furniture tumbled and broken, shards of glass and broken mirror scattered across the floor. Clarice stood in the corner, wide-eyed and shaking. One eye already swelling closed, her face was a tear-striped mess of powder and pink flesh. Hair in a snarl, her breast and arms were streaked with the blood dripping from her nose and mouth.

She looked from the floor to Kate, her chin wobbling. “I’m sorry! He came… and I… Oh, Kate! I’m so sorry!”

Kate followed Clarice’s gaze to Jack’s crumpled form face down. Too scared to breathe, and too breathless to cry, she fell on her knees next to him.

His limbs flung at rakish angles, Jack looked like a ragdoll carelessly dropped in the floor. Blood was already pooling at his side, satiny bright on the rough boards of the floor. There was no concern as to whether or not he was alive; the stream of black oaths—distorted as they were from his face pressed against the floor—was testimony enough.

“I’m fine. I’m fine!” Growling, he feebly waved away those over him.

Kate sagged in relief. Ignoring his protests, she attempted to examine him with scrabbling fingers. He was bleeding badly, but on the floor made it difficult to know for sure.

“Get him up.”

“Have a care,” Clarice choked, as two men stooped to follow Kate’s directive. “The sod kicked him.” Her testimony was born out by a reddened abrasion on Jack’s side, already showing signs of bruising.

Nodding grimly, Gaubert, having just arrived, and two others hoisted Jack with considerably less care than Kate had hoped, and roughly deposited him on the bed. Jack couldn’t hold back a yelp at the initial movement, but bit off any further outbursts.

“Don’t be soiling that mattress,” warned Clarice. “Marguerite will have our heads for sure!”

Gaubert dutifully pulled a towel from under the overturned washstand and passed it to Kate. A calm befell her as she checked Jack for damage, relieved that her hands moved with such surety. Just above the crest of his hip, the bullet’s entrance was a finger-sized hole, its blackened edges indicating that it had been fired at point blank range.

Against a backdrop of Clarice’s sobbing, Analise and Severine trying to give comfort, Kate lifted Jack carefully to sufficiently slip the towel under him, and peek at his back. The bleeding and damage was much worse there, with an area roughly half the size of her palm virtually gone, the edges of his skin resembling a torn shirt. With the movement rose a cloud of perfume from the bed, mingling with the coppery tang of blood, and rice powder.

“It went all the way through,” Kate reported, relaxing a fraction.

Jack’s head moved in a bare acknowledgment of the significance of that: he would be saved the agony of having the bullet dug out. It also meant a likelihood of fewer bits of fabric and other debris lingering in the wound, which hopefully would mean less probability of suppuration.

“I think the brute broke me ribs,” Jack said with some hesitation. Risking an experimental probe, he sucked in sharply and nodded grimly. “Aye. I know that feeling well enough.”

“As does being shot.” Kate pointedly eyed the two scars on his chest.

Closing his eyes, he bit back another acid oath. “Evidence enough that one can and does survive, luv,” was his breathy response.

Marguerite shoved her way into the room, with the expertise of someone who had seen many such disturbances. Her authoritative voice bringing everyone to attention, she whooshed them out. With no one dead, the excitement was ebbing anyway. Quickly losing interest, the clientele readily left to resume their earlier interests, the room falling quiet to just the few.

Marguerite critically surveyed the room, and then Clarice, still weeping in Severine’s arms. “You won’t be fit for business for several days.” Her voice wasn’t completely void of compassion.

She bent over Jack to give him a cursory inspection. “I suppose I should be grateful to you for stopping the bastard, before he did much more damage.”

Jack’s smile was cut off by a stab of pain. The madam pragmatically looked around the room, her eyes going to the red pool in the floor, and the footprints leading away.

“No sense in keeping him here. I’m sure he’ll be much more comfortable in your room,” she said to Kate with a dry edge. “Then Minnie can start cleaning up.”

A sash from a wrapper was taken to secure the towel at Jack’s side, tied as gently as could be managed with such impromptu means. Gaubert and another man hoisted Jack up, slinging his arms over their shoulders, and half-walked, half-dragged him down the hall to Kate’s room. By the time Jack was deposited on their bed, he had broken into a sweat and had turned an alarming shade of white.

Kate and Marguerite wasted no time in setting to their task at hand. Lying flat was far too agonizing for his ribs, and it took a bit of maneuvering to find him a comfortable position. After that, the first order of business was to pull off his breeches.

“Ladies! Please!” he wheezed, flailing weakly in protest. “One at a time. No need to rush. There’s plenty to go ‘round.”

“You’d better be delirious,” Kate warned without anger, trying to take it as a good sign that Jack could still manage lewd jokes.

Novella, the downstairs servant, appeared bearing a ewer of water laced with lemon balm, sponges, and lint for dressings. Filling the basin, she set it on the stool at the side of the bed. Straightening, she frowned at the bruise blooming over the arch of Jack’s side.

“Gonna have to strap them,” she observed, watching each breath catch. “You should put a knife under the bed, to help cut the pain. And he should be bled.”

Kate suppressed a shudder, and bit back a retort. Contrary to popular opinion, she found the practice of bleeding both barbaric and ghoulish. She would fight that with her last breath.

Without further comment, Chloe left, reappearing shortly with additional strips of cloth.

During the Rising, the devastating clash between the Highland clans and the King’s army, she had tended such wounds more times than she cared to think. She wouldn’t allow herself to consider the possible complications or consequences. She tried to be gentle, but cleaning a wound was uncomfortable business regardless. Lying half-rolled away on his side and a grim set to his jaw, Jack took it stalwartly. The angle made it difficult to flush the wound as well as she might have preferred. He tried to accommodate by shifting his position, but he was quickly weakening.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Kate scolded, sharper than she had intended. It was asked not so much for an answer, but as a distraction.

“I heard a fair lady in distress, I suppose,” he said, peering over his shoulder, managing to smile between pained grunts.

“Idiot,” was all she could say.

She fought back the tears that welled behind her eyes. The sharp clean scent of the lemon balm in the water she was using to lave the wound helped some, but not enough. She couldn’t cry now; that would have to wait. Black spots began to swim in her tunneling vision, sounds growing distant and hollow.

You can faint all you want, after.

Her hands began to shake, the sponge slipping from fingers suddenly gone numb. Jack’s mouth was moving, but hearing only faint murmurs, she thought that he was weakening.

“Kate? Kate?”

Urgent faces were thrust before her, and there was a dull slapping on her wrists. A firm hand at the back of her head steadied it as a glass was pressed to her lips, and she sputtered and coughed, choking down the rum. When her head cleared, she was sitting on the edge of the bed, haphazardly propped against the bedpost. Twisting around, Jack strained to see her, his brow furrowed with worry.

“… you… and then… go… down,” was all she heard.

She smiled unsteadily, and shook her head. “No, I’ll be fine.”

“No, luv.” Jack was still sweating, a dark dome marking the forehead area of his scarf. “You look bloody awful.”

She looked down and saw splatters of blood on the pillow next to his head. “You’re head,” she cried, reaching for him. “You’ve been hit in the head.”

Jack protested, weakly flailing to ward her off.

“No, no, mon cher, it’s not him,” said Marguerite evenly, easing Kate back. “It’s you. You’re bleeding.”

Probing her own head, Kate found a sticky mess at the crown, wincing when she found the split skin, only then recalling going headlong into the banister earlier. Once again, the room began to move, but a steadying hand and a wet cloth pressed to her forehead helped her stabilize. Jack’s discomfort as the wound was packed drew her attention. She struggled to sit up, but he urged her back down with a surprisingly firm grip on her arm. Partially reclined, she was virtually eye to eye with him.

With some effort, he smiled crookedly. “I always perform better when there’s a bonnie lass in me bed.”

Marguerite inadvertently jarred him. Paling under his tan, he ground out an oath between his teeth.

“You always were the best curser that ever crossed my threshold,” Marguerite said with considerable admiration. “The Good Lord is going to have plenty to say to you, when you finally arrive.”

Jack gave a tight-lipped grin. “No worries there, darling. That is a meeting that shall never take place. I’ll never be admitted past the front gate.”

Chloe set to tending Kate’s head, Marguerite finishing the bandaging. Kate tried to keep a brave face. In the face of what Jack was suffering, she felt foolish, but still couldn’t help flinching. Jack saw it, and took her hand.

Marguerite moved to strapping Jack’s ribs next. It was impossible to be gentle, the patient necessarily having to sit up. It tore at Kate to have to sit and watch helplessly. Every voice, every bone screamed for her to do something, and yet the least hint of movement brought on a renewed wave of dizziness. Falling out in the floor would be even less helpful. So she did the only thing she could, and held on to his hand. Holding each other with their gazes, they shared their strength.

“That was one of Doncker’s men,” Marguerite announced conversationally as she worked.

Jack pulled his attention from Kate, frowning. “Sent here for her?”

“Or you,” Marguerite replied evenly.

It was a staggering thought that Kate hadn’t considered, but Jack and Marguerite were ahead of her, thinking that motivation in Clarice’s beating had been a matter of mistaken identity. It wasn’t an unlikely confusion; Jack had been misled easily enough. The attacker could have been using Kate—or who he thought was Kate—to bait Jack into coming to her rescue. Or he could have been just another brutal beast that had come to the house the same as everyone else.

“All things considered, does it matter?” Jack’s his line of thinking apparently paralleled Kate’s.

Intent on her task, Marguerite simply lifted one shoulder and let it fall. “Only when it comes to the question of, what you want done with him.” She glanced at Kate and gave a tight smile. “You’re lady tackled him in the hallway; sent him head first down the stairs.”

“Nice shot, luv!” Jack declared with admiration.

“I had no idea who he was,” Kate was quick to explain. “He just ran into me as I… ”

“Ah-ah!” Jack wagged an admonishing finger. “A fortuitous provision of Fate is what it is, and I learned long ago, to never to pass those by.”

“Shouldn’t someone just ask him what he was doing here?” Kate asked.

Jack and Marguerite made the same derisive noise in unison. “He’ll just lie, darling,” he said with a tempered roll of his eyes.”

“Gaubert has him in the carriage house, only a little worse for the wear,” Marguerite mused.

“I can imagine that wasn’t a gentle journey.” Jack’s wince stemmed from a memory rather than from injuries.

The older woman and Jack exchanged knowing looks. It was easy to see the history between the two, one that Kate would never know, another glaring example of how much of his life she had never seen, and would probably never know.

“Gaubert does what is necessary, when it is necessary,” Marguerite announced with reserved pride then gave Jack a pointed look. “What would you deem necessary?”

“I have full confidence in your benevolent Goliath’s ability to creatively exact his justice.”

A brow arched over a curious grey eye. “You’re not interested?” Her tone was a mixture of having expected such a reaction from Jack, and a little annoyed at his reticence.

Jack raised his arms slightly in display, his mouth screwed by the discomfort brought on by that small gesture. “I’m in no condition to perform anything much past the chamber pot and the rum bottle, and not necessarily in that order. I consider the matter to be in the eloquently capable hands of His Pugnaciousness. Anything I have to say, will be to Doncker, not one of his mutton-fisted minions,” he ended heatedly.

He gave Marguerite a dark look when tied the binding’s final knot, declaring the job finished. “I can’t breathe!”

“Good!” Marguerite said, patting his shoulder. “That means you’ll lie quiet. I rather find that thought rather appealing… for once.”

Kate experimentally rose as a demonstration to everyone that she wouldn’t pass out. Her head throbbed horribly, but the room remained steady. Still, she moved cautiously, bending only when absolutely necessary. Marguerite and Chloe bid them goodnight, and the tiny room fell quiet.

The ordeal of finding him a comfortable position after Marguerite had finished had left Jack sweating, beads of it dotting the bridge of his nose and trailing in rivulets in the creases of his skin.

“Would you mind, luv?” he asked hopefully, gesturing with his chin toward the bottle of rum left on the bed stand.

He had stoutly refused laudanum or poppy syrup, claiming he preferred the pain over the nightmares brought on by either. Judging from the last few nights, Kate couldn’t argue, and poured a small bit of rum in a glass.

“You can’t drink from the bottle; I don’t want you moving,” was her response to his disappointed scowl at the glass.

Her explanation seemed to placate him. Quaffing it down, he lifted the glass, hoping for another, his expression dissolving into utter dejection, when she took it and set it on the bedstand. Grumbling an unintelligible objection, he leaned back, and waited for the rum to take effect.

Kate quietly pulled the stool to the bedside and sat. Jack’s hand lay on the bed next to his leg, and she picked it up, lacing her fingers through his. His eyes remained closed, but a corner of his mouth curled up. His grip was still warm and strong, and she took encouragement from that.

At length, his nose twitched; his lip lifting in displeasure. “I smell like a bloody whore.”

The lingering smell of Clarice’s perfume was quite apparent. “Shh. Don’t say that too loudly.”

“Bloody, ha!” he quipped. One eye opened suspicious slit. “You’re loving this.”

He fell quiet again then his eyes snapped open, his body tensing. “Are you all right, darling?” The vertical furrow between his brows deepened, his eyes searching hers.

She nodded and squeezed his hand. “What possessed you to go running off to another room with a pistol?” she asked quietly, tracing his knuckles with her thumb.

He shifted his gaze to the ceiling and shrugged. “Seemed like the thing to do, I guess. I can’t abide a woman being mistreated.”

“That damned good heart of yours, nearly go you killed.”

He flinched, shying from her observation, a sure sign of her accuracy. Lowering his lashes, he gave a tight-lipped smile. “More times than you care to think.”

A good man, living in a very bad world; once again gallantry and nobility had reared their ugly heads, as entirely incongruous as they might be to the world in which he lived, and the image he strove to maintain. It would seem her worries of his injury while seeking revenge on her behalf were wasted effort. As much as Jack denied it, doing the right thing was as natural to him as breathing.

He jerked an irritated shoulder, and mussed his head in the pillow, his fingers working between hers. He fell quiet, glancing toward the corner, where his mother’s head rested, and then turned to stare out the window. “Saw Mum suffer too many times at the hands of those drunken sods.”

He looked up, his dark eyes glinting with mirth in the candlelight. “Can’t see the point in hitting a woman, when she can be so ever much more pleasurable when she’s smiling.”

“And you know how to make them do that, don’t you?” she mused. Her cheeks heated at the number of times Jack had done that very thing, and she looked away, inexplicably embarrassed at being embarrassed. Seeing that, Jack took it as worry on her part, and he sobered further, his hand tightening around hers.

“I swear, Kitty, I’ll never hurt you.” His voice quavered with conviction.

His sincerity touched her and she bent to gently kiss his cheek. “I know that. I’ve never been afraid of you, although,” she qualified, lightening, “there were those first few minutes, when you first pulled me out of the water.”

They both smiled at their memories if that day that seemed so long ago.

Jack looked pensively down at their interlocked hands, seeing something far past. “It’s not right, the wrongs you’ve suffered.”

“Most of which were long before I met you,” she put in judiciously. “The same could be said for you.”

He jerked at that thought; clearly it was a point he had never considered, and immediately dismissed it. “Trifles. Most of it was just a matter of timing. Had I been somewhere else, it never would have happened.”

His eye settled on his forearm, and the brand that marked it then shifted to her lace-bound wrist. “A few things I do wish could be different, but the world doesn’t run in reverse, does it?”

“Another inch and you’d be dead.” It was what she had been thinking since she had found him in the floor, and was relieved that he was in a condition that she was able to now point that out.

His spirits rose sufficiently to flash a dazzling smile. “Another inch the other way and I’d not be injured, and I’d be able to make much better use of this bed.”

The day and its events began to weigh heavily, dragging Jack’s lids lower. He patted the mattress invitingly. “C’mon, luv, you look like you're ready to fall over.” She hesitated and he made an exasperated sound, rolling his eyes. “I promise I shan’t molest you until morning.”

“Well, if that’s the best you can offer, I’ll sleep in the chair,” she countered, already moving around the bed.

She lowered herself carefully next to him. He winced, but maintained a calm face until she was situated, pressing against him as much as she dared, and laid her head on the pillow at his shoulder.

She closed her eyes, but was aware of his movements. The shaking that had befallen her earlier started again, with the knowledge of how close she had come to losing him, and with the further thought that he wasn’t yet out of danger. She tried to control the quaking, fearing that she might disturb him, but he was beyond noticing. She felt the rise and fall of his breathing slow, becoming more rhythmic, in spite of the occasional catch. Then he went lax, his hand, where it rested on her leg, going heavy. He was asleep.

Only then did she allow the same to befall her.

The next morning, a brief tapping at the door roused them both. With barely time to reply, Marguerite burst into the room with Minnie in tow, bearing ewers of water, towels, ointments and bandages. She drew up at the bedside to scrutinize Jack.

“Well, I'd say you look considerably better than you did last night.” She shifted her attention to Kate. “How is your head?”

“Better,” Kate replied, rubbing one eye sleepily.

Marguerite’s sharp grey eyes narrowed in suspicion. “No headaches?”

“Not to speak of,” Kate said.

Jack shot Kate a dark look; she was going to have to learn to lie better than that. Eyes puffed and flinching at every sound, any fool could see that she was hurting.

“You should be lying quiet, you know,” Marguerite instructed Kate, while directing Minnie with a whisk of her hand. “Head injuries aren't to be fooled with. I thought I'd come change bandages, maybe wash you up a little,” Marguerite said sternly to Jack then swiveled her attention on Kate. “Chloe’s pouring a bath for you now.”

“But, I...” Kate sputtered in protest.

Jack shook his head. Surely by now, Kate knew Marguerite well enough to know that she was going to have to put up a stronger argument than that in order to prevail.

“I can see the dried blood in your hair from here. Shoo!” the madame retorted with another abrupt gesture. “I've been caring for men, in some way or another, since before you were a glimmer in your father's eye. I know how much you enjoy it, so go soak for a bit, and I'll take care of this bit of wreckage.”

Jack shifted uneasily. He and Marguerite had a familiarity that didn’t bear examining, but she was by no means the one he wanted washing anything of his, assuming, of course, that there was anything of his that needed washing in the first place.

Ushered rather unceremoniously out the door, Kate reluctantly left with a warning not to return, until she had soaked for no less than an hour.

“She would have been quite an addition.” Marguerite sighed with regret-laden admiration, her fingers already tugging at his bandages. “I could have made a lot of money with her. Where did you ever find her?” Her eyes steady on her task, she glanced up.

“Pulled her out of the water,” was Jack’s simple response. He smiled, recalling the day, the moment with vivid clarity. Never in all his days had meeting one person have such an impact on his life.

“A mermaid, then?” she mused.

“Not exactly,” he sighed. “More a fortuitous gift.”

How did one ever begin to describe that day? It had begun no differently than two score years of others. How was he to have known that, from that day on, everything would be in a reference of either before he had met her, or after, his life coming to pivot around that single axis?

He still wasn’t completely comfortable with the concept, but the decision had been made that very day. His arms flexed; he could still feel the heavy warmth of her sleeping in his arms that first night. From that night on, he had been ready to fight for her, just as he was ready to die. He was hers. The rest was just… trifles.

“You shouldn't have left her, you know.” Marguerite’s gentle admonition broke him from his reverie.

She pulled free the last of the soiled lint from his side, and they both made a face, his from the sharp sting, and hers in sympathy. She dropped it in the pan at her feet and reached for the sponge. “That tavern over there is no place to leave a woman alone.”

“I needed to have her somewhere safe,” he said defensively. It had been his only goal since said day, a markedly difficult one, given what was given.

“A woman alone, in a strange town, in a tavern, is hardly safe,” she pointed out, dryly.

She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t already know. Bloody woman knew too much already. It was wretchedly difficult to hide anything from her.

“A lone woman, on a pirate ship is hardly safe, either,” he argued back, still feeling accused. “I couldn't have her with me, not out there.”

Marguerite fell silent for several moments as she focused on washing his chest, her mouth in a disapproving frown. Jack tucked the sheet a little closer about his loins, fervently calling a rapid string of unsavory images to mind: Cotton, Cotton’s bird, the monocular degenerate, Jones, anything to keep his goods from having an untimely awakening.

“You're just lucky I was here to take her in.” Finishing one arm, she moved on to the next.

“Why did you try to keep me from her?” He scowled. Served her right! It was high time she was on the defensive, just a bit.

“Because, she didn't want to be found.” She scrubbed too vigorously, causing Jack to yelp, but there was no apology forthcoming. “She was hurt and furious… and devastated.”

He did have the grace to be abashed by that. “I suppose I owe you a bit of thanks.”

“Does she have any idea what she's in for, getting tangle up with you?” Her question held no accusation, only frank observation. Wringing out the sponge, she shook her head. “You pirates are all alike, charming as snakes and free as birds,” she muttered under her breath as she washed his leg. “Heaven help any woman that falls in love with one!”

Her face brightened, and a sly smile grew. “Is Joshamee still with you?”

“Certainly is! The old sea worm will probably have to spend a bit o' time about, seeing's how I'm so injured and all.”

“Yes,” she mused, pausing in mid-motion. “I would suppose, for your own well-being and safety, that you might have to linger here for a while.”

“At least a week,” Jack put in. “Right nasty business, being forced to stay in a whorehouse for several days, and against me will, at that,” he added judiciously.

Renewed thoughts abounded, with images of what could be done in a week’s time, in bed, with Kate. Inhaling too deep, his daydream was shattered by a stab in his side. Blessed useless he was, right now… although, with Kate’s angelic hands, the time might not be so wasted after all.

His goods tightened, and he quickly curtailed that line of thinking.

Marguerite’s derisive snort broke him from his machinations. “As if you haven't done that before!” She gave him a light, scolding slap on the leg. “Lie still, now, and let me get this over with.”

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-five

Tue, 25 Aug 2009 00:43:16 GMT

Cleaning Up the Past
Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Jack and Kate are still trying to find their way to be together again. So much to do, so little time.
A/N: Yes, it’s true! I’m late, but I have a good excuse: gale, lost dog and boarding burglars. Is that enough? Anyway, home now, and all is well… including Jack and Kate.
Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.

Rating: R, for we’re really still at the whorehouse

It was the second time that night that Kate had woken.

The first had been to the moans, and sleep-laden whimpers as Jack battled unseen terrors. She had tried to comfort him, but he had jerked away, as if her touch had been a hot poker. He called another’s name, but this time she heard the anguish, and knew envy or resentment weren’t necessary. With persistent and gentle coaxing, he finally succumbed. She held him, and kissed away his tears. Eventually, his tremors eased. He drifted back to sleep, his brow still furrowed.

She was beginning to comprehend Jack’s shattered state, and was coming to believe more of the night before’s disjointed tale. The simple act of being there for him seemed a comfort, and so in that small way, she helped him to exorcise his demons, and cleanse the poisons of the past.

Now, she woke again. Lying on her side, the angle of the mattress and the weight of the quilt told her that the bed was empty. A noise prompted her to rise on one elbow and found Jack at the window. Sitting much as he had the night before, he had donned his shirt, one shoulder bared by the askew neck. The moonlight banding over him, he sat with his legs bent under him, half-turned from her, talking.

It wasn’t unusual to hear Jack talking to himself, but he was uniquely involved in this dialogue, so deeply engrossed in his one-way conversation, he didn’t notice her approach, until she touched his shoulder.

He didn’t jerk, just looked up apologetically. “I can’t recall the last time I slept a night through.”

He shrugged, dismissing the thought as inconsequential. He shifted slightly toward her, and his hand came into the light. Kate shrieked and scrambled backwards.

“What is that?”

He blinked, a bit puzzled by her reaction at the grotesquely wrinkled and blackened ball, crowned by a snarl of grizzled hair. “It’s Mum.”

As best Kate could tell, it was a head, severed and shrunken. Jack held the thing in unutterable tenderness and with a gentleness in his voice that she had never before witnessed.

“It’s what?” Incredulous, Kate crept closer.

“Me mum.”

There was a glitter of wetness in his lashes as he looked up, raising his hand that she might see better. Bringing the thing into the moon’s bluish light didn’t help matters, only adding to the freakishness of the hideously contorted features.

She swallowed down a gorge of bile, her finger quaking as she pointed. “You mean that…is… was…?” She gave Jack a cautious look, thinking perhaps his dementia was worse than she had thought, or that he was dreaming… or she was.

“Aye.” Jack lovingly stroked the hair of the grotesqueness cradled in his palm. “When she passed, Ol’ Teague said he could never live without her.” A wistful crooked smile grew. “Never took the old, barnacled bastard to have been such a romantic, but there it ‘tis.

“I ran off, hid for two days after she…” His face clouded, darkened by recollections, a boy, who had lived horrors, now looking back from the safety of time. “When I came back, they were gone. A month or so later, he came back…” He choked off his words, struggling to maintain the nonchalance. “With… her.”

Once sufficiently recovered, he haltingly continued.

“So ever since then, she has been with him, hanging from his belt, at his side, as it were. He spoke to her, as if she were still there, expecting her to answer. Who’s to know? Maybe she did. They always did say she had the sight, could hear the auld ones and all, so…” He lifted a bare shoulder and let it drop. “Who’s to know?”

Kate’s horror was diminished by the affection that soften Jack’s eyes as he gently traced the creased, exaggerated features. The Highlands were often considered a barbaric place, and in many ways it was, its isolated people steeped in a staggering mixture of superstition, lore, ritual and even witchcraft. But amid all that, she had never witnessed anything so bizarre… and revolting.

“What…?” Kate gulped. At one point in time, she had met women that had known Jack’s mother, and she strained to recall a name. “What was she called?”

“Sarah,” he said with tender reverence.

“It’s… it’s a lovely name,” Kate offered, at a loss as to what else to say. She crossed her arms over her chest, taken by an inexplicable was self-conscious at being naked. She wished that Jack hadn’t been wearing his shirt, so that she might have something to cover up in. He was so sincere in wishing Kate to meet his mother, she felt obligated to step closer.

“So, how…did you come to have…it…her?” Kate queried, still unable to meet the cruelly stitched face full on.

“Old bastard claimed she had said that she was tired of him. He probably had swived one too many of his whores, and she caught him. Anyway, he gave her over to me, said for me to give her the decent burial that I always wanted her to have.”

He looked up, pleading. “Would you consider coming with me… to help…?”

Never had she seen Jack so humble; no one with any shred of heart or decency could have refused.

“Certainly.” She hoped the quaver in her voice wasn’t too noticeable; if it was, Jack didn’t show it. For the first time, she wished for a bit of his adroit evasiveness. “I suppose we could find several who would be willing to attend your mother’s… final resting place.”

“No.” It was a bare whisper, after the briefest of considerations. “I’d prefer just us—you and me. Mum would have liked you. If you would agree, I would be grateful.”

Too human not to feel a stab of sympathy, but too ludicrously odd to be real, Kate tentatively studied the face. She squinted; trying to look past the freakish distortions, to see what might have been there before, if there were any hints of the straight nose, or high cheekbones or luminous brown eyes. Not surprisingly, she only found herself nose to nose with a shriveled, dark caricature of a human being.

There was a presence about the contorted features; she couldn’t help but feel a ghost, an essence of something—someone—that had once been. She caught herself almost saying, “Hello.”

Jack set the head down with lovesome care, nestling it amid the scraps of cloth on the small worktable in the corner, and they went back to bed, but Kate found sleeping with Mum didn’t come easy.

The next morning, Jack woke exceptionally bright-eyed, brightening even further with an idea.

“I want to squire you about, with you on me arm, and make everyone green with envy. Marguerite tells me there is a shop filled to the rooftrees with all the fineries a lady could possibly require. I plan to take you there, and see how big of a smile we can put on that shop owner’s face. Hell, I’ll call in the crew, if I have to, just to help carry it all!” he declared with a magnanimous swipe of his hand.

Kate glanced around the breakfast table, across the platters of steaming sausages, eggs, breads, fish and fruits. Like anything else not foremost in his mind, Jack apparently could ignore a table lined with half-clad women, in everything from wrappers to silken shifts, with the same amount of ease as anything else. Another voice reminded her that ability could well have come from well-practiced experience, but she quickly batted that thought away.

With enough frequency to be annoying, some of the women looked at Jack seated at her elbow, with more admiration that what Kate found comfortable. There were veiled looks from Analise and Camille, and the not-so veiled ones from Severine and Clarise, but never once—so far, she was quick to qualify—had she caught the remotest hint of him returning the sentiment. Some of the women had openly doubted her wisdom in waiting for him, even mockingly so, at times. He had only been there two days, but so far, he had proven her right, their resent-laden looks proof of that.

Never one to be inconvenienced by food, Jack chatted and quipped, while industriously spreading butter and honey on rolls, and stabbing food for Kate from the plates. Snagging the coffee pot, he slid her a dark-framed glance and winked as he filled her cup, at the same time making ribald additions to the morning conversation. Intently bent as he listened to Severine at the end of the table, his foot inched its way along Kate’s. His toe finally hooked around her ankle, and his foot flexed, in a small, private message.

His suggestion of shopping sent her spirits soaring, not necessarily by the allure of buying things, but by the thought of leaving the house, and having Jack to herself. Over the duration of the last year, she had rarely ventured from the houses boundaries, and eagerly made ready for the trip.

Once on the street, Jack did as he proposed, carrying her on his arm as if she were royalty. They made their way up from the docks, pausing frequently as Jack stopped to greet and chat with acquaintances. To some he introduced her, and to others he made a point of not. She took no offense; Jack had a method to everything. They went past the alehouses and grog shops, coopers and craftsman, merchant offices, brothels and parlors. The raucousness of vendors and hawkers with their pushcarts, gave way to dignified and sedate, the colorfulness of the characters in the streets yielding to a serene world of where color was found only in the way of dresses and frocks, satin and silks, and gaily beribboned bonnets and parasols.

“That’s what you need! A parasol!” Jack declared, with an elaborate wave, inspired by a particularly ornate one passed. “You need to protect that fair skin,” he pressed, unperturbed by Kate’s dismissive snort.

Jack strolled the new streets with the same air of belonging as he had the docks, blithely ignoring the looks from passers-by that ranged from puzzled to outright shock at his appearance.

They came to a halt in front of a shop window. Peeking through the glass, Jack exuberantly pointed out the items on display, freshly imported from across the Atlantic, as advertised.

“Well, well! The strumpet has finally crawled out of her hole.”

The voice drew Kate up sharp, and she wheeled around only to come directly into Simon Doncker’s face, the cloying sweet smell bringing an onslaught of memories. His eyes moved from hers to somewhere over her shoulder. A flicker of startled recognition was all solid indications that Jack had come up behind her. His hand came to rest, light but firm, at the small of her back.

“Jack Sparrow!” There was no pleasure in Doncker’s voice.

“Simon… Dungeon… no, Bunghole… no, Dungball… no…” Jack snapped his fingers, with a final decision. “Doncker!”

The merchantman’s fair features flushed, but his tone remained even. “I heard you were dead.”

“Vast exaggerations,” Jack dismissed with a casual flip of his hand, belying the tension in his arm.

Doncker’s grey eye’s swiveled back to Kate. “I can’t say I admire your tastes. He must pay better than I, which is a tragedy, because I was willing to pay a sizeable sum—by most whore standards. Wallowing in the alleys must be appealing,” he added with a disdainful glance in Jack’s direction.

“The lady prefers to be addressed as one,” Jack said in a low rumble.

“When I see one, I will,” was Doncker’s contempt-ridden response.

Jack lunched forward, the impact knocking the larger man back a few steps, before Kate could stop him with a hand on his arm.

“He’s not worth it, Jack.”

Doncker looked from Jack to Kate and back. “Correction: she’s not worth it. You’ve no idea the problems that can befall a soul in this town,” he said, with unabated menace.

With a final, punctuating glare, he turned and stalked away. Jack stood watching the man’s rigid back and exaggeratedly confident step, and at some length, chuckled.

“That strut should come a little easier,” Jack said, bearing a crooked grin. The heavy clank of a coin purse sounded from inside his coat. “He’s walking considerably lighter… now.”

“Will he know where that went?”

Jack lifted a speculative brow and smiled. “If he doesn’t, he’s a fool.”

“That could cause trouble,” she said uneasily. She was all too familiar with the fact that Doncker wasn’t a man to be trifled with.

He broke into a glittering grin. “One can only hope.”

In sudden turn of mood, Jack’s fingers dug into Kate’s arm as he steered her back toward Marguerite’s, ducking and dodging through the foot traffic, with uncharacteristic jerkiness. At one point, she chanced a look at him, stony-eyed and jaw set, and disarmingly mum.

Jack hadn’t asked, but he obviously had come to the conclusion that there had been some kind of an incident between her and Doncker. The thought occurred to her that perhaps he blamed her. Surely, he couldn’t possibly think that she would have intentionally encouraged Doncker in some way? To her, it seemed impossible, and yet in Jack’s uneven state of recent, it was difficult to forecast how he might interpret things.

Kate bit back several remarks, as she waited for her heart to slow from its trip-hammer rate it had been beating from the moment she saw Doncker’s face. Jack was there; she was safe, now. But she couldn’t quench the fears of what might happen next.

Granted, it was Jack’s fault for having left her, putting her in harm’s way in the first place. Her fear was that Jack would see it exactly that way, and would take responsibility too far. The last thing she wanted—her greatest fear—was that Jack would go off on some half-crazed vision of retribution. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been even a remote consideration, but currently nothing was normal.

She hadn’t asked to be left behind, and a certain part of her wasn’t sorry for Jack to learn of what had happened. Perhaps it might serve as a bit of a lesson, and he would be more inclined toward thinking twice before leaving her again.

All in all, she had worked herself into a state, by the time they came to the kitchens of the brothel. It wasn’t until they had threaded through there, and were in the hall, that Jack pulled her around to face him.

“What did he do?” There was no doubt was to the “whom” to which he was referring, and what he was implying.

Kate ducked her head, looking away, her first instinct being the less said the better. “Nothing.”

Jack seized her by the arms and shook her in gentle supplication, knocking her hair loose from its ribbon. “Did he lay hands on you? Tell me what he did!”

She yelped when his fingers dug deeper than he intended and he let go.

“Not as much as he wanted!” she cried. Batting the hair from her face, she retreated several steps. “Don’t you dare go near him!”

Seething, she pushed past him and sped down the hall.

Jack stood in the hallway, listening to Kate’s agitated steps fade down the hallway. Feeling the weight of someone staring, he turned to find he was at dining room the doorway. Inside, Marguerite sat at the end of the table, drinking tea. He gave her a speculative look; one rarely had to wait long to learn what was on her mind.

“I’ve done what I could to protect her,” she said, thoughtfully, as he went in and sat. “Doncker sends someone around at least once a month, sometimes more often; one of his strong arms, the authorities, someone, trying to make trouble.”

Jack leaned back on the bench, and crossed his arms. “You’ve never done a thing out of the raw goodness of your heart.”

Marguerite smiled, unfazed. “I won’t deny I had hoped that eventually Kate would tire of waiting. I could have made a lot of money with her,” she sighed wistfully. “She has that something that makes men want her.”

“Don’t I know it!” sighed Jack dryly.

She slid him a measured grey look. “I’ll have to admit, you showing up made a shambles of those plans.”

“No, you wouldn’t have made a shilling with her,” Jack chuckled softly. “Obviously, you don’t know her; there’s a spirit there that would never cave,” he said, glancing longingly over his shoulder toward the door. “I should thank you for caring for her. I’ve never seen her looking better.”

It wasn’t a lie. Fuller and softer, her bones not so close to the surface, Kate’s curves were more alluring than ever. Brushed into obedience, her hair now hung in lustrous coils down her back, and she smelled even better… if that were at all possible.

Marguerite made an unladylike noise in the back of her throat. “Living on a ship—a pirate ship, at that,” she qualified, with a scornful look, “isn’t conducive for a woman to be at her best.”

Her point wasn’t lost on him. Food, rest, shelter… a bath; it was amazing what such things could do for a person.

Marguerite held a pregnant pause as she plucked a biscuit from the plate before her, and broke it into pieces.

“She claims Doncker had her dragged into his room, and tried to have his way.”

“And?” Jack asked, nodding impassively.

“Doncker claims she followed him, attacked him, when he refused to agree her blackmail demands,” she said, looking from under one brow as she fixed her tea.

It was difficult not to laugh, but more important issues were to hand. Marguerite was maneuvering, negotiating, in her own particular style.

“And you’re believing which?” he asked, examining his fingernails.

She considered her answer as she stirred, the spoon clinking delicately on the cup. “A long time ago, I learned that the matter of who was right rarely is of any consequence.” Marguerite gave a shrug, and a “we’ll see” look.

Jack couldn’t argue with that. Right or wrong, didn’t matter. It was clear enough to anyone that had more sense than a dimwitted rumpot, that Doncker had laid hands on Kate. Even if it had only been a threat, that was enough. Marguerite might be in a position to handle matters at her point of business, but he wasn’t without his own resources.

Marguerite paused in mid-sip, to cock her ear toward the sound of the doorbell and voices in the hall. Satisfied that all was well, she finished.

“Sooner or later, Doncker’s coin is going to speak louder than mine,” Marguerite warned. A shrewd arch of her eyebrows completed her meaning.

There was no secret: Marguerite could be many things, but subtle was never one of them. He had to admit, her ability to be direct without being confrontational was a true asset, well-polished by many years of practice.

“How much do you need?” he asked, with equal levelness.

She sipped her tea, carefully setting down the cup. “How much do you have?”

He hid a smile at the open-faced request. She wasn’t being coy or evasive. The level of protection given would be in direct proportion to the size of the payment. Being the business woman that she was, there was little doubt that there would be a certain portion taken for her “efforts”; he considered that the price of doing business. She lived there, hence knew who was who, and had the connections and means to make things happen.

“Enough,” Jack finally said. He dug into his pocket, and smugly dropped the leather coin purse squarely before her, the “SD” monogram clearly visible.

Her sharp grey eyes went from it to Jack’s face, and then she smiled. “That will go a very long way.”

Kate was standing at the window of her room, when Jack came in. Caught between fuming and breaking into tears, she kept her back turned. There was the shuffle of feet, and then sound of a door softly closing. The ornament at his shoulder tinkled faintly as he moved, and then the soft tapping of his fingers on his belt. He took a breath several times to say something, and then apparently decided against it.

“Didn’t this last year count for enough silence?” he asked at length.

A jerk of the shoulder was Kate’s only response. She had worked up into a complete state by that the time, all circling around a single emotion: fear. Fear that he would do something in response to Doncker, fear that he would do it because of her, and fear that because of that, he would be injured… or worse.

There was the rustle as Jack shed his baldric and pistol, and then his coat, dropping them in a loose heap on the table. It was a symbolic gesture: he wasn’t ready to do battle.

He exhaled through his nose, and moved closer. “You need to realize that I had no choice.”

The sudden change of topic caught her off guard, and she turned sufficiently to throw him a questioning look. He took the opportunity to come closer.

“I couldn’t take you with me; I had no idea what to expect. It seemed safer here than… there,” he finished lamely, with a vague wave of his hand.

Kate hunched a shoulder, and ducked her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well I do.” He dropped his hat on the stool next to her. His knee brushed her skirt, but he was careful not to touch her further. “Surely you can’t be expecting me to just stand by, while some bastard comes along and…”

“I fought him!” she blurted, her fists balled at her sides. “I fought him, as hard as I could. I fought him off, just like I fought off…” She caught her breath, and bit her lip, having said far more than she had intended.

Jack’s face clouded. “Who?”

“No one.”

“Who!” he demanded, sharper. She made a half-hearted attempt to pull away when he took her by the arms, making sure this time that he didn’t hurt her.

“No one! It’s over and it’s done. I will not be a part of you running off and…”

“And what?” he asked, intercepting her thought. His fingers stroked her forearms where he held her. “And what?” he asked again, ducking to bring his eyes in line with hers.

She looked up into his tear-blurred image. Chivalrous nobility wasn’t one of the first descriptions that came to mind with Jack, but he was a man of this time, no matter how hard he tried not to be. She took a deep breath, in an effort to keep her voice from shaking. “Die over something so…”

“Trivial?” He smiled ruefully when she looked away, meekly nodding. He touched a finger to her chin and brought her to face him again, thumbing a tear from her cheek. “I imagine it didn’t seem so trivial at the time, did it?”

It was infuriating that he could read her face so well, that he would know so much without being told. Perhaps he did understand after all what he had left her to, and yet had done it knowing that she could manage.

“Look at it this way: I did die, and now I’m back,” he said with a casual gesture.

“I won’t be alone again. Don’t laugh at me!” Her face heated when he chuckled at her. “I couldn’t bear it! If you die, so do I.”

“No you won’t,” he said, with irritating calmness. He cupped her face, his fingers stroking her ear. “You’d go to Thomas, and you’d live on. Besides, you’ll never be alone, because I shan’t be going anywhere. If it ever should come to pass, just look around, darling. I’ll be right there.”

His eyes darkening, his jaw flexed. “Mark me well, darling, I will keep you safe,” he said, in quiet determination. He drew her closer, one arm hooking her waist as his hand followed the slope of her neck. “And any buggering bastard that has the brass balls to threaten you will pay—dearly.”

Jack knew how to work his magic, and he was working it then. Mentally, she wanted nothing more than to be furious with him; her traitorous body wanted something much more.

“Jack, I’m trying to be angry with you,” she said, trying to slither out from under his attentions. The effort was only for form; she already knew to resist was to lose.

“Give it up, darling,” he murmured against her cheek. “Better men than you have tried, an impossibility to maintain.”

“Tell me you want me.” His breath was hot on her neck. “Go ahead, say it. You know you do,” he wheedled, his hands adroitly tugging at her laces. “Say it. Say you want me.”

A distant rumble of thunder and a freshened breeze lifting the curtain were a harbinger of rain.

“I want you,” she finally gasped, when his tongue flicked her ear. It wasn’t a lie; she did want him, so badly it hurt, so badly she couldn’t utter any more of the dozen or so things she had meant to say.

“I knew it!” He smiled against her neck. “You can’t get enough of me.”

He kissed her lightly, to make amends. The second one was longer, sealing his pledge. With the third, he took possession, declaring her as his. They stumbled in a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing, and tumbled backwards onto the bed.

Jack rolled on top of her and she was ready to open herself to him, his body calling hers. In the midst of that, Kate had the sobering sense that someone was watching. She looked through the curtain of braids and cords that was Jack’s hair, and caught the startling sight of two slit eyes, staring. Jack moved his attentions to her neck, blocking her view. A few moments later, she was able to chance another look over his bare shoulder, and caught sight of the crumpled, blackened face in the corner, its expression wholly disapproving.

“Jack.” She broke free of his kiss, but was cut off by another. “Jack,” she said with more determination, trying to wriggle away, but was rendered speechless when his mouth found her nipple. “Jack!” The sharpness of her plea was not nearly as effective as its volume in his ear, and he recoiled.

“What!”

“Could you please…” she panted. “I mean would you mind… if…?” Her mind raced for a delicate way to broach the subject, she gestured toward the table in the corner. “Must we do this, with it… her watching?”

He started to object. Rising up on his elbows, he twisted enough to follow her line of sight, and saw the wisdom in her point. He rested his forehead against hers, and heaved a sigh. “There are certain times, when a man prefers not to be under the scrutiny of his elders.”

Bare buttocks clenched, he reluctantly rose and padded to the table. Amid soft murmurings of “Sorry, luv,” he tenderly scooped up the head, and rearranged it in the folds of his coat. When he turned back to the bed, his face fell, every line of his body etched with disappointment, at the sight of Kate sitting up.

“You have the look of a woman thinking.”

“Is there something wrong with that?” Another rumble of thunder might have prevented him from hearing her.

With a pained grunt, he lifted the sheet and slid in next to her. “It’s been my experience that thinking and bedding are not necessarily best performed at the same time.”

Keeping a measured distance, he settled back against the pillow. “Let’s have it,” he declared, with a suffering lilt, tidily smoothing the sheet.

“I’ve been thinking…” He made a face, but she pressed on. “I want to ask for something.”

Jack sobered at that. “Anything you want, darling, you know that. In the time I’ve known you, I could count on one hand the number of times you’ve asked for something, and still have fingers enough left to drink me rum.” His calm demeanor belied the tension in his hands as he folded them, meeting her gaze with that wide-eyed, maddeningly innocent one of his.

Kate chewed the inside of her mouth, considering her words carefully. “I want time.” She had been thinking about this since his return, and now, finally putting it into words, it sounded so petty and juvenile. She had just spent a year waiting; surely time wasn’t an unreasonable request.

She ventured a look, to see his reaction. He only nodded impassively.

“Time comes in infinite forms,” he said, lifting one brow under the edge of his scarf. “There’s the kind that…”

“I want time with you,” she interrupted, not of a mind to be distracted. “I've always had to share you, in what little snatches we could find. I want time, just with you, not as captain, or pirate, or some great legend… just you.”

He smiled at that, with not a little smugness. “That is an entire coincidence, since I just spent considerable effort negotiating that very thing.” He laced his fingers complacently across his stomach. “How much?”

How much would be too much? For Jack, negotiations were a process of asking for the moon, and the gradually spiraling back to what he had sought in the first place.

“Forever?”

She winced. She hadn’t intended to use that word, and yet it was exactly what she had been thinking. It was easily a word that could scare him off. But then, this was Jack; sometimes ten minutes appeared to be a lifetime to him.

Jack jerked, but then he assumed a more serious demeanor. “I passed up the opportunity for eternity not that long ago.” Smiling weakly, he sobered. “How about a week… here?”

Her chest tightened; he obviously thought his suggestion to be a magnanimous gesture. Her hopes were beginning to appear doomed. It was silly to think that anyone could confine him for long. The tattoo over his heart spoke volumes: “Freedom” emblazoned on the banner over a ship.

She pressed the flat of her hand over it, as if that might help erase the reality, and hold him in place. “That’s not the same thing.”

“But it's more than we've ever had. It's a start, isn't it?” He finished with one of his smiles meant to charm.

“I wanted you. A week in a brothel is not exactly the way to get your undivided attention,” she pointed out with asperity.

“Ah, but look.” He held up the sheet, to proudly display a burgeoning erection. “See that? Which way is it pointing?”

It wasn’t easy to keep from laughing; Kate turned her head, hiding behind a fall of her hair. “Jack, it's not a compass. It always points that way when it's doing… that.”

“That's where you're wrong, luv,” he scolded gently, cocking an admonishing eye. “You haven't been paying attention. It goes down, and side to side,” he said, illustrating with a finger, “all the time. But the moment you're about…” His finger went straight up, rigid. He spread his arms and lewdly rolled his eyes. “I'm all yours.”

She gave him a narrow look.

“You resist, because you know I'm right,” he said, bearing a victorious smile. “We can move to the carriage house or the hog sty, for all I care. You think it's been any easier on me? If you're away from me, I've been away from you. So you see, darling, suffering all around.”

His face fell, his mirth quickly fading. “Why are you smiling?”

She turned her head, waving a hand in an attempt to dismiss his concerns. “I can’t help, but glean a bit of pleasure from knowing you've been suffering, too.”

“Sadistic, I'll warrant, but true,” he agreed, nestling his head back into the pillow. In the next instant, he was able to summon a credible pout, batting his lashes. “Nothing left now, but to ease me pain.”

It was another one of those moments, a reminder of how quickly Jack could maneuver any conversation into what he wished to discuss. “How did this suddenly become all about you?”

His tortured look faded into a crooked grin. “Funny how it works that way, isn't it? Tell me where you want me, Kitty. I’m yours to have, and to do with as you wish.”

“Good heavens,” she groaned, touching her fingers to the bridge of her nose. “Did I ask for a whole week of this?”

“Longer, if I recall. Forever, I believe was your choice of words.” His eyes danced with tease.

“I can see where a week could only seem like forever.” She sighed, looking up into the walnut-colored gaze, and helplessly shook her head. “What am I going to do with you?”

Waggling his brows, Jack lifted the sheet, and gave a smile touched with more gold than just his teeth. “Care for suggestions?”

Rainy afternoons weren’t uncommon in the Caribbean, especially for particular season. For any inconveniences that the deluges might cause, they were exceptionally conducive to long, lazy times in bed.

The sound of the rain on the roof was hypnotic, rattling the palm fronds, the tree frogs singing in grateful approval. The storm had robbed the atmosphere of its will to stir, the fronds hanging limp in the stillness. The slam of the front door came up from the house’s hallway, followed by feet stomping, and the high-pitched ring of Marguerite’s greeting the newly-arrived customers.

The air in her room was still, and heavy with moisture. Kate blotted the sweat from the side of her face. She carefully sat up, turning slightly to look at Jack lying next to her. He was asleep, exhausted. He had been particularly exuberant in his love-making, as if he were trying to make up for lost time. It was a rare opportunity to see him sleeping. The sheet tangled at his feet, one arm was extended, where her head had rested, the other tucked under the pillow at his head, his soft, throaty rasps could be heard in spite of the rain.

“I will keep you safe.”

She had heard that once before, from a serious-faced young Highlander, standing at her bedside. It hadn’t been a matter of a grandiose promise. The pledge had been made by a warrior; his body bearing the scars of the seriousness brought by being a good man.

Well, here laid another noble man, doing everything he could to deflect the image of being bound by gallantry, and yet bound by the same desires as the next man: defend what was his.
Scarred and battered, it wasn’t an idle pledge for Jack, either. He, possibly more than her young Scottish knight, knew what that meant, the price that could be exacted, and yet he had made it willingly, without prompting or coercion.

She smiled. It would seem the she and Jack were caught in one of those a mythological struggles: he was willing to do anything to keep her safe, and she was willing to go to any lengths to be with him.

Needing to touch him in some way, she kissed the pad of her finger and touched it to his face. He stirred, his mouth curled up. Blindly groping, his hand found hers, and he pulled her back down to him. Heaving a complacent sigh, he curled on his side around her, and let the rain wash them back to sleep.

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-four

Sun, 16 Aug 2009 22:27:12 GMT

Discoveries

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Jack’s welcome home isn’t quite what he had been hoping for.
A/N: Yes, it’s true! I’m here on time! We’re weathered in port, so I’ve plenty of time to update.

Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.

Rating: R, for we're really in a whorehouse.

They woke to the raucous mixture of male and female laughter, and boots pounding past their door. The sun blazed a brilliant path through the window and across the floor, the day’s sea breeze stirring the curtains.

Jack made a rumbling sound that suggested a bear rising from its winter nap. “Bloody hell!” Mouth twisted against the pillow, his voice scratchy with sleep. “These bleeding places never change.”

Kate sleepily rolled toward him, and propped her head in her hand. “I would have to take your word for it. This is the only one I’ve ever woke up in.”

His face half-buried, only one eye was visible, dark above the pillow’s linen-white. It rolled toward her, and then narrowed. “That’s not necessarily all bad.”

With a grunt, he rose to his elbows and rubbed his face. Then he pushed up, heaving a satisfied sigh as he perched on the edge of the bed.

Kate was beginning to discover the joys of having Jack back, observing him in the midst of all the menial things done in the process of a day. It was a rare occasion to watch him wake; as a rule, he always rose first, up and gone before her day started.

Now, wiggling his toes, he gave a jaw-cracking yawn then lazily scratched—a shoulder, a rib, his balls—then yawned again, giving his head an ornament-clattering shake at the end. When he turned to her, he was awake, his usual, insufferably perky self—already!

“Good morning, luv!”

He leaned and kissed her then tunneled his nose under her brambled hair, to the crook of her neck.

“Mm!” He beatifically inhaled. “I’ve missed that.”

“Missed what?”

“You,” he sighed, in half-lidded complacency. “You smell of sleep, and dreams and bedding, and just a touch of… lavender?” He frowned, puzzled. “Can’t say I recall that.”

“I’ve been working in the gardens.”

He kissed her again, leisurely exploring and teasing, but broke away when she tried to draw him closer.

“I know what you need,” he announced, pushing away as the smell of frying sausages and steaming plantains rose from the kitchen.

She reached out and suggestively stroked his arm. “There could be several things that I need.”

He slithered away, and set to scurrying about the room, gathering his clothes. Kate watched, wondering how one person could walk about a room with such abandon, stark naked. Struggling to wake further, she lay curled on her side as he chattered about God knew what, leading her to reconsider the merits of sleeping alone. Hastily jamming his shirttail into his breeches, amid a flourish of hips and hands, Jack padded barefoot out of the room, pledging to return as his voice echoed down the hall.

Kate’s efforts to rise had only advanced—not due to lack of effort—to sitting up against the pillow when Jack burst back into the room. Balancing a clattering china-laden tray, he hooked the door behind him with a foot and swung it closed, giving it a final push with his rear. The same foot adroitly snared the stool at the window, and drug it to the bedside.

“Gifts for the queen!” he announced setting down the tray on the stool.

A pot of coffee, cups and a small cream pitcher dominated the tray, on the side a hastily gathered breakfast of fruit, toast and kippered fish.

“Mornings don’t seem very kind,” he said, wrinkling his nose in distaste at her crumpled state as he sat.

“Not in my world, no,” she sighed dully, rubbing her head.

“Some say,” he began, going through the motions of pouring, “the mornings are the best part of the day. Meself,” he paused, lifting his eyebrows in case she was to be confused by another “self” in the room, “have found the evenings to be much more agreeable in their basic nature, although, there are—“

“Jack,” she interrupted, pressing her fingers to the bridge of her nose.

He stopped in mid-pour, mildly interested. “Yes?”

Kate did all she could to curtail her exasperation, but failed miserably. “Is there a point coming—anytime soon?”

He leaned away, curling his lip. “Tut, tut, darling! You really should have something done about that.”

Watching him prepare coffee, she had another one of those moments of discovery. His stream of chatter was another bridge; she could close her eyes and pretend he had never left. But the sight of his hands, elegantly long-fingered, picking up, holding and putting down each object touched a memory. Still tar-stained, the rectangular nails were the same, as were the scars that webbed his knuckles. They marked a sharp contrast against the delicately flowered pink and white china. Many times a tea or coffee pot could look out of place in a man’s hand. Somehow, Jack managed it with enough flair to transcend the incongruity of Kohl-lined eyes, a brand at his wrist, and a bone in his hair.

There’s a pirate pouring in the parlor.

One by one, or taken together, they touched images of the past, pinching the gap of their separation smaller and smaller.

Neither of them mentioned the pre-dawn scene. It almost could have never happened, except Jack was markedly more relaxed. Not necessarily at peace—he was far from that—but his spirit was eased.

Her reverie was snapped, by the realization of a pair of sable eyes staring at her. One eyebrow took a quizzical lift, disappearing under the edge of his scarf.

“I thought I lost you there for a moment. Here.” He handed her the coffee as if it were a treasured reward.

Jack leaned to prop his elbows on his legs, meditatively flexing his hands, looking in every direction but hers. She impulsively reached to him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

He twitched, startled. “What?”

“Nothing,” she said, assured by the hard curve of his body under his shirt. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

Relieved, he put a hand over hers and squeezed. “Glad to be here, darling. There were times it appeared highly improbable.”

His eye caught something of interest at her neck. “What’s this?” he asked, fingering her necklace. “Hole stones?”

She was only slightly surprised that he knew what the stones were, and so assumed that he would be familiar with their purpose as well. “I wasn’t sure if you would believe in such things.”

He snorted, one corner of his mouth tucking up. “Darling, you’re speaking to a man who’s been dead, gone to Hell—literally and figuratively—and came back to tell about it. I’ve seen many things, some of which defied all logic, and others that were totally logical, but defied explanation.”

“I needed to bring you back.” Self-consciously fondling the stones, she recalled the desperation that had driven her to the conjure woman’s doorstep.

“Let’s see,” he said thoughtfully, angling his head. As his eyes traversed the room, he began meditatively rubbing his chest. “Iron under the bed, a gris-gris bundle lying on the table, and the smell of sandalwood in the air. I’d venture to guess someone has been to Ma Mère.” He broke into one of those smiles that always served to dazzle. “I’d say it was money well-spent.”

Looking away, he went introspective again, his mouth working in a private conversation. Kate couldn’t help but notice the differences in him. For all the familiarities, there were changes that couldn’t be ignored. Even after his confessional the night before, he still carried the weight of another burden.

She watched him over the rim of her cup, fiddle and twitch, nodding absent-mindedly at anything she said. As she idly chewed on a corner of the toast, it wasn’t a lost detail that he hadn’t had a coffee with her; he used to. Now, he had politely declined then reluctantly acquiesced and took a few obligatory sips at her insistence.

Finally, when she couldn’t bear the tension-laden awkwardness any further, she set down the cup. “You were with her, weren’t you? Elizabeth?”

The mere uttering of the name made her stomach clench, a haunting ghost brought to life on the bed between them. Jack jumped as if jabbed in the ribs by a sword, darting looks around the room. She watched him as he went from startled, to accusing, and then finally to resigned, conceding to her insight.

“How did you know?”

Her last bit of toast turned to sawdust in her mouth. There was rarely any doubt when Jack had something on his mind. The struggle came in trying to learn what it was. “There was still something you were trying not to say.”

Her next admission came with more than a little pain. “Besides, you were calling for her in your sleep.”

His displeasure at that thought was obvious. “It’s not how you think,” he was quick to say. “I know you,” he said judiciously, wagging a finger, “thinking no differently, than any other woman would be thinking. I promise—I swear—she found me…”

A rushing filled Kate’s ears, blocking out everything, while black spots began to swim before her eyes.

“…was there, and I was there…,” he was saying in broken bits and pieces as her hearing cleared. “…and so was I. And yes… for a time…” He wavered, and gulped. “A very little time… I fancied…”

Kate closed her eyes in dread of what was to come next. God! It was worse than she had imagined; the cup she held began to rattle in its saucer. He was leaving, and was trying to find a way to tell her that he would soon be gone.

It was too cruel. In a way, she would have preferred that he hadn’t come back, if all he was going to do was leave again. She tried to rationalize that at least she had seen that he was well, shattered, but alive. It was an empty thought.

Tears welled. She could barely see through the fabric of the sheet she pleated with one hand, frantically groping for a way to dodge the subject. If she could keep him talking, maybe she could put off the inevitable. Jack was easily distracted, and loved nothing more than a good avoidance of the uncomfortable.

“You told me once I reminded you of her.” It hadn’t been just the once, nor just him. Others—Gibbs, Norrington, and the dark-eyed stranger who had visited one day—had all said much the same thing, if not by name, certainly in spirit.

“Only the once, and it wasn’t meant as an endearment,” Jack said with a definitive swipe of his hand. “If you’ll recall, I did everything humanly possible to avoid you, and not because I wanted her,” he announced, emphatically cutting off her thoughts. “It was because I wanted nothing to do with her. She scared me.”

Shaking his head, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “All I could imagine was that you were going to be another… her.”

“And?” she asked breathlessly, peeling a cautious look. Suddenly she needed a drink, and snatched up the cup; its contents slopping on the bedclothes, her hand shook so.

“You’re nothing alike.” His categorical firmness came out in a rush of relief, his relief as well as hers. “I mean, yes, you’re both confident and strong, and can wield a sword…” He looked up and met her gaze with a long, searching one of his own. “But you’ve a heart, and you don’t see every person as a stepping stone toward what you want. She’s a killer.”

“I’ve killed,” she said, and ducked her nose into her cup. It was an uncomfortable truth, and one that she preferred not to highlight, but if it was a standard by which he measured, then she hoped to at least score there.

A corner of his mouth tucked up into a glimmer of his familiar crooked smile. “Aye, you have. But you regret it, and carry the guilt of it. She does it, because the unfortunate soul was between her and what she wanted, one more obstacle to be dispatched,” he finished with a startling vehemence.

It was notable that he never once spoke Elizabeth’s name. Kate wondered if it was out of fear of her reaction, or of his own, as if saying the name would open a floodgate of emotions he couldn’t contain.

“And so you were there… and she was there…?” The cold realization of where this was going seized Kate. Losing her appetite, she shoved the virtually untouched breakfast away.

Here it was, the reason he had come back: to tell her he was never coming back. A dozen voices argued that, if that were the case, he would have never come back in the first place. Long, uncomfortable good-byes weren’t Jack’s style. Either he would have returned to pretend everything was the same—which he could perform flawlessly—or he would have never come back at all. A confession of undying love and devotion for someone else didn’t figure readily into the equation.

On the other hand, if Jack was expecting her to play the other woman, he was sadly mistaken. She couldn’t bear sharing him. She had shared him with the Pearl, but that had been knowingly; he and his ship were a package, there was no separating them. This was different. This was a choice, and she was not going to play games.

Jack had literally blown into her life. In the next dozen or more weeks, he had set her world on end, being both blessing and curse. And then, just as quickly as he had arrived, he was gone, like the rest of his life, leaving only turmoil in his wake. Never had she demanded anything of him except the truth, which he was giving her now—maybe. Jack was Jack; she had kept her expectations low, but this…

“Jack I don’t want to hear this!” She turned her head, tears squeezing out on her cheeks. He took her by the chin and brought her back to face him, his fingers digging into her skin, his eyes inches from hers. Realizing that his fingers were digging into her flesh, he let go.

“You’re going to hear it. I need you to hear it.” His conviction left her wondering if it was for her benefit or his.

He took her hand, so pale against his bronze, and held it in his lap as if it were fragile glass, lightly tracing her fingers with his. “I went through damnation, Hell and war to be able to come back. I can’t say I have nothing to be ashamed of, because that would be a lie—and you’d see through it quickly enough with those cursed eyes. No man over the age of thirteen has a clear conscious, but I’m here.

“You once asked me not to lie, so here it is.” It appeared that he had been preparing this speech for a while, and was determined to pursue it, no matter the consequences. “I can’t manage without you, Kitty.”

Kate’s breath caught, and she looked away. After being left for a year, she wasn’t about to be drawn in by a smooth lie. ”Don’t be silly, Jack. You don’t…”

“Silly is trying to be otherwise. You forget, I had a year of trying, and made an utter shambles of the entire, wretched affair.”

He drew a deep breath, as grim as a man walking a rotten gangplank, disaster and peril only steps away. “If I didn’t learn another bloody thing, I learned that I need you, Kitty.” He looked up searching her face for any sign of reason to be hopeful.

“The Locker was hell,” he said. “But then, I woke up to a new hell: you weren’t there. I tried to find a way to live forever, but now I know now why I failed: my heart wasn’t mine to give. It was here, with you.”

His eyes went to liquid brown, and as bottomless as she had ever seen. Jack was a master at hiding his thoughts, but he wasn’t hiding anything now. If he were lying, then it was one of his best.

“I need you, Kitty,” he said in an urgent whisper. “I need you safe, but heaven help this wretched carcass, I need you with me more.”

He ended with a lame lift of the shoulder, resigned but satisfied, mission complete. “I just thought you should know that. Take me in, or toss me out; do what you will. It makes no difference, either way, I’m ruined. If you’ll have me, I’m here.”

“Is this guilt you’re trying now?”

He dropped his head, and peeked up from under his lashes. “If it’ll work. You should be guilty, for destroying a man in his prime. Throw me out now, Kitty, and I’ll be the doddering codger in the corner that everyone throws a copper, to get him to stop rambling.”

His charms were working; she began to crumble. “And if I take you in?”

He broke into a dazzling grin and spread his arms in victory. “Then I’m a happy man. And no man can dream for more than that.”

She had another moment of discovery, another one of those things she had nearly forgotten about Jack: the emotional whirlwind. He could take a person from the depths of despair, to euphoric heights and back down again, all in a matter of moments.

A small piece of paper, bundled around a piece of lead shot, was still snugly placed in her skirt pocket. “Never!” That affirmation was equally emphatic and touching as the declaration he had just made.

She bit her lip, choking back the tears, as she fought the urge to slap him again, just for scaring her so badly. The day before, she had been both hurt and enraged by his failure to trust her. It would seem they both had that lesson to learn, and a difficult one it was.

Head bent, shoulders tensed to the point of rigid, his fingers knotted into the bedclothes as he waited for her reply, and her heart broke just that little more.

“Do you think it’s any easier for me?” she asked, wishing her voice wasn’t so querulous. “Do you think that I just merrily went on with my life, when you’re gone? Do you think that I don’t spend most of my day staring at the horizon, wondering if you’re ever coming back?”

She blinked back a flood of tears. “I knew you were dead. I heard it, and I felt it… and I saw it. A part of me died, too… and I mourned.”

It wasn’t easy to catch Jack unawares, but she had. Looking up, he went from surprised, to shocked, to delighted astonishment.

“I… I… never thought… I never meant…” he stammered.

They sniffed and roughly dabbed their eyes. She put her arms out for him. “Come here.”

He settled into her embrace, head on her shoulder, molding his shape to hers. Complacently sighing together, they lapsed into placidness, basking in what they had waited so long for. There was still a strained awkwardness; touching made it easier, and so they did. Kate’s hand drifted up under the heavy curtain of braids and cords of Jack’s hair. There her fingers idly combed through the silky-softness, while he repeatedly traced the curve of her collarbone.

Where does one start after a year? What does one do when their single wish has been granted? There was so much Jack hadn’t said, and yet he had been remarkable forthcoming. By the sound of it, he had been through several hells.

“I came back to you.”

What more could she ask?

Sounds of the house closed in around them. It might have been a brothel, a place of business, but to Kate it was home, more so than the Black Pearl, if duration had any bearing on the title. The women living there might have been employees, but it was a home to them as well, and it possessed the same rhythms as any dwellings. The muffled rumble of male laughter came through the walls. From outside the window, the laughter and chatter of the house servants could be heard, the smell of wood smoke rising from the fires, as they prepared to boil laundry. The fishmonger’s could be heard, his nasal call at the back step, making his daily delivery.

It was all more than she had ever dared to imagine: a real bed, clean sheets, enough food—and Jack. For him, she would surrender the rest.

It was odd to have Jack in the middle of such scenes of domesticity. Her associations of him were with the sounds of water and ship, wind and wave, and all the elements that constituted freedom. From what he had told her, in his childhood he had been bound by family and home, but had long since risen from those bonds and flown, never to be restricted again. He seemed altogether comfortable in such a domestic setting, but then Jack had a way about him. He could walk into the Royal Court with the same élan as he strode the docks or entered an alehouse. Maybe it was just a testimonial to how much time he had spent in whore houses, or Marguerite’s, at any rate.

“The times I dreamed of this,” he sighed, contentedly. Whatever the weight had been that dragged at him earlier, it was lifted and forgotten.

Her arms flexed around his shoulders. “No more dreams; I’m here.” She touched her lips to the dark crown of his head. “A promise?”

An affirmative movement against her shoulder was her response.

“Don’t ever leave me again?”

His arms tightening, he turned his head and gently kissed her neck. “Think of another one, darling. That one was granted long ago.”

They lay quiet, afraid to let go, afraid that if they did their fragile bond might shatter and be lost forever, basking in the culmination of a year’s struggle. The sounds of the house coming to life rose around them, seemingly bending around the small room and continuing on, cocooning them in their solitude.

In time, Jack’s head moved, and he brought Kate’s mouth to his. While in the midst of a languid probe of every crevice there, his hands began their own exploration.

“I’m having a thought, here,” he murmured against her skin. His hips moved against hers in suggestion. His hands grew more persistent, cupping the full of her breast.

A slight shift of her hips was her response. Kate wondered vaguely how one could undress so quickly, but then it was Jack; no further explanation was necessary. Carelessly tossing his shirt and breeches to the floor, he wormed his way under the sheet. With coffee eyes bright with tease, and a gold-flecked smile around an even more golden tongue, he began a torturous journey downward.

The urgency of coming together for the first time had passed. This was the Jack she remembered, the careful, patient lover, so accomplished at giving what she wanted, and yet withholding what she wanted most, suspending her between wishing he would take just a bit longer, and at the same time, coaxing him to go faster.

Eventually his head popped out at the other end of the sheet, and elicited delighted groans from her as he did unspeakable things between her toes. She blindly groped for him, but he gently resisted, and began a shattering journey to the arch of her foot then the tender skin at the back of her ankle, and upward to…

“What the…?” He drew back, his voice trailed off in a strangled gasp. Muttering blackly, he ran a hand down her leg then gave her an accusing look. “What the bloody hell happened?”

Jerked from her sensual euphoria, Kate sat up, expecting to see her leg missing, judging from the alarm in his voice. “What?”

“This!” he fumed, pointing a rigid finger.

“Oh, that.” She chuckled softly, lying back into the pillow again. “I waxed.”

“I know that!” he huffed indignantly. “Why?”

“Why not?” She sat up again, feeling her smooth, hairless shin. “Isn’t it wonderful!”

“No!” he shrieked, his eyes bulging. “It’s unnatural! It’s…it’s…”

“Severine and Camille said they had customers who loved it. Marguerite told me in France, they did it all the time. All the ladies at Court…”

“Well, you’re not at Court, are you?” he said, with a mocking edge, his bare chest heaving. “Why would you do…this?” Eyeing her leg, his lip curled in disgust as he flipped a dismissive hand.

“Why not?”

Resting her chin on her knee, she ran her hand down her leg again. Spreading warm beeswax there had been a soothing indulgence; the strips of worn linen pressed into it a minor thing. The first yank of the cloth, however, she thought she had been relieved of her skin. Aloe and witch hazel compresses, along with not a little oral application of bumbo and spiced perry wine had been effective in soothing the discomfort.

Never had she done anything so wildly decadent, or luxurious. Taking baths weekly, with soaps, talcs, creams and powders, shampoo—living in the best brothel in the West Indies had it benefits.

“Believe me, it hurt like hell, but I love it,” she said. “You feel so clean. Don’t tell me you’ve never seen it before.”

“Of course, I have!” he burst out then collected himself. “Maybe… could be… once or twice…” His mood returned. “But not on you!”

“Why not?”

“Because, it’s… it’s… it’s… not natural!”

“You said that,” she pointed out tolerantly. “The girls said some men like it.”

“And some don’t.” The dangles in his beard bobbed wildly at the jerk of his head.

She was still annoyed with him, for having left her, and still wanted to make him atone for all the hurt that he had caused her. A little of the things she had learned, while she had been living at Marguerite’s, seemed like just the right kind of salt for his wounds. “Then I don’t suppose you’d like the ones that even wax—“

“No!” he blurted adamantly. “Like lying with an infant,” he grumbled, grimacing when he realized she had heard. He gave her an imperious glare down the long line of his nose. “Hair was put where it was put, because it ought to be there.”

“Men shave.”

“I don’t!” he announced with cold finality.

“Well, many—most—do. It’s cleaner; it shows a man cares about his appearance.”

“I care!” he said with asperity. “And I’ll have you know I’m cleaner than I ever was.” He lifted an arm in exhibition and noisily sniffed. “I washed last week, just for you.”

He shifted effortlessly to a wounded look. His lower lip actually protruded in a pout. “Didn’t you notice?”

Jack’s sensibilities could be at times very fragile. Considering what he had been through over the last year, she was willing to try to be a bit forgiving. “A week ago is a little difficult to notice, but I appreciate the thought… and the effort.”

She leaned closer, to toy with a braid at his shoulder. “Marguerite has a tub, actually two. She’s rather fussy about her filles.”

Another part of the reputation of the house involved cleanliness and hygiene, two things very close to Kate’s heart. There were, indeed, many advantages; compared to a ship—a pirate ship, at that—she had been living in the lap of luxury.

She ran a hand across the smooth flat of his chest. “I’m sure we could arrange something.”

She wondered how familiar Jack would be with those same indulgences. He had a way of worming his way into anything he wished. The internal functions of a whole house wouldn’t be beyond his domain. She closed her mind to the images that came too readily, of Jack in those same baths—and not alone, to be sure.

“Not if I’m going to come out with me balls as bare as the day I was born!” he said, twisting out from under her consoling attempts.

Uncomfortable under his haughty glare, Kate sat back, pulling the sheet around her hips. “Marguerite said the last time you were here, you paid—“

“Belay that!”

“She said in Paris there were joy houses, where they take all—“

“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he cut in, waving an irritated hand.

“She said you told her.”

“Belay! Belay! Just shut it! Must we lie in bed discussing Marguerite?” he declared, beseeching the ceiling. He paused, one eye squinting suspiciously. “You didn’t… I mean… have you… ?”

Her tender skin cringed at the thought, but it was her turn to pose a pout, one far more effective than his. “You don’t remember?”

“Of course, I remember!” His gaze settled where the sheet dipped at her waist. “Just don’t recall… clearly… just now… that’s all,” he finished, lamely. His demeanor shifted seamlessly to suffering. “I’ve been under a strain… and I was so enraptured with your powers…”

“Forget it, Jack,” she warned lightly, crossing her arms. “You’re only fanning the fire.”

His fingers inched their way up her leg, clandestinely seeking a solid enough grip on the sheet.

“That’s not going to work either, “she warned, halting his hand with hers. “ You really didn’t notice did you?”

“I was pre-occupied.” He gave her a long look, measuring. “I know you didn’t. I would have noticed something so blatantly perverse.”

“You didn’t notice my legs, until just now.” She batted her eyes coquettishly. “I just thought you might like something a little different.”

“Ah-ha! You had no idea I was coming.” He crossed his arms, his jerky nod marked by a clatter of metal at his shoulder, clearly under the impression that he had just discovered a diabolical plot: deception by denuding. “If it hurt so bloody much, why would you put yourself through such a thing?”

“Are you suggesting I did it for someone else?”

“Since, you brought it up.” His eyes rounded, his chin jutting out.

“How dare you!” She could feel her color rising. “How can you…?”

In a fluid move, he jerked up an edge of the sheet, and shot his hand underneath, deftly seeking the area in question.

“I thought so!” he declared victoriously, staving off her squeals of protest.

With mischievous delight, his fingers went deeper, her sounds of alarm melting into appreciative groans. She pulled him closer as she sank deeper into the pillows.

“I’ll give you an hour to stop.”

“Only an hour, eh?” His eyes glinted with mischief as he gave them a dramatic roll. “Given such time constraints, I guess I’ll have to forego several things I had in mind.”

He bent to kiss her, his fingers teasing and baiting. “Promise? Promise me,” he taunted. “Promise? No changes. You, that’s all I want—all I’ll ever want—you.”

“Promise.”

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-three

Wed, 12 Aug 2009 17:27:01 GMT

Fitting Back the Pieces

Author: compassrose7577
Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Jack’s welcome home isn’t quite what he had been hoping for.
A/N: Yes, it’s true! I’m finally here! Since you’ve all been so patient, this is an extra long one, too. It’s been a long trail of travails trying to find a connection with the outside world, but I’ve finally prevailed.

Thanks to stealmybike for returned to the reins of betaing this travesty. Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.

Rating: R, for not really adult stuff here, just some blunt observations

It had been a busy morning for Kate. Most days she would have checked the bay a dozen or more times by then, but she had been so preoccupied with the parade of people in and out of her room, that it was afternoon before she looked out the window for the first time.

At first she couldn’t believe what she saw. Surely it was the months and months of wishful thinking that had finally affected her eyesight. Squinting, she looked again, turned away, and then looked back, just to be sure. It had to be a hallucination; one of Ma Mère potions had suddenly gone bad. She stood immobile at the window, seized by disbelief.

Kate was no mariner. One ship often looked the same as the next, subtle differences in rakes of masts or angles of bows being lost on her. Even half-obscured by the tangled forest of yards, masts and rigging of other ships in the harbor, there was no mistaking the Black Pearl… nor the voice she heard downstairs, at that very moment.

Cursing herself for having been so derelict in a routine she had followed for months, she was caught between laughing and crying as she scurried across her tiny room, the boot steps and jangling clatter that she knew so well coming down the hallway. Her hand hovered over the doorknob as, just that quickly, the footsteps passed, and faded down the hall, scuffing to a stop at the end, followed by the firm rapping on a door.

Choking back her sobs, Kate leaned her head on the window frame, and fought back tears of rage with tears of hurt and disappointment. Jack might have failed to visit the brothel before he left, but he had certainly made sure it was his first stop now. How well he could have lied, denied any wrongdoing, if she had still been where he had left her?

“Probably as well as he had been lying all along,” she choked bitterly.

The same door slammed and boots went by. Muted or not, there was no mistaking the sound of Jack grumbling under his breath as he sped past. Someone, somewhere, laughed; overshadowing his conversation with Amalie on the stairway, but it didn’t take a vast imagination to know what they were talking about. He wasn’t wasting his time filling his dance card.

Raised voices echoed up from the parlor, Jack shouting something about “the new one.” Kate clapped her hands over ears and buried her head between her arms; the last thing she wanted to hear was Jack selecting his next whore.

Her face flared hot with humiliation. Be damned if she was going to be played the fool!
Enraged, she tried to yank the necklace from her neck, intending to heave it out into the street, her frustration peaking when the thing refused to come free. Squealing, she pounded the bedpost, and then hurled her pillow at the door.

Breathless, she fell against the window’s edge and sobbed, the balled fist buried in her gut less painful than the stabbing that twisted there.

“Kate!”

The bastard was calling her now… finally! Marguerite must have finally warned him.

“Damn it to all bloody hell!! Kate!!” Sure! Now he’s trying to find her.

Jack’s boots bounded up the stairs, and drew to a halt at her door. Just when she thought he might have changed his mind, and wasn’t going to come in, there was a single blow and the door burst open. He took two determined steps into the room, and halted as Kate whirled around to face him.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here?” His guttural roar vibrated the walls. He gave the door a violent heave and it slammed shut, rattling the windowpanes.

In the months that he had been gone, she had mourned, and then done everything she could to assure his return. Amid all that, anger had been building, out of the frustration of helplessness and hopelessness. His ignominious entry hadn’t helped matters, and now the seething cauldron boiled up and overflowed. A few minutes ago, all she could think was to hug him and shower him in kisses. Now, she vacillated wildly between wanting to throw her arms around him and hitting him.

The latter won.

She turned from the window, and slapped him across the face, with a resounding crack. There was no doubt that he saw it coming, and yet he didn’t try to resist, or fend it off. Instead, he stood his ground, his head snapping to the side with the force of it.

He grimly shook off the sting. “I deserved that.”

The first hand still stinging, Kate slapped him with the other hand, harder, the silver ornament at his shoulder jangling with the force.

“Probably deserved that one, too,” he said, resignedly, rubbing his cheek.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded, hotly then stiffened. “Of course, my mistake. Where else would I find you?”

“I might be inclined to ask you the same question,” he growled, standing nose to nose. “I said I was coming back!”
She made an uncouth noise. “The shores of the world are lined with women who have heard that one!”

She turned back toward the window, determined for him not to see the hurt and betrayal that burned so deep. He came up behind her, his hands hovering at her shoulders, and then tentatively settled there.

“Don’t touch me,” she hissed. He jerked away and retreated to the farthest corner.

The view out the window was a familiar one. By that time of day, the sun fell in molten bands between the buildings and across the blue mosaics of the harbor. The activity on the wharves had slowed in the afternoon heat, the draft animals standing hipshot, heads down dozing, tails lazily twitching. The sky was its deepest sapphire, the anvil-headed clouds of a thunderstorm clustering ominously in the distance.

“I left money,” he said, quieter, but no less angry.

Somehow, in his convoluted line of reasoning, he expected that small act to make everything right. He was sadly mistaken.

“And just how many women have you left money on the table, and an ‘I’ll be back’ as you walked out the door?” she said rounding on him, roughly dabbing her face dry.

He winced at that, a soft-underbelly found. “That’s not fair.”

“Fair!” she screeched. “I’ll give you fair! Do you have any idea what I have been doing here for the last year or more?” she demanded, his image blurred by the wetness in her lashes. “You can’t imagine how thrilling it has been to get a never-ending lesson on ‘What Jack likes,’ or the more popular ‘How to please Jack.’”

He could never understand the pain of having the women flaunt their escapades with him in torturous detail? How could he have known what it had been like to be judged and measured, for holding herself as too special to join their ranks, saving herself for someone who had bedded every one of them… more than once? She doubted that she could explain what the teasing and chiding had been like, whispers being cut short whenever she walked into a room, snickering behind her back that she would be so gullible as to be waiting for one of the house’s best customers.

Jack gave her a profoundly puzzled look. “Didn’t you tell them who you are?”

“Who am I?” She raised her arms in question, and he flinched, jumping back as if he expected another blow. “What was I supposed to say? I’m the most recent one to warm your bed? Or, I’m your newest favorite? There are four more favorites downstairs; where in that line would you like me to stand?”

Still rubbing his reddened face, he narrowed on eye. “You know you’re different.”

“How am I any different? I’m right here among all the other whores?” she said, taking an angry swipe at an errant strand of hair that blew across her face.

Jack commenced to pacing, as best as could be managed in the small space, taking only three or four steps at a pass, his agitation growing with each turn. “You’ve been different from the very first. You know that,” he said, stabbing an accusing finger at her.

“So the standard is it took longer for you to leave me, is that what makes the difference? Did you leave me more money, than the others? Did it take longer for you to tire of me, before going on to the next whore? What’s so different, Jack? Explain to me one thing that’s different!”

Going rigid, Jack curled a fist. Kate stepped back, his countenance darkening to the point she thought he might hit her. Starting in a low rumble, his voice built until his final words vibrated the walls.

“I have not gone with another woman, since you showed up on me deck—not one. I may have bought their lips, but that was all. And now, I’m standing in a bloody whorehouse, with a cockstand that near brings tears to me eyes, wondering why in the blazing, sodding hell I sailed for nigh on to a month to get back to you!”

He whirled around looking for something to break, but it was a Spartan room. Finally his eyes landed on a small table in the corner, and he seized the first object his hand fell upon—a pair of scissors. Blindly flinging them across the room, they hit the wall, clattering as they skidded across the floor. His foot kicked the pillow she had thrown earlier. Mouthing several black oaths, he snatched at it, and hurled it against a wall.

“I came back to you.” He pivoted back around, and ground out each word. “I. Came. Back. To. You.”

A sharp rap at the door startled them both.

“Madame Harper?” It was Gaubert; he called through the door, sounding honestly concerned. “Are you well?”

“Yes, I’m fine,” Kate replied. She appreciated the house guard’s concern; he seemed to have taken a particular liking to her, and had kept a constant vigil on her behalf during her stay. However, she had strong suspicions that his appearance at the door wasn’t completely on his own volition; do doubt Marguerite had a hand in that.

“Are you sure, Madame? It sounds like…”

“There’s nothing to worry about,” Kate interrupted, giving Jack a cold glare. “You can go back downstairs.”

The interruption broke them apart. Like swordsmen, they circled, waiting for what the next exchange would bring. The sounds of the house filled the bristling silence between them. Muted laughter, female shrill and male guttural, echoed up from the parlor; raucous voices passed her door, fading down the hall. The cook shouted, in search of the scullery maid.

“Kate, you knew….” Jack began, keeping a calculated distance.

“Yes, I knew!” she seethed. “I knew you’d put it around, Jack, a lot!” She closed her eyes, and drew a shuddering breath.

“Look” she started more quietly, sinking on the bed, “I know you are not the kind of man who comes into a port and spends the night alone. I’ve seen how the women flock to you. But I am not one of those wide-eyed girls, whose heart goes all a-flutter, because the great Jack Sparrow—excuse me, Captain Jack Sparrow—has chosen me to share his three day spree!” Her head dropped into her palm, and she dug her fingers into her scalp.

“I have not been living under some illusion. I never had visions of forever; I’ve known from the very beginning that this was only temporary. I knew there would come the day, when I’d be left standing on some shore, watching you sail away. Somehow, I just thought it wouldn’t be...” She raised a hand, her mouth moving wordlessly then dropped the hand limply in surrender. “...now.”

“Why in the bloody hell a whorehouse?” he pleaded, beseeching the ceiling.

“Because I figured it was one place I’d find you,” she jibed, acidly. Unable to sit, she stood, and began arching her own patterns in the floor.
“I was looking for you.”

“Oh, yes, I heard you down there,” she said with a gesture toward the downstairs, and dropped her voice to his graveled level. “’Give me the new one’ I think is how you put it. Oh, yes, and then there was ‘Not her; isn’t there another one?’”

“I was looking for you.”

It was becoming a wearisome chant.

“Really? And you never thought to use my name?”

“I was told you weren’t using it,” he said, through a clenched jaw.

Kate propped her hands on her hips. “By who?”

“By one who apparently knew you,” he snarled. “I met some of your satisfied customers. Lovely blokes, eh?”

Jerking her head, she crossed her arms and turned her back, clearly having nothing more to say. Behind her, she could hear Jack pacing and swearing in equal amounts.

Finally, he drew up behind her. “Listen, luv…”

Kate went rigid, her arms stiff at her sides. “Don’t call me that!”

“All right, Kate, I…”

“Don’t call me that either!”

“All right, Katherine.” He warily stopped. “I assume Katherine will be all right.”

She shot him a cold glare over her shoulder. “No one has called me Katherine since my father.”

“Look, Madame,” he began with a sarcastic bite. He waited for her retort; receiving only a glare, he continued. “I meant to be back sooner.”

She gulped, choking back the growing waver in her voice. “Your note said a month. You snuck off in the night, and left me a lousy note! Nothing more; not a ‘Thank you’, or ‘Good-bye,’ or ‘Go to Hell’, nothing but a lousy note.”

“I left money enough to last for well over a month. Hell, I paid for the room a month in advance!”

Remotely, it occurred to her that she should have been touched by his efforts, but she wasn’t.

“Well, perhaps you should have explained that to the good Monsieur Gicquel and his kindly wife,” she pointed out heatedly. “You had barely left, than I was thrown out.”

“That bloody bastard!! I'll shoot him tomorrow.”

It was an empty threat; they both knew it, but it did help break the tension. She hadn’t considered the consequences of what Jack would do when he learned of her unceremonious eviction. She had been more concerned with whether or not he would come back.

“There weren't many places for me to go.” Her tone cooled further, weariness replacing rage.

“But did it have to be here?” Jack pleaded, his arms churning the air.

Kate swiveled around enough to give him a narrow look. “What do you suddenly have against whorehouses? Where else would you suggest? The blacksmith?”

He flinched at that, sliding a dark glare from the corner of his eye.

“I can’t believe you think that little of me.” Her throat tightened, and her eyes began to brim. Rage was beginning to dissolve into hurt. Perhaps that was the worst: his lack of trust, his failure to understand what it had taken for her to survive all those months. “You think I would become a whore, just like that?”

“I think you'd do it just to spite me.” His beard dangled bobbed as he stalked closer, the pulse throbbing on his neck. “I think you were so angry, you decided to do the one thing you could think of to get even.”

Kate made a very unladylike noise. “I hope this isn't a great blow to your manhood, but you're not worth that!”

A light coded tap at the door that interrupted them both, followed by a small voice.

“Kate? It’s me, Minnie.”

“Come in, Minnie,” Kate answered, throwing Jack a warning look.

Ever nervous, Minnie’s eyes rounded with surprise when she saw Jack, and momentarily forgot what she had come for.

“Camille sent me to see if her chemise was ready? She says one of her best customers is due tonight…” Her voice trailed off, unable to tear her eyes away from Jack, in the corner where he had retreated.

Kate took care to remove the heat from her voice; the least sharpness in anyone’s tone, and the diminutive housemaid would crumble into a sobbing heap.

“Yes, it’s over here.” Kate went to a corner table to retrieve the peacock blue bit of lingerie in question.

“Tell Jeanne that hers will be ready by tomorrow,” Kate said, handing it over. “I'm still finishing up some of those roses she wanted, and a few other final touches.”

Clutching the garment to her thin chest, Minnie bobbed a curtsy and scurried out.

Jack stared at the corner table and the woodenly walked to it. He peered over the garments tossed there, poking his finger at the bit of thread, lengths of narrow ribbon, and pin cushions. Then he closed his eyes, his head sinking in surrender.

“Marguerite needed a sempstress,” Kate was barely able to squeeze out. “And I needed a place to live… to wait for you.”

“Jesus,” he croaked in a hoarse whisper. “Why didn’t you say something?”

“Because…” Her throat caught, forcing her to start again, voice quavering. She bent in the corner and retrieved the scissors he had thrown. “Because you were so determined to think the worst of me. And yes,” she added as an afterthought, brushing her hair back from her face. “I wanted to hurt you, just for a little while, like you hurt me.”

His mouth moved, but there were no words, as he went through one emotion, and then another. He looked up from under his brows, with that damnable smile—the crooked one—that he knew would charm, the boyish one that could charm yellow off the buttercups.

And it worked, shattering her heart.

“Please, Kittie.” His throat moved as he swallowed, desperate hope and wretched fear battling on his face. “Will you have me?”

He caught her in his arms as she lunged at him, her tears soaking the coarse cloth of his coat. She shook so hard it took a time for her to realize that he shook too. He was so warm and solid in her arms, no longer just an image in a dream; she clutched at him tightly, afraid that, if she were to let go, he would vanish. She kissed his neck, and felt his pulse there against her lips.

He held her back, and traced her features over and over, as if to assure himself that it was really her. Then, with eloquent tenderness, he cupped her face in his hands.

Through tear-salted kisses, they murmured accusations and regrets, and took out their pain and anger, each wanting to make the other pay for what a year had cost them. Jack was clumsy and urgent, lacking any of his usual polish, and Kate was joyous. It meant that it was as he had said: he hadn’t been with a woman. They had been apart longer than they had known each other, their two months of joy now so distant that she worried if he would be different. Bridges of the flesh, so freshly built, had been shattered, and now to be rebuilt.

She remembered him in increments, so familiar, and yet so strange: the small bump on the inside of his mouth as he kissed her, the small mole on his chest near the curve of his arm, and the single fine hair near the hard nub of his nipple, and the small hollow just inside the arc of his hip bone. There were the silky-fine hairs at the nape of his neck, the springy coarseness between his legs, the sharp musk of his arousal, and his quiet grunt when he entered her.

They slowly relearned the language of each other’s body, rebuilding the fragile span that had bridged them together. Luckily the body recalled quickly, and they ended in a tangle of limbs, once again bound. Jack spoke too quietly, but it sounded for all like a prayer of thanks, in a tongue she didn’t recognize.

For a time, he lay on top of her, and was eventually able to speak. “That was the first time I've ever had you in a real bed.”

For some reason, he wasn’t including their last night together, in the tavern, but Kate wasn’t of a mind to point that out. She made a suggestive move with her hips. “How was it?”

Rolling, he fell away, landing spread-eagle next to her. He stared at the ceiling with heavy-lidded eyes then slowly closed them, complacently nestling his head into the bedclothes.

“I'll have the Pearl’s carpenter start building one tomorrow.”

After, they dozed off. The afternoon heat, their tumultuous reunion, and the complacency of making love left them listless, and they slept until twilight. Hunger finally roused them. They dressed in only what was necessary, and made their way down the servant’s stairs to the kitchen. There they made a meal of bread, cheese, and Kate feeding him cold fried fish with her fingers, while Jack related stories of his “bit o’ piratin’”, as he put it. Kate couldn’t help but notice that he pointedly avoided making any mention of where he had been for the last year.

After, they retired upstairs and rediscovered each other. Anger now gone, only their passion remained, and they each attempted to show the other just how much the other was missed.

For months, Kate’s dreams had been cold, whirling worlds consisting of line figures, gray-green waves on rock-laden shores and ghostly images of a mast and sail, black against slate, fading into oblivion. Now, she basked in sunshine, gold-laced smiles and a sense of belonging, all wrapped in warmth, and a faint vapor of rum.

Something suddenly dragged her from the brilliance, and she woke to the familiar darkness of her corner room. At first, she could only lay blinking away the fog that blurred the imagined from reality. The she jerked and frantically groped across the mattress and jumbled bedclothes.

Empty. Of course, as it had been for months.

So, it all had been a dream—again. Jack was gone.

It was too cruel.

Deflated, her senses slowly sharpened as she stared into the darkness of the pitched ceiling. With the dread of another sleepless night tearing at her gut, she wondered about another reality—the cold haunting thought that she was alone.

A faint sound drew her attention. She rolled to find Jack sitting naked on a stool, staring out the window. Her gasp of relief was quickly replaced by concern. His legs bent under him, hands limp on his thighs, he could have been a specter, glowing blue-white in the moonlight. It was odd to see those hands so immobile; they were always so articulate, punctuating his every thought. Now they seemed disjointed, as if belonging to someone else.

She sleepily rubbed her eyes. “Jack?”

It was the magical hours between yesterday and tomorrow; typical for that hour, the house was quiet. She spoke in a hush, but loudly enough that he should have heard her. He didn’t move.

She rose; the chill of the hour touching her bare skin as she threw back the quilt. It never ceased to amaze her how temperatures that would have been considered as gloriously summer-like in the Highlands could bring a chill in the Caribbean. Jack’s shirt hung on the post of the footboard, tossed there in his haste to take her to bed. She slipped it over her head as she cautiously moved closer.

“Jack?”

Crossing her arms, she shivered, but not entirely from the cold. His stillness was eerie, as if he were somewhere else, his body an empty shell, left waiting.

“Jack, what are you doing?”

She hazarded to touch his shoulder and jerked back. For a heart-stopping second, she thought he was dead, he was so cold and unresponsive. Jack always seemed impervious to the effects of the elements: rain or sun, heat or wind, he moved through it with equality. Never had she seen him comment on discomfort, and yet never had she felt him be so cold. She searched for signs of life and nearly choked with relief at seeing the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Leaning to look out the window, Kate thought perhaps there might be something fascinating there. The moonlight fell in a silver-blue blanket on the rooftops, and the trees, sparkling in a diamond-like glitter on the harbor beyond. A nightjar circled, only its furtive whistles to mark its path. Nothing remarkable. Nothing unusual. Nothing a man of the sea would find interesting.

“You should be in bed.”

She started at the sound of his voice, a mere trace of his usual graveled-gruff. He looked up, his head barely moving. “I can see you shivering from here.”

Unblinking, his gaze moved woodenly back to the window. By the power of suggestion, she shivered, and then realized that she had been doing so since she rose. She wrapped one arm tighter about her middle, the billowing sleeve of his shirt draping nearly to her knees.

“What are you doing?” She laid a hand on his unyielding shoulder. “You’re as cold as I am. Why don’t you come to bed?”

There was something different about him; she had noticed it from the moment she saw him standing in the doorway. He was still Jack, glib and animated, but he jumped at every unexpected noise, and checked every corner, as if he feared something was going to jump out. The string of beads that dangled at his forehead was different: the coin was gone, replaced by a crescent of scrimshaw. When they had finished their lovemaking, he had clung as if she were a raft, drowning in a cold sweat.

When she had first touched him, he flinched. She put it off to the strangeness that sprung from being separated for so long, but soon came to realize it was much more than that. Something had changed him, deeply.

“I was just looking at the night,” he said in a hoarse murmur.

A breeze stirred the curtains and he lifted his face to meet it, the tails of his scarf wafting about his shoulders, pallid against the black smudges of his hair. “There was a time… I never thought I would feel this again… or see the water… the dark.”

He blindly sought her hand, the scars on his knuckles a fine web of white, and clutched it tightly once found, a continuation of his need for human contact he had been exhibiting since his arrival. “Nor would I ever lie with you, again.”

A tremor passed through him, gooseflesh rippling across his chest and down his limbs.

“I’ve seen Hell.” The grip on her hand tightened, as if he were hanging on to keep from being drug away. “Hell—or the nearest thing to it I’d ever want to see,
Dante’s Inferno, without the flames.” His lips moved in a feeble attempt at a smile, but failed. “It was white.” The corners of his eyes pinched, either from pain, or squinting in a glare. “Bright. A sailor’s torment. No water, no wind, just… there.”

In halting, short tumbles of words he began to tell a jumbled tale of sea monsters and goddesses, eternal servitude and Davy Jones, cannibals and pirate wars, and keepers and kings. His story was so disjointed and rambling, questions bubbled like a simmering pot, but she said nothing.

The telling was anguishing, and yet he pressed on, spurred by the need to divest himself, a poison that needed spitting out. At times, it seemed he had forgotten she was there—and yet, she knew he needed her, a witness, so that she could tell him it was all right.

“I saw meself… nothing but me own company… over and over and over and—” His words faded as his hands curled into fists, until the tendons in his forearms showed. Each word was ground out through clenched teeth. “In every wretched, pitiable, despicable form there is. Fragmented bits, staring, like a bunch of gawkers at a lynching.”

He drew a ragged breath, pressing his fists into his eye sockets and rocked. “I deserved it—I knew it.” Dropping his hands, he took another quivering breath, and shook soundlessly. “Maybe that was the hell of it.”

Kate dug her nails into her palms with the need to reach for him. Every fiber of her being screamed for her to fall on her knees before him and hold him, and soothe away the torment. In the quiet twilight, with only the throaty call of a nightjar outside, it was his confessional, and instead she stood helplessly aside.

“Something kept driving me, to get out of there, and yet, at the same time—I knew I would never leave it. Jones wouldn’t allow it.

“For a bit, I’d given up—surrendered.” His mouth took an ironic twist. “Odd, isn’t it? I thought, even if I did manage to get away, I’d never be able to come back to you. Bloody demon would have followed me; already followed me half around the world.” He looked off in the direction of his ship, a dark spot against the glittering water, the furrows between his brows deepening. “It was to be as I had always imagined—me and the Pearl, to the depths, together.”

He clamped his lower lip between his teeth, giving his head a remorseful shake the ornament at his shoulder tinkling with his movement, its silver surface reflecting bits of moonlight. “Bloody, treacherous wench didn’t have to shackle me. Her own means, that’s all she ever cared about.”

His shoulders slumped as he studied his hands, their deep tan sharp against the pale of his thighs. With eyes lowered, his lashes fanning in dark crescents on his cheeks. “When Jones raised the Pearl, she was till dead; Beckett took her spirit, her soul was gone.”

Kate’s heart lurched at Beckett’s name, her hatred for the man rising like bile in her throat.

“So I gave her part of mine.” He lifted one shoulder, shaking his head helplessly. “Neither of us could live without the other anyway. I thought, if anything were to ever happen to me, at least she would live on.” He gave a sideways look, somewhat embarrassed at that confession. “Damned Jones knew it when he took me; he knew if he wanted to claim me entire soul, he would have to take her.

He drove the heels of his hands into his eye sockets, as if to grind out the memories. “She was afraid—felt her tremble when Jones’ bloody beast touched her. She was a shambles by then, but her spirit was whole; she would have fought, if I’d asked her. The point, though, was to get everyone away.”

“And it worked?” She bit her lip, not having meant to speak.

“Aye, it worked.” Sagging with defeat, he spoke so low she barely heard him.

“I had the ability to be with you forever,” he said, watching his fingers curl, as if whatever it had been was there, “right in the palm of me hand.”

His mouth quirked, as if recalling a private joke, or laughing at himself. “Gave it to someone else, who needed it worse. Remains to be seen, if me efforts were worthwhile. Truth be told, what joy would there be in living forever, when you’re not?” he said, looking up at her. “Immortality might not necessarily be everything one could hope for.

“The Pearl’s near destroyed. I’d be ashamed for you to see the old girl, just now. Torn and scarred, she is. Bloody old reprobate Barbossa took me ship—again. Took me near a month, but I got her back. Still don’t have the stink of him out of me cabin.”

He looked up, grief-stricken and choked. “They’re all gone, Kittie; the entire crew.”

Kate sagged and leaned against the wall for support. “All of them?”

All the while he had been gone, Kate had focused on willing Jack to come back safely; never had she thought to worry for the Pearl, or her crew. They were collectively the closest thing to a family for her in years—maybe forever—and now they were gone.

“Gibbs, Cotton, the gruesome twosome and Marty… they made it… all in the longboat… along with—” His voice faded away, as if it was too painful to utter the names. “The rest… are gone.”

“Kirkland?” It hardly seemed fair to worry for one person over the others, but he had been so very special to her.

“No.” A ghost of a smile traced his lips. “Accidentally left him in Tortuga, we did. The poor soul was still there waiting; he near burst into tears at the sight of us.”

She drew a sharp sob of relief, even as the finality of the statement was a declaration of death for so many—so many faces that flashed through her mind, so many comrades and friends. She had heard their stories, tended their wounds and written their families. Now, who would ever know of any of them?

Jack’s shoulders began to quake and he fell against her. He wrapped his arms around her hips, his head against her middle, and they cried together.

“Come to bed, Jack,” she said at length, and rose.

He placidly obeyed. She pulled the quilt high around their shoulders and gathered him close. He clung to her, as a drowning man would have hung on to a floating cask. Slowly, his body went lax, and his head grew heavier on her chest. As his breathing slowed into a shallow rhythm, a horde of questions tumbled back in her mind, about the truths he told—and the ones that he hadn’t.

Gaps glared from Jack’s dark tale; it was painfully obvious that there was far more to his tangled saga. Assumptions were too easily made, and she vowed to resist, until she had heard the rest of what he had to say.

Jack stirred, mumbling against her neck, his fingers twitching at her sides. A kiss at his temple, a few soothing strokes on his back, and he slid back to his rest.

Kate lay staring at the shadowed beams above her bed. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Whatever horrors there had been, Jack had survived to come back, whether by desire or default remained to be seen.

Nevertheless, he came back… to her… but for how long?

Tresured Treasures, Chapter Forty-three

Tue, 11 Aug 2009 00:02:06 GMT

Ahoy everyone!!

SOS!! I'm in techno no-man's-land!!

I'll update as soon as I can find a connection to the rest of the world.

Fear not!! Jack and Kate are waiting patiently until all of you are able to join them!

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-two

Sun, 02 Aug 2009 20:49:46 GMT

Homecoming

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Jack’s welcome home isn’t quite what he had been hoping for.
A/N: Yes, it’s true! Jack and Kate are back together again… well, almost. Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.
Rating: R, for not really adult stuff here, just some blunt observations

“Ready about!”

Jack stood on the quarterdeck while his crew scrambled to their stations, watching the approaching point of land that marked the entrance to Sint Maarten’s harbor, measuring both distance and the Pearl’s speed.

The winds had been on the Black Pearl’s nose, opposing her path to Sint Maarten for nearly a week, forcing the long arduous tacks. He took it personal. So anxious he was to return to the town and Kate, he considered anything a hindrance and took exception. Misjudge this next turn, and it would mean another long tack, and several more hours before they made port.

Jack didn’t care to wait that long.

“Look alive on that cross-jack brace!” he bellowed.

Standing amidships, Gibbs turned to give the laggardly hand a withering glare. Under ordinary circumstances, it would have been Gibbs’ responsibility to manage the crew in such minor detail, but these weren’t ordinary times. Jack was anxious to make port; Gibbs understood that, and took no exception to the additional supervision.

“Ease down the helm, Mr. Cotton,” Jack murmured to the man at his elbow, and then shouted, “Helm’s a-lee!” with enough volume for even the furthest reaches of the ship to hear.

It was a new crew. Most had signed on at Shipwreck Cove; the remainder during their stop in Tortuga. It had only been a month, but Gibbs knew how to whip a rabble into a handy crew better than any First Mate he had ever witnessed. Still, they were a rough lot, and bore watching. The sheets were let go, the fores and courses shaking as their load was released.

“Raise the tacks and sheets!”

It was an interminable wait as he kept a sharp eye on the Pearl’s head, watching for that moment when the wind finally crossed her bow.

It’s toying with me, he thought crossly as the wind fluked, first one way, then another, only fractions of a compass point, but enough to stall the ship. He had never begrudged Mother Nature’s her capricious ways, but he was beginning to take it personal. Turn too soon, and the wind would be on their nose, the Pearl dying in the water, losing the precious momentum. Turn too late, and they would be too far off their mark. That would mean another long tack and many more hours, in order to gain the necessary angle to clear the point and make the harbor.

“Right the helm.”

Cotton nodded, understanding the delicate balance being asked of him. It meant feeling for the rudder, maintaining the pressure in anticipation of the turn that wasn’t to be made yet.

Jack felt rather than saw the fore sails starving the aft sails; that was the cue he had been waiting for. “Mainsail haul! Shift the jibs, Mr. Gibbs. Get that spanker up sharp!” he shouted at a loafer behind him.

As if the wind knew it had been bested, it steadied exactly where the Pearl needed, a few points off her bow, and the after sail caught.

“Let go and haul!”

“Round those brace heads. Briskly, you spawn o’ the devil!” Gibbs roared, stalking the deck. “Look lively, ladies!”

As if the Pearl sensed her captain’s urgency, she came about smartly, eagerly settling into her new course, the water at her breast boiling. To anxious to stay put, Jack trundled down the gangway and drew up at the rail. Gibbs came up next to him, they and the entire crew watching anxiously to see if the Pearl had made her final turn.

She had.

“She’s easier under a lofty sail,” Jack said thinking aloud, when the Pearl finally rounded the point. Gibbs didn’t need to be told; besides himself, no one knew the Pearl better. “We’ll come in on the jibs and gallants.”

Nodding, Gibbs turned to relay the orders, only to be interrupted. “We’ll set a flying moor,” Jack called.

The First Mate stopped at that, looking questioningly over his shoulder. Ordinarily, the anchor would be set, the rode fed out, and then the second anchor would be dropped, suspending the ship between the two. Instead, both anchors would have to be simultaneously made ready, one to be dropped as the Pearl passed the first point, the next one to be dropped when her momentum died. It would require double the preparation and effort on the crew, but nearly half the time.

The corner of Gibbs’ mouth tucked up in a wry smile. Jerking a nod, he set off to make ready.

Stopping on the forecastle, Jack ignored Fort Orange roosted on the headlands, his attention on the town nestled in the far corner of the harbor. Recent nights had been a tribulation. Visions of Kate’s naked body, yielding to his hands, her eyes bright with need, taunted him every time he closed his eyes. Consequently, he took every watch, forcing his eyes to stay open. It was just as well; he didn't trust anyone else to be able to coax as much speed from the Pearl as he could. He understood his ship, and she responded eagerly to his touch. Just as Kate responded to his touch, rising to him, yearning....

He slapped himself in the leg, hoping a sharp bit of pain might break his thoughts. Adjusting his goods, he cast a hopeful eye skyward. Usually, the air would freshen about this time of day. He needed to get to Kate—soon!

Until recently, he hadn’t considered the possibility—albeit remote, to his way of thinking—that Kate might be a bit peevish about being left. With that thought, he cautioned himself to have a care; she had a mean punch, when provoked.

Surely, not! Given all the time since he had left, surely she had cooled down. Maybe… hopefully. True enough, it had been a bit longer than he had promised, but the sea was an uncertain place. It operated on a time schedule all of its own. Besides, over a year wasn't all that long.

He gave a wry smile, as he tugged at the front of his breeches. Obviously, his goods thought differently.

“Orders, Cap’n?”

The Pearl had barely settled on her anchors, before the longboat was swung away, Jack paused with one foot over the gunwale, annoyed by the delay.

“You know what’s to be done, Mr. Gibbs. On your command,” he said, and then clambered down the accommodation ladder to the awaiting longboat.

Jack stood at the boat’s bow as it nosed its way around the other ships lying at anchor, anxiously tapping his fingers on his belts. He didn’t wait for the bow to bump the dock before he leapt off, already several strides away by the time its painter was secured. With single-minded determination, he dove through the crowded wharf traffic, ducking handcarts and drays, judiciously dodging around the oxen and horse teams. The La Sirène Vierge Tavern was but a short jog up the street. He burst through the door, giving only the briefest of nods to the proprietor at the counter as he passed, and took the stairs two at a time.

“You looking for her?”

Jack stopped in mid-stride on the steps, swiveling to give the keep a questioning look. He recalled the man’s hawk-like face, but couldn’t place a name at the moment.

“She's not up there,” the keeper informed him, tersely. Brace and bit in hand, he was busy tapping a keg.

Reversing his path, Jack came back down the stairs, frowning.

“Where is she?” Jack asked, rounding the counter. In his worst moments, he had refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that Kate wouldn’t be waiting.

Intent on his task, the keep shrugged indifferently. “Don't know. She left.”

“Left where?” Jack’s heart hammered, growing testier by the second. He wasn’t of a mind to play silly questions; apparently he had left his sense of humor on board. “Left for a walk? Left for the day?”

“Don't know. She left, shortly after you left.”

“Where did she go?” Gicquel! That was the bastard’s name.

Gicquel finally looked up, with an insufferably blank—maybe even a bit taunting—expression. “Like I said, not sure.”

Lunging across the counter, Jack seized him by the shirtfront, and yanked him across the counter, his tools clattering to the floor. “Where did she go?” he hissed through clenched teeth.

“I don't know!” Gicquel stammered, flailing in protest. “I thought I saw her coming out of Marguerite's a few times, but I'm not sure.”

“You mean that new one at Marguerite’s?”

Jack released his grip, allowing Gicquel to crumple backwards over the bar. He swiveled around on the patron hunched over a table.

“What do you mean 'new one'?” he demanded.

The man was typical. Wharf rat, dock dregs or just plain rumpot, he could have seen in a thousand different taverns or alehouses. Snag-toothed and remarkably odious smelling, even from Jack’s distance, he bore a salacious grin.

“Have to wait in line for that one!”

“I heard it's worth the wait,” chimed in another from further across the room, even more beggarly and hoggish than the first.

Jack grimaced. Has every dreg of mankind come to die here?

“Ohh, aye!!” Nearly-Toothless agreed heartily, his eyes going large. “She is well worth the wait and the extra charge.”

Rattled, Jack glanced out the tavern’s window, across the sun-glared street toward the bright yellow house, its red shutters gleaming in the afternoon light.

“That's Marguerite's!” he exclaimed, pointing a rigid arm. “It's a whorehouse!”

“One of the best in these waters,” boasted Gicquel from behind the bar, having righted himself from the floor.

Jack threw a dagger-like glare over his shoulder. No one needed to tell him that; he was more than familiar with the house, more than he cared to admit. He glowered at Gicquel. Several voices in his head told him to dispatch the bastard right there on the spot, but he wasn’t of a mind to take that bit of time just then.

Jack’s eye caught sight of a table near the window; he and Kate had sat there. She had eaten her meal and his—the one he couldn’t finish; his stomach was so tied in knots with the knowing that it was to be their last. He could see her there now, those blue-green eyes bright with more than just the candlelight.

“No, no, no! I'm looking for a woman, tall, near up to here.” He held a hand approximately at his brow. “With dark copper hair... all tangly, most likely.”

The two goatish sots nodded in unified agreement.

“Sounds like her! Ask for...” Near-Toothless pressed a finger to his jaw, rolling his eyes as he struggled for a name. “Carmen? Christina? Katarina? Something like that.”

“Just ask for the new one,” put in the other. “And be prepared to wait.”

Jack recoiled at the image of what manner of woman would lift her skirts for either one of them—Money was indeed a powerful enticement—and considered knocking those smiles off the ruttish lechers.

But I left her money!

That was over a year ago, you dolt! She had to live somehow.

But not… that!!

Jack touched his fingertips to his reeling head, trying to assimilate what he was hearing. “But, I left her here!”

“Now she’s over there… and she left owing me money!” Gicquel called, Jack already speeding out the door.

Muttering blackly, Jack scurried across the street, unmindful of the protests of bystanders that he roughly brushed aside, and the alarmed squeal of a carriage horse that he cut in front of. This was turning into a very bad dream. It was quickly shaping into categorically into one of the worst days of his life. Never in the last year’s bleakest moments—and there were many, to be sure—had he envisioned this nightmare.

Bloody woman!

He burst through red doors that he had been through more times than he cared to think. At one point, he ruefully thought, he had actually fancied that he would never come through them again. Life took some cruel twists.

Alerted by the force of Jack’s entry, the doorman quickly imposed his body between Jack and the all too familiar hallway. Jack rolled his eyes up at Marguerite’s ever-present strong-arm, Gaubert, glowering down at him, and he inwardly groaned. Their last meeting had been less than cordial.

“Oh, you’re still here.” Not good.

Jack tried to shove past the watch dog, only to be blocked again. Exasperated, he rocked back, and propped his hands on his hips. “Look, I’d love to dance about, and have a gay ol’ chat—we can pick up where we left off the last time—but I…”

“Gaubert!” called a familiar woman’s voice. “Who is… ?”

The click of heels on the wooden floors and the voice of his mistress drew the ouster’s attention, and he obediently stepped to allow Jack to come into her view.

“Jack Sparrow!” she exclaimed, delighted.

“Marguerite!” Niceties were the last thing on Jack’s mind, but it was his experience that, when at all possible, one should never aggravate the house’s madam, and he put on his most charming show.

Marguerite gave him one of those smiles that went a long way in explaining how she had managed to become the grande damme of her own palace, proof that her success hadn’t just been blind luck. Beauty comes in many forms, and there was a lot to be said for one that had aged so gracefully. Behind those grey eyes was a host of knowledge in the matter of what it took to put a smile on a man’s face.

He could only hope that she knew how to do so then.

“Haven't seen you in a long time!” She gave Jack an exuberant hug, her hand lingering on the curve of his arse. She gave him an emphatic squeeze there, her hips familiarly nudged his. “Been keeping yourself scarce? I thought I heard you were dead.”

“Me death has been greatly exaggerated,” was Jack’s distracted reply as he scanned the hall. “I'm looking for someone.”

“Yes, I supposed you would be,” she said, with a wise lilt. “We're always pleased to have one of our best customers back. Would you like... ?”

“Jack!” A petite brunette, in a brightly flowered wrapper, rounded the parlor doorway. “Look, girls,” she called into the room behind her. “It's Jack Sparrow!”

With the clatter of slippers on the wood floor and feminine shrillness of delight, bringing with them an engulfing cloud of perfume and powder, a small bevy of women, in various versions of undress, poured out of the parlor, and gathered around.

“Hello, ladies! Yes, it's wonderful to see you all.” He greeted each one, at the same time trying to extricate from their clutches.

“Well,” called Marguerite over the din. “What will it be Jack, all or one at a time?”

“I'm looking for your newest one,” he said, slithering out of a pair of snarling arms around his neck.

The madam's face fell. “Oh, dear. She's always so busy.” She gave Jack a hopeful look. “Are you sure you wouldn't prefer one of the other jeunne filles?”

“No! Her!” he shouted back, his voice going shrill when someone managed a fortuitous grab.

“You always did like the best,” she chuckled, wrestling with an errant strand of hair that had fallen over one eye. “Well, you're lucky, because she just happens to be available. Doesn't happen that often, but it's still early. I'll warn you, she's extra.”

“I'll pay,” he said firmly, reaching into his pocket. Marguerite was never one to pass up the opportunity to add a bit of drama, in order to increase the price, but at the moment, the condition of his coin purse was the last of his concerns.

“Yes, I thought you might,” she mused dryly, one brow rising over a sharp gray eye. “You always have been generous with your coin… except that one time.”

“Yes, well, those were extenuating circumstances,” he pointed out shortly, “as you well know.” Was no one ever allowed a moment of indiscretion?

Counting the money in her palm, she angled her head toward the stairs. “Last one on the right. You know the way.”

Taking the stairs two at a time, Jack pulled up sharply, when his path was blocked by another whore.

Ruby? Regina? Rachel? He groped for a name as he hastily declined her offers, tipping his hat as he slipped past, and sped down the hall.

He skidded to a halt at the door. He drew a deep breath, and took a moment to organize his thoughts, none of which were fit for human ears. It wasn’t going to be pretty, neither was it going to be flattering, but sodding hell, she drove him to it!

Bloody damned woman!

A dozen questions jammed his mind, all boiling down to one basic question: why? Why in the blazing hell did she feel it necessary to turn whore? From what she had told him, it was the last place he would have expected to find her. But, then again, maybe she had lied; she wouldn't be the first. Truth be told, it shouldn't come as all that great shock, either. He had anticipated the off chance that she might be irritated, but this… this he judged as a bit excessive.

His traitorous body didn't care. It knew Kate was near, and was eagerly urging him forward. If she wanted to turn whore then he’d take her like one, and let her precious, delicate feelings be damned. By no means was this the homecoming he had imagined.

Taking a deep breath, he shoved the door open and burst in.

“What the b... ?”

His words died in his throat as a short, slight woman with strawberry blonde hair, rose from a stool before a dressing table.

“Who the hell are you?” he demanded, startled.

“Who do you want me to be?” She strolled toward him, tilting her head and batting her lashes.

Jack spun around, searching the small room. “Is there someone else here?”

“Were you wanting more than one?” A quick sift of the shoulders allowed her embroidered silk wrapper to drop away, baring both breasts. “I can assure you that I can be more than enough for any appetite,” she purred huskily. Leaning closer, she jounced one heavy weight on his arm.

Swearing explosively, Jack bolted from the room and back down the hall, only to be stopped at the top of the stair.

“Jack!” she said breathily, pinning him against the wall with her hips. “I heard you were here. It's been a long time, lovey.”

“Yes, it has, hasn't it?” he agreed, trying to wriggle past.

“C'mon in, darlin’,” she coaxed, tugging at his shirt. “We can have a roll for old times.”

“No, no!” he gasped, dodging her mouth. “I've other business...”

“I was always your favorite, do you remember?”

“Oh, yes,” he said heartily. Anna? Alice? Amalie? “I recall very well. Look, luv,” he began, faltering as she nibbled his neck. “If I were to go with you, then it wouldn't be fair to all the other girls, would it?” he argued, still battling her hands, which were so expertly finding their target. His words were cut off by her mouth, her tongue plunging down his throat.

“Enough!” Breaking her grasp, he held her at arms’ distance. He drew several breaths, trying to regain not only himself, but his body, which maddeningly seemed to have its own divining rod, fully operational. “I can't now. I've other matters.”

Holding up a warning finger, he narrowed one eye, and backed down the steps, until well away, then trammeled the rest of the way down the steps. Finding Marguerite in the parlor, he seized her by the shoulders and whirled her around.

“That's not the one I meant!”

Fluttering her eyes, she stammered. “You said 'the new one'.”

“Well, then I guess I meant the other new one!” he shouted, waving his hands.

“She's the only new one we have, Jack,” Marguerite explained with infuriating calmness. “Are you sure you know who you're looking for?”

“Yes,” Jack said, his last shreds of patience being consumed. “I know exactly who I am looking for, and she's not it! There has to be another one.”

The madam pursed her lips thoughtfully. “No, she's the only new fille I have. It's rather remote here; it's not easy getting new girls, let alone a good one.”

He knew she was lying; the hooded looks of the women and Gaubert, standing nearby, was proof of that.

“I know she's here,” he began again, lowering his voice. “And I need to find her.”

His mum had often lectured him about some foolishness involving sugar and vinegar; always sounded like some recipe to him. But he did know that a smile went a long ways to get what one wanted, and he flashed one of his best. Constricted by rigid jaws and unspeakable frustration, it fell far short, Marguerite’s handsome features remained unchanged.

Deflated, thinking defeat nigh, he looked away, in order to think of his next ploy—and then he saw it: Marguerite’s bodice, encrusted with silk ribbon roses amid a baroque swirl of vines and smaller flowers.

“Those are her little roses!” Caught up in his glee, Jack took her by the arms and gently shook her. “Where is she?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about…”

Wheeling around, Jack raced to the base of the stairs. “Kate!” he bellowed, eliciting a startled squeak from several women. “Damn it to all bloody hell!! Kate!!”

If he had to tear the entire wretched place apart, he’d find her. Time. He thought he had mastered that demon, but there it was again, mocking, daring him to devour a little more.

A hand on his arm roughly spun him, and he came around squarely into a wall that proved to be Gaubert’s chest. With a thunderous glare, Jack stuck a rigid finger in the chucker-out’s face.

“Call him off!” he shouted around the mammoth’s shoulder.

A simple flip of Marguerite’s hand dismissed Gaubert, but cautiously remained close.

“Jack, mon cher.” Marguerite crooned. “Why don’t we get you… ?”

“I know she’s here.” Jack’s hand shook as he pointed at Marguerite’s bodice. “I know those are her flowers; no one else does those like her. Please, Maggie!” It was the closest to begging he had come in a long time. He closed his eyes, feeling the corners of his life beginning to crumble. “I need to see her.”

Being a business woman, he had never known Marguerite to be indecisive about anything, but it flickered across her face now, markedly torn.

“She doesn't want to be found,” she said, her fair brows nearly touching as she frowned. Then she looked up, accusing. “Not by you, at any rate.”

He made a victorious fist, and silently thanked every deity that might have had a hand in his providence. Kate was there! If he couldn’t gain entry the front way, there were several through the back.

“Maggie, don’t trifle with me. Just tell me where she is.”

Decision made, Marguerite’s expansive bosom heaved a resigned sigh. “Alize’s old room. Top of the stairs, on the left, and don...”

He was already gone.

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty-one

Sun, 26 Jul 2009 20:20:06 GMT

A Meeting of the Minds

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: Here’s a little AU… Thomas and Elizabeth.
A/N: It’s official!! This is the last of the DMC/AWE framework. Not to be too spoilerish, but things will be getting back to normal after this… or as normal as life can be with Jack around. “Chapeau, mates!!” to everyone who has been able to stick it out through this epic journey. It’s been a pleasurable struggle…and I’m willing to bet that doesn’t apply just to me. Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.
Rating: R, for not really adult stuff here, just some blunt observations

Thomas looked up at the sight of Elizabeth determinedly striding down the dock, and outwardly groaned.

Ships had been making way, leaving Shipwreck Cove to their sterns for the last two days. The celebration coming to a close and their pockets bare, the pirates were setting off, in search of whatever means Fate might chose to refill their coffers. As space became available, the Griselle, like other outlaying vessels, had been moved in to allow for easier provisioning up. His ship now sat at the opposite end of Shipwreck’s curving wharf from the Black Pearl.

He tiredly rubbed his face. It was teetering on early morning; he had been hoping for at least a few hours sleep before daybreak, but those dreams were fading. He peered over the rail, hoping that Elizabeth might just be passing, on her way somewhere, anywhere but his ship. He was content for her to be Jack’s problem, but those had a way of rolling downhill.

His hopes were dashed when she sheared off toward the Griselle’s gangplank.

“Boarder, Cap’n?” called the night watch.

“Aye, so I see,” he sighed, resigned. “Allow her to pass.” Bloody hell! What in all that’s mother and earth does she want?

He already had his suspicions, but reserved final judgment as he bent to hand her up from the gangplank.

“I wanted to talk to you,” she said, breathless from the steep climb, and then produced a large bottle as further introduction.

He had to admire her directness; no mincing about, just straight to the point.

“I would hesitate to suggest anything else, Your Lordship,” Thomas said, sketching a mocking bow. “To do so, would be to question your honor, and I’m very sure that would be above reproach, am I not correct?”

She stiffened at the slur.

“Would you trust my company sufficiently to accompany me to my cabin… alone?” He punctuated the suggestion with one of his best leers, using his height to further intimidate.

Obliged to tip her head back in order to see his face, Elizabeth’s throat visibly moved when she gulped. “Of course.” She tried to hold a steady look, but ultimately her eyes fell away.

Thomas took her by the elbow and guided her toward his cabin, hissing over her shoulder, “Shouldn’t trust strangers so readily. It could get you into a lot of trouble.”

“You’re no stranger.” She carried herself with the same confident poise as if she were hosting tea in her father’s parlor. “You’re a friend of Jack’s.”

He genuinely laughed at that. “Barely a reference, to be sure!”

Elizabeth straightened, turning to give him the same look she might have given a recalcitrant servant. “You’re a pirate, and as such, you are obligated…”

“To do anything I damn well please,” he finished testily as they drew up to the table. “And if you’ll pause to take a look around, you’ll find you’re on my ship, just now. So, would you still care to sit, or are both of us going to have to stand the duration of this interview?”

Shooting him a glare, Elizabeth shoved the bottle into his hand and found a seat.

“Ah, you’ve come bearing gifts. What gentleman could refuse that?” He held up the bottle in display and uncorked it, sniffing appreciatively. “And a very good brand of rum, indeed! You’ve come to impress someone, haven’t you?”

“Two glasses, if you please.” There was no mistaking the challenge in that request.

Thomas fetched two stemmed crystal glasses, and did the honor of pouring. The rum in fact, was very good, of a quality fit only for Teague’s private stock, which led one to several questions, all of which put Elizabeth’s presence under the highest of suspicions.

As Elizabeth launched into a self-propelled dialogue, Thomas experimentally closed his eyes. The sound of her voice had haunted him since their meeting at the tavern a few days earlier. He smiled faintly. It was true! She did sound like one of his sisters, the youngest one. It had been a long time since he had been in the face of so much female chatter, jumping from topic to topic like a Bombay bomber on a griddle. He saved himself the effort of trying to follow along. No man could keep up. Following along meant trying to find a logic in the transition from one subject to another, and no man could ever achieve that.

He scrutinized Elizabeth as she eagerly refilled his glass—just a little too eagerly, by his estimation; it had barely touched the table—jabbering about heaven knew what. He chuckled privately. She was an intriguing character. He wondered how Jack ever got himself tangled up with the Princess of Port Royal. Although, come to think on it: the Governor’s daughter? Why not?

A woman with a mission could be a fascinating thing. Unlike many men, he had never seen a woman in a position of power as a threat. In point of fact, he often found it an appealing trait, but only if she possessed the graces to wield said power with a certain amount of cunning. Elizabeth was too new, all ambition with no discretion, brandishing her position like it was the sword at her side. Given time to learn—at Teague’s knee, no doubt—and she could grow to be a very credible foe.

He nodded and smiled at the appropriate pauses, and waited for the moment when she would finally give up the charade and get around to the true purpose of this visit. Getting him drunk was obviously an integral part of it. As for the rest, he was willing to bet every coin in his pocket that it had something to do with Jack.

Finally, she paused, giving his glass an accusing look. “You’re not drinking.”

It took Thomas a moment to realize that he had been addressed directly and stir from his reverie. “I didn’t know this was a contest.”

Studying him closely, she frowned, her brows nearly touching. “You don’t seem like the rest. You’re not…” Her mouth moved soundlessly, groping for words.

“Vile? Dastardly? Disgusting?” He laughed, teasing. “Stop me when I finally get it right. Believe me, you just happened to catch me on one of my better days.”

“What do you think of Barbossa?”

“All right sort,” Thomas mused, choosing to bide his time and ride along with the sudden veer in her course, “as long as you don’t turn your back, or trust him to do anything less than what serves his own purposes.”

“And Chevalle?”

“Pretty much the same cut o’ the sail. He’d rather shoot you in the back, than have to meet you face to face.”

“And Jocard?” she asked, idly toying with a set of dividers lying on the table.

“I know of two people he killed right in the middle of a parlay, just because he didn’t like the color of their shirt.” Thomas’ good nature clouded, the end of his patience suddenly found. “Look, why don’t we stop the Brethren roll call, and just get around to what you came for? Two days ago, you couldn’t give me the courtesy of a nod. Now all of a sudden, you’re wanting to share your very good rum, in the hopes that I might share my innermost thoughts?”

He propped his boots up on the table and gestured with his glass. “Well, let’s have it.”

Batting her lashes, Elizabeth made a skillful attempt at innocence. “Have what? I can’t imagine what…”

Thomas’ outburst of laughter stopped her in mid-sentence. “You’ll have to be a better liar than that, Missy!”

Elizabeth started to argue, then realizing the folly in that, surrendered. Dropping her eyes, she fumbled about, fingering everything within reach on the table.

“Did Jack tell you… anything?”

Dawn had broken the day before, while he and Jack had sailed from the Flying Dutchman back to the Cove. Jack had been particularly restive, vacillating wildly from elation to circumspection, but was uniquely talkative about things he wouldn’t ordinarily have been willing to discuss. In the morning’s quiet, he related to Thomas the stunning story. Her Royalness had no idea how lucky it was that she hadn’t been within reach, because his first urge had been to wring her neck. As it was, by now he had calmed down, and saw the fallacy in that. Still, if she were to push him, he couldn’t vouch for what might happen.

“I know enough,” he announced, crossing his arms. “You murdered him, no differently that if you had thrown him to the sharks. My hat’s off to you, Your Highness; you’re a better man than I am. I could never leave a man, without a way of defending himself. Even a marooned man is left with a pistol.”

“He had a pistol.”

His easy manner gave way to a cold look. “That’s not the point, and you know it. Be glad he found a way back. I’d be obliged to kill you otherwise.”

Elizabeth’s face was strained, as if she had never considered the possibility that Jack might have someone who would care enough to avenge his death.

“I had to do it. I had to save everyone else.” She balled a fist, softly thumping the table in emphasis to each word. “There was no other way.”

“Really? And so, pray tell, what kept Jack from yelling?”

Her face fell, her confidence draining. “What?”

“Why didn’t Jack yell?” Thomas repeated with taunting patience. “You left him shackled, but he could have still yelled for help, if he had wanted to be saved. Surely in all your self-congradulatories on your noble sacrifices, you thought of that small detail.”

“That bastard!” Her mouth rounded, her face reddening. “All this time, he let me suffer, thinking that….”

“You suffered!” He made a rude noise. “Since when are you the victim here? Jack’s the one you fed to the kraken, like he was slops to a pig!”

“It wasn't like that... not really... not quite...”

“So, if I put you out there and tie you to a post and waited for the tide to come in, just to see how long you could hold your breath; that would be the same, then eh? Not really killing you... not quite.” Thomas didn’t try to hide his contempt.

Cornered, her options exhausted, she flared, with a pugnacious set to her jaw. “I don't have to explain myself to you.”

“Really?” He peered sideways through the aft gallery toward the night sky. “I figure dawn is what, another two hours away, maybe less?” He swiveled a measuring eye toward her. “And how have you been sleeping lately? I'm not the one who came halfway across town—at night—looking…”

“You're awake.”

Thomas shifted, clearing his throat. “I've been... occupied.”

“How much did she cost?” Now she was the one to make her contempt apparent.

“Double, because of so many men in town, but it was money well spent.” He would have paid triple, and still considered it money overdue and well-spent. It had been a long time since he had bedded a woman, a very long time.

“Whores aren't what you came here to talk about. Don’t expect Jack to salve your guilt.”

“I’m not guilty!”

Thomas gave a derisive snort. “Really? Then why are you so desperate for his forgiveness? Again, hat’s off.” He bowed from his seat, lifting his hat a fraction from his head. “You’re to be commended; not many could get Jack to trust them enough to be able to betray him.”

“Jack’s a good man.”

“Bloody hell!” Thomas dropped his head in his hands and moaned. Crueler words were never spoken, especially for Jack; no one appreciated having their greatest weakness flagged before them, only to have it later used against them. He peeked up through his fingers. “You didn’t tell him that did you?”

“Certainly. Why not?”

Thomas took a drink, regarding her over the rim of his glass. “You are a cold piece of goods. You don’t mind sticking the blade in a man’s gut and giving it a twist, do you?”

Regaining her composure, Elizabeth crossed her arm. “I have a feeling that you’re a good man, too.” The cold calculation in that statement precluded any suggestion of flattery.

“Ha! Not nearly so much as Jack, so pull your horns in, Missy.” Be damned if he was going to be led into an examination of his own morality.

“Stop calling me that,” she huffed, her face flushing.

“What would you prefer? Your Lordship? Your Murderess? Don’t go putting on those airs around here, Missy. And don’t go jutting that chin, either,” he added, wagging a scolding finger. “You can forget all those feminine ploys; they aren’t going to work here.”

Her eyes bulged with indignation, but she heeded his advice, and clamped her lower lip between her teeth. Pointedly avoiding looking at him, she snatched at her glass and drained it, holding it out for it to be filled. “I’ve asked for him to stay.” The nearly whispered admission came not without a struggle.

Thomas lifted an interested brow as he poured. “Have you now? I can probably guess what his answer was.”

A jerk of the head was her concession that he had guessed accurately.

So that was it. He glanced at the bottle in his hand; it had taken nearly half a bottle of rum, for her to finally get to the point of her mission: use him and his friendship to get to Jack.

It took her several sips in rapid succession, before she said anything further, hazarding a cautious look from the corner of her eyes that were increasingly unfocused. “How do I get through to him?”

“You don’t.”

It wasn’t the answer she had expected, and her face fell, the furrows between her heavy brows deepening.

“Ho-ho!” Thomas sputtered, laughing. “You thought you were going to use your feminine wiles and land Jack.” He wiped his eyes, still spewing mirth. “Oh, God, You are fresh! I knew you were young, but...” He clucked his tongue, scolding. “You need to hone those skills, Missy. Jack’s a sure bet for anyone in a skirt; all it takes most times is a pair of eyes, and a bit of mystery. You must have really done something woefully wrong to put him off.”

Beneath his chortling, Thomas winced. He’d gotten the answer that he had wanted, but not the one he had hoped to hear. It was a very rare occurrence for Jack to ignore a woman’s advances, but then he was always one for surprises. A dalliance on Jack’s part could have been the opening—small, but an opportunity nonetheless—that Thomas had hoped for. Kate was tolerant, but he would wager not when it came to that. But from all evidence, Jack had resisted. It was a remarkable testimonial to only one person: Kate.

“Believe me! Get in line! A lot better women... girls,” he corrected quickly after a quick glance her way, “have tried to push him, and have categorically failed.” Except for one, he thought, to his amazement and her merit.

“I don't have the faintest idea what you mean,” said Elizabeth, primly rolling her eyes. It would seem his analysis had been painfully accurate. Jerking her shoulders, her face reddened further as he continued to chuckle. “Stop being absurd!”

“Lesson One, M'lady,” Thomas gasped, struggling to regain his composure. “You'd better get Ol' Teague to teach you how to lie better.”

Unsettled, Elizabeth fell into a thoughtful silence, tracing the wood grain patterns with her finger, while Thomas watched and waited, curious to see what her next tack was going to be. As she reached for her drink, her hand strayed, requiring her to make a more determined try at seizing the glass’s stem.

“Does Jack have someone already?” she asked, quaffing the contents.

“Why?” Thomas peeled a look as he half-rose to reach across the table and refill it. “You figure that's the only reason he could resist your charms?”

Elizabeth shifted in her seat, her hands alternating between working in her lap and fiddling with every object on the table within her reach. Finally, she drew a deep breath, gathering the courage for something she found distasteful.

“Please... Thomas... is there...? You’re his friend; make him stay. I don’t know what to do; I need help.”

So it was to be the helpless victim, now, he thought as he sat back. She did possess a full arsenal, and was a fair actress. It was an interesting commentary that she would be so reliant upon the very person that she had killed.

“I couldn’t agree with you more. You’re going to be in desperate need of help, but Jack, nor I,” he added pointedly, “are going to be the ones. No one makes Jack do anything he doesn’t want to do. Forcing Jack is like trying to push a wet rope; you’re never going to get far.”

Elizabeth boldly met his gaze. “Perhaps I could make it worth your while.”

Thomas stiffened, his mood darkening. “Don't try me, Missy.”

“I just thought...”

“'Thought' my arse,” he growled, and she shrunk back under his glare. “You thought you could manipulate me like you do your precious court? Your father? Everyone else in your little world? I’ll not betray Jack, rest on that. Never have, and never will.”

“Jack claims everyone has a price.”

“Sounds like Jack,” he nodded agreeably, cooling further. “But sounds even more like Teague.”

Rolling up his sleeve, he plunked his arm on the table and extended it to expose the puckered and gnarled skin of his forearm. “Do you have any idea what it's like, to have wood strips shoved under your skin, and then set afire?” He smiled in satisfaction at her sickened look. “They were trying to make me betray him then... didn't work,” he added with a confirming jerk of his head.

“Jack has the same scars,” she said faintly. Turning an unsightly color, she snatched for her glass, and drained it.

“Aye, they were trying just as hard to get him to betray me.” He sat back and rolled his sleeve back down. The sight of it still sickened him; his own screams had been bearable that night, but Jack’s…

He shook his head, washing away the memories with rum. “Betrayal is like a wounded boar: you never know when one of those tusks is going to come around and gore you. You're barking up the wrong mast. Change subjects, Your Royalness, because I’ve already told you everything I intend to say.”

Daylight was but an hour old, when Jack was striding purposefully up Shipwreck’s wharf, his sights set on the bright blue-hulled ship that sat at the far end, half-obscured by the other ships in the harbor. The dock life was just beginning to stir, making it easy to see ahead at the unusual form that was coming toward him.

Puzzled, his step slowed, ultimately scuffing to a halt. He stood gaping as Thomas neared, a lifeless shape slung over one shoulder. As Thomas drew up before him, Jack eyeballed the body, draped with the same causal as if it had been a sea bag, the rear end proving to be quite familiar.

“Her Nibs?” Jack’s voice broke with disbelief. “Dead or drunk?” He couldn’t help but sound a little hopeful on the first, although took a certain glee from the latter.

Thomas squinted as he concentrated on an answer, swaying as he shifted her weight. “Not dead.”

Jack circled behind and delicately sniffed. “Rum!” He nodded approvingly. “You did that to her… alone?” Jack had never thought it possible, but there was the undeniable evidence, staring him in the face… the rear of it, at any rate. “Chapeau, mate. You’re a better man than I.”

“Not sayin’ there weren’t a few wounds inflicted along the way.” Only sheer determination was holding Thomas upright, his bloodshot eyes and struggle to focus his eyes on Jack said the rest.

“Take her to Teague,” Jack said, straining to keep a straight face. “He’ll know what to do with her.”

“Somehow, I can’t see him making her drink whiskey and smoke cigars,” Thomas said with a sophomoric grin.

Jack cringed at the reference to his own childhood, when Teague had found him drunk at age eleven, and forced him to drink an entire bottle of whiskey, while smoking a markedly rank cigar.

“Still can abide the stench of a cigar, nor the taste of whiskey.” Jack shuddered away the recollection, choosing to address his original purposes. “Don’t look for me tomorrow.”

Their eyes met, and Thomas nodded, understanding completely that the inevitable time had come. “Three days already? The Pearl’s fit?”

“Fit enough. There’s still hull work to be done, rigging to set, and sails to bend, but we can do that at sea as easily as sitting at this wretched wharf.”

Every shred of rag aboard the Pearl had been used to patch her sails—Hopefully, the Empress, or Jocard’s Ranger won’t notice the stolen canvas, until the Pearl was well away—He didn’t bother to mention planking to be seamed, or gaping holes to be sealed. The spin-yarns were being wound as fast as humanly possible, the new rope flying faster than web from a spider’s ass; they would need every foot to replace the lost rigging. Yards had been jury-rigged, and both bilge pumps were in full operation. That bastard Barbossa had a nose like a hound when it came to a ship making ready to sail, and had encamped his backside squarely where it was no longer wanted.

“Three of Chevalle’s carpenters volunteered to come join me crew.” Privately, Jack had to admit, that work would progress much more quickly, once he could unlock them from the brig.

“Then you’d best be away, or Chevalle will have your head on a spike. The Court convenes tomorrow.” It was apparent by his tone, that Thomas knew it was a needless reminder.

“Tell them to start without me,” Jack said, without the least hesitation, or regret. “You know how it works; you can be me proxy. I’ve had all of this place I can bear.”

Just when he had planned for all his plans to be complete, the necessity for another had been foisted upon him.

Turner had made demands, and Jack had agreed, but only so far as to his own gains. By all that was holy, he wasn’t about to sit idly by in the face of Turner’s threats. If the captain of the Flying Dutchman couldn’t afford Kate the protection he sought, then there was another answer, emblazoned on Barbossa’s wretched ancient chart. Ponce de Leon had found it, and now he would, too, but only if Kate were to be the benefactor. For himself, he had already made his choice: eternity was hardly a reward, if he had to watch her grow old and fail. But, if she were to consent, if they could both…

Ah! Now there was a plan!

Jack fell quiet for a moment, absent-mindedly rubbing his chest. He couldn’t explain the growing pull in his gut to which no ease could be found, except at the thought of being away, heading across the open seas. There was no need for charts, bearings, or courses; like an albatross to land, he knew the way.

He looked up, and shrugged, raising his arms in dismay. “I don’t know what it is. I’m drawn, and I can’t resist… I have to... go,” he ended lamely, at a loss as to how else to explain it.

Thomas chuckled, arching a knowing brow. “I think we all know what that is; all it takes is a good whore.”

“No, it isn’t like that,” Jack said, smiling faintly, tugging at the front of his breeches. God, if it were only that easy! “This is something… different.”

“I think we all know what that is, too.”

Thomas sighed, resigned. “Seems too soon. Tell ‘er ‘Hello’ for me?” he asked hopefully.

Jack gave a genuine smile. “You know I will.” He hesitated. Considering all that had passed between the two of them over the years, he was oddly at a loss for words. “If ever… anything were to happen…?”

“You know I will. She knows it; I told her as much, the last time I saw her.”

“I figured as much.” Jack was markedly relieved.

Their urge was to hug, but Elizabeth draped over Thomas’ shoulder prevented them from that, so a shake of the hand and a slap on the shoulder had to suffice.

“On the next horizon?”

“On the next horizon.”

“Take what you can; give nothing back!”

Still seriously injured, the Black Pearl had limped all the way from Shipwreck; Tortuga had been a fortuitous stop. Lacking supplies and sufficient crew, they had needed a port, and the town had been in the right place at the right time. Who was he to argue with that?

Jack's gut took a sickening plummet as he stood on the dock, and watched the black dot of her recede on the horizon.

Not again! Not now!

In a near panic, he grabbed the first vessel in his sight, and set off in hot pursuit—well, as hot as a dinghy could manage. But in every disadvantage there was an advantage: the Pearl could barely manage a crawl.

Besides, he knew exactly where that bastard Barbossa would be heading. The poor sod actually thought that scrawling on the chart pointed the way. It did… but only if one knew what he was looking at.

It was just a matter of time.

Treasured Treasures, Chapter Forty

Sun, 19 Jul 2009 22:35:10 GMT

Pressing the Issue

Pairing: Jack, the entire crew of the Black Pearl, and a host of others
Disclaimer: I own nothing. I would, if I could, but I can’t, so I don’t.
Summary: We’re off the edges of the map with AWE, now, and back into the cozy world of AU. Jack is still picking up the pieces, and discovering the hard bargains that Will can drive.
A/N: This was supposed to have been included in last week’s chapter, but I couldn’t get it all ready. (I was having too much fun with geekmama.) Anyway, it doesn’t seem unlikely that Jack and Will would be able to prolong their discussions, does it? Ever and always, I’m keenly interested to know the reader’s reaction, good, bad, or indifferent.
Rating: R, for not really adult stuff here, just some blunt observations

Jack sputtered, nearly choking on the whiskey he had just taken, made necessary by the distasteful agreement he had just been forced to make. Roughly wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he threw Turner an annoyed look.

“This mind reading is rather annoying, you know.” Jack cast a furtive look upward, to see if there was anyone else lurking about. All he needed was one more person in his head! On the other hand, what the Hell! What’s one more?

“Quite handy, actually.” Will looked entirely too smug for Jack’s personal taste. “No more pretenses, no more lying; just the truth, straight and simple.”

“Sounds bloody awful,” grumbled Jack, burying his nose in his glass.

“You should try it, Jack, like now, when you want something. Who is she?”

“ Someone. No one. Just a…” Wincing at the pain of trivializing Kate so off-handedly, Jack waved off Will’s inquiry.

It didn’t work.

“C’mon, Jack! You expect me to believe that you’re here on behalf of a complete stranger?” Will raised a hand, quelling Jack’s objections, quietly chuckling at Jack’s discomfiture. “Never mind; I’ll know her when I see her.”

Jack would have preferred to have started this discussion on his own schedule, choosing the most opportune moment, but Turner smelled a weakness, and had taken the initiative, hence seizing the upper hand. Now Turner knew exactly what he wanted, what—or rather who—was primary in his mind. It was an uncomfortable feeling to be so exposed; after having spent a lifetime developing thick defenses to prevent such things, Jack was wholly unfamiliar with the feeling.

Now Turner, or anyone else the Captain of the Flying Dutchman chose to tell, would have leverage. Jack couldn’t help but feel as if he had just put a large circle on Kate’s chest, making her an easy target, not from someone that wanted to do her harm, but to go through her in order to hurt him. He was very accustomed to moving among his enemies. Most of his life, there had been only two things to worry about: himself and his ship. Now there was a third, more vulnerable, and vastly more precious.

“Rest assured; this is an exercise in futility, because you’ll never get near her.”

“Really?” Will leaned forward and propped his chin interestedly in his hand. “Has she gone swimming, lately, taken a bad step and fallen off a dock, leaned over the edge of a longboat just that little bit too far, or—heaven forbid,” he went on, void of any regret, “fall overboard?”

Jack narrowed one eye, a tremor of tightly leashed anger pulsing through him, his hand curling at his side. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Jack had the uneasy sense that Turner wasn’t done; either there was something else that he wanted even more than the first. It didn’t bode well, because Jack too had saved his best for last.

“I just agreed…”

“That was for Beckett.” Will’s voice was cold with confidence. “This is a new negotiation, now.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed over the edge of his glass. “Perceptive and wise; a dangerous combination. It would seem sailing the underworld has washed the stars from your eyes.”

Jack glanced around to assure that they were alone—as alone as possible on a ship, at any rate. He could swear the bulkheads had eyes. He took a deep breath, measuring his options. His choices were to trust, and leave with everything he had come for, or don’t, and leave as empty-handed as he had come. He was anxious to be away, back to warm arms and enchanted eyes, the urge beginning to override his discretion regarding anything else.

“Safe away.” Jack winced again. Bloody hell, this was painful! “If anything untoward should happen… I’m asking to you keep her safe.”

Will sat back, nodding interestedly, that simple motion declaring Jack’s request to be both reasonable and acceptable. “Death is a far higher power, Jack. There’s a reason for every person, and every time. I can’t just reverse it.”

“Just… if anything… untoward were to happen… couldn’t you just… bend it, just that bit?”

“Not everything goes your way, Jack. I don’t know, Jack. I’ll try, but I can’t promise.” Will’s pledge seemed in earnest, but his lack of conviction wasn’t reassuring; Jack had hoped for something far more definitive.

Trust. That was the issue. Jack was being forced to trust someone that he had discovered was quite the opposite. He looked up at Will’s wide-eyed, solemn gaze. The earnest idealism of youth was gone; he was wiser now, but not hardened. Jack could see some of Bootstraps’ influence as well: the calm understanding of the world around him, and a blunt assessment of what must be done.

A fallback option was in order; a plan was only as good as its alternative, and he prided himself on never being caught without either. He had spent many a sleepless hour thinking about it, and each time only one answer arose, one solution to all his fears.

Rising abruptly, Jack fetched the bottle and filled his glass, quaffing nearly half. “Very well, if it comes to pass that you can’t do that…”

Jack nearly choked, the next words refusing to pass through his lips. The place was like being in a bloody confessional, compelling him to attest to things that he barely could acknowledge to himself, let alone to someone the likes of Turner. His sense had always been that the ship was alive, with groping fingers, reaching to invade every crevice of his body, like coral over a rock, never to be seen again. It had to have been the effect of all the souls floating about; he could fell them, looking, pressing, buzzing like bees, circling, herding him toward some unknown gate.

“Put her in the Locker.” Jack’s eyes rolled closed, and he shuddered.

“What?” Will’s eyes rounded, stunned. “But Jack…”

“I know, I know. More than any man walking this earth, I know!” Pacing, Jack’s step quickened. “But, I would know where she was, and I could get her out. I’m living proof it can be done, mate.”

Will shook his head, baffled. “Jack, that’s….”

“Daft, I know. That’s the word that certainly pops into one’s mind first, doesn’t it?”

It was a well-learned lesson that the best technique to disarm a foe was with the unexpected, and it was working now. It was difficult to tell who was more taken back, he or Will. He wasn’t just blowing smoke; his option was solid and proven. The Locker would be Kate’s personal Hell, but it would also be a holding ground, a place he could find her, and bring her back, if anything was ever to happen to her at sea. He blocked out the screaming voices in his head. What the bloody hell did they know, anyway?

“Just promise me she’ll be there. Then I’ll know where to go, and what’s to be done.” Jack took another drink, and saw his hand shake with the fear of being denied the last thread of hope that he had finally provided for Kate somehow, or another.

“Desperate measures, eh? She must be very special.” Examining his hands in his lap, Will looked up from under his brow. “Such things won’t come free.”

Jack closed his eyes and sagged. Negotiations were always nasty business.

“Bring Elizabeth to me.”

“She’s right there!” Jack declared jabbing a thumb over his shoulder in the vague direction of Shipwreck Island. What the bloody hell? Can’t these two manage anything on their own? There’s an entire kingdom of pirates out there, why do they have to keep dragging him into everything?

Will tolerantly rolled his eyes. “And I’m here.”

“Ten years is a bit too long?” Jack chuckled, knowingly. “And standing in a bucket o’ sea water wouldn’t do either, eh? A few too many complications in the technicalities?”

The vision of Jones standing in a bucket of seawater on a sand spit was fresh in both their minds, and they reluctantly smiled together.

“I’ll not have me ship turned into a floating boudoir,” Jack warned, knowing already that he had lost the argument. Will held all the cards, and he knew it.

Coming to the same conclusion, Will gave an easy smile. “Just bring her to me; I’ll handle the rest.”

Turner’s brashness was more than irritating, Jack’s frustration fanned by his helplessness to do aught about it. Turner wanted this as badly as Jack wanted his, an impasse to be sure.

On the other hand, there was a brightening thought: there was indeed something he could do about the situation: nothing. He would do absolutely nothing. Turner wanted his precious wife so badly, let him wait. Hell was due to freeze over some day… eventually.

Jack suppressed a shudder. He knew exactly what it felt like to have to wait to be with the one the body wants; eternity didn’t begin to describe the torture. Turner’s request wasn’t an unreasonable one, but certainly not one that he was prepared to address.

Softening, Jack realized that it hadn’t been that long ago, since he had been making much the same requests of Gibbs. If things had gone to plan—a uniquely odd event, to be sure—he would have been looking for Kate to be brought to him. He couldn’t begrudge Turner’s desirousness.

I suppose it proves he’s not entirely dead, some parts at any rate.

“Done.” Jack threw back his head and drained his glass, setting it down emphatically on the table, a brief handshake sealing the deal. “Now get me out of here, before I wind up having to barter away me ship.”

While Will escorted Jack out of the Great Cabin, back out on deck, another matter occurred to Jack, a promise that he had made. “What about someone who passed a while ago, maybe five or six years?”

Wariness flickered across Will’s face, and then he shook his head. “I’d have no way of knowing.”

“He was transported, might have died at sea… maybe,” Jack pressed.

“There are no written records, if that’s what you’re getting at. Perhaps, if there was something remarkable enough about him for one of the crew to remember him, but other than that…”

“Tall bloke. Red-haired. A Scot.” Jack angled his head toward Thomas and Bootstrap a short distance away, roosted on two barrel tops, their faces aglow in the lantern light, hunched together drinking. “He took after him over there.”

Jack’s only response was a helpless shake of Will’s head. Not dismissive or off-handed; he seemed sincerely interested and willing to help, had there been anything to be done.

“Aye, well. It was a long shot.” Jack wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or relieved. He could at least look Kate in the eye and say that he had tried. Finding Brian on the Flying Dutchman wouldn’t have been easy news to deliver. However, that small bit of knowledge could have proven ever so liberating.

“Thank you, Jack.” Will was sincere in that, as he extended his hand. “I feel much better.”

Will did seem more relaxed, his smile coming easier, a bit of spring in his step. What man wouldn’t be eased by the knowledge of his lady was being cared for? Treasures being treasured, to be sure. It was a commonality they reluctantly shared, the protection of their most precious in the hands of another.

Bloody hell!

“No more than I,” Jack agreed, with a considerable less level of enthusiasm.

Bootstrap looked up from his conversation with Thomas at Jack’s approach. He was now looking much his usual self, with the same droop eyes and ironic twist of the mouth that Jack had known for so many years.

“You look like hell, Jack.” It wasn’t the greeting Jack might have hoped for, but it wasn’t unlike Bill. Truth be told, he felt like hell, too. It would have been nice to have been able to blame it on the whiskey that laid like a ball of lava in his stomach, but that would have been far from the truth.

“Always nice to meet an admirer. You’re looking more… your… self,” ended Jack lamely, with a flourish of fingers.

Bill held out his hand and slowly turned it, scrutinizing it as if it belonged to someone else. “Never thought I’d see the day. Can’t say I’m sorry to see Jones meet his end. We all owe you a debt.”

For a moment, Jack reveled in the reunion he never thought possible: the three of them together again, as it had been so many times before. A longtime shipmate and friend, Bootstrap had been there when Jack and Thomas had gone pirate. Since then, their courses had taken them to the four winds, crisscrossing paths on the odd occasion. Jack resisted the temptation to close his eyes and pretend it had all been a bad dream, going back to when it was the three of them, together again on the Wench, footloose and the world at their beckon. Now, they were together on the deck of the Flying Dutchman. Not necessarily a place that any of them would have forecast, but no one was to argue.

“Thank your son—and his beloved betrothed.” Jack wasn’t sure how much Bill had been told, and he wasn’t inclined to go into it all now. Peace was what he sought now, and it certainly wasn’t going to be found on the deck of the Grim Reaper of the Deep, among a bunch of hairy-faced men.

“Can’t fault him there. She’s a beauty,” Bill added with genuine envy.

“All in the eye of the beholder, to be sure,” mumbled Jack, looking away.

Bill scowled, lifting his cup, and then lowered it. “Never knew you to be so particular when it came to the ladies.”

Jack shifted on his feet; bearing up under Bill’s stare was never an easy matter. “The standard has changed, that’s all.”

Bill gave Jack a long look, a smile slowly growing. “God’s nightshirt! You’re smitten! Thomas here told me ye’d gotten yerself a woman, but I didn’t believe it!”

Jack flinched, shooting Thomas a dark look. “Thomas has a big mouth.”

“Ha-ha!” Bootstrap chortled, rocking gleefully. He clapped Jack on the shoulder so hard it nearly tumbled him over. “Then ‘tis true! I thought you were lookin’ like a moon-struck calf! Heaven help ye!”

“It’s not quite like….” Jack scrambled to explain.

“The hell it isn’t.” Bill gave a hearty laugh, shaking his head, the lamplight catching the mirth-laden glint in his eyes. “Never thought I’d live to see the day!”

“You didn’t,” Jack pointed out, without delicacy.

“Aye, true enough,” Bill sputtered agreeably. He snatched up the bottle and shoved it against Jack’s chest. “Here, have a drink. You’re gonna need it. Once a woman gets her claws in yer gut…”

“She’s not like that.”

Bill grinned the edge of his cup. “Ha! Give ‘er time.” He thoughtfully rolled his next drink in his mouth, dramatically squinting one eye. Bill always had been one for a bit of show.

“They go along fine. Then, one day, they start seein’ houses, n’ gardens, n’ family… and then there’ll be no peace, until you git it for ‘er. Aye, but then ye lie w’ ‘er,” he said, with a dreamy roll of the eyes, “and you’ll promise the moon. Spellcasters they are.”

“This one’s… different,” Jack ruffled.

“So was my Cora… at first. And then, somethin’ came over ‘er—nesting.” He shuddered, taking another drink.

“Jack’ s right, Bill,” Thomas finally chimed in to Jack’s relief. “This one’s not like that.”

Bill darted a sharp-eyed look between Jack and Thomas. “Oh-oh! I smell trouble. I thought you two were done chasin’ the same woman. Truth be told, after the last one, I never expected to see you two in the same company again.”

“It’s not like that.” Thomas glanced at Jack. “She’s made her choice.”

Jack’s eyes met Thomas’, reaffirming their tacit agreement. For now, Kate had made her choice, and Thomas was willing to concede to it. But, if minds were to change, or if differences or the vagaries of life pushed them in separate ways, Thomas would be there without hesitation, picking up where Jack left off.

“Well, we know judgment’s not on her side.” He gave a lewd wink, elbowing Thomas in the ribs. “Not just after Ol’ Jack’s money, is she?”

Neither Thomas or Jack laughed.

“Well, then go with God,” Bill cackled. Clapping Jack on the shoulder, he hoisted the bottle in a salute. “’Cuz you’re gonna need all the help you can get.”