The first time her stomach rebels, Eleanor is in the tavern. Her business with Max concluded, she assumes it is the particularly fowl smell of pirates and liquor that does not agree with her. She's lived with the smells, some much fowler, all her life. But she accepts it as a peculiarity nonetheless.
The second time, Woodes places a comforting hand on her lower back, his demeanor all concern. His expression never fails to move her. He looks at her as if she were deserving of trust and affection, as if she were a whole person, not something vile, unworthy or broken. Tears prick her eyes as she places a gentle kiss to his lips.
"I'm alright," she whispers. But she begins to suspect.
The third time, she barely makes it to the porcelain basin before her stomach heaves. It's early, the sun barely peaking above the horizon. Within moments he's at her side, his cool fingers lifting her hair from her face and rubbing her back with gentle strokes.
"I'm alright," she says again. But she isn't. She knows it and so must he. He moves away, slips on a pair of breeches before he returns and passes her some water.
"Talk to me, Eleanor," he says, inviting her to share her thoughts. She sinks into a nearby chair, grateful that for once she has on a nightgown and isn't naked. Eleanor Guthrie feels her nerves rise, a familiar feeling, but it's the first time she feels she cannot control the emotion from taking over.
He kneels at her feet, one hand still rubbing her back. How can she ever deserve him?
Her mouth is dry and she struggles to find the right words. Twice she begins to speak but changes her mind. He waits patiently and she again feels tears prick her eyes. She comprehends the emotion. She is terrified.
Christ.
"Eleanor, what is it?" His voice is urgent now. She'd cursed out loud. His eyes are bright, blue, his concern so evident.
"I love you," she says, her tears a veiled shimmer. "I do not say it enough because I know I've never heard it enough. Not from people who matter." She states it urgently, if matter-of-factly. "I love you."
He is still, his head bowed so she cannot see his face. She lifts his chin and their eyes meet. Bravely, she repeats her truth. "I love you." He takes her hand and presses a kiss to her wrist. Her eyes close briefly at the pleasure the simple gesture brings her. When their gazes collides a second time, she continues, her words a whisper in the quiet morning. "I've not always known what it means. For a long time, it meant something toxic, foul…" Her voice trails off. "But you… you've made me want to be better than I was."
His eyes, blue and beautiful scans her face, trying to discern what could have brought about this emotional turn. To the world, Eleanor Guthrie is a bastion of tenacity, strength - a force of nature. In private, she is sometimes as lost, lonely and vulnerable as a child. Few have seen the dichotomy. Even less understand it. But he does because she's let him in. Completely.
"Do you remember," he begins, "I once told you that I've felt fortunes hand? That I had been blessed and cursed by her in equal measures?" She nods, unsure where his tale is going. "Despite standing upon the precipice of a war, I feel blessed…" he pauses as their eyes meet and hold. Eleanor feels her breathing stutter at the warmth in his regard. "Because I have you by my side." A hand brushes her hair from her forehead before he reaches up and presses his lips there. "The treasure I expected to find on New Providence Island was supposed to be of Spanish origin."
"It was not?"
"No. It appears the real treasure… my treasure, is you."
Eleanor feels herself drown as her hands reach to clutch his tightly. Inside, chaos and confusion swarms. She knows she can lie, seek time to understand the magnitude of her own emotions. But she cannot lie to him. She has taken an oath and will not revert to old practices – especially now, when she is afraid of his reaction.
"What is it?"
She breathes deeply, her eyes searching his with purpose, trying to predict what his reaction might be, hoping to catch the truth in his countenance. Slowly, she enunciates.
"I'm pregnant. I'm having your child."
His body stiffens and his eyes widen a little in astonishment. She watches him try to speak, but he swallows instead, a strangled sound emanating from his throat – something between and laugh and a surprised groan.
"Truly? You are certain?"
She nods slowly, definitively. Her fingers ache from the pressure they are exerting on his. She only realises this when he raises their hands to his heart and presses it close. Slowly, she relaxes her grip.
Eleanor's breath releases in a loud swoosh and she feels lightheaded. Her tears threaten again but she blinks them back, her relief so palpable, she begins to feel giddy. He rises, drawing her to her feet beside him. As his hands link at the base of her spine, he presses the softest, sweetest kiss to her lips. Her arms circle around him, holding him close. When had he become so precious to her? Their bodies press together and she is sure he is able to feel her racing heartbeat.
"I never expected to love you," he confesses. "Your tenacity, your passion for your home, your intelligence, your loyalty, your temper," he teases.
"Christ," she whispers with a laugh.
"Your cussing too, truth be told." She laughs out loud and he seems satisfied that her mood has lifted. "But I do."
His hands move to caress her stomach, no swell yet apparent. But Eleanor can imagine it, can imagine the gentle bulge that will soon protrude and feels the excitement at the prospect finally take hold. She watches his hands expand possessively across her abdomen and places her own across his, their fingers linking.
"Now, in an instant, I find myself already within the throws of the deepest adoration towards what is now still nothing more than an infinitesimal spec of life that we've created between us." His handsome face cannot contain his joy any longer and his smile bursts forth. She feels her heart expand, her love for him extending into eternity.
"I was afraid," she admits. "I thought perhaps you would think that I planned this."
"Unless I am very much mistaken, there are two of us in that bed. Perhaps I am the one who planned this," he teases.
"There are many who still believe my loyalty to you is premeditated and violable, and that at some point, I will betray." There it was, her fear.
"There will be many more who – when they learn of your condition – will assume it is part of an elaborate ruse, yes?" he counters, his hands now cupping her face in earnest. "Let us not dwell on that which we have no hope to control. You have a past here. I too have one in London. Let us,together, build something new without fear or recrimination. And without the shackles of the people we once were. The only truths that hold any power over us, is the ones we tell ourselves. Let us begin to tell ourselves new ones. Let us alter the belief we have in ourselves."
Eleanor looks into his eyes and sees the certainty of his words. He believes in her. Truly. She is humbled. She is inspired.
His brow rose in query. "How are you feeling?"
"Better. The sickness has passed."
He nods and then dips, sweeping her into his arms. Eleanor yelps, her arms linking around his neck.
"What are you doing?"
"Making sure you get some rest."
"I'm not tired," she says, her laugh light. Eleanor realises, she is happy.
"Excellent," he says, his lips hovering above hers as he strides into their bedroom. "I don't believe sleep was what I had in mind."