"I know this is immensely improper," the pirate standing on her balcony said, "but if I could trouble you for just a moment of your time." He was smiling pleasantly, but slightly out of breath, his voice tinged with an unfamiliar accent.
She was in the middle of getting dressed, her white nightgown the only garment she had on with a corset lying on her bed. The pirate didn't even have the decency to blush or apologize, instead he grinned at her and took a step into the room.
"You don't need to fear, princess. I never take advantage of a woman," he said, like this would endear her to him. "I just need your help with something and then I'll disappear, far away, on my ship and you'll never hear from me again."
Maybe her reaction time was stupidly slow because he was so cavalier, landing on her balcony without a sound and then strutting into her bedchambers like he owned the place. He looked extremely out of place, wrapped up in black leathers that squeaked when he moved, though his shirt was only half buttoned, exposing a chest ripe with dark hair.
"Get. Out." Emma seethed, reaching for the dagger she always kept under her mattress.
The pirate's eyebrows rose and he cocked his head to the side, but stayed put. "Well, well, princess." He pursed his lips, studying her silently, his eyes trailing her body. "The rumors do not do you justice, I'm afraid."
Was she supposed to swoon? Emma wondered, gripping the blade tighter. She wasn't eager to commit murder so early in the morning, but alas, if she had to…
"You have three seconds to turn around and get the hell out of my room the way you came."
The pirate did not seem as inclined. He chuckled under his breath, moving towards her vanity where a variety of jewels were spread out. A prince from their trade partner in the east was due to arrive in a few hours, probably seeking her hand, probably not going to receive it, but nevertheless she was expected to smile and curtsy and keep her mouth shut. She was not to talk about writers and painters or weapons. Especially weapons.
He held up a ring with a rock so big it weighed more than some of her necklaces. It glinted in the rising sun and he whistled appreciatively. "Where'd this one come from?"
"A prince from the isles." Emma found herself saying, though she had no idea why. "I'm sure it is worth more than anything you've pillaged before."
The pirate turned towards her, dropping the ring back onto her desk. "I only pillage from the highest of dwellings. I might be the richest man you've ever met. Original Picassos and Monets, jewels from farther lands than this realm." He eyed the painting that hung above her bed in distaste, a fairly bland landscape her father had approved of. "I'm a very picky man, your highness."
He bowed.
Emma registered the thinly veiled insult.
Tired, she threw the dagger. It hit its mark beautifully, soaring just fractions of a centimeter to the left of his face and landing in the wall with a deadly sound. She crossed the room and pulled it out, pushing it against his neck, backing him against the vanity. "I don't have to miss next time."
He smirked at her, and his breath was warm on her face. "I believe you, princess."
"Out," she ordered, nodding towards the balcony he had unceremoniously scaled.
He held up his hands, offering a smile, and Emma saw how blue his eyes were. As blue as the sea he undoubtedly treasured, as blue as the rock in that ring he had been admiring. They were staring back into hers and she wondered what he needed help with, why he was even here when pirates had barely bothered their shores.
He quirked an eyebrow at her, a husky laugh escaping his throat. "Are you sure you're a princess, lass? You seem more like a pirate to me."
Her jaw clenched before she said something she'd regret. His remark about Picassos and Monets had grabbed her attention instantly, so did the sword he had hanging from his hips. Art and weapons in one man and in one life, if she ever was brave enough to take it. She was tempted to ask him, to gleam something about his life, some detail to sate her. To show her that the life she sometimes dreamed about was not all that she was cracking it up to be. She knew there were millions of people outside the gates of the castle who wanted to trade places with her. She should not have been as ungrateful as she was, shirking her duties at royal events, instead shoving her nose in a book or blackmailing an army officer into giving her secret lessons.
The pirate was still looking at her. She couldn't tell if he knew what she was thinking, his face was inscrutable. The tiny scar on his cheek caught her attention—she had no scars. Her body was devoid of any markings, any stories to represent the life she'd lived. Because, somewhere deep in her mind, she was convinced she hadn't lived. Not really, not truly.
"Killian Jones," the pirate said, snapping her out of her thoughts.
"Excuse me?" Her voice came out sharper than she meant it to, and the pirate quirked a smile at her, revealing perfect teeth and lines around his mouth.
"My name, lass," he said, softer, "If you were curious."
She wasn't.
She was.
"Or," he added, "If you'd like to keep track of my movements once I vacate your bedchambers."
She didn't.
She did.
She didn't.
"Captain Killian Jones," he added, when she still hadn't said anything.
All the lessons on decorum she had been subjected to came bubbling the surface and she found herself reluctantly saying, "Emma Swan."
Though her teachers would have frowned against her wielding a dagger, much less standing this close to a pirate.
The smile grew. "I am well aware, though this is quite an introduction."
She looked towards the balcony. He really did need to go.
But he seemed intent on staying as he said, "I must admit, that nightdress is quite fetching."
Emma resisted the urge to blush as she realized she wasn't even wearing any undergarments and if the light landed on the dress in just the right way it would leave nothing to the imagination. And soon enough maids would be arriving to check on her progress and help her into the corset.
It would not due for them to find a pirate in her room.
But she couldn't kick him out without knowing, "What did you need help with?"
"Ah, that," Killian breathed, her dagger still pressed against his throat—though he seemed to be enjoying it.
(Emma didn't want to admit she was, too.)
She found herself staring at his lips. She imagined his stubble tickling her face as he kissed her, and it was so wrong, especially when she wasn't wearing any underwear, and now that she had remembered this fact it suddenly made the encounter so much more exciting. And it was harder to ignore the pull of his lips and his breathy voice and intoxicating accent.
"Nasty business, really," he said, grinning at her. He shifted slightly, still pressed up against the vanity. His voice hitched, his eyes trailing to her lips as he said, "Inconsequential now."
She increased pressure on the blade. "What was it?"
A satisfied smile graced his features, "There's more pirate in you than you know, lass."
It did unholy things to her.
Damn him.
She pulled the dagger back and stepped away from him, in an effort to regain control of herself. This was ridiculous—and improper on too many levels. It was insane; it made no sense. He needed to leave, she was not some woman in a tavern he could just… do whatever this demented thing was supposed to be. She was a princess and he was a pirate and most likely a wanted criminal.
She had her duties.
She was not dressed.
He was clad head to toe in leather and was strutting around with his chest exposed like that was proper behavior.
"You have five minutes before I alert the guards," she said, looking at her toes.
He probably did this all the time—sneaking into castles and seducing all kinds of unsuspecting princesses. She would not be the next in a long list. But when she finally raised her eyes to look at him it felt like he was looking only at her, like he had never laid eyes on another woman before.
Then he shook his head to himself and said, "I was looking for a compass. I thought you might have it."
She did. She knew exactly what he was talking about. She had taken it the day he father finally allowed her on a ship and it was wrong and she knew one day the wrong people would come looking for it. It was gold and adorned with tiny jewels in purple and green. She had laid eyes on it and knew it was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen. It wasn't a weapon, but it was still a man's utensil, because women were never going off on far off adventures and needing tools to navigate. She had been powerless to resist it, glinting in the sunlight and sitting at a table in a tavern she gone into. It was heavy in her tiny hand, she had to have been about ten years of age and her father and his guards had gone mad when they realized she had drifted off. And she was so tiny no one had noticed her in the tavern and by the time anyone noticed the compass was missing she was already safely aboard her father's vessel.
Now Killian Jones had climbed through her window looking for it.
More would follow, probably.
"Why would you think that?" she found herself asking, because she didn't know how anyone had traced it back to her. She hardly even removed it from her hiding spot for some irrational fear there was someone lurking over her shoulder ready to swipe it at any moment, leaving her dead in the wake. Sometimes she thought she could hear it ticking in the dead of night, which was preposterous, because compasses did not tick.
"Story," he said, "in a tavern."
She knew he was lying.
Worse, he knew she knew.
But before she could press him, there were footsteps in the hallway outside.
It felt like her stomach had its own pulse and when she turned back to Killian he had already reached the balcony's threshold. After ordering him out of her bedchamber since the moment he'd arrived, he was suddenly going, and she would probably never see him again. She couldn't explain why she felt ill at the thought, and why seeing him looking at her like she was the same as him made her feel something she had been pushing down for so long.
She didn't know how to say goodbye, how to comprehend what she was feeling and why she was feeling it. She would never know the story of his scar, or how he had become a pirate, what he had gone through to acquire original Picassos and Monets, and if he really had traveled to other realms. Because were there even other realms?
Her tongue felt like it was glued to the roof of her mouth. She was relived when he spoke first, just as there were voices in the hallway, "I trust we'll meet again, Emma Swan."
We will? She wanted to know, or was that how he ended all his complicated romantic entanglements?
This isn't a romantic entanglement, she scowled to herself, but somehow it felt like one.
"Say no to the prince." He added, which was entirely presumptuous of him, but she had been planning on it before he had barged into her life, uninvited and unannounced. He smiled at her like they both knew a delicious secret, so she took no offense at it.
"That dress," he added, winking, "is maddening."
"I will throw another dagger at you," she threatened.
"It will only endear you to me further, princess."
The door opened and Emma spun around to greet her maids who were already giggling about the impending prince.
"Miss Emma, he is the one," one of them declared, picking up her corset. "I feel it in my bones. The wind blows north today, it is a sign."
She had no idea what they were babbling about.
When Emma turned back around, Killian had already gone, her balcony devoid of any sign he had ever been there. She chastised herself, what had she been expecting? Footprints? Some tiny scrap of leather? A lock of his hair?
She slipped the dagger back into its spot and put on a false smile, making small talk and pretending she was excited to meet this prince. There would be a great ball that evening where she would be expected to attend for at least some time before she could slip away, and maybe instead of the library or blade work she would make her way down to the docks.
She slipped the ring Killian had picked out onto her finger—her thoughts drifting between the compass and the pirate who had climbed into her room.
It was amazing how he had been there one moment, when just before he hadn't and she had been content to stay exactly where she was. How had one man suddenly become such a force in her life when they had only exchanged a handful of words?
She gripped the bedposts as the corset was fastened, fitting tighter than a glove.
One encounter, a chance meeting she had predestined when she had stolen the compass.
She knew there was no going back.
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