There had been many women over the course of Jack's life. But there were only ever a few true Ladies. He could count them all on nearly one hand. The first real Lady he'd known was Esmeralda, even though she had only been fifteen when he had first met her, and hadn't thought of her that way.
But all the same, Esmeralda was a lady. She had saved his life many a time, vouched for his honor as a pirate in front of Teague, and sailed with him on occasion after that. She'd even passed on her torch to him as new Pirate Lord of the Caribbean when she'd finally sailed back to Spain after the Venganza had taken a particularly difficult storm and hit a reef. Her navigator had gotten himself sloshed in the doldrums. The course was lost but they had plowed through the stagnant waters with the Lady Pirate herself at the helm, after having conferred with her mate and approximated the bearings.
It hadn't been enough. When the storm came upon them, they had no chance. The reef was there as sudden as the storm, and needless to say, the navigator in the brig, had he not drowned in the storm, would have been executed for endangering the lives of so many.
The others new better than to be in their cups.
Then of course there was his childhood friend, Arabella. She was a right feisty lass when he had known her and judging by William Turner II, she hadn't changed. Though he knew that she lived still, contrary to what the Captain of the Flying Dutchman thought, and had fought the battle against the EITC and the Endeavour, he had not seen her since just after her marriage to Bloody Billy, and Jack was still wont to think of him.
It had been a sort of endearing cousin-like affection that he had had for 'Belle. Maybe even more sisterly, but one was allowed to be romantically interested in ones cousins, and sister were obviously out of bounds. But it had never developed into anything, and that was alright by him. Will was one of his best mates, not matter how poorly they got along.
He owed that man his life.
And the man in question's wife had taken it from him.
But Elizabeth was still a lady. A right proper lady, who grew up without any piratical influences in her life. Till the Pearl, and himself, of course. And in her way, she was still a right proper lady. He knew that she'd born a son, William III. He'd shown up afterwards, looking a little sheepish. The boy was three and he'd promptly become Uncle Jacky. But he tried to stay away from her and her family. They were bad karma to him, and he was to them in like.
Amenirdis was never forgotten to him. He'd sailed past where he knew the island of Kerma to be about once or twice, and always thought of her, even though he knew that the ring was lost forever. He wished to the gods, whatever ones he happened to think of at the moment, that he might see his lovely princess again. He was sure that she hadn't forgotten him.
First love and loss wasn't something easily forgotten.
Perhaps one of these days, when he had gotten the Pearl back, he would sail into Calibar, and search for the lost ring with his compass. Now the EITC was no longer a major threat to him.
And then there was Tia Dalma.
She wasn't a Lady, she was a goddess, and a right fearsome one at that. But she had chosen him. To what purpose, he never knew, or even wanted to know, but he had respected her greatly, and she had given him the sort of love that he had always been unsure whether or not he had really wanted in the first place. It had been a curious sort of relationship, and it was the only time he had stayed in one place for more than two months, and even the times before that hadn't always been voluntary.
It had been many months if he recalled correctly.
So many women. Melinda and Gisele and Scarlett and Sao Feng's handmaids and the widow from Venice. There were others of course. Women he seduced for the fun of it, lust, or out of necessity, such as the rich lady in the carriage in England not a year ago, whose earing he had stolen while whispering scandalous things in her ear while she blushed crimson, and a rather lustful look in her eye. Wenches, the lot of them.
But there were few Ladies.
He lay in bed, Esmeralda's honey coloured arm draped over his bare chest, her head against his heart, and her hair in a tousled heap, splayed over her shoulders, his stomach and the pillow. She looked radiant by the moonlight. But Esmeralda had always been beautiful.
Being with her again was a comfort. He gazed at her form fondly, brushing a thumb against the soft skin of her shoulder.
They were old lovers, he and Esmeralda. Old and familiar and not at all attached to one another in a physical manner. Emotionally, on some level, and definitely with a great deal of respect, but when he left, or she left - whoever ended up with an expedition to undertake or the wanderlust came upon first - there would be no broken hearts or yearning. It was a lot of lust and a bit of love. A mutual affection that was deep enough as it was. They had known each other a long time. She had her other men too. She'd been married once, even.
Neither was jealous. It didn't matter. They were both like the wind. If one needed arms to hold the other that offered genuine relief or affection, and he or she happened to be in the near vicinity, they didn't need to ask.
And then they would always go on their merry way.
It was conventional.
So he didn't feel at all bothered that while Doña Pirata lay dozing, he was thinking of the one other Lady whom he had loved and been loved by.
Angelica Malon Teach de Sevilla.
It had been one of the more interesting meetings in his life, and he'd had plenty of those. In search of a brothel in Seville, he had come across a convent. Admittedly, he was being chased at the time, and he thought that he'd just had supremely good luck, having failed to spot the cross hanging by the entrance in his haste.
A plain-ish house thing filled with women and beds. What else could it have been?
He had opened the first door he had come to and bolted himself inside it, without even bothering to look whether there was an occupant. He had been greeted after a moment in rapid, alarmed and, admittedly, fierce stream of Spanish, only half of which was slow enough for him to understand.
The worst part of it was that he'd been sober.
Eventually he had calmed her down…well… sort of. It hadn't stopped her from throwing the plain white porcelain vase at him when he had mentioned that he was only there to have a 'good time'.
Apparently the then prospective nun was not appreciative of the fact that he was looking for a good time in her bedroom.
He laughed it off of course, trying to remember the word for asylum in Spanish. To this day, he did not know why she had hid him.
She had been young. Only 19 if he remembered correctly. She had hid him under her bed, and then quickly opened the window, announcing in another rapid flare of Spanish that the smell of him was vulgar. They did not find him that night. And he did not touch her that night either, though he'd had the mind to. Instead, he told her tales of the sea, while she had watched, dark eyed even then, with her innocence still intact.
There had always been fire in her blood, and he was irresistibly drawn to that flame within her.
He'd stayed for a month, almost exactly.
Shore leave.
While the Pearl was being repaired.
It was before the mutiny. They'd sprung upon a merchant chip that they'd decided to take, and while all had gone well, one rather annoyingly lucky top shot had snapped a mast. He hadn't been the only one upset, but the men were for the most part drunk enough the majority of the time, wasting away their spoils on wenches and libations. They didn't notice his daily jaunts to visit the stunning novitiate three streets in.
The night that she finally had given in was the night that her Mother Superior caught them. Angelica had been turned out in shame. They had made quite the night of it. Quite the week actually. But it had ended, and he hadn't been there to see her face when she realized that he would not be coming back to her.
Only the night before had he gifted her with the amethyst inlayed golden ring, and she had given him a bit of black lace from a rather scandalous bit of negligée.
And then he had left her all the same, despite whatever feeling he'd held for her.
Thrice they'd met since that time, once in La Martinique, where they had relieved their passion, and he'd taught her how to use a sword, and then again at Saint Dominique, and finally at the pub in London town.
But she was still the Woman from Seville.
When he'd seen her again, in that pub, he'd been rather free with her. But he knew her, her soul had grown dark from being exposed to the outside world - as dark and dangerous and free as his own. Beware those eyes, Jacky. If you're lucky, she won't try killing you again. If you're lucky.
It was all karma, he reminded himself. Karma like his mother had told him as a small child. She had been dark too. Not with the Latin fire, but a mysterious air. She had been hindu, he remembered Teague telling him as a lad.
Jack had been blessed with a rather large amount of karma - good and bad - in his hectic life, and had become a living legend because of it. Sometimes, he wasn't sure whether it was worth all the trouble.
Sometimes.