A/N:

Chapter Four: Careen at St. Kitts

In the five days it took to reach St. Kitts, James saw more of the captain than he had on the whole two month voyage. Their conversations became a nightly occurrence and she often stood watch with him or sought him out to discuss tactics. An unspoken agreement had manifested between them that so long as he didn't ask about her past, she wouldn't press him about his; James was grateful for that as well as the company. The concern she had shown for him the night after the raid had been so surprising he hadn't been sure how to react; after all, it had been so long since anyone had given him a second thought. It meant something to him—what, he couldn't say—but it was something, and he owed her thanks for it. The words, though, stuck in his throat like sand, and so he thought it best to let his actions speak for him. For nearly four days, not a drop of rum passed his lips. He ignored his appalling thirst and suddenly shaky hands as best he could, all the while refusing to acknowledge what he knew it meant. His crewmates knew it as well, though they never spoke of it openly, and not even Cromley would broach the subject within James' earshot. They simply shook their heads in a pitying sort of way, watching him grow more agitated and sleepless as the agonizing hours of each day wore on, and waited for him to fail.

And fail he did. However much James thought he could combat the physical need, he was no match for his conscience. True, his body ached for the touch of alcohol, but his mind craved the numbness that came with intoxication. It was a nightmare that finally broke him, one that had since become a regular torment. In it, he had slaughtered his men one by one in the most gruesome, horrific ways a soldier's imagination could invent, followed and encouraged by Elizabeth murmuring in his ear, "One more, James. Kill one more and I'll love you". He had woken in a cold sweat, utterly shaken, unable to think. He'd made his way to the hold where, he assumed, he had proceeded to drink himself into unconsciousness. When he came to the next morning, he had found himself back in the forecastle, under his hammock with his worst hangover to date and almost no memory of what had occurred. His failure disgusted him, but, as horrid as it was, his life was easier to bear when he was drunk—when it took all his concentration just to stay on his feet, he didn't have a thought to spare for the dead.

Now, pushing his way through the crowded avenues of St. Kitts, James tried his best to force such thoughts to the back of his mind. The Glory had docked that morning, and he had been more that glad to get away. He hefted the small leather pouch in his hand, his cut of the bounty paid for the Spanish ship and her cargo. It wasn't a fortune, not even a small one, but it was enough to buy him room and board at a decent inn for a week or two, which was what he wanted. After receiving some strange looks from his crewmates when he'd turned down their offers to accompany them "on their rounds" at the bawdy houses, Cromley had finally recommended him to a decent place that didn't hold with procuring its serving women.

James halted in front of a simple, three-story building whose carved wooden sign bore an elegantly drawn compass rose and below it the legend The Star and Compass. It looked respectable enough, but it wasn't so far from the docks that a grungy sailor would seem out of place. According to Cromley, the place regularly put up men from the Glory, and the proprietor, a Scotsman by the name of George Hunter, was an honest fellow who charged a reasonable price.

He was surprised when he stepped inside at how calm and quiet it all was. The common was far from empty, but there was no grating music, no brawling, and no garishly painted women hawking their services, just the low rumble of conversation. His fears that he would be forced to repeat Minorca vanished. His worn uniform earned him a few curious stares as he crossed the room and he sighed resignedly. There was nothing he could do about that—they were the only clothes he had. At least he'd had enough sense to leave his hat and decrepit wig on the ship.

The woman at the counter, though, spared no glance for his appearance. She was a pleasant looking woman with a broad forehead and a kind set to her mouth. Her brown hair, greying slightly at the temples, was swept up into a messy bun at the nape of her neck and her dress, while simple, was of a good cloth; clearly business was well enough to make ends meet and a little more. The woman, whom he assumed to be the innkeeper's wife, looked up from her work as he approached and smiled.

"Good day to you, sir," she said in a thick, Scottish brogue. "What might I be able to do for you?"

"Room and board for two weeks, ma'am, if you're able," James said.

"That we are, sir. Make your mark here, if you please," the woman replied, turning the logbook toward him. He took the quill and hastily scrawled "Adams" onto the page. It would never do to use his real name—he was fairly certain no one would make the connection between the slovenly "Mr. Adams" and Commodore James Adam Norrington.

Former Commodore.

"Now then, Mr. Adams," the woman said. "Shall I show you to your room or would you like a bite to eat first?"

"I'll eat first, ma'am. Whatever you're serving."

Mrs. Hunter laughed. "I should have known. That's what all you sea-farin' sort want. We get some in here what haven't had a hot meal in over a year, poor souls. You're just come into port, I take it?"

"Yes, ma'am. On the Glory," James answered.

"I'm glad to hear it!" Mrs. Hunter exclaimed. "The Glory's been missed these past few months. Edward Grace is a good, honest man. We're always glad to have men of his here."

James managed a smile, but it felt forced and cold and no doubt looked it. If Mrs. Hunter noticed she gave no sign, for which he was thankful.

"Sit down, then, and I'll have something for you in a moment," she said, closing the logbook. She disappeared into the kitchen and James turned from the counter to find a seat. He moved automatically for the back of the room where, he hoped, he would receive fewer curious looks. He threw himself down on one of the long benches near the wall and sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. Any moment now it would start; the whispers, the furtive glances…

"Lord, what's a Navy man doin' here?"

"Ah, he's no Navy man."

"Sure he is. Lookit his fancy threads."

"Well, 'e coulda stolen 'em couldn'e?"

"By Gaw, that's true. Is 'e a pirate, then ye reckon?"

"You're a sailor."

The young voice jerked him out of his sardonic imaginings and James looked down to see a boy seated beside him on the bench.

"Beg pardon?" James said.

"You're a sailor," the boy repeated. Judging by the lilt in his speech, he was the innkeepers' son. "Me Da taught me how to know 'em."

"Is that so?" James replied, feeling his mood lighten in spite of himself. "And how might that be?"

The boy ran a hand through his black-brown hair, tugging at the curls that flopped over his forehead. "You walk like you think the ground's s'posed to move."

A smile tugged at James' mouth. "Your father's a sharp man," he said.

"He is, that," the boy said. He paused for a moment, then went on in an excited rush. "It's my birthday next week, you know. I'll be nine."

"Nine?" James replied. "Getting on in years, aren't you?"

The boy smiled, all innocent excitement and James sighed.

God, what I wouldn't give to be a child again.

To be free of guilt, free of any worries beyond who would play the pirate in tomorrow's game. With a sarcastic chuckle, he recalled how he'd always played the pirate in such games. The world was a cruelly ironic place.

"Is it good to be on the sea?" the boy asked suddenly.

"Yes," James answered. "Better than most things." It was true. He had always felt awkward on land in a way that had nothing to do with how he walked. The sea was in his blood, he knew that; was that why it felt so good to be sailing without the press of duty?

"Well, that's good!" the boy went on. "I want to go to sea someday." His dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. "My Da says I can join the Navy when I turn twelve!"

It was as if someone had shoved ice through his heart.

"What's your name, boy?" James asked, his throat tight.

"Benjamin Hunter," the boy piped.

"Benjamin," he murmured. He looked at the boy, so optimistic, full of dreams, staring up at him with wide, hopeful eyes. "I hope to God you have better luck than I."

"Benjamin! Get out from there!" Mrs. Hunter exclaimed as she approached with a plate laden with food. "Let Mr. Adams be."

Benjamin slid off the bench and scurried away without a word.

"I hope he wasn't bothering you much," Mrs. Hunter said. "He's a curious rascal."

"Not at all," James said absently. "He seems like a bright boy."

"Aye, he is. And crafty, too. But never mind that. You just get to work on that plate," she said, and bustled away.

James hung his head; he suddenly wasn't at all hungry. The way Benjamin had looked at him, that glow of admiration…

I don't deserve that.

He had a sudden, familiar desire for a bottle of rum—several bottles of rum. He forced the thought out of his head the moment it entered. He could not, would not, get drunk here. True, he had failed before, but Benjamin, he could tell, was going to be a powerful deterrent.

The study was as contradictory as it had always been, a rustic shambles incongruous with the proper opulence of the rest of the mansion, but as the most private room in the house, it was allowed to be unfashionable. No servants ever entered here, nor did any visiting dignitaries: the governor permitted only his family and closest friends in this room. Grace smiled as she took in the merry disarray of dusty books and mismatched chairs. She had so many fond memories of this room; studying and struggling with her lessons, countless hours being tutored by her uncle, who had trusted no one else with her education.

Grace turned, setting her glass on the table as she heard the door open. Her uncle entered and, closing the door swiftly behind him, turned to her with a smile.

"There you are, my girl!" he said with a laugh as she embraced him. "You look well, Grace. Lord, but it's still strange to call you that. And those clothes!"

"All necessary, Uncle, you know that," Grace said, picking up her glass and taking a seat in one of the armchairs. "I couldn't very well come as myself when I'm purported to be living in Boston."

"No, indeed," her uncle chuckled, pouring himself a glass of brandy. "Now," he said once he was seated. "Let us discuss this Spanish galleon sitting in my harbour."

Grace grinned. She had been bringing prizes into St. Kitts for nearly nine years, ever since she's convinced her uncle to commission her as a privateer. His standing as a royally appointed governor had been a blessing to her all her life, but the Letters of Marque had made her doubly thankful. Yet, while it made her secondary profession logistically easier, it also made it a tad morally disquieting.

But I sleep at night, so it's well enough.

"It's clear you brought her in," the governor continued. "Yours tend to be missing the same sections of the taffrail each time. I don't know how you manage it.'

"You have John Fletcher to thank for that, Uncle Thomas," Grace said. "The man's a superb gunner. I pray I never lose him."

"Oh, I doubt you will," Thomas said. "But tell me, what the Devil did you do with the Spaniards this time?"

Grace stared down into her brandy with a sigh. "There's no ransom to be had from a merchant man and his daughter. We weren't far off from Spanish water as it was. We came as close as we could to the Florida coast and set them out in longboats with enough supplies for two months. More, if they're cunning with the rations."

"It was a good move, Grace," her uncle replied. "But you seem displeased with it."

She swirled the brandy in her glass, not looking up. "It's…hard, Uncle," she said. "When there are women on the ships I take. I know my men wouldn't be fool enough to harm them—I'd have them dancing from the yardarm in a trice, and they know that—but the women…God, some of them are barely more than girls! The fear I see on their faces…it makes it hard not to unmask and let them know I understand."

"It's a quandary you knew you'd have to face."

"Yes," Grace sighed.

But that doesn't make the facing it any easier.

"My dear, this self-doubting despair does not suit you," Thomas said, suddenly cheerful. "This may lift your spirits."

Grace hardly had time to ponder his words when the door burst open, revealing a lanky, sandy-haired man in fine clothes, a roguish smile on his face.

"Isaac!" Grace exclaimed, nearly dropping her glass. "What on earth are you doing here?"

With a hearty laugh—no doubt at her expression of shock, Grace thought—Isaac Braddock swept into the room, closing the door behind him with a flourish.

"Well, dear cousin, I've been called away from Boston on business and I thought I'd visit home and my old haunts," he said, settling into a chair with the easy grace of confidence. Grace smirked into her brandy; "old haunts" for Isaac meant rowdy taverns, bawdy houses, and the bedrooms of at least two wealthy, young widows—he was a proper rake, her cousin.

"How long have you been here?" Grace asked.

"Ages, it seems," Isaac replied. "Constant sailing almost, from here to the Carolina colony, to Nassau, to Port Royal, back to bloody Carolina and back to here…six months or so now. I'm glad to have caught you in port. You've been gone eight months, I hear."

"Yes," Grace said. "Mostly around the coast of Spain, trying to catch an outgoing merchant or two, and a bit around the Mediterranean. Nothing much of note, really." She paused, frowning. "Except for a sudden storm near Tripoli of all places, or so I heard, and a bad one."

"Thank God we've had none of that here yet this year," the governor intoned.

"No weather storms, but plenty of the political persuasion," Isaac said. "You've come back at a tumultuous time, cousin. As usual."

Grace sat up straighter. "Has something happened?"

"I should say it has!" her uncle exclaimed. "Piracy is on a sudden rise, these past four months. I know you don't like to go for pirates, Grace, but you may have to."

"But surely the Navy…" Grace began, then froze.

James Norrington, the Scourge of Piracy, whose very name made the most hardened cutthroats quake with fear was on her ship, thoroughly beaten down and broken. The Naval forces in the Caribbean had never been large, despite please to the crown for more resources. Without James' leadership and no-quarter reputation to precede them, the Navy would be all but powerless.

"The Navy?" Thomas scoffed, taking her pause for confusion. "The Navy hasn't been able to do a damn thing since Commodore Norrington vanished half a year ago."

Grace schooled her features, feigning surprise. "Vanished? What do you mean vanished?"

"Just that," Isaac said. "He took off after some pirate nearly seven months past, and no one's seen hide nor hair of him since."

That would be because I have him…Lord, but he could have me any day!

She felt her face flush and ducked her head, hoping to hide it. It was hard to admit, but just the thought of his wild, green eyes and devil-may-care grin set her blood boiling. His voice alone—that rich timbre that played so deliciously along her spine—was enough to make her want to—

Grace froze that line of thought before it could go any further. It wouldn't do to let her imagination run away with itself. It wasn't like her to be so distracted, and especially not over some man. The conversation around her faded as her mind wandered, despite her attempts to stay focused. The truth of the matter was that James had her well and truly infatuated with him and it had been so long since her last romantic foray that she had quite forgotten how to handle it. It was bewildering—after that initial surge of desire, her feelings should have faded, not amplified, especially after coming upon him nearly comatose in the cargo hold. Had it been any other of her crew she would have been livid, but with James…she just hadn't been. The way he had looked at her that night, so sad and resigned to his broken existence, had sliced through any anger she may have felt and struck at that place in her heart that the sea hadn't managed to harden. She'd taken pity on him despite herself and helped him back to the forecastle—no mean feat considering his height—where he'd tumbled to the deck under his hammock, very nearly taking her down with him. He had waved her off with a slurred "No, let me lie," when she'd knelt down to help him up, but he'd caught hold of her hand as she made to rise.

"I'm sorry," he'd said. "I didn't want…I tried."

"I know," she had told him, and she had allowed herself to touch him, to stroke his hair away from his face. It had seemed to soothe him. "I know. Just get some sleep, James."

He had released her hand and closed his eyes, a strange, half-smile on his face. "Yes," he had murmured to himself. "…very pretty with her hair down."

Foolish as it was, Grace couldn't help but wonder if he'd meant her. She knew it had probably just been the rum talking and odds were he didn't even remember saying it, but…

"…I certainly hope so. He's been a thorn in our side for years, has Jack Sparrow."

Grace's head snapped up, her mind jerked back to the present; if anything could focus her, it was that.

"What about Jack Sparrow?" she asked, her hand tight around her now empty glass.

"You haven't been listening at all," Isaac said, and it was clear he found that odd. "He's the pirate Norrington's gone off after." He paused. "You don't…know him, do you?"

"Unfortunately," Grace said, sneering. "What has he done this time?"

Arrogant bastard! If I ever get my hands on him…

"It's been Hell to piece together, but from what I can tell, the lucky rascal escaped his own hanging under some very suspect circumstances," Isaac explained. "Apparently the local blacksmith was involved and now he's set to marry the governor's daughter or some such nonsense—the blacksmith, I mean, not Sparrow. But it seems—and this is what's most unusual about it all—that Norrington let the man go!"

Grace narrowed her eyes. "That doesn't seem right."

"No, no it doesn't," Isaac continued. "That's the business I was sent down for. The Company wants this mess sorted out. I'm afraid most of what I have is hearsay, but my report's been sent." Isaac sighed and rubbed his chin. "Still, hearsay or no, it's enough to justify arrest."

"How likely is it?" Thomas asked.

"I might as well arrest the blacksmith tomorrow," Isaac sighed. "And Norrington, wherever he is, should consider himself a fugitive. Commodore or no, his neck is for the noose, as well."

Grace tried to hid her unease, tapping her glass on the arm of the chair. Isaac was dreadfully loyal to his family, loyal to the point of breaking the law—he'd done it for her more times than she could count—but if it didn't involve his kin, he was the Company's man through and through. If he found out about James, she didn't think any amount of pleading could silence him.

"Isaac, why would the Company send you to sort this out?" Grace asked. "This wouldn't have anything to do with that business maneuver you mentioned in your letter, would it?"

"Business maneuver?" Thomas said, regarding his son quizzically. "What might that be? You've not spoken of it."

Isaac shifted in his chair, stretching his long legs out in front of him. "That, Father," he said, sounding highly irritated. "Is because I am entirely skeptical about the whole mad scheme."

Grace raised her eyebrows. "And what mad scheme would that be?"

"Some plan of Cutler's to increase trade on a massive scale," Isaac answered with a dismissive wave of his hand. "It's impossible."

Thomas laughed. "Ah, yes, how is your friend Mr. Beckett?"

"He's a lord now, actually, as he'd tell you if he were present," Isaac replied with an air of amusement. "And he's reveling in it." He sighed, shaking his head. "He's a fine gentleman, but too ambitious by far, I've always thought. I fear sometimes the man won't stop until he's Glamis, Cawdor, and King."

"A gloomy comparison," Grace said, but for all it's dark connotations, it was an apt description. She had only met him once, and while he had liked him well enough, the meeting had left no doubt in her mind that Cutler Beckett lived for business. "He's not changed at all, it seems."

"No," Isaac said, suddenly serious. "No, he hasn't."

"Ah!" the governor exclaimed, looking at his pocket watch. "Nearly three…forgive me, Grace, Isaac, but I must be off." He stood and hurried to the door where he paused and looked back with a grin. "Grace, my dear, be sure my rogue of a son doesn't drink all my brandy, will you?"

The door clicked shut behind him and the moment it was closed Isaac nearly leapt out of his chair.

"My letter," he said. "You received my letter?"

"Yes, thank God!" Grace said. "It was nearly too late! The Company has got hold of one of my merchants; I'm sure of it."

Isaac swore, running a hand over his face. "What did you do with your cargo?"

"I recorded it in the prize report and had it all transferred to the Spanish ship. It was mostly wine and some textiles…none of the usual this time."

"And the crew didn't question it?" Isaac asked.

Grace resisted the urge to roll her eyes and groan; she would have thought that by now Isaac would have spent enough time at sea to know a few things.

"I'm captain, Isaac," she said. "If my men question my orders, I can have them whipped for as long as I please. Besides, they don't wonder where their coin comes from so long as they get it before the brothels open."

"Fine, fine," Isaac said, standing. "What really matters is that you aren't caught with cargo you shouldn't have."

"And the merchant?" Grace pressed. "I can't ignore him, Isaac. He knows things."

Her cousin turned to look at her, his eyes worried. "How much?"

"Enough to bring everything crashing down," Grace admitted. "He's seen me return to the Glory, and that's enough to assume a connection, though I doubt he suspects Isabel and Edward to be the same person. Still, pressed as he is, he's sure to mention it."

"Which merchant is this?" Isaac asked.

"Henry Skinner from—"

"From Charleston," Isaac broke in. His posture relaxed and he smiled weakly. "I have charge of his case. I can help you out of this."

Grace sighed, letting her head fall back against the chair. "You know what I have to do, Isaac," she said, and even to her own ears her voice was anxious.

There was a quiet moment as they both contemplated her meaning. Grace had killed her share of men over the years, for various reasons. She didn't like it—in fact, she loathed it—but she could shut down, block off all emotion for the time it took to do the deed, but she paid a heavy price for it later.

"I can keep the Company men away, but you need a suitable place for it," Isaac said at last. "A tavern would be best, the worst you can find. Do you know any?"

"No," Grace said, leaning forward, her elbows on her knees. "I'm unfamiliar with Port Royal, but I know someone who might know a place."

It was a long shot, really. She didn't expect James to know much about the seedier side of Port Royal, but he would at least be able to tell her the respectable places, the places to avoid. And she needed to see him—if there was soon to be a price on his head, it was only right he be warned.

"I'd best go," she said, standing. "It could take some time to find him."

Isaac nodded, then pulled her into a tight embrace.

"I wouldn't want your life for the world, cousin," he said. "You never have a day of peace, it seems. Are you sure you aren't ready to come to Boston in truth? You would get on so well with Anna."

Grace sighed, thinking of the countless cold nights spent in misery and her dream—her foolish, little girl' dream that she just couldn't forget—that one day she would have a home, a husband…and children. The thought was more painful than any cold night.

"Not yet," she said with a slight smile. "Boston isn't ready."

"No, I suppose not," Isaac chuckled, releasing her. "Good luck finding your friend."

She nodded and turned towards to door, her mind already occupied with other things. She would have to go down to the docks, and probably the Mad Fiddler, before she even hoped to begin searching for James; if anyone knew where he might have gone, Cromley would.

"Grace?" Isaac said suddenly, and she paused, looking back at him. He was leaning against a chair and frowning in the way he did when he was uncomfortable and trying not to show it. "Do you know anything about…about Davy Jones?"

"As much as any sailor," Grace said, confused at the strangeness of his question and the troubled tone of his voice. "Why do you ask?"

"Is he real, do you think?" Isaac pressed, and now his unease was apparent. "A man without a heart—in the most literal sense—it can't be possible."

"El Diablo del Mar," Grace murmured, feeling a chill at the very thought. "All sailors fear the sight of the Flying Dutchman, Isaac. And rightly so."

"Are you saying it's real?" Isaac queried and there was something almost frantic in his tone now. "The Kraken and the Dead Man's Chest? One hundred years of service, all of it?"

"Isaac, what's this about?" Grace asked. "You've never had any interest in these things before."

He smiled and shook his head, all traces of fear gone. "It's nothing," he said. "I just find myself more inclined to believe in things lately. Go on…I didn't mean to keep you."

Grace didn't consider that a satisfactory answer, but she left the room all the same—there was no use trying to ferret out the reason behind her cousin's unusual questions. There was a reason, of that she was sure, but she had more pressing matters to attend to than Isaac's newfound superstition.