Muse hated, nay despised the navy.
Having press-ganged him at an early age, they took good care to squash him under their scornful, treacherous thumbs. It took nearly six years before he made his escape, when his ship made port in Cairo. By some miracle of God, he begged, bartered and stole his way back to Portsmouth, England in seven months. Finding his parents dead and Maye farmed out as a servant to a wretched, beady-eyed silver smith, he killed the man. Making off with a good chunk of his fortune afterwards was a rather nice consolation prize.
The bloody blighter should've known better than to put his hands on ya! he snarled to his terrified twin. After fainting at the sight of him standing over the dead man's body, Maye came to, hysterical. Literally slapping some sense into her, Muse eyed the burgeoning belly of his sixteen year-old sister. And it was then he decided he had no qualms about the bloodied dagger in his hand. It felt safe and reliable. As though it belonged there the entire time. While it was not the first man he'd killed, it was definitely the most satisfying.
Murder equaled protection. It was a lesson he would take with him to his very dying breath.
Ordering her to bag up as much silver as she could carry, they escaped. Slipping out of England via the Channel and making their way to Calais was surprisingly easy. Fencing the silver was not. But after some time, they had a sizable amount of gold livres. Enough to ensure a relatively comfortable birth for his nephew at a local nunnery in Cambrai. And just enough to place the child on the doorstep of a sympathetic family of lacemakers in the neighborhood. After hanging around for a few weeks with their ears to the ground, they knew the boy would be in good hands. And though Maye cried her heart out for the better part of year, she came to grudgingly accept it. Well, that was all he could assume. She certainly never made any mention of the child thereafter.
Through various twists of fortune, they found themselves penniless yet again. To hire themselves out as crew aboard a pirate ship, they disguised themselves as twin boys. Eventually, Muse rose to become its captain. Mostly as a result Maye's of murder the old one (You said the bloody blighter should've know better than to put his hands on me, she shrugged to Muse's shocked discovery. After all, it was now she who held the bloodied dagger in her hand. And it was now she who stood over the body, with nary a hint of regret reflected in her icy blue eyes). With his experience as a sailor and Maye's surprising head for strategy, they followed rumors of better seas to the Caribbean. Years passed and they crossed paths with Sparrow on many an occassion. And now they found themselves here.
Muse hated, nay despised the navy. But he preferred not find himself in a failed stand off with them.
Norrington almost refused to believe it; boarding the apparently distressed ship had quickly resulted in a standoff upon the deck. Even the Dauntless and the La Dame Aimable were in a standoff as well, the respective gun turrets on the portside of the Dauntless and the starboard of the La Dame Aimable open and ready to fire. Canon orders shouted between the two crews mingled within the space between the two vessels. They were joined by a gangplank until a moment ago, when La Dame Aimable attempted to sail past them in an utterly misguided attempt at escape. Thankfully, the immediate appearance of canons from the Dauntless ended that notion rather quickly.
Also surprising was the fact that the Commodore currently had a woman at swordpoint. Granted, the flame-haired wench proved a rather irate looking sort. Judging by the manner in which she easily threatened the slit Gillette's throat at the first opportunity and with little conscience, she had plenty of experience. Not to mention, her cutlass was drawn and ready to strike. Regardless, the whole business made Norrington decidedly uncomfortable. Outside of Sparrow's dark-skinned, black-haired apparent first mate, he'd little dealings with female pirates. Especially ones so adamantly aggressive. So far, he found them almost more so than their male counterparts. This one was certainly cut from a rather malevolent cloth, judging by the way her murderous gaze settled on Gillette.
Despite his unease, he still remained ever on his guard. Especially as the female pirate's brother took a threatening step towards him from behind. But no matter, for Groves had that pirate in his sights. The Lieutenant's pistol was cocked, his sword also drawn and ready to deal with another crewmember just to his left. That crewmember in turn had his short sword pointed at Gillette, the Lieutenant with his pistol trained on the pirate woman's brother and his rapier pointed at redheaded woman.
Norrington hated standoffs. It wasn't the fear if them per say. Rather, the peculiarity of their inertia and the general lack of resolution. There was also the high possibility of deadly consequences should he make a wrong assumption of his enemy's nerve. Unfortunately, these pirates weren't particularly feckless. If only judging by their success in getting the navy to board their ship, relatively unprotected and under a false sign of distress.
"I'm suggestin' you disembark," the one named Muse called out behind the Commodore.
"Ah, but we've far more canon and men. You're in no position to negotiate," Norrington icily retorted.
"Won't be matterin' a damn if you're dead."
"I may say the same for you, sir," Norrington snorted with a humorless grin, especially as Gillette cocked his pistol with reassuring aplomb.
"Bloody hell," the woman muttered under her breath.
"Told you we shouldn't have risked takin' em, sis!" her brother snapped, "And then to let 'em board direct rather 'en having 'em bring a longboat-"
"How as I supposed to know it'd end up like this 'en?!" she rolled her eyes.
"'Cause I said so? 'Cause it's the bloody Royal Navy?! 'Cause I bloody said so?!" he all but screeched.
Norrington would've found their exchange mildly comical, if not for the bevy of weapons drawn. "We don't have time for this-"
There was a snarl as the female spun on her heel and launched herself at one of his men. Midshipman Cavendish? Norrington distantly thought as he cocked his pistol. But there was no time, for the other pirates attacked as well.
Cavendish lithely side-stepped Maye's sword thrust, for she was quite a ways shorter and did not have so far a reach. But he misjudged. Within a flash, she sliced upwards with her opposite hand, catching him across the stomach with her dagger. Had he not been so much taller, she would've sliced him across the chest. Ignoring the bitter flash of pain that stabbed through him, Cavendish let out a snarl of his own and lunged at her. The force of his blow would've sent her flying backwards, but she slid away at the last moment. Spinning backwards, her cutlass whirled through the air in a figure eight, distracting him just enough to cause him to overstep. Losing his balance, he let out a hiss of frustration as she sliced across his shoulder. Fortunately, it wasn't deep enough to draw blood. And thankfully, he was paying attention, regaining his momentum and backing away. She would've run him straight through otherwise.
Cavendish had enough of the bloody wench. Running forward, he snapped his sword up, only to stop mid-motion, change direction and savagely slash downward. But rather than the satisfaction of connecting with flesh, his sword thudded into the rails.
Rather than be sliced in half from neck to waist, Maye planted herself just to the right of the midshipman's path. Planning to simply stab him through with her dagger once he came close enough, she didn't expect him to weigh quite so much. Nor move so quickly. He collided dead on with her, the force of it sending her flying right over the rails. With no time to even let out a scream of surprise, she went tumbling head over heels into the sea. Hitting its surface with a splash and sickening thud, her limp body bobbed in the water for a bit before slowly beginning to sink.
Muse's face went ashen and he ran to the rails. Before anyone could react, his roar of rage caused all, from pirate to navy man, to freeze. Wrenching himself from the grasps of two officers who had him pinned and yanking a sword from one of their sheaths in one smooth motion, he wildly swung a fist outward. The crack of knuckle against bone echoed across the deck as he connected with one of the unlucky officers in front of him. Caught completely off guard, the midshipman sunk to the deck with a groan.
Bellowing an order to restrain the prisoner and again cocking his pistol in preparation, Norrington shouted for assistance as Gillette ordered the marines to hold ranks. But it was of no use. Muse had already hissed and punched his way down the deck to spot where Maye disappeared overboard. And standing between Norrington and the marines were the rest of the crew of La Dame Aimable. However, their shock at Muse's reaction and general lack of discipline quickly allowed the crew of the Dauntless to subdue the lot of them. Immediately seeing his crew had them under control, Norrington dropped his weapons and whipped off his coat. Yanking off his wig and kicking off his shoes in preparation to leap overboard, he'd barely finished unbuttoning his waistcoat when Groves grabbed him by the arm.
"'Tis not a great idea sir-"
"She needs assistance!" Norrington snapped as he clambered up the rails. Ignoring the pirates' bristling contempt, he shrugged off Groves. However, the Lieutenant grabbed him by the shoulder again, even as he kept his pistol aimed one of the enemy crew. Threatening to physically yank Norrington back down to the deck, Groves gave him a dark look of warning.
Norrington was about order Groves to unhand him when the splash of the water echoed beneath them. Some ways from the bow and near the quarterdeck, there was a flash of red hair followed by a hoarse shout. Muse had dived into sea. Thankfully, the distraction startled the remaining pirate crew, causing them to hesitate long enough for Norrington to yell orders for his own men to prepare themselves. With a curt nod from the Commodore, now all of the pirates immediately found themselves at the end of various raised weapons.
However, they were again at a standoff, for the pirates remained armed. Norrington couldn't help but roll his eyes, even as he appeared otherwise unphased. Bloody hell on the horizon-!
"If we give ya the captains," the pirates' bosun suddenly snickered, interrupting Norrington's thoughts, "You'll be on yer way, then?" He stood just to Gillette's left, Gillette directly in front of Norrington and with his pistol squarely aimed at the bosun's head. Thankfully, the bosun contained a rather ugly visage, made all the moreso by his sneer. Norrington immediately realized he really wouldn't mind shooting it off.
"Now why would I ever agree to that?" he steadily replied, eyes alight with challenge, "All I have to do is give the signal and my ship fires upon yours."
"You'd kill yerself and your own crew," the bosun grinned.
"But at least it would end your kind," Norrington flatly retorted. The bosun faltered, his almost unnaturally dark brown eyes slanting with disbelief. Lumbering form swaying to and fro, he nervously ran a finger up and down the handle of his battle ax. Gaze darting around, he swiftly took in the quiet though flinty resolve of the marines. Norrington gave a thin, if vicious smile at seeing how the bosun's other hand began shaking ever so slightly around the butt of the pistol.
"You be bluffing!" he swallowed.
"All it will take is my signal," Norrington retorted raising his hand. Almost immediately, the creak of even more cannon being run out along the Dauntless could be heard upon the deck of La Dame Aimable.
The bosun's eyes widened and he swallowed. Suddenly, the vicious grin lit up his face again. "You don't want us."
"To the contrary," Norrington spat.
"Nay, bluecoat," the bosun chortled, "You be wantin' Sparrow." Norrington stiffened as the bosun smiled even more, revealing a rather vile line of rotting teeth. "Word's out, bluecoat; you got it bad for Ole' Jack. Frankly, we thank ye, as ain't none of us wantin' to be the end 'o yer hard nose."
"And how exactly do you know what I want?" Norrington grit, narrowing his eyes.
"Word travels fast with our kind. 'Nough folks witnessed Sparrow's escape."
Though his expression remained impassive, Norrington's mind churned. But it did make sense. Especially considering there were plenty of people about when Sparrow made his move at the gallows. And while pirates were the utter scum of the earth, he knew from his years at Fort Charles that they were always well aware of news out of Port Royal. Outside of Tortuga, it was one of their main haunts. Especially within the poorer districts of town.
"So what have you got to do with it?" Norrington bit as the bosun shrugged.
"We just be a minor distraction at the direct orders 'o Jack, 'tis all. But the longer you stand here wastin' your time, the further Sparrow gets." Norrington nodded for him to continue, though he retained a steady grip on his sword and pistol. "Sparrow be touched by the bloody devil, he do," he continued with a small shudder, though he quickly recovered. "He headin' to Turkey. Somethin' 'bout retrievin' some key to some blaggart's heart."
"And you would betray your own captains over that?"
"To avoiding a long drop and short stop?" the bosun chuckled, "Of course. 'Sides, what's it matter to me? 'Specially considerin' I now be captain with 'em gone."
"Pitiful," Gillette said with disgust as he wrinkled his nose.
"We're pirates, mate," the bosun retorted with a roll of his eyes, "Ain't exactly privy to followin' the rules. At least not yours."
"Point taken," Groves retorted, gaze sliding to where the Commodore stood.
Norrington knew if he rounded up the crew, it would take them at least a week-and-a-half to get back to Port Royal. Even more time to process them through the courts. Not to mention that the towing of La Dame Amiable would slow them down considerably. Sparrow would be leagues away by then, possibly completely outside of capture.
He couldn't risk it.
Aye, he wouldn't risk it.
"Round up the two overboard," he heard himself steadily order, watching as the marines snapped to order without a second thought. Squaring his shoulders, he fixed Gillette with a withering expression as the Lieutenant shot him a skeptical glance. "I cannot afford to lose more time!" he hissed. Eyes wide with disbelief, Gillette repeated the order, sending the naval men scrambling even more. "We'll need to disembark," Norrington icily continued to the bosun.
"Of course," the pirate grinned, though it looked more like a grimace.
"Don't give me that expression, Lieutenant," Norrington muttered as Groves fixed him with an unbelieving stare. "We've no time to waste," he snorted, "Sparrow's still on the loose.
Christian nervously sat on the Henry's bed,in the cabin she shared with the doctor along the middle deck within the Officers Quarters. Failing to focus on the French of Descartes' Discourse on the Method in her hands, she let out a worried sigh. Snapping the volume closed in frustration, she clambered to stand on the bed; she was hoping for a better view from the porthole in order to see what was going on with the distressed ship.
Suddenly, she was startled by a brisk knock on the door. It was speedily followed the hurried identification of one of the midshipman. Scrambling to unlock the door, she was almost knocked to the floor as an officer wordlessly grabbed her by the forearm. Hustling her out the cabin, he snatched up her medical bag from the floor next to the entranceway. All but barking for her go to Gillette's quarters, he shoved the bag into her hands and steadied her as she stumbled into hallway. He silently followed behind her, hard on her heels and almost as though he wished to prevent her escape.
"One the prisoners needs medical attention," he suddenly declared, gravelly voice echoing off the dark hallway.
As he cut in front of her, Christian took in the sight of him (for on an 80-gun ship such as the Dauntless, with up to eight men per gun, there were well over 500 men aboard. Hence, on this small floating city, it was impossible for her to know everyone. And so she'd never laid eyes on this midshipman). Stocky and on the short side, his straight, light brown hair stuck out from odd angles from under his wig. Without a hat or overcoat and just in his shirtsleeves and unbuttoned waistcoat, he wasb in shambles. White breeches torn at the knee, one stocking fell around his ankle, his face smeared with soot, sweat and flecks of blood. Carrying a pistol and his sheathed rapier in one hand, he was also without his swordbelt.
Christian easily identified the fresh blood smeared across his shirt in large, darkening splotches as he turned around and waved her into Gillette's cabin. The smell of dirt, gunpowder and the tangy, iron scent of blood filled her nostrils as she slipped by him. Dark eyes wide and hooded within his tanned, square face, his expression was impassive. Save the odd quirk of his lip as he gave her a doubtful once-over, he appeared positively bored.
"Are you injured?" she suddenly said, causing him give a derisive snort.
"Not particularly," he slowly replied, voice dropping. She couldn't tell whether if was from surprise or annoyance, though his expression slightly softened. "A bit worse for wear, but otherwise intact," he continued, glancing down to where her eyes traveled. "None of it's mine," he swallowed as his fingers gingerly brushed along one of the bloody spots upon his shirt.
"Good," she nodded as he opened the door the Gillette's quarters, "Anyone else?"
"Your superior is sewing up Midshipman Cavendish at the moment. He'll be mended and on the go again shortly I assume."
"I see," she slowly replied. Trying not to give in to the temptation to go down to the infirmary and threaten Cavendish with poisoning since he was currently in a rather vulnerable condition, she continued, "I, uh, missed your name-"
"Midshipman Kensington," he cut her off. "The prisoner," he suddenly snapped, jerking his head in the direction of the modest bed in the middle of Gillette's quarters, "She's in there."
"She?" Kensington gave her a shrug before turning on his heel and disappearing down the hallway. "Well then," Christian said aloud as she approached the bed with mounting caution.
Gillette's cabin was small but comfortable, a private luxury afforded by being one of few ranking officers upon the Dauntless. A traveling chest sat at the foot of his humble bed, atop a rather richly decorated red and black rug of the orient. Above the wrought iron fire brazier along the opposite wall hung a watercolor painting of a city of some sort. Next to the grate was a small writing desk and modest, high-backed chair. A pot of ink with a quill at the ready rested on the desk next to a worn, leather ledger. Upon a shelf above the ledger were a few expensive, leather bound books. They were held in place by two golden sculptures of an apple bolted into the shelves, which served as book ends. Two lit black metal lanterns swayed from the rafters above. Overall, the room was spotless and well kept. Christian wasn't surprised at its state from what she knew of the ever thoughtful and diligent Gillette.
However, her attention quickly turned back to her patient. Lying in the bed was unconscious form of a small, flame-haired woman. From what Christian could gather, her mismatched clothes appeared like those of a buccaneer. Soaked clear through, the salt of the sea was beginning to crystallize along various bits of fabric and her drying skin. While not daintily pretty, her round face was handsome despite the wet, streaked white face powder running down her cheeks and neck. Skin pale freckled beneath the ruined powder, it proved unusually sallow in the poor light. As she was asleep, she could not tell the color of her eyes. She imagined they would be either blue or green, judging by her complexion.
Leaning over her, Christian frowned. She immediately noticed the dark spot of wet blood upon the blanket her patient lay upon. It looked as though it'd been hastily thrown over the bed for protection. Continuing to scan downwards, Christian gasped, a shudder passing through her; in the middle of the woman's left shin was a bloody, callow bone. Tearing straight through the skin at an almost 90 degree angle of horrifying reality, it was badly broken. Rivulets of blood were pouring down her leg, already beginning to soak the blanket through as well.
Ah, explains why she's so pale, a distant part of her reeled as she bit back the urge to throw up her dinner at the sight. Taking a few deep breathes to steady herself and forcing her mind into the detached musings of a surgeon, she went to work. After all, she'd set enough broken bones to know she'd be occupied for at least the next few hours.
Christian felt herself being shaken awake, followed by a low command to not panic. Eyes fluttering open from where she sat in her chair next to the bed, she took in the blurry form of Gillette. Her grip on the dagger hidden in her coat pocket loosened as she gave him a sleepy nod of acknowledgement.
"Mr. Granner," he faintly grinned. Taking her by the wrist, he pulled her to her feet. She was still half asleep, causing her stumble forward. "I see you were hard at work on the prisoner," he continued. He was in a fresh coat and shirt, wig immaculate and tricorne freshly brushed. As though for dinner, she distantly thought as she steadied herself. Forcing her legs to move in the now familiar motion with the ship, she rubbed her eyes.
"Forgive me," she yawned, "But what time is it?"
"After dinner, lad," Gillette replied, removing his hat and placing it on the trunk at the foot of bed. "You must be starving," he frowned.
"No…yes," she declared. "And you said 'prisoner?'"
"The pirate woman," he gestured at his bed, watching as Christian's gaze swept the room once more. "One doesn't have much in the way of possessions when one is an orphan," Gillette continued matter-of-factly in reply to her expression.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"
"Wonder why I had so little in my quarters?" Gillette quietly said.
"Wait a moment," she muttered, "Groves and the Commodore said you parents were French Protestants who moved to Belfast. They were linen merchants-"
"Before they both died," he steadily replied.
"I'm sorry," she breathed. "I lost my parents at a young age as well," she said after a long while, "My mother when I was born, my father when I was eleven." She suddenly realized that it proved one of the few true facts of her past that she'd revealed to anyone onboard.
"Well thankfully I was a bit older when I lost my own," he distantly said. "In the meantime," he continued, voice returning back its usual tone of polite curiosity," Is there anything else you require?"
"I still haven't been able to get a clear answer as to what happened to her," Christian said, arching a brow.
"She fell overboard," Gillette snorted.
"Well, she can't be locked in the brig," she replied, her sleepiness immediately forgotten at the mention of imprisonment. "She broke her leg and lost quite a bit of blood. The conditions down there will surely lead to infection. And from what I understand, nothing is to be done until we arrive at an English port and she receives a trial-"
"Come now, I wasn't planning to kick her out," Gillette replied, lip curling with derision. "She may be a murderous criminal-"
"Murderous?" Christian replied, breath hitching in her throat.
"She slashed up Midshipman Cavendish pretty well." Gillette bit, "He'll be right as rain, though." She gave an admonished shrug as he began gathering up some of his things. "However, she remains a prisoner. So during her recuperation, she will be locked in my cabin…assuming she's alive?" he asked, glancing at the pirate's sleeping form.
"The laudanum," Christian yawned again, "I had to give her a rather heavy dose for the extensive stitching. She's not dead…yet."
"Well then," Gillette shrugged, "I'm having some of the cabin boys move me into Groves' quarters until she's well enough for the brig. How long will that be?"
"A fortnight to three weeks," Christian replied worrying her lip, "Though she will have to be looked after-"
"That will be your job, I expect," Gillette called out over his shoulder as he gathered his books. "Do be careful though, Mr. Granner. While there will be a guard every time you attend to her, I'm sure she'll attempt to use the standard in feminine wiles to escape. She's well aware that a quick drop and a short stop await her when we reach land. I'm sure she and her brother will no doubt try something-"
"Her brother?"
"She's one of the Scarlett Twins. They specialize in defrauding ships under various false colours and with false Letters of Marque. Not to mention the usual rum running and smuggling. They tried to take the Dauntless, bloody idiots. As though James would fall for it," he smirked. "Anyway, once the rest of crew saw the goose had turned, they abandoned them after she fell overboard and her brother leapt over to save her. He's currently gracing the brig."
"So when do we get to next Port?" Christian replied, "We're on the open seas."
"That is an answer only the Commodore knows," Gillette replied, moving to answer the knock to the door. Three cabin boys appeared, waiting to gather up Gillette's belongings for his move to Groves' quarters. "Well," the Lieutenant said, "In the meantime, you may want to get some dinner before the galley's closed. Good night, Mr. Granner."
"Lieutenant Gillette," she saluted. Making her way out the room, she couldn't help looking back at the sleeping form of the pirate woman.
Staring down into the water mirror sitting upon the small desk next her bed in her quarters, Anamaria muttered a curse. Especially as she witnessed the iron bars of the brig slam shut behind Muse. Dropping a handful of burned rice into the water with disgust, she automatically arched back as the usual flame of red fire licked up from the bowl. Chanting, she gripped the sides of it until the flame died down.
"They be clapped by Jaime then?" Jack forlornly murmured from the doorway. Startled, she glanced up from her seat. Nodding in confirmation, she jumped to her feet, quickly dumping the water out of the port window and into the sea.
"No thanks to you," she snit, which only caused him to reach out and lay a hand on her arm.
"They knew the risks when they took it on," Jack declared with a steady gaze. Though she rolled her eyes, she couldn't help but nod in agreement.
"You know, you can't keep that bluecoat at bay forever, Jack," Anamaria muttered, gaze boring into his. "This one ain't gonna be trifled with. He ain't daft in the slightest."
"Well-"
"Jack!" she hissed. Gritting his teeth, he worriedly rubbed the bridge of his nose for a moment. "Fine then," she continued, "Looks like I'll be asking Tia Dalma for some help and whatnot.
Giving a dismissive wave, Jack's demeanor suddenly switched back to its usual one of half-drunken, mischievous deception. "Now," he smirked, withdrawing and leaning haphazardly against the doorway, "I need me best navigator at the wheel, eh? Jaime will be distracted for only a quick bit and we need to get to Persia. I need more supplies 'afore I go after me key." She silently nodded as she roughly brushed passed him, heading up to the top deck and relieving Gibbs at the wheel.
"Eh, he almost had you back there, Cap'n!" Gibbs called out before taking a long swig from the beaten leather flask hanging around his neck.
"Almost. But I'm standin' here, plain as day, ain't I?" Jack darkly chuckled as he casually glanced at the wheel. Anamaria only gave him a look of warning. Especially as he moved the wheel a few degrees north.
"My bearings is fine!" she snapped, dark eyes narrowed, "And like Gibbs said, he almost had ye! You're gettin' too damned cocky, Jack."
"And you worry far too much, love" he snorted. Reaching out to caress her shoulder, he immediately thought the better of it at her sharp gaze. "Eh, he almost had me," he shrugged, stumbling away from her.
"We need to hit another port, as we didn't get the supplies we intended to in Nassau," she ordered. "After that, you get me my ship to replace the Interceptor and I'm gone from yer troublin' ways, understand?"
"Of course, my dear Maria-"
"Anna Maria."
"Aye, 'tis a pretty name!" She rolled her eyes yet again. However, she couldn't hide a quick grin as she turned to wheel, leading them into a faster current.
Jack suddenly scrambled along the quarter deck, eyes alight with a new idea. "We can make landfall in Cape Verde in just over a week-"
"I can't be millin' about the capital over in Praia," she bit, "Slave trade and whatnot," she growled with disgust.
"Well, you can stay onboard when we take on supplies then," Jack nodded, "But you'll need to step on some solid land to send out your callings to Tia, seeing that's she's bound to earth now."
"Boa Vista's just north of Praia. It be pretty deserted, as it's the last island of the Cape. I can do it from there."
"Good 'en," Jack chuckled, heading to the door. Suddenly pausing, he spun around to face her again. "Anna Maria, darling-"
"Aye?" she retorted.
"What exactly do you planning asking Tia for? We can still outrun Jaime, you know."
"No, we can't," she declared, fixing him with an impenetrable stare over the wheel. "You're gonna need something bigger. Something Tia can command, too."
"Eh?" he questioned, rubbing along his rough, unshaved chin, "Don't know I've got anything 'o value to pay 'er off with."
"Aye, you do. Or at least you will once you get your key from Ammand-"
"The chest be mine!" Jack sharply snorted, dark gaze narrowing and dangerous. "I be the one who needs it most, savvy?"
"To save your arse," she retorted, "Thing is, you get clapped by that Commodore, you're dead anyway. So you can either hand over the heart to Tia later, or risk gettin' your precious Pearl blown all to the pieces. 'Cause that bloody Commodore will be catchin' up with ya again. And soon."
"Bloody hell," Jack sighed, closing his eyes and leaning against the mast. Eyes snapping open, he gave her a haphazard wave, smile suddenly gracing his features. "Hanging's a bad way to go, love. So go on and send your messages to the good 'ole Tia. Meantime, like I said, what will you be askin' her for on me behalf?"
Smirking, Anna Maria set her mouth into a hard line of defiance, eyes narrowed and almost impossibly dark.
"Let's just say Tia's gonna whip us a bit 'o a storm, Jack."