Here is another ship, that is, James and Constance aside.
Name: HMS Interceptor
Type: Brig
Speed: 6 – 11 knots + 1 to accommodate the reputation (22 km/h maximum)
Crew: 70 sailors, 50 gunners, 50 marines
Guns: 20
Displacement: 178 tons
Length: 34 meters
Sails: 4400 sq ft (410 m sq)
Travel time between Jamaica and Tortuga: 20 – 40 hours
The following chapter is rated M.
REBORN ch13
The tropical rain came down fast and hard on the unsuspecting village, drowning the ground in a multitude of the forked, shallow creeks. The air was shattered by low rumble of thunder. Constance flinched as a particularly bright lightening illumined her room. She feared the sky-unleashed storms that occasionally came down on the island with ferocity, threatening to sweep away the human settlement that had been nearly drowned before, but maintained its stubborn presence. The fate of the village, however, was of little concern as Constance opened the door and stood on the threshold of her home, ignoring the pelting droplets that instantly soaked her feet. The wall of rain was impenetrable. She backed away a step, leaving the door open and chiding herself.
Even if James would come back to the village, she had given him little incentive to come to her. Most likely, he would join Simmons, who could offer a steaming concoction that was made of something unknown, but had a bitter aroma of alcohol and spices, and an equally stinging word to clear one's mind. Pride be damned, propriety be damned and the rain too along with it. Constance padded barefoot across the floor, searching for her shoes. She must go to Simmons, and if James wasn't there, she must go to the Tanga village. She had to find James, who had better be alive and well when they met. Only then she'd feel peaceful enough to sulk, which was difficult when he was somewhere in the jungle getting killed. If only he was back.
The shoes were nowhere to be found. Constance glanced outside, considering to leave barefoot, and instantly forgot everything. James was there, watching her. He was anxious to come in, but firmly positioned himself at the doorstep outside. The trails of water dripped from his hair. They ran along his neck and down his chest behind the collar of his shirt that was made transparent by the torrents. It outlined his muscles, clinging to every tight line of the trained body.
"May I come in?"
There he was, clinging onto propriety again after all they've shared on the beach. She didn't want him to ask her permission to come in – he simply should have without giving it consideration, regardless of their disagreement. She should have expected the retreat. Being with him was always like watching the tide; he came in and left, guided by the laws partially understood by her and partially hoped to understand one day. But, most importantly he always came back, and she was always waiting.
"You may," she invited.
James closed the door behind him in an awkward silence that stretched out into a thousand heartbeats. Neither knew where to start, wondering how to make an apology without giving up their right to do what they thought was best. She was hopelessly drowning in the feel of his gaze on her face, hands and shoulders; and this shyness was much too disquieting. She was used to teasing James, pushing the boundaries of propriety, bringing him out of that self-imposed control he adapted ever since he became a teenager. It had always been satisfactory to rob him of that stiffness, and watch his shoulder relax. No one could compete with her at flustering him. Yet, there she was blushing, when he did nothing other than look at her. In it lay something alluring, masculine and powerful.
"You're all wet," she broke the silence, moving quickly to the other side of the room with this excuse to occupy herself with something. The close scrutiny made her vulnerable. "I'm going to start a fire. There is a towel in the other room." She knelt by the fireplace where several logs were stored, turning away from him to hide the nervousness. The storm, shut out of the house, changed from the rumbling to a half-silenced, melancholic tapping that wrapped around the pair like a blanket. James moved to her side swiftly and soundlessly. His hands met hers before she could reach the wood.
"We need to talk," he claimed, his voice low and nearly overlapped by a clap of thunder, but she heard none of the later.
She didn't want to talk. Not when the words were so unsatisfactory, so misguiding. "You've made your opinion clear this morning," she was forced to voice her grievance, while all she wanted was to smooth the entangled, wet strands of hair from his face and return the warmth to his cool fingers.
"Not in a manner befitting a gentleman. Not after I've left you with an impression that I do not value your opinion. I apologize for conducting myself in less than a courteous manner this morning when I should have been kinder. I assure you that I treasure everything you have to say. I appreciate that I am important enough to you that your indignation had been sparked because I could have been hurt."
As always, he cut to the point with precision, leaving very little mercy for himself, but this self-honesty and awareness of what he wanted also demanded an absolute honesty from her and an immediate answer. He was telling her what he would and what he would not tolerate in a relationship.
"I love you as you are. I respect that you are independent. I consider you to be both an intelligent and a wise woman. I will always listen and take into consideration your advice prior to making important decisions that concern us. However, you are the woman I love, thus I am responsible for you. It is my duty to answer for the outcome of our choices. Therefore, the final say will always be mine. When I say so, I expect you to respect my choice, even if I decide to jump off a cliff. Once the decision is made I don't want you to fight me. That jump will be far more successful if I know that I have your support, and if I know that you trust me to make the right choice. I must know whether I can rely on you to do this."
She nodded, subdued, and swallowed a lump in her throat, although the tears treacherously blurred her vision. "I apologise. I should never have forbidden you to go, especially not in that tone. You know perfectly well that you can always count on my support, which will never change. I've always trusted you with my life and now with my heart. I've always waited for you. What you've suggested about Edward is completely untrue. Your opinion is far more important to me than his. You shouldn't endanger your good relationship with the crew by picking a fight with him."
His finger lifted her chin gently. "Still thinking about other men, are you, while in my company?" he disrupted her rambling.
Constance opened her mouth to give him an indignant reply when she saw a slight, teasing curve lingering on his lips. She almost got angry at him for joking when she felt such a dramatic upheaval, but avoided a quarrel with Edward because that's what she wanted. All those thoughts were rapidly withdrawing, leaving nothing in their wake except pure emotions as he stoked her cheek with his thumb.
"I suppose I'm going to have to put those thoughts out of your mind permanently," he informed her, leaning closer.
Their lips met. Firmly and passionately he demanded her undivided attention, bringing with him a contrasting mix of a heated breath, like a sun on the golden shore, and the cool as the sea spay lips. Constance trembled under a steady pressure as his tongue playfully nipped her lips and nudged against her teeth. She allowed the entry, taking her fill at the invasion and sinking against him.
The wet, chilling shirt pressed against her chest when their bodies came together, disrupting the kiss. Constance withdrew to remove it, battling impatiently with the cold buckles and leather belts crossing his chest that held weapons. His hands slid down her shoulders and arms in a wake of a blouse he removed with an unhurried certainty. Then, he leaned back and examined his handiwork with a smug expression like he had won a shirt removing contest. She ripped the last buckle away and pulled his shirt over his head in one swift motion, not caring to deal with the most irritating buttons.
He was handsome: muscular as the men of his profession were, without a trace of bulkiness due to his lean built, but the debauched scar across his heart stood out like a seal, marking where the trail of blood had passed, and where in its place now flowed the rainwater. She traced the trails of droplets down his chest with her mouth. His hitched breath urged her on. She backtracked upwards with her tongue and sucked the moisture from his collar bone, and then ghosted her lips across his flesh and bit his shoulder.
"Wild cat," he chuckled, pulling her up and trying to capture her mouth. His mouth was everywhere: on her neck, jaw and cheeks, chasing the elusive prize.
She sunk her nails into his back, and then slid her hands to his waistline to remove all the wet articles of clothes that stood between them. He forestalled her attempt, sure that he wouldn't be able to stand with her hands on him. "James, please," she resorted to whimpering when her more aggressive initiative have been hindered. "I need you."
"Soon," he whispered. He climbed onto his feet with her wrapped around him and carried her across the room. The bed was an entirely new sensation as he dropped her onto the sheets. "Mine," he whispered hotly against her skin, "beautiful, enchanting, precious. I will make all your dreams come true."
She laughed, much too pleased to deny him that try. "Knowing you, I'm afraid you just might, literally."
His behaviour changed. The slower, lingering caresses reflected his subdued desire and the raging passion close to the surface that he mastered. His self-restraint allowed her to lose control, cling to him. She followed his lead in the array of the quiet moans, creaking of the bed and the low howl of the wind, all intertwined and leading to one quiet exclamation that meant all the love in the world.
"James."
His hands were soothing. He gathered her into embrace possessively. It was peaceful to lie there with her cheek pressed to his bare chest, listening to the quickened beating of his heart. She closed her eyes relishing the new feeling of security and deepest satisfaction, pliant and half in a dreamscape. She must have dozed off.
When she opened her eyes, James was above her, resting on his elbows and watching her, although his look was half-unfocused and his thoughts were turned inward. She tangled her fingers into his hair and pulled him closer for a kiss. He shifted to be lying down beside her, so they would be facing each other. She guessed what he was thinking about.
"Have you found Tin Agan?" she ventured to ask as gently as she could, meaning to free the question of any reproach.
"I have," he confirmed. His palms slid down her body thoughtfully, lingering on the curve on her hips. The touch intended to alleviate her worry, and she with an equal care ran her fingers through his hair. "I believe there might be a way to lift the curse and free us all, but I must leave tomorrow morning. This is why I came to you. I didn't want to leave without reconciliation."
"Where are you going?" she asked, although her true question was how long he will be away, and when will he be coming back.
"I believe it is a shrine at the abandoned Tanga village. I am not sure how far away, but more than a day. The Chief promised that someone named Toa Ni will lead me there."
Her protest appeared in a minor, unintended tug of his hair. "Is anyone else is going or just the two of you?" she asked, hopeful that James would have trustworthy companions, but he replied in the negative.
"He refused to show the way to the shrine to anyone else."
"Toa Ni is the one who opposes peace with us the most. It could be a trap. He might lead you into the jungle and kill you there, and then claim it was an accident."
James resumed the reassuring strokes along her back, but she saw a shadow that quickly estimated the risk before it sunk underneath a calm façade. "Thank you for warning me. I will not give him the opportunity to do any harm."
Nevertheless, she was reassured that he had taken her warning seriously. Any normal person upon receiving a death threat would run, hide, and enlist the help of his friends and authorities. But, this was James Norrington who lived under a flag offence is best defence. He would push away his friends, so none of them would get hurt by association, and run towards the danger to face the problem directly. She could only reproach herself helplessly for indulging these utterly bad habits and secretly adoring the stubborn, careless, uptight man, who too she suspected loved her for something other than saintly obedience.
"Be careful," she told him, meaning to say be safe.