Posting this in a great bloody rush tonight, so I just wanted to thank ALL of you who read that last chapter and let me know what you thought! I can't tell you what it means to me.
Now, just a note before we begin. I started this monster story without knowing that one of the cannon characters actually has a universally accepted name in PoTC fan-ficdom. This has been bugging me for quite some time, and when I have the time, I'll go back and correct this annoying error in my previous chapters.
For now I'm pleased to announce that the part in Between the Raindrops previously played by Lieutenant Leland Nilsen will now be taken over by (now Commander) Theodore Groves.
My sincere apologies for any and all confusion this might cause.
As always, anything you recognize probably belongs to that ruddy great rat... er... mouse. Yeah, that's it -- the mouse.
Chapter 32
If the waters of the Caribbean could be likened to haystack, Theodore Groves thought with more than a touch of annoyance, then the Black Pearl and her unpredictable captain might as well be a whole fleet of needles unto themselves. Hands clasped behind him, Groves slowly moved the length of the Belerophon, nodding in clipped manner to crewmen who acknowledged him with a tug of their forelocks.
In quite the contrast to the normal state of affairs -- or what passed for normal where the pirate, Jack Sparrow was concerned -- since departing for the Windward Passage, no less than four ships had reported sightings of a black sailed square-rigger in recent memory. Of these, however, Groves wasn't certain which could be considered remotely credible. For himself, he couldn't put much stock in the words of a half-drunken fisherman who swore that he'd seen a ship matching the Black Pearl's description tossed about by roaring winds and crashing waves in the midst of calm seas, and glowing with an unnatural gray light. Groves could only count this as yet another of the superstitious legends that surrounded this particular ship. Those stories would fill several volumes of his ensign's logbooks, he'd wager.
Another vessel had the pirate ship making a nor'easterly heading for Spanish held territories when they'd seen her, while two more placed a ship they'd thought might have resembled Sparrow's ship traveling in completely opposing directions altogether. And these were the ships that had deigned to be helpful. Others ranged from uninformative to blatant rudeness
Groves felt a now-familiar knot of frustration clench in his stomach. What with slowing to question each ship that sailed across their path, progress had been almost nonexistent. He set his jaw, reminding himself that this too was to be expected in service to King and Country. Certainly James Norrington had endured such dull, fruitless times as these without complaint. Groves would allow no less from himself. If a thousand drunken shipmasters stood between himself and Tortuga, a thousand drunken shipmasters would be duly interrogated.
This dismal line of thought haunted him throughout the next hours, even when the cry from the crow's nest hailed the approach of a ship ahead, nearing off their larboard side. In the hours that followed, all fear of dull, fruitless pursuits evaporated. The newly minted Commander reflected that now would perhaps be too late to wish otherwise.
The ship proved to be a British merchant vessel. A slave ship, to be precise, and Groves imagined he could smell the despairing stench of it from where he stood. The ship had the look of one run hard, and the captain and crew's behavior was that of men recently and deeply disquieted. The Belerophon had to identify herself three times before the slaver consented to bring his ship about and speak to them. When he did so, it was to relay a tale so steeped in the fantastic as to be almost laughable.
Groves did not laugh. Not when told of this slaver's encounter with, not one, but three ships all converging upon him with pirate's colors raised. Not when told of how two of the pirates turned on the third.
Not even when the slaver's captain, pale and shaken, spoke with dreadful conviction of what had transpired next: Of unnatural lights in the sky, storms rising with impossible speeds, and a column of water that obliterated all but the black sailed square-rigger. The captain admitted that he and his men had been running for their lives ever since, and intended to keep doing so until they reached safe harbor.
No, Groves did no laugh. He questioned and ruthlessly demanded reiteration many times over, but the replies were grievously consistent and emphatic. These men had seen what they had seen, and there was simply no way around it. Moreover, every one of these hard bitten sailors had a wild eyed look about them, and continuously glanced about in all directions, as if expecting attack from some unknown quarter. Clearly this entire crew balanced on the edge of panic.
Groves waved them on, knowing he would get nothing more. Had he not been under orders to proceed, he might have been tempted to follow the slaver, and remove himself and his ship from the situation. Instead, he ordered the Belerophon ahead, continuing through the Windward Passage on their heading for the French held waters of Haiti, Hispaniola, and the ill-reputed island of Tortuga. As the Belerophon surged onward Groves found himself at the bow, staring at the vista before him while wondering what in the name of all that was holy was transpiring in this ocean. He had served faithfully in this, the Spanish Main, for enough years to know well the tales surrounding the near mythical Black Pearl, and the savagery of the murdurous Hector Barbossa. The night that saw the battle for the Dauntless had proved the stories true, and then some. On that night the gates of Hell had opened, it seemed, and the damned had walked among the living. Many officers, Marines, and able bodied seamen had lost their lives that night, but it was far worse than even that. It was one thing to fear for life and limb against a vicious opponent. Quite another to come face to face with a sword wielding nightmare. To see Death itself grinning into your eyes as it lunged for you again and again, until, by some miricle, the enemy had been rendered mortal. No more to be feared than any other man.
Theodore Groves was not a madman. He had no wish to wage war against the supernatural ever again. But whether he wished it or no, his present course seemed destined to draw him into similar circumstances.
Why then, did it appear only natural that Jack Sparrow would once again be square in the thick of it? Did the rogue habituallly seek out these insane sort of happenings, or did the inexplicable ac tively flock to him like flies to a horse?
Groves shuddered. What, he wondered with dread, if the pirate had himself found the means to cause these events? Did the power to direct the forces of nature herself even now rest in the hands of a mercurial, unpredictable criminal who owed no allegiance to any crown or people? The thought was too terrible to contemplate, but nearly ten years of service in these waters -- waters where tatterdemalion sailed ships flew before the wind, fogbanks rendered even the most expensive compasses worthless, and swallowed entire fleets whole, and ancient curses sprang from legend to deadly reality -- had taught Groves this much: The idea was too probable to ignore.
o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-
Come on, luv," Jack called impatiently. "It'll be raining on us again soon. Do you want to be caught out in the jollyboat when the skies open?"
From behind the wooden door he heard a muted, but unmistakable curse.
"You are the one who suggested that my garments were not appropriate to the occasion, Captain." Miranda's voice scathed. "And as you did not see fit to inform me of this until after the only other woman aboard this ship had already departed for shore, and is, therefore, not here to help me, you've only yourself to blame for the delay."
Point taken. "Well, if it's problems dressing you're having, I'm game to lend a hand." He grinned, unable to resist needling her when the lady was in high temper. "Though admittedly, when it comes to ladies and their clothing, I've had more experience helping them out than in."
"Captain Sparrow, why don't you take your 'helpful, experienced' hands, and --" There was a heavy thump, followed by a sharp cry of pain.
"Alright there?" Jack called after a long silence. "Miranda?"
"My foot," she announced in strained tones, "has just met with your First Mate's sea chest. Pray don't distract me further."
Jack stifled his laughter. Wouldn't do to have her too angry, now, would it? He took to pacing back and forth, waiting for her to emerge, then leaned against the bulkhead, having nothing better to do than to literally twiddle his thumbs.
He supposed that he was, in a way, the one to blame for the fact that he stood here outside her door, instead of the both of them making their way through the round town with those of his crew not stuck aboard at anchor watch. When he'd spotted her that morning, he'd made the apparent cardinal error of asking when she'd planned to make herself ready for their landing. She'd replied with a nonplussed look that she was quite prepared, thank you very much, and what on earth did he mean by asking such. A low voiced argument ensued when he'd pointed out (quite reasonably, to his mind) that the picture she presented -- her gown a stark, unadorned gray, a shawl tucked into her bodice that nearly covered to her chin, and with her hair sharply pulled back into a militantly neat coil -- was more that of a Puritan than a woman set to coax information from a sodden rake of a former cleric. She'd looked frightened then, accusing him of trying to turn her into some sort of Delilah. Jack had responded, perhaps a bit unkindly, that they hadn't sailed all this way just for her Ladyship to have a womanish attack of delicacy at the last moment.
He'd learned then that his gentle, well-bred passenger had an astonishing talent for elegant invective. Some of the words she rained down upon him were so obscure that if it hadn't been for her obvious ire, Jack might not have realized that he was being told off. He'd held firm against the storm of her indignation, which lead him to where he stood now: waiting in the narrow passageway while the seething noblewoman changed into something more 'appropriate', and feeling the minutes crawl inexorable by.
At long last, the door swung wide. "Very well, Captain, I've done as asked," Miranda said in a rush, stepping from the cabin. "Now, may we please get this over with?"
"Hold on, hold on." He moved in front of her, frustrating her efforts to sweep past. "Let's see it first." She glared at him from beneath the hood of her cloak, lips compressed to a thin line.
"Is this truly necessary, Sir?"
"Well, we'll just have to find out then, won't we? Come on, luv. No need to be shy."
Her eyes flashed dangerously. Then her hands went to her hood, lifting it carefully back.
She'd done something different to her hair. Managed to pile it loosely atop her head, while allowing a few long curls to hang down one side to her shoulder. Quite becoming, he had to say. Still, he wished she'd just worn it down. "Very nice, very nice," he said, nodding in approval. Then he dropped his eyes to the clasp at her throat. "Now, how about the rest?"
Lord, but she certainly wasn't happy with him right at the moment. Jack would swear he could actually hear her teeth grinding together. But Miranda undid the clasp, and drew the dark wool from her shoulders.
Jack swallowed hard, quite deliberately biting at the inside of his cheek. She had taken his words to heart, and now stood before him in the dress she'd worn the day of their escape from Jamaica. Women's finery was usually lost on him, but this one he liked. The deep, midnight violet suited her. Made the color of her eyes stand out, and as he well remembered, offset the burnished sunset of her hair. The vines and flowering sprigs embroidered all about the stomacher and borders were lavish without seeming overdone, and here and there, glints of gold shot thread caught the light in interesting ways. Especially by the low, lace trimmed neckline that displayed her very nicely, to Jack's way of thinking. She wore no jewelry save for that ring today. Not even a ribbon to break the long line of her throat. Not that she needed it, he thought. A waste of time. Gilding the lily, and all that.
Still, something wasn't quite right, and while he tried to come up with a way to phrase it that wouldn't infuriate her and more than she already was, Jack took the opportunity to stroll around her, taking in the full effect.
"Much better," he complimented, wrenching his eyes away from the most intriguing view of the nape of her neck. "But as I mentioned, the men on Tortuga aren't used to ladies who are so... er... refined in their manner of dress. Is there something else you could do to yourself to..." He trailed off uncertainly. Miranda faced him.
"I'm not sure what you mean," she said. "I've already left off my fischu, as you asked."
"Your what? Oh, yes. That shawl -- thing." Jack rubbed thoughtfully at his chin, then held out his hands in a placating manner. "Now, don't take this wrong, luv, but isn't there something you could do to..." He cupped his hands before his chest, making a slight upward motion. Two angry spots of color rose in her cheeks and Jack spoke fast to head off the impending explosion.
"Now, now. Nothing as bad as what you're thinking. No need to be showing off your superstructure. Just..." He fluttered his hands helplessly. "Just... oh, for God's sake, woman, you bloody well know what I'm getting at! Just hoist your sails a bit higher."
"Don't swear at me," Miranda chided. Her lips squirmed, though, and the corners of her eyes crinkled with amusement. "'Hoist my sails', indeed. Well..." Folding her cloak over her arm, the noblewoman made for her cabin. "If that be the case, you must excuse me, Captain. It will take me some time to accomplish this."
"Some time..?"
Miranda turned, one brow arching sharply. "As I mentioned, AnaMaria has already left for shore. It takes some effort to..." Her cheeks flushed, but not with outrage this time. "To adjust one's corset by one's self," she finished quickly.
Jack surpressed the urge to roll his eyes. Why the higher bred found it so shameful to speak of something that every European woman under the sun wore daily was beyond him. Foolishness, he thought. Nearly as foolish as the corsets themselves. Though he had to admit these inconvenient contraptions did produce a most fascinating effect on a woman's body.
"Ah," he said. Then, placing a hand on the small of her back, he gently propelled her into her cabin, stepping in to close the door behind him. "Well, if that be the case, we'd best get started, eh?" His intent was immediately understood. Miranda's eyes narrowed.
"Captain Sparrow, if you believe for one single moment that --"
"Lady Warringford," Jack interrupted. "Time is getting away from us, if you'd failed to notice. Adding to that, we've three more ships put in this morning, and I can't claim to be on the best of terms with at least one of them. It is my intent to have Gorsse thoroughly besotted -- if not with you, then at least with your moneypurse --before dark, when things get too lively over there for us to effectively watch over you. And to get you safely back on this ship, where we effectively can. So if you'd be so kind as to turn 'round, I'll have that whalebone cage of yours tightened up in a trice, and we'll be on our way."
Her glare failing to quail him, Miranda sputtered out, "You... you... is there no end to your shamelessness, Sir?"
"Pirate," Jack said with a shrug. Then he cut her off again as she drew herself up, spoiling for a fight. "Oh, come now! Everybody in this room has seen women's undergarments before. In fact, I've twice seen Elizabeth in nothing more than a chemise, and she survived with her virtue intact." By damn, why was she being so bloody damned stubborn about this? "Miranda," he said sternly. "We don't. Have. Time for this. Now, you just turn around, and we'll get this over with. I swear I'll not breathe a word of it if you won't"
Miranda blinked back tears. Tear of fury, if he knew her at all, and her chin quivered pathetically. But she dutifully turned away and busied herself with the closures of her gown. "Fine for you to say," he heard her mutter snippily. "You're not the one asked to disrobe before a man not her hus... not her family."
"And you're not the famed buccaneer suddenly cast in the role of lady's maid," Jack snorted. " Think of what that does to a man's image." He thought he heard a chuckle in return, and Miranda shrugged the gown from her shoulders, murmuring to herself about corsets that laced solely from the front, and where to get them made.
Jack barely heard her. There was an odd rushing in his ears. He felt the easy smile slide from his face as his eyes traveled from the curve where her neck met her shoulders, and down to...
A cold knot clenched in his middle at the sight of the thin, faint lines that scored across the pale skin to disappear beneath the deep rose of her corset. But what captured and held his attention was the puckered, dead white patch of skin outlined vividly by livid, angry red. It was half covered by the strap of her undergarment, and almost resembled a strange little "r" laying on its side with a long spike and cruel hook. It had been left, he knew with a dreadful sense of familiarity, by a searing piece of metal pressed into her skin, and for a moment he wondered wildly as to what crime this, of all women, could have committed to warrant a brandmark.
Then he recognized it. A poker -- like the one her matron had brandished at him, weeks ago. The spike and hook used to prod and snag logs, and stir the flames on the grate of a fireplace. Jack's hand lifted, reaching out to draw the tip of his finger over the scar.
"He did this to you?"
It was more a flat statement, and there was no doubt as to the identity of the 'he' in question. Miranda, who had tensed slightly at the brief contact, seemed now to shrink into herself.
"Yes," she answered hollowly. "I almost forget it's there. Yes... yes, it must have been he. But there are... I have holes... in my memory. I suppose it's a blessing, really, and it was so long ago. But sometimes... sometimes I remember. He was angry... very angry. Well, he always was with me, but.. but there was a heavy weight... his foot on my back. And then burning, and..." She was shivering now, though the cabin was warming in the heat of the day. "I was never a good wife, he said. Never. He said he would teach me. He said --" Miranda's shoulders hunched. "Please... I would like to get dressed, now."
The tiny, broken voice almost broke him. That bastard had branded her, Jack thought through a haze of red. That bastard, Dunnthorpe, had done this, and more, to his Miranda!
"Alright," was all he managed to choke out, and reached for her laces.
They worked quickly, silently for the most part. Jack didn't really trust himself to speak. Other than to ask if she was ready, or if he was lacing her too tightly. Miranda only answered with a nod or shake of her head, and when Jack softly announced "That's got it," and tied the laces into a sturdy knot, she covered herself as quickly as possible. Fastened the closures with unsteady hands, while keeping her eyes fixed to the mirror on the bulkhead. One of AnaMaria's few concessions to feminine vanity.
Jack stepped up behind her while a million ways of proving just how wrong his-bloody-bedamned-Lordship was went flashing though his brain. None of them would be at all appropriate at the moment. None except...
"Miranda..."
Her haunted eyes met his in the mirror. "Only give me another moment, Captain. Forgive me, I take so long, and I've never been able to--"
"Miranda," he began again, silencing her with a shake of his head. Hating the way she looked at him now -- like a small, frightened child. Hating what made her look at him that way. He made to reach for her, then let his hand drop helplessly to his side. "The shame's all on him, lass. You know that, don't you?"
Emotions flickered across her face, reflected in the wavering glass. "I... No matter what I did, it was never enough. Father never once raised a hand to my mother in anger. Not once. But Edward... " Miranda shook her head slowly. "I remember thinking him so very handsome when first we were introduced. What a fortunate woman I would be to have such as he for a husband." She gave a dry sort of laugh. "Fortunate -- can you imagine? But only days later, when we were wed... everything I did or said was cause for him to..." Her gaze dropped to tightly clenched hands. "Why?"
The whisper made his hands squeeze into fists. Made Jack sorely wish he could close them around a certain nobleman's throat. "Some men don't need a reason, my girl," he said roughly. "My father didn't."
The admission startled him. He'd never spoken of his father before. Well, not his real father. Hadn't even thought of the gin-soaked louse in over a decade. And even all these years later, he couldn't keep the hate from his voice. Miranda's eyes snapped up to him, filled with sympathy.
"And your mother? Did she..."
"Left 'im." The words felt like weights dropping from his mouth. "I was just a boy when she'd had enough. She put me to bed, kissed me goodnight, and come morning I woke up to him screaming for his breakfast." Tears spilled down Miranda's cheeks now. Turning, she lifted her face to him.
"You do understand..." she began haltingly, afraid of giving offense. "Under law, a father has all rights to... to the issue of his body."
"Oh, I know it, luv. He could've had us both dragged back if she'd taken me with." It wasn't as hard as he'd imagined to keep his voice level. Still, left unspoken was the plaintive wish to know just what life might have been his if...
Ah, well. No sense wasting time chewing on that old soup now.
Jack shifted uncomfortably. This was surely more than he'd ever meant to say. But the door had been opened, and all he could do was brace himself for whatever inevitable questions the lady would barrage him with next.
Lips trembling, Miranda took a slow step towards him. Then another, moving up against him, and her arms were about him now. Tightening around him, and her hands timidly pressed at his back. Jack sighed, enfolding her gently. Feeling her body relax in their shared embrace.
"Someday," she asked in a tiny voice. "When this is done, will you tell me about her?"
Someday, he thought, resting his cheek against her hair. Not today. Not even tomorrow, but someday. What a wonderful word someday was.
"Aye, lass. That I will."
Miranda leaned into him for some moments longer. Then, drawing away, she brushed at her dampened face. Jack let her go, feeling a sharp pang of loss. But it was for the best, he told himself. After all, he'd been the one to point out that the day wasn't getting any younger. "You about set?" he asked.
"Yes. No." Miranda frowned at her reflection in AnaMaria's mirror. "Not quite," she said. "First I need to..." Her reflected eyes sought him out. "Turn around."
"Pardon?"
"Turn around," she commanded primly. "I've enough of your impudence this hour as it is. I'll not do anything more with you standing there, ogling me."
This time he did roll his eyes. What -- was it some terrible breach of unknown etiquette to watch a woman powder her nose these days? Or paint her lips? But he did as told and faced the opposite, toying absently with the knickknacks and bottles scattered across the small table.
"I wish you hadn't insisted on this," Miranda's voice floated back. "I don't see why I can't simply assume a sailor's garb, and bribe Gorsse outright. A false beard, and perhaps an eye patch -- oh, honestly, Captain Sparrow! I see no cause for such unseemly hilarity!"
Of course she didn't. She was absolutely serious, bless her. Which was why Jack was doubled over, fighting to catch his breath, laughing until his sides ached in protest. This was AnaMaria's influence, he realized. That one had cultivated her ability to disguise herself as a youth for years. But AnaMaria was tall for a lass. All arms and legs and hard muscle well conditioned from life aboard ship. The idea of the woman behind him masquerading herself as a man -- much less a bearded sea dog -- was more than he could stand.
The frosty silence from her side of the room sobered him soon enough. As did his own well tuned sense of self preservation. There were enough women where they were going who enjoyed warming their dainty hands by bringing them into abrupt contact with his face. Jack didn't care to give cause to another.
"I look ridiculous," Miranda complained suddenly. "I've too much... Oh, this is embarrassing!"
"What? Too much powder? An over-aplication of rouge, perhaps?" Curiosity was getting the better of him. "Care to give a body a hint, I'm all out of guesses." Her sigh was more a growl this time.
"Could we just go? Before I come to my senses, and tell you to go to the devil, that is."
"No need to start swearing at me, luv. I've been trying to get us underway all morning. And though it pains your humble servant to say it, I'm afraid you're the one to be less than coop... er... a... tive..." As he glimpsed her, the toe of his boot caught in the faded woven rug. Jack staggered gracelessly into the table, causing a great jangle of glass. He lunged after the bottles, frantically trying to catch them before they fell, but ended up fumbling the lot.
"No face paint?" he asked to cover his embarrassment, trying (and failing miserably, old boy!) to find a safe place to alight his eyes that wouldn't draw them immediately to the overpowering view of feminine charms now so artfully displayed.
By damn, but when the lady hoisted her sails..!
"I'll pinch my cheeks, if need be," Miranda retorted hotly. "I already look like a shameless hussy. I'll not be adding to it by painting myself like some over made-up tart!" The steel in her words dared him to say different, but Jack wasn't feeling particularly suicidal at the moment. With an effort he translated his attention from the enticement of her overflowing bodice, to fix steadily on her pale face.
"You hardly look that, luv."
Miranda snatched up her fan, fluttering it before her in more a ploy to cover herself than anything else. "Cavorting around on a lawless island with half my bosom hanging out for the world to see... What would my mother say?"
"Probably that you're doing what's needed to take the prize, if she was anything like her daughter." Jack was pleased to see her tense features soften. Always had a way with words, he did. Nice to know he hadn't lost his touch.
"The prize," she echoed softly. "Freedom from Edward. And this creature with him. Freedom..." Her wistful voice trailed off.
"Aye, freedom." Jack felt his stomach tighten at the way that word left her lips. He approached her carefully and draped her cloak around her shoulders. "So what say you we make that merry thought come to pass?" With that, he proffered his arm. Taking his elbow, Miranda allowed him to lead her from her cabin, and to their waiting jollyboat, where they were smoothly lowered into the water, accompanied by well wishes from the men still aboard the Pearl.
Their trip across the harbor was a quiet one. Jack saved his breath for rowing, and Miranda, face half hidden by the hood of her cloak, was too preoccupied for speech. Jack docked them at the smaller of the piers, and lifted the lady up beside him. Traded a half smile with her as they both wavered on the unmoving surface, making her hold fast to his arm. He scanned the sky. Almost noon, near as he could tell. Rain would be upon them soon, but by the look of the clouds, it would be an easy fall. Enough to wash the decks, and gone soon after.
A good thing, he thought. Difficult to spot a body trying to sneak up on you through sheets of pouring rain. There was plenty to be wary of in this port as it was.
"Come on, darlin'," he said. "We'll warm our bones at the Bride, and wait for word that Gorsse has crawled out of his hole for the day." But when he turned to walk, Miranda remained stock still, the hand on his arm tightening with white knuckled fervor. She stared past him up the length of the pier, where a pair of burly fellows were involved in a heated shoving match with a scrawny, frightened looking man. Jack vaguely recognized the skinny one as a cutpurse and pickpocket. Probably caught in mid-pick, he thought with a snort. Nearby, a greasy individual balanced haphazardly atop a pile of barrels. His earthenware jug was clutched to his breast as a mother cradles her child, while a pair of slovenly dressed women beckoned to him with shrill voices and insistent gestures. Others moved to and fro -- some drunk as lords, some showing the obvious aftereffects of similar revelry. A few lurked about, glancing shiftily around them as if in search of a likely target. None were of any hazard to them personally, but for just a moment Jack allowed himself to experience the sights and sounds through other, less jaded eyes.
"Losing faith in me already, are we?" he said lightly. As an effort to divert her, it was a poor one. White to the lips, Miranda's eyes darted from one perceived threat to the next. In another moment she would lose her nerve entirely.
"Miranda." Jack placed himself squarely in her sight. "Miranda, look at me." For once this entreaty failed. She was already too far gone. He narrowed his eyes, then heaved a great sigh, patting heavily at her stiff little hand. "Poor lass. Pity, but I suppose it's too much for a fragile girl such as yourself after all. Alright then, nothing to be done about it. It's back to the ship with you, and old Jack'll sort it out all by his onesy. Come on, back in the boat now."
It was a gamble, he knew. Miranda's eyes flew to himself, wide and hurt-filled. Her mood visibly transformed from fear to outrage, and she wrenched her hand from beneath his condescending treatment.
That's it, that's it, Jack thought triumphantly. Be damned if you'll be treated like a babe in nappies, won't you, luv? Now, give me a show of that high-toned temper of yours!
But it was a glow of humor that spread in her eyes, cooling the sparks of ire. A faint smile tugged at her lips. "Well played, Sir," she admitted. "You almost had me."
Clever girl. "You alright now?"
"I... no," Miranda stammered. Then her chin lifted. "But I'll not allow that to stop us now."
Jack grinned. "That's all I needed to hear. Come on. Deep breath now." Miranda exhaled slowly, then gave him a shakey nod.
"Good," he pronounced, returning the nod firmly. "Now, your conquest awaits, Milady." Sweeping his arm out to indicate the whole of Tortuga, Jack raised his brows expectantly, and again offered his elbow.
"Shall we?"