Disclaimer: It is unnecessary to say that Pirates of the Caribbean and any characters you may recognize belong to Disney. The plot of the story is based heavily on a novel by Christine Elliott.

Author's note: No, this is not a rapefic, rest assured.

Historical note: I recognize the many inaccuracies. Please forgive them, they were necessary for the sake of the plotline.

Chance the Winds of Fortune

Chapter 2

"Drinkin' alone, Cap'n?"

"I was," replied Gareth cryptically as he motioned Oliver further into his cabin. It was small and a bit messy, the swaying cabin lantern alternately casting light and shadow across the wooden bunk and chart-strewn desk.

"Ain't good for a man, ya know, drinkin' alone."

"And I supposed you have a cure for this dilemma of mine?" Gareth grinned, then motioned to the low-back chair on the other side of his desk.

"Well now, I just might. That French brandy ya got there, Cap'n?" the first mate asked, eyeing the pewter mug Gareth held in his large hands.

"'Fraid not, Oliver." Gareth swirled the amber brew around once before draining his cup. "This is good old Jamaican rum."

Oliver spluttered. "But we've a whole store of brandy in the forward hold. Should I . . ."

He started to stand, but Gareth reached across and pulled him down. "Not in the mood for brandy."

Oliver sat down and slid his mug across the polished surface of the desk. "Never knowed you to pass up good French brandy for rum," he muttered.

Extracting the jug from under the desk and filling Oliver's mug and then his own, Gareth explained genteelly, "Brandy's for savoring, rum's for getting drunk."

"That's what you're about, getting drunk?"

Long legs, clothed in buff-colored breeches, found their way to the desk top. There, crossed at the ankles, they rested, forming a V through which Gareth regarded his friend. "Objections?"

"I'm worried about ya, Cap'n," oliver said, rubbing his hand through his beard and putting his drink down, untouched.

Gareth's laugh was sharp and abrupt. "Is that supposed to surprise me? You've been worrying about me since I was seven years old, whether I needed it or not. Why would I expect you to cease your mother-hen act now?"

"Laugh if ya want, but ya ain't been yourself, and ya know it as well as I do. Ya ain't sleepin', for starters."

"How in the hell do you know that?" Gareth slapped his mug down onto the log board. Damn Oliver. There was no keeping secrets from him.

"Seen ya on deck lotsa nights, and I ain't the only one either. Crew says you're becomin' a regular addition to the night watch."

"Crew's becoming like a gaggle of old biddies, gossiping. And you," Gareth pointed a finger at the older man, "are their ring leader."

"It ain't your fault, ya know," said Oliver, ignoring him.

Gareth didn't have to ask what he meant. They both knew what was causing his sleepless nights, the sudden desire to drown his memories in drink. He steepled his fingers under his chin and studied Oliver before shaking his head. "I should have been there."

"Of course ya shoulda, but you weren't, and it weren't your fault you weren't, You've gotta stop blamin' yourself, thinkin' you coulda done somethin' different."

Gareth stared at his first mate, but his mind was traveling back to that night almost a month ago when he had arrived in Baltimore. He had rushed to the large Georgian house in which he'd spent his childhood, only to stand hesitantly in the shadow of the large oak near the entrance, not wanting to approach the doorway and sound the knocker. He had tried to think of his father as Nat had described him in the last letter he'd received – tired, mellow, ready to face death and to arrive at a truce with his elder son. It wasn't easy. Memories of his father's stern, unyielding voice kept interfering. You were a feckless lad, Gareth Slade, always courting mischief, and mark my words, you'll never amount to much of a man.

Finally Gareth had gathered his courage and entered the house, his home, only to discover his father gone, dead for more than a fortnight. His younger brother Nat was gone as well, off on some wild goose chase. Pursuing pirates, who, he was convinced, were waging a personal vendetta against Slade & Co. Gareth, however, did have to admit the decline of Slade & Co. was not imagined. Out of the two schooners and three snows it had boasted on the eve of his departure, there was nothing left. The vessels had all been captured or destroyed – if the letter Nat had left for him was to be believed – by the same group of cutthroats.

The house and grounds, too, showed signed of neglect. The few servants who remained did so more out of loyalty than any hope of monetary gain. Of course, Mrs. Jenkins had stayed, and it was form her that Gareth had learned about his father's last days. She had also told him as best she could about Nat's departure. Whereas the details of his father's death made him sad, the thought of his brother's foolhardy leave-taking made Gareth furious – roaring furious.

"Why did he go? Didn't he think I would come?" he had demanded of no one in particular. "What in hell does he think he can do, alone, against pirates? That is, if there are any pirates," he was quick to add. Of course, his questions went unanswered. Not even the letter his brother had left for him had told him much.

Gareth pressed his palm against the crinkled parchment inside his shirt, reassuring himself of its presence. After all, that letter had sent him sailing out of Chesapeake Bay and down the coast to the warm waters of the Caribbean.

"Ya know, Cap'n, I think yer right about this rum – it could make a body drunk. I'm about ready to snooze this one off," Oliver said, emptying the last of the liquor from the jug into his cup.

Gareth kicked back his chair and stood, more than a little unsteadily. "Well, I feel more restless now than I did before. I can't stand this blasted inactivity. I'll feel like a good sleep after I find Nat."

"Ya worry too much, Cap'n. Young Nat can take care of himself."

"You don't say!" Gareth's words were beginning to slur. "You just tell me one time Nat was able to take care of himself. In all the scrapes we ever got into, who was it that got us out?" Gareth asked rhetorically, pointing his thumb toward himself.

"Mr. Benville's cow."

Gareth stopped pacing and stared blur-eyed at Oliver. "What?"

"Mr. Benville's cow," Oliver repeated. "That's a time Nat took care o' hisself. You too, as I recall."

Gareth roared with laughter, flopped onto his bunk, and stuck his head against the wall. He remembered well the time he and his brother, while playing at being Indians, had deployed their trusty bows and shot their neighbor's cow with arrows.

"Doesn't count." Gareth shook his head, his laughter subsiding. "You know damn well I meant fighting his way out of trouble. If there really are pirates, they're not going to want to listen to Nat's silver tongue."

Walking back to the desk, Gareth slumped into his chair and dropped his head into his hands. "God, I'm tired. But tomorrow morning can't come too early. The sooner we reach Jamaica, the sooner I can find that blasted brother of mine."

"Ya know what ya need?"

Gareth stared. "What?"

"A woman."

"A woman? You're crazy."

"Like a fox. Nothin' like a good roll in the hay to make me sleep like a new babe." Oliver rolled his eyes and seemed to doze off.

"Like a babe, huh?"

Oliver nodded.

"Well, that's you. I've never been one to end a good tumble by falling asleep."

Oliver shrugged. "Worth a try."

Gareth grinned at his friend. "And where do you suggest I procure this woman who will send me speeding toward dreamland?"

"Got some women in steerage right now who'd be more than happy to oblige you, Cap'n."

"You mean those prostitutes we fished from the sea this morning? Good God, Oliver, you think I'd chance getting the pox for a night's sleep?"

"One of them ain't so bad. Matter o' fact, she's been askin' to see ya. Looks pretty clean, too."

Gareth scowled, searching his memory. "Which one is that?"

"The one ya carried up the side."

"You mean the one with the sunburned face and the God awful hair?" At Oliver's affirmative nod, Gareth burst out laughing. "She was the poorest excuse for a whore I've ever seen!"

"She looks a mite better up and about, but hey, 'twas just an idea. Ain't forcing ya." Oliver got up and headed for the door. "Beggin' your leave, Cap'n, I'm goin' to bed."

"Wait a minute." Gareth's scowl deepened as he sighed. He really did need some sleep, and it had been a long time since he had a woman. It was unlikely that one would help, but maybe . . . "Do you think she'd be willing?"

Shock registered on Oliver's bearded face. "Hell, she's a whore, ain't she? Besides, I told ya she's been askin' to see ya. Probably had in mind to thank ya for savin' her hide."

"Send her up. I guess it can't hurt."

***

The candle in the wrought-iron holder offered Avery her meager allotment of light. From the tiny bunk on which she lay she could barely make out the reclining forms of the other women, but she felt certain they all slept. If only she could . . . she had slept most of the day, barely waking in time for the evening meal of pork and pease. Avery ran her hand down the front of her torn gown and let it rest on her stomach, wondering if perhaps she wouldn't have been better off missing the repast altogether. The greasy concoction seemed to have turned to lead in her belly, and that discomfort combined with the noxious fumes of pitch and bilge water below decks left her feeling less than rescued.

Fingering combing her frizzy hair, she managed to drag it into some semblance of order and braid it around her head. As she pinned it down, she noticed with alarm that the damp canvas – she assumed it had been hung to afford herself and the other women some privacy – was being slightly pulled aside. Avery recognized the man she had talked to earlier in the day when she had first awakened and had started to wander up on deck.

She rose shakily to her feet.

"You're awake. Good," he stated, without preamble.

Avery smiled. She wondered vaguely why it should matter to him, but repressed the desire to ask. He seemed harmless enough. She would guess his age to be at least sixty, though his movements seemed those of a younger man.

"I'm feeling better," Avery offered, the ensuing silence stretching out as the fellow peered at her through the dim light. He finally grunted and continued his perusal.

"Why are you staring at me?" she demanded, knowing her words were rude, but not nearly so rude as this sailor's behavior. She could only guess what she looked like. Her skin felt dry and tight and not altogether clean. The bucket of cold sea water she'd managed to find that evening had hardly made a dent in the layers of accumulated dirt and grime. And her gown, well, four days at sea had left it somewhat tattered. Still, her appearance was hardly her fault, and she was just about to chastise the man again when he spoke.

"Cap'n wants to see ya."

"Now?" Her voice left little doubt that she considered the timing ill-advised.

"Aye, now." He narrowed his eyes and glared at her suspiciously. "I thought ya said ya wanted to see him."

"Well, I did – I mean, I do." Avery looked frantically around the area, as if one of the women might awake and explain to this insensitive man the lateness of the hour. But the others slept peacefully, oblivious to her.

"Well, ya comin' or no?" he asked impatiently, holding back the canvas for her.

Avery sighed. "I suppose the time makes little difference. There are some concerns I have." Late or no, she wanted answers. Where was she? Were they headed for Jamaica, and if so, when would they arrive? If not . . . she tried not to think of what that would mean as she followed the man from the port side of the berth deck aft, to the captain's cabin.

She didn't hear any response to her guide's knock, but apparently he did, for without ceremony, the door opened and shut, and she found herself within the cabin, the man who had brought her without.

Before she could begin to ponder the fact that he had deserted her without having made an introduction, Avery saw a form rise from the chair behind the desk. She found her chin tilting to a decided angle as she tried to make out the features of the man she presumed to be the captain. Not that she could discern much of his countenance; the only light in the cabin was positioned behind him.

He came around the desk and slowly advanced on her. Much as his first mate had done, the captain stared at her appraisingly. But this scrutiny, unlike the previous one, did not provoke Avery. Instead, she felt an odd, warm tingling that spread like warm honey through her limbs. His gazed wandered over her, pausing now and then as though assessing each feature. Her face and hair, he passed over quickly, and Avery felt her chin rising defiantly at this apparent dismissal. How dare he treat her thus? The man hadn't even offered her a chair, and dizzy as she was, she could certainly use one. But he'd said nothing since she'd walked into the cabin. Well, she would simply have to teach this boor some manners.

Avery began to speak, then noticed where his glance had strayed. Flushing, she folded her arms across her chest. Since her ordeal with the elements, her bodice was in shreds. The area it had covered was now concealed by only the thin ruffled linen of her shift. Obviously a man of coarse breeding, the captain, instead of ignoring this unfortunate circumstance, seemed intent upon taking advantage of it. On the small boat Avery had been glad she had chosen to forgo her stays; now she longed for the camouflage they supplied. Why did she feel as though a suit of armor would be an insufficient bulwark against this man's gaze?

He lifted it now, till his amused black eyes met hers. "You do look a bit better, though you're still redder than anyone I've ever seen." His voice was mocking, even though his words were slightly slurred.

Red, was she? Well, what would he look like if he had sat unprotected in the sun for three days? Reluctantly, Avery decided he probably wouldn't appear much different, for he had the look of a man accustomed to the outdoors. Skin darkened by wind and sun stretched across his straight nose, high cheekbones, and square chin. Even expanse of chest exposed by his white shirt was darkened to a deep bronze. Suddenly conscious of where her eyes had wandered, Avery stiffened. What gentleman would entertain a lady in such a state of undress? Never mind her own appearance – she had excuse – but he looked as disheveled as an unmade bed.

Heavens, why would she compare him to a bed, of all things!

Astonished by the meanderings of her own mind, Avery forced herself to recall his last remark. He had criticized her appearance – hers.

Though Avery was long accustomed to being the ugly duckling, she felt a sudden, unreasonable prickle of resentment at the Fates that had not deigned to make her beautiful. The spurt of anger surprised her; she had not minded her lack of beauty since she was sixteen, and why should she care what this uncivilized, uncouth sea captain thought of her?

Unlike Marian, who was as tall and blonde and fair as all the Garlands before her, Avery had taken after Katherine Bennett – small and dark and inclined towards plumpness, if she was not careful. In fact, she had been quite tubby until she was fifteen, when she had put away her books and started taking charge of the plantation. She found that riding all day, eating most of her meals on the go, and sleeping like a top at night did wonders for the figure.

Her features, taken separately, were good – eyes like polished amber, a small mouth, a straight nose. But when a well-meaning Elizabeth Swann Turner had introduced her to Commodore John Norrington, hoping they'd made a match, the Commodore, a well known connoisseur of beautiful women, had been only mildly interested, and Avery had found him a trifle milk-soppish. But eventually they had become fairly good friends, and when he had declared his intention to marry Marian, she had been delighted.

Planning the wedding had been a joy. Katherine Bennett had died eighteen years before, at the birth of her younger daughter, and since that time, Avery had had the running of Hopewell. Her father had relied almost entirely on her, and since she was sixteen, when she discovered that what she lacked for in beauty was made up for in competence, it had been Avery that oversaw the planting of the sugar canes, Avery that had taken care of the accounts, Avery that had seen to the welfare of the slaves. Hopewell answered to her, from the lowliest serving boy to the overseer to her own father. Admittedly, it had made her unattractively independent, which was why she remained unwed at twenty-six – an age, her father's close friend Governor Swann had reminded her gently, that was bordering on spinsterhood.

Jerked back into the present by a sudden movement on the captain's part, she employed her haughtiest voice and said coolly, "Your opinion has absolutely no bearing here."

"Well" – he smiled, a most disarming grin, Avery had to admit – "that is a very business-like approach. I'm too much the romantic, I suppose." He shrugged, dismissing her statement.

Avery's stomach was in such turmoil she didn't consider anything amiss when he inched closer, thinking perhaps he only meant to help her to a seat. After all, this was the longest she had stood in nearly four days, and her body was rebelling. However, when two consoling arms encircled her, she was taken aback.

"Just what the hell do you think you are doing?" she demanded. Avery had quite an extensive and unladylike vocabulary, which she employed when it suited her - another trait that had frightened most of her prospective suitors away. She pushed against his chest, surprised by the warmth of his bare skin, and at the same time, noticing the rum that laced his breath.

"I was going to kiss you." At the look of shock and horror on her face, he continued merrily, "What? Am I to be allowed no amenities? Unfortunately, my appetite doesn't respond well to this all-business method. Well, perhaps sometimes it does, but" – he let his appraising gaze travel over her messily braided hair, her reddened complexion, and salt-encrusted clothing – "I'm afraid this is not one of those instances."

"You're drunk!" She shot the words at him, trying to distance herself from the sickening smell of alcohol. Avery was having an extremely difficult time understanding – even listening – to his words. Her skin felt clammy, and she could only guess how very upset this man would be if she were to be sick all over him. But he seemed blissfully unaware of her dilemma, for he threw back his head and laughed.

"Drunk, huh? You have an impudent mouth to go with the looks." His expression sobered. "I do apologize for my inebriation; however, I would think you'd consider it an acceptable hazard."

The room, suddenly suffocatingly hot, whirled about Avery. "Please, may I lie down?"

She didn't even wait for an answer. Ignoring the confounded grin on his face as she left his arms, she collapsed onto the thin ticking of the bunk. The prone position relieved her dizziness very little, but at least her wobbly legs no longer had to support her. The room seemed to begin spinning in earnest when she closed her eyes. Determined she opened them and stared at the ceiling. Then she remembered where she was. How could she have lain down on a man's bed? Hattie – her nanny – would be horrified!

Sick she might be, but she wasn't dying, and that was the only way she'd allow herself to be in such a situation. Avery sat up quickly – too quickly. She could almost feel the blood rush from her head, leaving her weak and imagining silly things. Her conscious grasp of things was certainly slipping away. As she swooned back onto the pillow, she even thought she saw the captain removing his breeches. How silly!

Without a doubt, the strangest lightskirt he had ever around, Gareth decided as he danced about on one foot trying to divest himself of his breeches. He had been around his share, but this one really took the prize. Not that she didn't have some redeeming qualities. Maybe she was red and peeling, but that only meant her complexion was normally fair, and those freckles across her nose were really rather appealing. And he liked her quaint, lilting voice, even if the words she spoke were sharp as a lemon and twice as sour. Her hair, now that was another story – too wild, and her body was too boyish for his tastes. But hell, he was only after a quick tumble. It wasn't as if he were seeking a wife – heaven forbid! And that was a good thing, because this woman was strange! First refusing his kiss, then climbing uninvited into his bed.

He climbed in after her now. God, the softness of the bunk felt good. Gareth leaned over and kissed the girl's mouth, glad that she no longer protested. Protested, hell, she did nothing! This wasn't turning out well at all. In his present state, he would appreciate someone pleasantly responsive, even aggressive.

"It wouldn't hurt if you kissed me back," he complained.

She ignored him. He let his head fall to the pillow for a minute, to think. It was so comfortable. His last thought before sleep overtook him was that for a common whore she was really an uncommonly cold witch.

***

Avery's eyes flew open, but saw nothing. The darkness of the room surrounded her like soft, black velvet.

Hesitantly she raised her right hand, one of the few parts of her body she was able to move freely, and tentatively touched the constricting weight that held her upper torso immobile. With a squeak of outrage, she jerked her hand back as if it had been burned. Her tiny movement seemed to cause a counter-reaction in the warm arm she had felt, for it shifted and drew her closer, and the captain's face nestled into the curve of her shoulder.

She froze. He mumbled something indiscernible, his breath sending aflutter the tendrils of hair about her ear. She held her breath until his movements stilled and he relaxed into a deep sleep.

Avery lay in the blackness of night, willing herself not to move. When finally she knew she must start to breathe or pass out, rendering herself helpless before this monster who was her bedfellow, she took slow, deep, even breaths, matching her cadence to his, hiding even the faintest sound in the deep resonance of his soft snores. If she could match the rhythm of her heart, which vibrated like a drum, she would have.

She could only be thankful the mind sent abroad no proof of its activity, for hers raged. Indeed, she was near hysteria. This man – no, this wretched animal – had used her, had forced her to commit an act she could only imagine, and had done it while she was unconscious, unable to defend herself or even try. If she had been awake, she would have kicked, screamed, bitten, scratched, and fought. He might have had her in the end, but it would not have been a pleasant experience for him, and he would not be lying peacefully beside her now; he would be nursing his wounds. But she had not been allowed even that tiny revenge for the atrocity he had committed and was quite capable of repeating.

Her thoughts became more patterned. Planning, that was what was needed now. Somehow she had to get away from him, off this boat, and to Hopewell. Her rage kept her sane as her thoughts whirled. Papa needed her, and she had endured so much to get to him, leaving Aunt Libby's on her own, surviving the endless days on that tiny boat, and now this.

Avery set about finding an answer to her plight. One step at a time, she told herself, trying to deal with this in the same methodical way she dealt with the planting of sugar. First, she must get away from this man, then work on steps two and three.

But try as she might, no way to accomplish the first goal came to her, and long after she'd heard the faint bells that marked the end of midwatch, she lay awake and unmoving. Not until the first pale streaks of dawn defined the line separating sea and sky did she fall into an exhausted slumber.