At least it wasn't as busy as Tortuga, thought Meg disconsolately.
She was, once again, seated up on deck watching as the crew disembarked the ship, heading straight for the most raucous part of Martinique. This time, however, Ana Maria had chosen to stay behind and was engaging in several self-pleasing acrobatics in the rigging. Meg felt slightly ill when she watched the Spanish lady; so she instead hurried down below.
Thirty minutes later she hurried back up, eyes much wider than usual, giving her the charming effect of resembling a deer in the headlights. Jacques had elaborated on the details of Martinique's pubs for a while, and then gone into some sort of trance in which he seemed to have no need to blink or move. Meg didn't fear for his health, as Jacques seemed odd enough, but the sight of his grey eyes, motionless, had thoroughly shaken her. Jacques would be missing the company of one thirteen-year-old female for quite a while.
Quite a while, she thought grimly some time later, sitting with her hands folded tightly across her stomach. It seemed that she suddenly had quite a bit of spare time aboard the Black Pearl, and most of that time was spent running over Jacques' words carefully, pressing them for meaning, reading between the lines - and in general finding a lot of stuff that she would have preferred not to know. In short, all she would say was that she would definitely have to strive to distinguish herself from any other 'companionship' Jack might be having.
No companionship tonight, thought Jack vaguely as he stumbled onboard his beloved ship hours later- albeit one that seemed to be careening quite oddly all of a sudden. For some reason he had remained alone in the pub, absently waving off any interested female who wandered near. The reason seemed to be a memory of.someone. that had etched itself into his mind, across the inside of his eyelids.
"Had a little bit too much to drink there, Captain?" Ana Maria's sarcastic voice lashed him like a cat'o'nine tails.
"Hoist the rudder and mast the anchors, oh aye you know what to do." Jack blurred his words together and almost fell down the stairs to the lower decks. Odd that he was so drunk tonight of all nights. He hadn't had that much to drink- and one would think that with a stomach like his, well, he hardly ever went like this.
He stumbled into his cabin, blinking repeatedly. Why was his vision going hazy like that?
"Why, hello." Meg looked up at him from where she was kneeling on the floor, her hazel eyes cool.
Jack rubbed his eyes and cursed. What was it with his pounding headache, and why were all females suddenly so caustic with their words?
Another thing, he realized, that was odd was that Meg was actually awake. Most of the time when he came down she was sleeping, and therefore much less likely to shoot him down with biting comments. Not, of course, that anyone could get him, Captain Jack Sparrow, down with anything!
"Hello, love," he slurred unsteadily. Then, furious with his traitorous tongue, wondered why his words were so seemingly garbled. He wasn't drunk! He could think straight! Barbossa was the galley boy and Elizabeth was minding the sails, and Will'd be back around ten.
"Really- Captain Jack Sparrow, forcing himself on a child," Meg's words slipped out of her mouth like snakes. He blinked. Somehow he had come to be sitting next to her, fingering her loose, silky hair.
"Now lass," he said more affirmatively, more of a reminder to himself than to her. He loosened his fingers and dropped the silken strands - but no. He ogled silently at the golden locks still in his grasp, tried to release them. but he couldn't! It was as though a force stronger than his own was holding that hand, that he had previously controlled totally (here he scowled at it), was no longer his.
He looked up to catch Meg's stare. Somehow she didn't look scornful any longer, but bewildered. curious. and Lord, he had never seen anything more beautiful than she was just then, her lips parted and her eyebrows arched, her hazel eyes the essence of intrigue -
And then everything was wet - he was wet - and Meg was still looking beautiful, but triumphant as well. And hey, he could see now! His headache had receded slightly, and his entire mind seemed somehow much, much clearer -
Meg swung the now-empty, still wet wooden bucket down in front of her with a dull clunk and watched Jack as he floundered about for a dry cloth, found one, and proceeded to mop at his dripping face. Her skirts had not escaped the bucket of seawater that she'd swung, but she made no move to wring them out: only her eyes were moving, watching, watching.
"You look so much. nicer like that, you know." she breathed suddenly. "When you're not. so dishonest and sarcastic, so. so."
"Roguish?" His tongue moved faster than his mind did, inwardly he slapped himself. That was exactly the thing that she was telling him that she didn't like! But really, Jack berated himself, what did she matter to him? She was just a child like she'd said, just a girl.
But she had moved closer, closing in for the kill -or was she the prey?- and her hand had come to rest, however lightly, on his knee. "No." she whispered. Loud voices would shatter everything. "I like the roguish part."
It was with a supreme effort that Jack moved up and away, to rest on his pallet in a silence of chaotic emotion. Meg brought her lips together, closed her eyes briefly, and turned her head away and finally down, to rest upon her sodden blankets and skirts. "I don't know how I'll sleep on all of these drenched blankets," she said softly, slender digits fingering her golden hair.
Captain Jack Sparrow knew that he shouldn't. but he couldn't resist the beauty, the temptation that lied in the most unlikely female, the one that was seated right in front of him.
"It's drier up here," he said quietly.
And the lengthening space between them had suddenly disappeared, gone with the rustle of golden tresses, vanished with the lightest contact. the kiss of a butterfly, one that had just discovered the sunlight, the sun god, her own. and two who had never truly known the shattering, yet quiet presence of passion melded into the shades of the night, an unvoiced nocturne that spun its delicate rhapsody over and through the darkest hours of the day, those that had suddenly turned into those of the passionate.
She was, once again, seated up on deck watching as the crew disembarked the ship, heading straight for the most raucous part of Martinique. This time, however, Ana Maria had chosen to stay behind and was engaging in several self-pleasing acrobatics in the rigging. Meg felt slightly ill when she watched the Spanish lady; so she instead hurried down below.
Thirty minutes later she hurried back up, eyes much wider than usual, giving her the charming effect of resembling a deer in the headlights. Jacques had elaborated on the details of Martinique's pubs for a while, and then gone into some sort of trance in which he seemed to have no need to blink or move. Meg didn't fear for his health, as Jacques seemed odd enough, but the sight of his grey eyes, motionless, had thoroughly shaken her. Jacques would be missing the company of one thirteen-year-old female for quite a while.
Quite a while, she thought grimly some time later, sitting with her hands folded tightly across her stomach. It seemed that she suddenly had quite a bit of spare time aboard the Black Pearl, and most of that time was spent running over Jacques' words carefully, pressing them for meaning, reading between the lines - and in general finding a lot of stuff that she would have preferred not to know. In short, all she would say was that she would definitely have to strive to distinguish herself from any other 'companionship' Jack might be having.
No companionship tonight, thought Jack vaguely as he stumbled onboard his beloved ship hours later- albeit one that seemed to be careening quite oddly all of a sudden. For some reason he had remained alone in the pub, absently waving off any interested female who wandered near. The reason seemed to be a memory of.someone. that had etched itself into his mind, across the inside of his eyelids.
"Had a little bit too much to drink there, Captain?" Ana Maria's sarcastic voice lashed him like a cat'o'nine tails.
"Hoist the rudder and mast the anchors, oh aye you know what to do." Jack blurred his words together and almost fell down the stairs to the lower decks. Odd that he was so drunk tonight of all nights. He hadn't had that much to drink- and one would think that with a stomach like his, well, he hardly ever went like this.
He stumbled into his cabin, blinking repeatedly. Why was his vision going hazy like that?
"Why, hello." Meg looked up at him from where she was kneeling on the floor, her hazel eyes cool.
Jack rubbed his eyes and cursed. What was it with his pounding headache, and why were all females suddenly so caustic with their words?
Another thing, he realized, that was odd was that Meg was actually awake. Most of the time when he came down she was sleeping, and therefore much less likely to shoot him down with biting comments. Not, of course, that anyone could get him, Captain Jack Sparrow, down with anything!
"Hello, love," he slurred unsteadily. Then, furious with his traitorous tongue, wondered why his words were so seemingly garbled. He wasn't drunk! He could think straight! Barbossa was the galley boy and Elizabeth was minding the sails, and Will'd be back around ten.
"Really- Captain Jack Sparrow, forcing himself on a child," Meg's words slipped out of her mouth like snakes. He blinked. Somehow he had come to be sitting next to her, fingering her loose, silky hair.
"Now lass," he said more affirmatively, more of a reminder to himself than to her. He loosened his fingers and dropped the silken strands - but no. He ogled silently at the golden locks still in his grasp, tried to release them. but he couldn't! It was as though a force stronger than his own was holding that hand, that he had previously controlled totally (here he scowled at it), was no longer his.
He looked up to catch Meg's stare. Somehow she didn't look scornful any longer, but bewildered. curious. and Lord, he had never seen anything more beautiful than she was just then, her lips parted and her eyebrows arched, her hazel eyes the essence of intrigue -
And then everything was wet - he was wet - and Meg was still looking beautiful, but triumphant as well. And hey, he could see now! His headache had receded slightly, and his entire mind seemed somehow much, much clearer -
Meg swung the now-empty, still wet wooden bucket down in front of her with a dull clunk and watched Jack as he floundered about for a dry cloth, found one, and proceeded to mop at his dripping face. Her skirts had not escaped the bucket of seawater that she'd swung, but she made no move to wring them out: only her eyes were moving, watching, watching.
"You look so much. nicer like that, you know." she breathed suddenly. "When you're not. so dishonest and sarcastic, so. so."
"Roguish?" His tongue moved faster than his mind did, inwardly he slapped himself. That was exactly the thing that she was telling him that she didn't like! But really, Jack berated himself, what did she matter to him? She was just a child like she'd said, just a girl.
But she had moved closer, closing in for the kill -or was she the prey?- and her hand had come to rest, however lightly, on his knee. "No." she whispered. Loud voices would shatter everything. "I like the roguish part."
It was with a supreme effort that Jack moved up and away, to rest on his pallet in a silence of chaotic emotion. Meg brought her lips together, closed her eyes briefly, and turned her head away and finally down, to rest upon her sodden blankets and skirts. "I don't know how I'll sleep on all of these drenched blankets," she said softly, slender digits fingering her golden hair.
Captain Jack Sparrow knew that he shouldn't. but he couldn't resist the beauty, the temptation that lied in the most unlikely female, the one that was seated right in front of him.
"It's drier up here," he said quietly.
And the lengthening space between them had suddenly disappeared, gone with the rustle of golden tresses, vanished with the lightest contact. the kiss of a butterfly, one that had just discovered the sunlight, the sun god, her own. and two who had never truly known the shattering, yet quiet presence of passion melded into the shades of the night, an unvoiced nocturne that spun its delicate rhapsody over and through the darkest hours of the day, those that had suddenly turned into those of the passionate.