Title: Foggy Night Serenade 3/?
Rating: R-ish?
Disclaimer: Don't own anybody
Summary: Here's the third chapter, not much happens really 'cept she wakes up on board the ship. Thanks to everybody who's reviewed so far, I really appreciate it!
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Somewhere at sea, 1670
"That's it, this time he's really off his knob!"
"Or mayhap he's thinkin' wi it instead of losin' it."
"What're we gonna do with a woman on board?"
"Somebody needs to tell him-"
"Tell me what, exactly gentlemen...And Anamaria," Jack glared at the group standing outside his cabin door, each with arms either folded or in Anamaria's case, on her hips. She glared at him, making her opinion more than known without a word. The other three seasoned sailors seemed at a loss as to how they should make their opinions to their captain. Jack arched an eyebrow, waving his hand in a 'by all means' gesture and feet were shuffled, mumbles about superstitions and bad luck from Gibbs and a few other things that sounded suspiciously like the men weren't pleased with him. Jack smirked. "So basically what ye're sayin' is you don't want the woman on board. Is that about the sound of it, mates?"
"Aye," caroled the answer he was looking for and he pressed on.
"Is that any woman then? Or just the one in question?" Anamaria scowled, but the others didn't seem to notice.
"Females are naught but trouble on ship board," Gibbs affirmed and the other assembled crewmen didn't deny the statement either. Jack shrugged, giving a world weary sigh and shaking his head, the odd collection of beads and leather ties in his hair flying about his face.
"Alright then. First shanghai Anamaria and then we'll throw Mistress Lockwood in after her." He made a show of brushing past the men and going to the door of the cabin before he was stopped by the ebony colored vixen on deck.
"Now wait just a minute ye rat faced bastard!" Jack stopped, turning to look her full in the face.
"Ye have a problem with that arrangement, I'll warrant?"
"Ye damn right I've a problem wi it, and damn you for a coward, Jack Sparrow if ye're afraid to say ye want me gone!" Jack spread his arms wide.
"I never said I wanted ye gone, darlin'. But pay attention," he gestured to the suddenly sullen pirates, "the men do. And that's what counts really," he drew himself up to his full height, "it is my duty as their captain to keep them happy."
"They ne'er said-"
"They said any woman, dove. And last time I checked… ye were one."
She glared at the group and they shuffled their feet. Max, one closest to Gibbs wouldn't meet her gaze, but he hastened to try and smooth the ruffled feathers. "But you ain't like other women, Anamaria. Ye're… almost…like ye were a…" he floundered, not wanting to offend the firebrand. She slugged him anyway.
"I'm like a what?" Gibbs gave Jack a heated look and he smirked. If they were going to quibble about the sex of the people on board, it was better to start with the ones that were permanent members. He'd no intention of keeping the Lady here any longer than she had to be. And Anamaria had made it more than known (he had the scars to prove it) that she wasn't going anywhere any time soon.
"Now that that's settled and it's obvious that at least one woman is allowed, I'm going to go see to the hostage. Mr. Gibbs?" Gibbs nodded, following him in. The two had discussed it earlier and decided that she probably would take the news better if there were two of them there. Or rather, one to tell her and the other to restrain her when she went for Jack's throat. Gibbs shook his head, why was it that the captain always managed to find the woman that wanted him dead more than they wanted him bedded?
Stepping easily into the cabin, the two looked to the figure on the bed. She'd passed clean out in her father's garden and Jack had had to carry her to the ship. By the time they'd managed to get her aboard, out of those damn clothes and in a bed it had been near dawn and they'd had to catch the tide. By now they were miles out to sea and there was no hope of simply dumping her back ashore. Gibbs wasn't even particularly sure where they were headed anyway. The figure on the bed sighed softly in her sleep, one hand tangled up in the fullness of her hair, the other plunged beneath the pillow. She turned on her side and the deep v of the shirt she wore showed a line of flesh that reached so far between her breasts it was almost to her navel. He purposely made himself look at the wall.
"D'ye really thinks it wise, Jack? A woman lookin' like that aboard a ship full o'men whose only other source for female company be Anamaria?" Jack scowled, looking up from the pieces of parchment spread out on his desk.
"They damn well better know to stay away from her, or they'll find out soon enough."
"I didn't mean it like that… just, she's used to a certain type, ye'see and we ain't exactly that, now are we?" Jack snorted. No, the members of his crew were certainly not gentlemen. But that didn't matter much to him; they did what they were told and understood not to question orders. Most of them anyway.
"It won't last long either way. I'm not taking years to go after her father like I did Barbosa. A month, maybe two. Then I'll leave her ashore in Barbados and we'll be on our way, savvy?" Gibbs raised his eyebrows, was it ever that easy when Jack Sparrow had a woman concerned? The figure on the mattress groaned and the captain muttered something about sleeping females, then produced a vial of something that looked suspiciously like smelling salts. Gibbs would have asked how he'd come by those, but one: he didn't want to know, and two: he wouldn't put anything past Jack.
Sparrow held the vial in one hand and used his other to smooth the hair off the girl's face. It was a surprisingly gentle gesture and Gibbs forced himself again to look elsewhere. Releasing the stopper, Jack deftly swilled it under her nose once, then twice. She winced in her sleep and then coughed, opening her eyes and gasping. Jack smiled down at her, obviously pleased. "There's a good love. Did you sleep well?"
"Bloody hell, it wasn't a dream." She said, sitting up in the bed and shrugging his hand from her shoulder. Looking down at herself she gasped, her hands fumbling with the open front of the shirt and lacing it tightly together. "Where in blue blazes are my clothes?"
"I thought we'd already discussed m'lady's language," Sparrow began, obvious amusement making the smirk on his face deepen and a dimple appear. "As to ye're clothes, they've been taken away so that ye could breathe."
"I want them back." She answered stubbornly and Jack looked over his shoulder at Gibbs.
"Would ye listen to that, lad? And after I give her one of me own shirts too." Isabelle flushed a deep crimson, suddenly realizing that it was at least mid-morning and judging from the fact that the room was rocking with a gentle sway, she was onboard a ship. She strove to remember how she came to be here and realized she remembered nothing after fainting in the garden.
"Where is my father?"
"Safe and sound in your house on the hill, I'll warrant. Though the odds of him bein' happy as a clam are rather small," Jack answered, he had a hand fisted and shoved into the bedding on the other side of her body, his own chest so close to hers that Isabelle realized if she moved the slightest bit they'd be touching. It was a gesture that spoke of the man's familiarity with woman. Add that, his shirt adorning her person and her lack of clothes, and she wondered ever harder exactly what had happened to her.
"What have you done to me?" Sparrow tossed his head, arching an eyebrow and leaning ever closer. His lips were so close to her own that their noses were touching.
"Nothin' you shouldn't be thankin' me for, love," he answered definitively. Gibbs swallowed a laugh and managed to make the sound more like a derisive snort. Isabelle was nearly frantic now, if she weren't careful, she'd find herself swimming in his eyes. This close she could feel the prickle of his breath on her eye lids, she found herself staring hard at his face, memorizing it, almost. The double braided beard intrigued her, made her want to playfully tug it, gently at first and then…
"Get off me," she forced herself to say, shoving him with one hand and sweeping the coverlet from her body she rose. His shirt was so large it hung nearly to her knees, the voluminous folds of the sleeves hung well past her wrists until she pulled them back, the sides split to halfway up her thighs, providing provocative peaks at skin that otherwise she wouldn't dare show. Jack watched her from the bed, intent on understanding what she was doing. She glared at Gibbs, then swept past them both to the door.
"I wouldn't do tha' if I was you-" Sparrow began, but she ignored him completely, hauling the oak door open and sweeping out into the bright morning light. Jack waited a beat, forcing himself not to laugh, Gibbs opened his mouth to say something and then abruptly shut it when his captain swept himself to his feet. The sound of ribald laughter came from outside the door, the outraged shrieks of the shrew from Barbados hanging over them. Jack ripped the door back open, spilling himself on deck and yelling a few choice oaths at whoever may be listening. Not one member of the assembled crew seemed to be.
Isabelle had gone out the door, tearing out with the full intent on getting back to shore. But what had first angered her, now had her close to tears. There was nothing but horizon on all sides. Nothing but the blue, blue waters of the Caribbean and this damned ship. She looked up. The black sails were pregnant with the salt air and the men on deck seemed to fully enjoy the damp spray that was flung up from the vast pool that their vehicle floated in. She bit her lip, suddenly cold in the borrowed shirt and realizing exactly how little clothing she was wearing.
"If ye're goin' to address them, ye may want to do so from an angle less… provocative, lass." Sparrow offered insolently from behind her. Isabelle jumped, turning to the sound of his voice and realizing the sun was behind her, the soft, white cotton of the shirt deemed nearly transparent and thus exposing the reason behind the men's laughter and avid glances. She flushed crimson from her toes to the roots of her hair and Jack had the fleeting male wonder of exactly which roots he was referring to. "This lads, is the fire headed vixen to which we've extended our hospitality. Does any one of ye still have misgivings about allowing her passage aboard ship?"
"Nay, Cap'n and we'd have none a'tall to women aboard again if Anamaria'd adopt a similar habit of dress!" This was met with more ribald laughter from every male hand on deck, with the exception of a dark skinned figure that Isabelle assumed would be Anamaria. The raven headed harridan flung a full bucket of sea water at the hapless sailor, flinging not just water but small fish and seaweed as well. The good natured sailor flung the bits away from his face and retaliated with a bucket of something of his own. Thus followed an interesting display of a fight, obviously meaning nothing, yet occupying the attention of most of those aboard deck.
"Will ye return to the cabin now, lass?" Isabelle jumped at the voice so close to her ear. Realizing she was fighting tears she nodded, allowing herself to be led back inside the shadowed darkness of the cabin. He allowed her to sink down into a chair and pull her knees up beneath her body, wrapping her arms around her shoulders as if she were freezing with cold. Jack realized she actually was shaking.
"Where is Mr. Gibbs?" she asked softly and he grimaced. Just his luck the creature'd go into shock.
"Probably out there trying to calm the ruffled feathers of a few of my crew. Ye've created quite a stir, ye have, m'lady."
"That was hardly my doing, sirrah," Isabelle pointed out, staring up at him with a mixture of vehemence and distain.
"Ye're right. A regrettable thing ta be sure, but unavoidable, nonetheless." He reached for a tea service next to her elbow and poured some of the heady liquid into a delicate china cup, offering the saucer to her he wasn't displeased when she took it from him in surprise. After taking a small sip she sighed, placing the saucer on the table without a tremble of the bone china and looking back up at him as though her strength had been restored. What was it about the bloody English and tea? Give him good rum any day. Of course, he surmised, he was English too. But then… he was also a blackguard and a thief. Ask the wench in front of him.
"I'm your hostage, aren't I?" She asked softly and Jack jumped, remembering briefly Gibbs' quip about her being a smart wench on the beach.
"Yes, that ye are lass. But not in quite the way ye mean." She rolled her eyes.
"Oh really? So you don't plan on holding me until my father gives up something important to you and also apparently equally valuable to him? You don't plan to threaten to kill me should he not cooperate fully and you don't plan to keep me here on this bloody ship until your demands are met?"
"Alright then, ye're a hostage in exactly the way ye mean. Happy now?"
"No," she answered softly, staring down at her folded hands. "How do you know my father?"
"Tha's not somethin' ye want to be askin' if you don't want to know the answers, miss." He answered sagely, going to the sideboard and pouring himself a healthy amount of liquor.
"You haven't used my name once since discovering my parentage, Mr. Sparrow. It begs the question, do you even know it?" Jack arched an eyebrow, an interesting tack to change the subject.
"I confess I've never been one to remember the names of children still in nappies, Mistress Lockwood. And that be what ye were the last time I saw ye." Isabelle almost pressed that, but she found she was tired suddenly.
"Isabelle. My name is Isabelle." Jack swallowed what was left in the glass and catching the world weary tone in her voice, he set it back on the shelf, walking the three feet it took to stand directly in front of her. He went slowly to his knees, looking up into her face and forcing her to meet his eyes.
"A bonny name for a bonny lass, my beauty," His hand, without the gloves this time, reached up, cupping her jaw and she found that she'd forgotten for an instant to breathe. He clenched his own jaw for a moment, feeling the softness of her skin beneath the calloused roughness of his palm before broaching the subject that hadn't left his head since he'd undressed her the night before. "Last night, in the garden… it wasn't the first time ye're sainted father'd laid a hand on ye, was it love?" Isabelle closed her eyes against his gaze, if she looked him full in the face she wouldn't be able to lie. Besides, she wasn't sure that he'd believe it if she did. She finally refused to answer. But even that was an answer unto itself.
Jack took her silence as confirmation and reeled with the knowledge. He'd had Anamaria in here last night to help him with the task of removing her clothes, he may not be a gentleman, but if she'd come to with him standing over her and her bein' naked… well it wouldn't do at all now would it? Actually it had been the woman who'd noticed the various bruises on Isabelle's body. Some old, some new, she'd pointed htem out as an oddity on a well bred woman's skin. Most of them looked to be put on with something like a wide belt. Jack wondered about that, he really did. "My father has many things on his mind," she finally answered, almost like an apology.
"Don't make excuses for him, darlin'." Jack answered, anger coloring his voice and making her wince.
"For the most part they were my own fault, captain. I am head strong and reckless, you knew that the minute you saw me on the beach."
"I lass, but it never entered my head to beat the spirit out of ye, now did it?" She opened her eyes with a snap, surprise evident on her face. Jack wondered if it were surprise that not all men were violent, or simply surprise that a pirate wasn't.
"My father loves me," she said softly, shaking free of his hand and rising from the chair, turning her back on him completely and staring out of the large windows that bowed out from the body of the ship. It was as though the bubble that was the stern of the ship was made of nothing but leaded glass, or at least the part of it that made up this cabin. Jack cursed in his head, standing as well and placing his hands on her shoulders.
"I never said he didn't, love," he pointed out quietly. When she didn't protest to his touch, he placed a gentle, chaste kiss on the top of her head, easing her body against his stronger one. Isabelle sighed, feeling his arms slide down from her shoulders to wrap around her waist, holding her to him in silence. How long had it been since she'd been held like this? Since she'd allowed anyone to comfort her with even the remotest possibility of comfort? It was a simple pleasure that she'd denied herself since John Lockwood had first taken the strap of his swordbelt to her skin. She'd always assumed she deserved it, that comfort for something that was her rightful punishment was sinful, selfish even. But what if she'd never really deserved it to start with? Oh yes, Isabelle surmised, being in this man's presence, in the quiet circle of strength that was his arms, was dangerous business indeed. It made her doubt the very foundations of who she thought she was.
She realized suddenly that she was crying. That gentle, fat tears rolled down her cheeks and that she wasn't being any to quiet about it either. Jack made a sound deep in his throat and turned her around gently, pillowing her head in the hollow of his throat and rubbing her back in slow, lazy circles. Isabelle wept with the realization that the only person who understood her was a thief. A man with no morals and no decency. She'd be lucky to get out of this with her maidenhood in tact and yet here she was crying on his shoulder as though the world would end if he ever let her go. It wasn't fair! "What'll happen to me?" She asked softly against the rough stubble of his throat and he sighed, seeming ill content to break the silence.
"Yer father'll meet my demands and I'll return ye to Barbados as promised."
"How long will it take?" He shrugged.
"That all depends on how long it takes him and her majesty's navy to track me down, doesn't it?" He reached blindly behind him and retrieved a handkerchief from the desk. The moment had effectively been broken and the sooner he got back some semblance of what passed for propriety the better. He drew back enough that he could gently wipe her eyes with the cloth. She let him, her sobs having already dried to sniffles. "Ah, there's a good lass, now, blow like a good girl." She shot him a reproachful glance, but blew her nose into the handkerchief as requested. He grinned, throwing it back on the desk in a crumpled heap. "Yer still a beauty," he answered her look blithely, his charm coming back full throttle. "Even when yer eyes are runny and yer nose is red."
Oh yes, Isabelle thought distantly, she was definitely in trouble.