It was a sore neck and a throbbing head that greeted Brody Fenton the next morning. He awoke to a mouthful of vile-tasting dirt and sand in more places than he wished to think about. He lay there several minutes, listening to the soothing sounds of the nearby ocean lapping on the beach just through the trees and a light breeze ruffling the palm leaves overhead. The calls of several species of fowl met his ears as well, and were what finally convinced him to open his eyes. The sun had returned to Jamaica and things were far too bright for Brody's current taste. His sword was beside him, he noticed immediately, but his pistol was unaccounted for. He was lying on his belly, a none too comfortable position, so it was easy to get his hands under himself and push away from the ground. His action was met by a brief bout of nausea, which he ignored until he'd rolled over and was able to sit on the still damp ground.
He rubbed his face, wiping the sand from his eyes and cheeks. There was little doubt in his mind that his face was red from such prolonged contact with the stuff. Brody spat as well, trying to get the foul taste of dirt and sand from his mouth. He sat for several minutes, recalling the night before and how he'd been so shamefully defeated by a scallywag. It did not improve his mood. Slowly, he dragged himself to the nearest tree, trying not to aggravate his head. Using the trunk to help steady himself, Brody pulled himself to his feet. He closed his eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them with a new determination. First, he decided, he would go to the beach. He had no doubt that the pirate had made off with the chests of gold, but perhaps there would be some clue about the whereabouts of that stinking wench. He took the short walk slowly, with plenty of care. The nausea had not subsided and Brody found it much easier to take things nice and easy.
The beach was barren—the chests were gone. There was nothing but sand on the beach. Wait…he squinted, then made his way stumbling across the beach. The dress was torn in several places and splattered with muck and…blood. Anger coursed through the young man. He was supposed to get the satisfaction of killing her—not that bloody pirate. He bent down and snatched the fabric up with his right hand, gave one more long look around him, then started up the trail to Port Royale. The trip was uninteresting and Brody found himself concentrating on keeping his balance and keeping last night's meal down. He did fold the dress before reaching an area of any population—there was nothing to be gained from the city folk gossiping about Brody Fenton walking about with a bloodstained garment. He kept off of the most crowded streets, taking a round-a-bout way home. A wave of relief hit him when he finally spotted the small white house that was his own. The knob turned without resistance—he hadn't bothered to lock it the night before. All of his important effects were stored in his office, after all.
Sitting on the bench at the right side of the wood floored hallway was a surprise he frankly didn't want to deal with. Amber waves of hair were piled atop the woman's head in what he supposed what a stylish new fashion in London. Her dark brown eyes met his gaze evenly and there was a hint of a smile on her full lips. She wore a dark green dress over a stunningly white shift, her already thin waist corseted tightly. Beside her, a parasol leaned against the bench. Her voice held the same mocking tone she'd always used with him.
"Good morning, brother dear," her eyes gleamed with cruel amusement. "Wherever have you been? You look simply a-shambles." His eyes narrowed the tiniest bit.
"Hello, dear Mary," he replied. "What brings you so far from father's money?" Her smile was sincere only in the nasty quality she gave it.
"From all of your letters, the Caribbean sounded simply divine. I felt I must visit," her face held a cool look of superiority. "Before my wedding." So that was it, he supposed. She'd come to gloat. He knew all about his younger sister's wedding from correspondence with his father. It was a good match, he supposed. She was to marry a wealthy older man and give him a son before he passed on. Mary would be living very richly for the rest of her life.
"Of course," he told her politely.
"Where is your darling fiancée, brother?" she asked. Brody pursed his lips. He'd toyed with an idea, on the way home. Something the pirate had said—that she was safe and sound and settled for the night. The man had seemed sincere enough to place doubt in his mind.
"I honestly don't know," he said, glancing from the dress to his sister. Without another word he made his way past her, intending to change his clothes. A small hand clutching his shirt gave him pause.
"Where were you this morning? What are you into that has you covered in such filth?" she demanded.
"I had a run-in with a pirate," he told her, making no move to turn and face the girl. "I spent lat night a most of this morning face-down in the dirt. Is that a suitable explanation, Mary dear?" He didn't wait for a reply, simply walked out of her grasp, a fresh set of clothes near the top of his mind—Grace Allister foremost in it.
Elizabeth was more than a little concerned about her young friend. The storm of the night before hadn't helped matters, either. She spent the morning pacing the smithy restlessly as Will worked. It didn't take much for Will to notice that the woman was upset, so before long he stopped working entirely and sat the woman down on the step near the shop's main entrance.
"Jack will return soon, I'm sure of it," he told her, cupping her face with a rough hand. "And he'll be able to tell us where Grace is, if she's all right—and she will be all right with Jack watching out for her."
"That's one of the things I'm concerned about—You've met Jack. You know how he is with women."
"Actually, I just know that he usually deserves to be slapped," Will gave her a broad smile and she rolled her eyes.
"You know what I mean," she met his brown eyes
"Of course I do, but I trust Jack—Grace will be fine. I'm sure of it." They were silent for several moments, Will stroking his fiancée's cheek with a calloused thumb. Until she asked a rather unexpected question.
"Will…When are we going to marry?" her eyebrows were knotted together. The blacksmith blinked in surprise. "I…I do want to marry you before we leave Port Royale. I want my father to be there—and the commodore and Gillette. Though…I want Jack there, as well—and all of his crew. And Grace, of course," she bit her lip, trying to think of a solution. Will said nothing for a moment—then a bright idea entered his mind.
"We can get married here once, and again in Tortuga," he said smiling at her. She gave him a slightly bewildered look.
"There are clerics in Tortuga?" Will actually had no idea how much a presence the church had in such a place, but nodded anyway.
"I'm sure there are."
"It's a silly idea," she said sternly.
"Well, I don't think things will turn out well if we invite both Jack and Commodore Norrington to the same wedding, if you catch my drift," he raised an eyebrow and she almost laughed.
"I suppose there are worse ideas," she smiled.
"Then go tell your father we are to wed as soon as possible," he moved his hand from her cheek and offered it—with as much gallantry as he could muster—to his bride-to-be. She took it with an equal share of ladylike attitude, gave him a kiss on the cheek and strolled out of the smithy, heading for the governor's house.
Well, Jack eyed the girl masquerading as a young man beside him. I think she's still rather angry about last night, but I'm sure she'll get over it sooner or later. On the upside, she seemed to have gotten some sense knocked into since the little snit she'd had. She didn't grumble about any of the work he gave her; she actually seemed intent on keeping her head down. Of course, the lass had nearly given him a black eye. He reached up to rub the small scab that had formed beneath his eye—a souvenir from Grace's ring. From what he'd heard from Anamaria, the girl had had a bit of a workout beforehand—something he was very happy about. It didn't take much force to give someone a black eye if you hit them in the right spot—and Grace had gotten him in the right spot. Apparently he wasn't the only one nursing injuries, however. Anamaria had a large bump on the back of her head from her encounters with the floor in the ladies' mock duel and Grace was nursing her right side. He'd seen Cookie about his arm. The man had poured some rum into the wound before rebandaging it. It ached something terrible, but he'd certainly live.
He chuckled a little inwardly, wishing he could have seen the two have at it in the dark on a stormy night. Ana had grinned when she'd told them about their fight—Grace wasn't a bad swordswoman, apparently. The pirate woman maintained that she could have beaten the girl—all it would have taken was a swift kick to the knees—but her own sense had told her to stop moving around so much with those bangs to the head. Jack had gotten a good look at the lump and didn't doubt her. The diameter of it was the full length of his thumb.
"I've finished with the adding, Cap'n," he heard her say and turned to face the girl.
"And what did you come up with?" he asked, grinning broadly. They were in the hold of the ship, figuring the number of gold pieces they'd taken in during the night.
"Three thousand, six hundred and fifty-two pieces," she told him, her voice quiet.
"Well, then, I do believe our business has been completed," he told her, standing and lifting the lantern from the table in front of her.
"Aye, Cap'n," she said, grabbing the paper she'd used to figure as she followed him up the stairs to the deck. Jack blinked in the harsh sunlight, trying to help his eyes adjust. His first look went to the wheel. Young Bailey had hold of it, the scrutinous eyes of Anamaria upon him. Jack let himself grin. It was good for the boy, after all, and probably good for Anamaria, as well—she could relax a little. He led the girl through his cabin and into her borrowed quarters. The room, he noticed immediately, was in disarray. They'd cleaned the main room earlier that morning, but he hadn't given this one a thought. Wordlessly, they both began to put things in order. It was nearly twenty minutes later, as he was going through the papers that had once made their home on his desk, that Grace spoke up with a question he had a feeling she'd been dying to ask.
"Why wouldn't you let Will and Elizabeth on the ship?" she was making the bed, trying to sound conversational and failing.
"D'ye really think they'd have approved of my little venture?" he asked in return.
"I should've known," her voice betrayed her grumpiness. He didn't mind—at least she was showing some spunk again.
Bailey was having the time of his life. Anamaria—even with her being a woman and all—was the best pirate he'd ever met. Aside from Captain Jack Sparrow, of course. His father held a very low opinion of the pirate, him being a military man and all, something that only made Jack a better person in the boy's eyes. Bailey's father was a gunner in the fort, generally well liked among his companions and hated by his only son. The old man was good to his friends, but not to his family. He got drunk on a regular basis, something that only increased his desire for control. He'd hit his wife for the stupidest little things, and his son for having so much as a hair out of line. Bailey's mother, God rest her soul, had taken ill and passed away the year before, making his father cruel to the point of intolerability. So he'd left. He'd run away, having no destination in mind, and where did he find himself? The Black Pearl.
Anamaria was the first real pirate he'd ever met. She was fair to him, sometimes even kind. Those were things he hadn't known since his mother's death and he reveled in the positive attention. He was proud of his work—and he'd apparently done a good job. Anamaria had actually given him the helm of the Pearl. He didn't even mind that he was helping Ana primarily, instead of Jack. He even felt a bit sorry for Grey—Jack had the boy doing paperwork and things in the hold. He wouldn't trade places with the other boy for anything. This was the life—he was sure of it.
After his few days on the ship, he'd decided. He was now hell-bent on becoming a pirate.
Grace was thoroughly ashamed of her behavior the night before. Her actions had made perfect sense at the time, but in hindsight, they seemed a little rash. More than a little rash. The fight with Anamaria had been fun, though. She'd noticed right off the bat that the woman was a great swordsman and Grace knew she wouldn't have lasted more than a few seconds against her if it weren't for her eight years of training with the blade. It really bothered her though—she'd been wide open at the end of the fight, what had possessed the woman to yield? She shook her head, then ran her fingers across her newly made bed, smoothing out the wrinkles. She'd rarely made her own bed before, though she'd seen Mrs. James do it more than once. She hoped she hadn't done anything wrong.
She was still rather irritated with Jack. The man had the gall to ask her to help count out her ransom that she wouldn't get a single piece from. He also had the stinking idea to leave her friends off the ship because he knew they wouldn't like what he was doing. When she thought about it, it was probably a sensible move on his part. She glanced over at the pirate, noticing the short, thick braid at the back of his head for the first time. He was certainly an odd man, she mused, retrieving the pillow from the floor. He did seem like a sensible man, though—even if he was rather lewd.
That was the main cause of her current irritation with him. He really did think a bit highly of himself. Well, it isn't as though he's altogether unattractive, she reminded herself, then gave herself a mental smack. This was Jack Sparrow she was thinking about—Captain Jack Sparrow. She certainly didn't have any real interest in him—and even if she did, she was sure that he wouldn't be at all interested in her. Best to think about other things, that logical voice deep inside warned her.
The next two days and a half days passed very quickly for Grace. Quite possibly because she was busy every moment of the day. She woke at dawn each day, then helped Jack with figures. She'd looked over his papers and was quite aware that he could do the calculations himself, but she had a feeling that he didn't want to. It was rather dull work, after all. They sorted out how much each man on the ship would receive, something that needed to be done before they reached Tortuga and the men wanted to spend it.
She helped Cookie prepare lunch each day—not a difficult job. Now that the chickens were gone, there was little left in the stores besides hard-tack (which tasted about as good as it sounded), making meal preparation quick and easy. She just had to help move out silverware—and listen to Cookie's eternal complaints about not having a cat to kill the ship's rats. She took her lunch on deck, bringing up shares for Anamaria and Bailey, who volunteered for most mealtime watches. She also delivered a plate of the stuff to the captain, before returning to spend her meal with the other cabin boy and Anamaria.
Grace had come to greatly admire the woman, who was just beginning to teach Bailey how to use a cutlass. It was clear that the boy held the woman in high esteem, he was like her shadow, following her everywhere she went. Grace, still critical of her supposed win, asked the woman for a rematch one day, but she just laughed and grinned at the young "Grey".
She spent her afternoons copying down what Jack dictated to her for the log as he stood at the helm. She liked the afternoons far better than the mornings—she was outside, after all, with a wonderful view of the rest of the ship and the sea around her. She helped Cookie with dinner in the evenings, a process that was quite the same as lunch, but with less light outside. She took these meals with Ana and Bailey, as well. Some part of her would have liked to dine with Jack, but she deemed it a foolish part of her. Besides, Jack usually ate with Mr. Gibbs, who didn't seem pleased that she was on the ship—apparently, women were bad luck. A few of the crewmembers also ate with the Captain much of the time and she felt as though she'd be a fish out of water if she were to join them.
Most of the crew seemed to like both "Grey" and Bailey rather well, though both of them were the butt of several jokes and rude comments. Ana told them to take it in good humor; it was the normal treatment for cabin boys. As for Anamaria, she was well respected among the crew, having proved her salt on more than one occasion—several of which Grace heard about from the woman herself.
She was really beginning to enjoy life on the ship. All too soon she heard a cry of "Land ho!" from Moises in the crow's nest. She and Bailey helped wherever they were told as they brought the ship into the harbor and dropped anchor. Few of the crew stayed on board that night, for it was evening when they finally reached Tortuga. As they came ashore in the longboats, she looked around dubiously. Tortuga certainly seems to be a rough town, she observed as a fight broke out in front of her. She simply stood for several minutes, looking around the port. Anamaria clapped her on the back as she passed, then turned and gave a little nod to the young woman. Bailey, who was right behind the pirate woman, followed suit. Then they were gone, suddenly part of the crowd that swarmed Tortuga. Grace felt hollow inside—she was on her own now.
"Ah, Tortuga. Such a fragrant blossom of the Caribbean," came a voice from behind her. She knew immediately who it was as she'd had to listen to that voice for quite a bit of the last several days.
"I suppose you could say that…" she replied as his drunken walk halted beside her. She felt something leather tucked into the hand at her side, then she felt her hand forced to close around it.
"Don't spend it all it one place, love," he told her, his voice low as her threw her a cockeyed grin filled with gleaming metal. She noticed the small mark beneath his eye for the umpteenth time in the past few days. She still felt pretty bad about punching him. He tousled her hair, then started to walk off.
"Wait!" she heard herself saying. He stopped mid-step and gave a little turn to face her. "What do I do now?" she asked. She really had no idea herself, she never been on her own before—she'd always had someone watching out for her. Until now, anyway. Jack's lopsided grin widened.
"Whatever you want, love!" he told her in that jovial manner of his. Then he was gone, as well. She was alone now, really and truly alone. Fear clutched her.
This is stupid. I'm never going to keep myself alive by just standing here, the logical voice was back with a vengeance. Grace took a deep breath, then plunged into the crowd herself.
Super Short Author's Note: I talked to my buddy Bob about the black eye thing. He told me it didn't take much to give someone a black eye if you hit the edge of that little bone below the eye. Apparently, if you pheonix-eye somebody really well right there, it's an almost instant black eye with plenty of swelling. As Grace doesn't know any Kung Fu, that little trick wasn't/isn't an option. I talked it over with him for a few minutes and he agreed that a bit of a bruise would be best. Puppy gave me the idea for the cut from the ring (Thanks!), which I rather like.^_^ Thanks to everybody who reviewed the last chapter, feedback is greatly appreciated on my part.^_^
Thanks for reading!^_^