Disclaimer: Captain Jack Sparrow, the Black Pearl and her crew, none of them are mine. Much as I might like for the captain to be mine, he's not, and I'll return him to those who do own him in much the same shape I borrowed him in.

Author's Note: Geneviève, Georges, Thérèse, Alexandrie, Paulette and Benoît are mine Oh, and please send reviews to my e-mail: captainisabellaraven@yahoo.com. Thanks!

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Geneviève Dominique Moineau crept out of the quiet dark of her brother's house on the island of Martinique, making her way down to the beach it overlooked. Few would mistake the French beauty for the young man she was dressed as, but Geneviève didn't care. Her brother's cast offs were far more comfortable than her own corsetted dresses, and far more suited to her current escapade. She was tired of being cooped up, tired of being the lady of the house, and intended to get some fresh air tonight. Once she gained the beach, she smiled, reaching down to pull off the boots and stockings that encased her feet, wriggling her toes into the soft white sands. A quiet giggle escaped her lips, and she turned to walk down the beach, revelling in the freedom of being without chaperon or watcher, without any of the rules of polite society, or the stiff dresses that made it impossible to breathe.

She frowned when she saw a ship anchored in the small cove near her home, long boats coming ashore with a silence Geneviève had never associated with sailors. Ducking into the shadows provided by the vegetation, she crept closer, curious now, her hand creeping to the hilt of the dagger she'd taken with her, a precaution that she knew would soothe Paulette's ruffled feathers if the older woman found out her chère fille had gone out alone. She didn't see the man, hidden in the shadows as she was, until he spoke, making her nearly shriek in surprise.

"Qui est là? Montrez-vous, escroc!" Her voice showed her surprise, coming out more as a squeak than the demanding hiss she'd intended. Geneviève scowled as the man chuckled, responding in kind, his accent impeccable.

"Ne devriez-vous pas être dans le lit, fille?" She could see the flash of white teeth in a grin, and nearly screeched.

"J'ai vingt-quatre ans, je ne suis pas fille! Et que faites-vous ici? Le port est de l'autre côté de l'île."

"I'm a pirate, luv, and I intend to keep my neck the length it is at the moment." The man switched over to English, and Geneviève sighed.

"Bâtard anglais," she muttered under her breath, a moment before what he said sunk in. "You are a pirate?" She began to back away, her eyes wide, drawing the dagger from its sheath. Cher Dieu, un pirate. Un pirate anglais. Les anges ci-dessus me protègent... She ran into something warm, and a hand reached from behind her to grab her wrist, exerting pressure on it until she dropped the knife. Geneviève struggled, driving her free elbow back into the person's gut, but it had no apparent effect on the pirate's grip.

"Anamaria, let her loose." The pirate spoke to the person holding her as he reached down to pick up her dagger. "What's your name, mademoiselle?"

"Qui êtes-vous?" she shot back, her fear quickly being subsumed by anger, dropping back into french. "Que faites-vous ici?"

"I asked first, luv."

"Mon nom n'est pas Ôluv'. Je suis Geneviève, vous damne le pirate!" She growled at the chuckle that followed her statement, and would have launched herself at the pirate had she still had her knife. Pirate sanglant! Je ne suis pas un enfant dont les singeries peuvent être ries. She glared at him, in lieu of being able to physically quiet that annoying laughter. "Votre nom?"

He stopped laughing, though she could still see the shine of a smile in the shadows. "Captain Jack Sparrow at your service, mademoiselle." He bowed grandly, and Geneviève rolled her eyes. "Now what shall I do with you? You know my name, you've seen my face." He paused, and she felt a trickle of chill travel down her spine.

"I will not tell anyone. I give you my word. Just let me go home. S'il vous plaît?" She ruthlessly shoved down the feeling of fear, controlling the urge to shiver, despite the sultry warmth of the night.

He didn't say anything, and Geneviève felt the fear creeping back up, threatening to swallow in its black depths.

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Jack watched the girl, the dark eyes that regarded him with no little amount of fear in their depths. Despite that, she was not running, nor had she panicked, like many women might, encountering a pirate. Of course, this isn't the first lady you've seen face down a pirate without turning into a ninny, Jack. Though Elizabeth did know about the code. Somehow, I doubt this one does. He smiled slightly. "Why should I trust your word?"

Geneviève responded with a string of french curses, anger blazing up to replace the fear in her expression, bringing up her fists to rest them on generous hips. " I am not a bloody pirate to lie and cheat, and go back on my word. Though I can I trust you to not just say I can go home, then shoot me in the back as I leave?" She spoke in rapid french, but Jack caught most of it, and he frowned.

"I don't make a habit of shooting women in the first place, nor do I shoot people in the back. And though I may lie and cheat, I do not go back on the letter of my word. If I say I will let you return home unharmed, then I will let you leave alive and in one piece, without a mark on your skin...."

"And if I asked for my dagger back, would you give it to me?"

Jack glared at her for interrupting him a moment, before looking the dagger over. It was a nice piece of work, the blade polished and sharp, the hilt wrapped in silver wire with a ruby set into the crossguard. His eyebrows shot up. This was not a dagger that would be carried by the simple girl he'd first though she was.

"Well?" She had raised an eyebrow in question, and was tapping her foot with impatience.

He shrugged. "Probably not, luv."

"Vous petit fils arrogant d'un ver! I told you, my name is Geneviève!" Her voice rose to an angry shriek, loud enough, Jack was sure, to wake the dead. He cursed, tucking the dagger behind his belt to grab her, his free hand coming down over her mouth. She screamed again, biting down, and Jack cursed again, wondering what he was going to do with her. He certainly couldn't let her return to her home, not with her glaring bloody murder up at him. He rather enjoyed living still.

With another muttered curse, he released her mouth long enough to grab the dagger again, the hilt connecting solidly beneath her ear, and stilling the scream before it could properly form. Her weight collapsed against him, and Jack made a quick decision, tossing her over his shoulder to haul her to one of the long boats, ignoring Anamaria's skeptical glance and Gibb's mutterings about women on board being bad luck. He couldn't just leave her on the beach, not the way she was dressed, especially if she was more than a simple serving girl or maid sneaking out for a bit of an adventure.

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Author's Note Two, the translations: I thought translations of the French used in this story would be useful, and you'll find them after each chapter.

Qui est là? Montrez-vous, escroc! - Who's there? Show yourself, rogue!

chère fille - dear girl

Ne devriez-vous pas être dans le lit, fille? - Shouldn't you be in bed, girl?

J'ai vingt-quatre ans, je ne suis pas fille! Et que faites-vous ici? Le port est de l'autre côté de l'île. - I am twenty-four, I am not a girl! And what are you doing here? The port is on the other side of the island.

Bâtard anglais - English bastard

Cher Dieu, un pirate. Un pirate anglais. Les anges ci-dessus me protègent... - Dear God, a pirate. An english pirate. Angels above protect me...

Qui êtes-vous? - Who are you?

Mon nom n'est pas 'luv'. Je suis Geneviève, vous damne le pirate! - My name is not 'luv'. I am Geneviève, you damned pirate!

Pirate sanglant! Je ne suis pas un enfant dont les singeries peuvent être ries. - Bloody pirate! I am not a child whose antics can be laughed at.

Votre nom? - Your name?

Vous petit fils arrogant d'un ver! - You arrogant little son of a worm!