Peas in a Pod Part the First

by Saahira

"How ~much~ rum?" Jack Sparrow asked, his voice low and soft. I noticed the small, hopeful smile he offered me. The utter harmlessness of his expression.

As harmless as a snake about to strike! Did the man think himself clever, I wondered? Did he believe me so naïve as to be fooled by a pirate's lies? It was true I was innocent in the ways of men and women, but that's not to say I did not understand it all in theory. The mechanics of the act, if you will, and the blatantly disreputable behavior of men seeking such pleasures. Oh no ... I saw that peculiar gleam in the pirate's gaze and immediately knew it sprang not from a desire to hear my song, but from a much more fleshly desire altogether.

Answering the actual, though carefully unspoken question, I said with cold formality, "There is not enough rum in the entire Caribbean, Mr. Sparrow."

"~Captain~ Sparrow, luv. Or Jack, if you'll allow me the privilege of calling you Elizabeth?" One corner of his mouth twitched and his dark eyes twinkled as if in silent laughter.

I took another sip of the noxious liquid and felt it scorch its way down my throat. My innards blistered with it. My eyes watered from the fumes, and I hoped he didn't misinterpret those tears as something more meaningful. "Vile," I muttered, and even I wasn't sure if I meant the rum or the man.

He took another long hearty draught from his own bottle. Just watching it made my belly lurch, for he drank that rum with the same delight that I might find in a fine tea imported from China, served piping hot and sweetened with honey. Realizing his enjoyment, I admit I felt envious.

Lowering the bottle, Sparrow swiped his mouth across the back of a dirty sleeve like some ill-mannered guttersnipe and grinned crookedly, a quick flash of gold and ivory teeth. "Sticks-n-stones, darlin. As I said, it's a long wait ahead of us. Assumin' we're rescued at all. No need makin' all this harder on ourselves by squabblin' and such, eh?"

"And so," I replied archly, "~you~ propose we become the best of friends then? Bosom companions whiling away the days until we finally ~starve to death~?" Oh, the sarcasm in my tone, my words dripping venom! Surely he would find enough insult there to leave me in peace for a bit?

"I'm not askin' you to marry me, Elizabeth," he answered dryly, not waiting for permission to use my Christian name, "just t'sing me your bloody little song." Maddening man, incorrigible! While speaking, he scooted closer through the sand as if only his immediate proximity would persuade me to sing; in turn, only supreme force of will on my part kept me from fleeing. Fortitude; I was proud of myself for having it. But when he moved to drape an arm across my shoulders, it was too much. I flinched and shrugged away.

He looked at me so oddly then, as if somehow hurt by my action. Taking his arm slowly away, he turned his gaze back out to the sea. Suddenly pensive, was Captain Jack Sparrow, and strangely subdued. Quietly, he said, "They don't rub off, y'know." And he took a long pull on his bottle.

"What doesn't rub off?" I frowned, truly mystified.

He tipped his scruffy chin downward to indicate his arm. "The scars. They're on there right good. No worries they'll come off on you."

My cheeks flamed in genuine embarrassment. To insult this man's worth and honor seemed entirely acceptable ... he was a pirate, after all ... but to so callously hurt his feelings regarding a deformity beyond his control? Well, whether he was outlaw or noble, I was simply too well-bred to do anything so crass. I stammered a hesitant apology. "That's not what I meant, Jack. I'm sorry ..."

"Doesn't matter," he mumbled, and drank. And while he drank, I examined his profile, the face of Jack Sparrow, the legendary pirate captain, the hero of my childhood. I studied his kohl-rimmed eyes, the grizzled strip of beard lining his jaw, the braids and beads and coins tangled in his long black hair. He was smaller and more finely boned than the fearsome giant portrayed in my favorite books. His voice was not the deep rumble I had read about, nor was his gaze so terrible as to strike panic in the hearts of honest men. He was much younger than I had believed, and surprisingly handsome beneath his unshaven dirt and grime. He was nothing like I had imagined. Still, this was ~the~ Jack Sparrow, sitting there in the flesh beside me. For years I had dreamt of meeting him, of hearing his infamous accounts firsthand.

The reality of him was ... startling.

~No truth at all~, he had said of those beloved stories. But despite learning the less than heroic facts of his island escape, I understood the lie for what it was. He was Captain Jack Sparrow, after all, and I had read all of his best exploits; I knew his legend had its basis in fact. With a thrill of childhood fervor reborn, I remembered the web of angry weals and ridges mangling his arm, and those twin pistol shots marring his chest, the scars tattooed dark by gunpowder. Intrigue and adventure, all scored indelibly into mortal flesh. Thinking of those wounds, imagining the agony they must have caused this man, I could not help but shudder.

Sparrow noticed ... sitting so close to me how could he not? ... but I think perhaps he believed my reaction born of revulsion rather than pity. If so, the pirate was more gentleman than I was lady, for only a single glance betrayed that he saw my reaction. Only a single word escaped his lips, spoken on a hot ocean breeze.

"Shark."

I looked at him, chagrin at my rudeness abruptly forgotten as my heart tapped an exultant rhythm inside my chest. "The shark of Puerto del Sol?" I exclaimed. "The one guarding the ~Joya Bonita's~ treasure? But I ~know~ that story, Jack! It was one of my favorites!"

"That right?" came his disinterested reply as more rum traveled from bottle to belly. He squinted at the distant horizon. So little enthusiasm, I thought, from a man who so valued his own reputation.

"My book described the shark as a veritable ~monster!~ Half the size of a whale!" I enthused.

He turned to study my face. "The ~Bonita~ sank just off the shoreline, luv. Sharks that size don't care much for shoals."

Disappointment was palpable. "Then ... it wasn't a big shark?"

His glance at the arm was poignant in its simplicity. "Big enough," he murmured. And returned to his study of the sea.

"But it ~was~ guarding a treasure?"

"Tryin' to eat the ~Bonita's~ survivors actually."

I looked at him blankly. "So ... you ~weren't~ fighting the shark for Spanish gold?"

His sigh was much put-upon, as if he were disgusted with himself for admitting the less than heroic facts. "I was fishin' a sailor out of the wreckage, all right?" He shrugged, negligent disinterest. "Shark had different notions, is all."

"And the pistol shots?" I asked. Without thinking, I reached for his shirt and shoved it aside to better view the twin scars there. The marks were hard and swollen beneath my fingers; gnarled. "Tell me about those, Jack." Surely those were reminders of some grand adventure?

The smile he cast my way was slow, sly and calculating. I flushed, suddenly aware of the lean chest beneath my questing fingers. I jerked my hand away as if burned by it.

"First," he said coyly, "we'll share a drink, Elizabeth. And then you'll sing me your song."

"No."

Sparrow pursed his lips thoughtfully. His dark eyes narrowed. "No to the drink? Or no to the song?"

"No to both," I proclaimed with as much authority as I could muster. Which probably wasn't much, considering the humiliation caused by my brief impropriety. My fingers, God help me, still tingled from touching the man.

He offered a much an exaggerated sigh. "Then no story," he stated firmly.

"But Jack!"

When he shrugged my protest so casually away, I offered an impatient huff of my own. "Very well, we'll do it your way. But only under protest."

"Oh," he purred, his head tilting, his smile far too knowing, "I'm sure we'd have it no other way, Elizabeth." And I couldn't help but wonder if he meant the drink or the song or ... or something else entirely.

At Sparrow's insistence, I put the bottle to my lips and pretended to drink more than I actually did, realizing as I did so that the rum really wasn't all that bad. The aftertaste of it was sweet, and it warmed me with an unexpectedly sunny glow. I let myself drink a little more, feeling terribly naughty for so enjoying such elicit pleasure.

"Not so bad, eh?" Sparrow asked, sipping from his own bottle, watching my profile. Pleased.

"Its awful," I lied. "Disgusting."

"I can see how much you hate it," the pirate agreed, wiping a dribble from my chin with a calloused thumb. At my answering glare, he added with a small half-smile, "There's no shame in it, luv. Not in sharin' a little drink. Not here. Considerin' the circumstances and all."

"There is never a time or place appropriate for such loathsome diversions as rum and ... and ..."

"And what?" Jack prompted, his heavily smudged eyes fixed curiously on my face.

"Nothing," I muttered, looking away.

"Ahhh ..."

His knowing gaze followed mine, traveling the beach, the sky, the vastness of ocean before us. Moments ticked by. I watched a beetle scuttle across glistening white sand. I listened to lapping blue waves, and to sea birds crying as they sailed the sky. I sipped at rum in my bottle. I was intensely aware of the man seated beside me. The smell of him was heady in its masculinity ... the saltiness of sea spray mixed with the crispness of wind, all commingled with Jack Sparrow's own musky scent. I couldn't escape his presence. His nearness.

Such is the wickedness of rum, that it made me indulge in such wicked notions. Still, I didn't put the bottle down.

Into the silence between us, Jack said solemnly, "We are stranded on this sorry spit of land with very little food and even less drinkin' water. We may very well die here, Elizabeth. All things considered, I hardly think drinkin' in a little rum will ruin your otherwise sterlin' reputation."

Sometimes the truth is too heavy to bear. With Sparrow's mention of my reputation, I felt truth's full weight suddenly crush me. I studied the bottle in my hands, turned it, concentrated on the brown liquid sloshing inside it. Quietly, I replied, "I have no reputation left, Jack. I was abducted and held captive by pirates. No one in the world will ever believe I survived such an ordeal unharmed."

Sparrow's brow tangled beneath the red scarf. "I see a few bruises, luv, but ..."

"You know that's not what I mean, Jack." My smile was sad, rueful. My eyes grew moist despite my firmest resolve not to cry. "And now here I am, all alone with another pirate ... another ~man~ ... on an island." I sighed forlornly. "No respectable gentleman will ever wish to marry me after this."

"And marriage is all you're after?"

I shrugged unhappily. "Marriage. Motherhood. What else is there for a woman?" Unfortunately, Jack was right about rum being the least of my worries. I raised the bottle to my lips and drank deeply, letting the strong liquor soothe me.

Sparrow's lips pursed, twisting thoughtfully as he watched me drink. His eyebrows quirked at some inner joke. "Well, you could always turn pirate," he glibly suggested.

I made a scoffing noise.

"No, really," Sparrow went on helpfully, raising a hand for emphasis, waving it. "With all your readin' about pirates, surely you've read about Anne Bonny and Mary Reeves?"

I offered him a dubious sidelong glance.

"Charmin' girls, really. Good pirates. You'd have to change your name, of course. To Joe or Harry or ..." he eyed me critically, "... Slim."

"Slim?"

"Well, you can't very well stay 'Elizabeth' and still pretend to be a boy, now can you?"

I was intrigued despite myself. Maybe the rum helped. "AnaMaria doesn't pretend to be a boy," I pointed out.

"Nah, but she's tough as old nails. You, however, would have to be a boy until you got your sea legs under you. And learned to use a sword, that too. Then you could be Elizabeth again." His grin was infectious. "I can see it now. Calico Liz, scourge of the Caribbean."

I smiled as I pictured it. Myself, dressed in breeches and boots, with a man's loose shirt tucked in my belt. My hair chopped short, blown by a strong ocean wind as I rode the crow's nest, looking for ships to plunder.

"Think about it, Bethie. Freedom from your father. Freedom from Norrington. Freedom from all that nonsense about marriage and children. Just you and whatever you wish to make of yourself." His smile softened, became conspiratorial. He leaned in closer. "When I get the ~Pearl~ back, you can join my crew. I'll make an honest pirate out of you, eh?"

"It sounds wonderful," I smiled. A genuine smile, for Jack Sparrow made it all sound so plausible. And freedom, so tempting.

That time, when he draped his arm around me, I let him.

"And now," Jack grinned, raising his bottle in salute, "the song."

"Very well." I cleared my throat ... not an easy task, for the strong drink made my throat thick. Nevertheless, I sang the first stanza as clearly and cleanly as I could. I envisioned myself, living that unfettered life.

~We pillage and plunder, we rifle and loot, Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! We kidnap and ravage and don't give a hoot, Drink up, me hearties, yo ho! Yo ho, yo ho, a pirate's life for me!~

"Well, go on," Sparrow encouraged when I fell silent, and he pressed so close our bodies touched at hips and thighs, and he pulled me tight against him in what almost seemed a hug. The warmth of his body was even more delicious than the warm glow of rum. Which should have alarmed me. And surely would have, had my future not seemed so hopeless just then, and had the rum not been slipping so insidiously through my veins. "Sing the rest for me," he went on. He waved his bottle my way, urging me to it.

"No," I replied, lifting my chin with haughty dignity and setting my face into noble lines. I stared down my nose at the pirate captain while he in turn considered me through hooded eyes. "Not until you tell me about those." I waved an imperious hand toward his chest.

"Tit for tat then?" he suggested cagily.

"Precisely," I affirmed.

I'm not sure how long our game continued as we parried favors back and forth, bargaining for such nonsensical prizes; to this very day, I don't know, though I'm sure it was still well before noon when we started and nearing dusk when we finished. A drink for a story. A song for a tale. It was silly really, but enough rum can make even silly things seem reasonable. Too reasonable. ~So~ reasonable in fact, that when I'd at last finished all my songs and poems, and had no more anecdotes with which to negotiate, Sparrow's next suggestion seemed entirely reasonable as well.

"Then a kiss," Jack said. At some point during our game, I had snuggled quite companionably against the man, content to be there. Pressed beneath his sheltering arm, hugged and feeling myself protected, I heard him say, "I'll tell you about the mutiny for a kiss."

The worst thing of all is that my mind was so muddled by drink that I can no longer recall even half the adventures he told me that day. But I do remember our first kiss. To my shame, I remember agreeing to it.

Its all so vivid still. I remember how Jack used one work-roughened finger to tilt my chin upward to meet him. The force of his gaze held me transfixed as he leaned in close, mustache tickling, brushing his lips ever so lightly across mine. It was a tentative gesture, more caress than kiss, as if he were ready to retreat at my first protest. I smelled the spice of rum on his breath. Tasted it as well, when his lips touched mine more surely.

Jack drew back only far enough to frown into my face. His eyes searched mine. I saw swirls of gold in the black of his gaze, embers stolen from the westering sun. I stared back, unable to look away. My breathing was ragged. I tingled all over, and was surprised by the intensity of heat building low in my belly.

"Have you never been kissed before, Elizabeth?" he asked me. His voice was soft, a husky whisper.

"Of course I have," I answered brazenly. I swallowed hard, hoping he didn't hear the lie.

"I'm not talkin' about the kisses a parent gives a child." I felt the prickle of his mustache, the brush of his mouth on mine. I was vaguely aware that his lips were chapped by sun and sea spray; they were delicious. Against my mouth, he murmured, "I'm talkin' about the kisses between lovers."

~Lovers?~

His fingers tangled in my hair, drawing me nearer. Then his tongue was there, gently probing. I recalled my nurses speaking of such things; I hadn't believed people could really be so crude.

Crude, yes. Oh yes. I gladly parted my lips for him. Hesitantly at first, then with growing ardor. I tasted Jack Sparrow, scoundrel and rogue, the man ... the hero ... I had dreamt about in my childhood. I tasted him as fully as he tasted me. I reveled in the sheer wrongness of it.

Again he pulled back to study my face, and as he did I leaned toward him, unwilling to relinquish our contact. My body was aflame. I became aware that I clung to him, that I couldn't ... wouldn't ... let him go. But then Jack stood and I toppled sideways in the sand.

He took a step back. He stared at me so strangely.

"Water," he stated decisively, as if that were the answer to all the world's mysteries. And he proceeded to walk out into the waves.

Perplexed, I pushed unevenly to my feet, following at a distance behind him, wobbling only a little. I watched as he waded out into the ocean, as sea water swallowed his ankles, his knees, his hips, his waist. "Where are you going?" I called. Where ~could~ he go?

"Takin' a swim," he called back, and disappeared beneath the waves.

I followed more slowly, stopping when water lapped at my breasts and tugged at my hair. The fresh scent of salt water filled my head, clearing away some of the rum-born clouds. Minnows approached only to rush away. I waited for Jack to surface; felt a twinge of panic when he didn't.

"Jack?" I whispered. Fear blossomed, scattering horrid images in its wake. Without Jack Sparrow, there would no month on this island ... I wouldn't last a week without him! But no, I quickly assured myself, Jack swam like a fish. He was strong and lithe in the water; I had had occasion to learn what a powerful a swimmer he was. "Jack?" I said a little more loudly, a little more desperately.

I heard the splash behind me and turned. And there he stood, head and shoulders above the gently lapping waves, well beyond my arm's reach. The knots and braids of his black hair streamed water. Droplets caught in the dark of his beard and eyelashes glistened like diamonds in the late afternoon sunshine.

"Water's always good for what ails you. Puts things in perspective, as it were. I suggest you take a dunk, Miss Swann."

"Elizabeth," I replied hollowly.

"Miss Swann," Jack corrected with a pointed smile. He scraped the water from his face, his lashes.

Oddly enough, it was anger I felt. I shoved through the water toward him, buoyed by the righteous indignation born of too much rum. "What's wrong with you, Jack?"

"Me?" He looked at me askance, as though I had just grown a third eye.

"That's right! First you kiss me, then you treat me like a pariah."

"What?"

"Well?" Had I been on dry land, I might have stomped my foot. Had I been sober, I would surely have avoided the argument altogether. As it was, I slapped the ocean's surface with my palm, splashing water at him for emphasis. "Answer me, Jack!"

Sparrow, in return, became the very embodiment of irritated masculine pride. Tilting his head, glowering into my face, he said tightly, "For your information, ~Miss Swann~, I am takin' measures to avoid actions which, once done, cannot be ~un~done. For your sake, not mine, I might add."

Understanding, I nevertheless scowled up at him, angered that a criminal considered himself my moral superior. "A pirate is going to tell a governor's daughter what is right and proper? That's almost laughable, Jack! Shouldn't ~I~ be the one deciding that for myself?"

"~Not~when you have been drinking to excess, milady," he replied sardonically. Amusement warred briefly with vexation in his features.

I replied with the first scathing remark that came to mind, not caring how ineffectual it was as an argument. "But ~you're~ the one that asked for a kiss!"

"That's right. But," Jack said, his low voice mocking, "highborn lady that you are, I had no idea you would so readily agree to it."

"Oh!" I exclaimed hotly, affronted by his implication.

"Oh," he agreed flatly.

"You're a bloody ~pirate~," I snapped accusingly, "a man without principles or honor. Its obvious you know nothing about propriety." I added on a superior note, "And besides which, ~you~ have been drinking too. You're judgment is no more trustworthy than mine. Less, I should think."

"Oh, aye," he readily granted, "which is precisely what precipitated my rather hasty plunge into the ocean. You however, Elizabeth, are well on your way to bein' good and rightly drunk."

"I am not," I protested coolly, drawing dignity around myself like a cloak.

"Nevertheless," Sparrow stated, as if that explained everything. Turning, he began wading toward deeper water again. "Jack," I called after him. I felt sudden tears welling. Despair was abrupt and crushing. Maybe I ~was~ a little drunk.

"What?"

"Do you think ..." I paused, strangling on a sob. Managed a ragged, "Have they killed Will yet?"

He turned back to face me, his brows tangled as though contemplating something distasteful. Finally, strangely subdued, he said, "Probably not yet. They won't reach the Isla del Muerta for another three days or so. It gives Will time to come up with a plan."

"But what can he do?" My voice was openly pleading; I prayed Jack's answer would soothe my fear and bring me comfort. Knew, as well, that it would not.

He considered his reply carefully. "Truth?" he asked at last.

I nodded blindly, unable to speak.

Jack waded back. He stood chest deep in water before me. His rough hands came to rest on my shoulders. He looked for all the world as if he really cared. "The truth," he said quietly, "is that William has very little chance of survival. Barbossa will have Gibbs and the others locked away in the brig. There's little the boy can do on his own against so many."

Had I really been so foolish as to ask for honesty? Honesty hurt too much, I realized; it wounded me to the very core of my being. I could not formulate a coherent response. I felt my life ... the whole pitiful month of it remaining to me ... shatter like glass around me. There was nothing left but broken shards.

I looked back at the desolate island we shared; I looked up at Jack Sparrow through a shimmer of tears. "How did you do this last time, Jack? How did you survive even three days here without going mad?" Miserable, so utterly and completely miserable. This day was the worst of my life.

Sparrow grinned crookedly and shrugged. "I got drunk."

"I'm drunk," I told him piteously, "but its not helping."

"I know, luv."

I moved into his embrace without another thought to rights, wrongs or decorum, needing the sensation of strong arms holding me more than I had ever needed anything before in my life. I held tight to the pirate, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Felt his arms encircle me. I waited for the tears to come.

Instead, I became acutely aware of the transparency of my wet shift, that only its thin veil separated Sparrow's hands from my skin, my body from his. Somehow, the indecency of it didn't seem to matter so much just then. I looked up at him. "Jack ..."

"I know." His grin was rueful. "Take my bloody hands off before you chop 'em off, right?" The sun was setting by then, painting the western sky in brilliant shades of plum-purple and black and rosy peach, the colors all swirled together with the intimacy of old lovers. The ocean reflected the sky's lurid palette, darkening the shades, shifting and merging the colors, glinting midnight blues and greens with silver and gold like treasure scattered by the dying sun. The breeze carried sunset's chill, making the warmth of Jack's body against mine all the sweeter.

His head was haloed in sunset pastels, his coins and trinkets reflecting pale light. His black hair hung lank and wet down his back, across his shoulders. His shirt was soaked; it clung to his body, revealing the leanly muscled form beneath. I had never seen a man not buried inside layers of clothing. The sight of Jack Sparrow's near-naked flesh made my breath catch in my throat. I stared like a wanton thing while my heart tripped rapidly inside my chest.

Despite the realization of our nearness, or maybe because of it, I murmured, "That's not what I meant, Jack." Slowly I lifted my arms, circled them round his neck. And then, God save me, I kissed him.

Jack held himself taut at first, as if he considered pulling away. But soon enough I felt his lips softening, opening. His arms circled my waist, dragged me roughly against him. Belatedly, it occurred to me that perhaps Jack was as scared of dying here as I was; that I was not the only one in need of comfort.

Against my mouth, he murmured, "Do you have any idea at all what you're doing, Elizabeth?"

"I'm kissing you," I whispered past a sob.

"You're kissing ~me~," he repeated. "But I'm a pirate, as you are always so quick to point out. And we are both somewhat drunk."

"I don't care," I sighed.

His eyes searched my face, and there was a sudden hardness in their black depths that surprised me. His words came low, almost terse. "Remember that then, Miss Swann, should we be rescued off this bloody rock. I would not wish accusations of rape added to my list of crimes."

"What?" I asked. Or at least, I meant to ask it before I was made mute by his long, deep kiss. When he pressed the hard thickness of himself against my thigh, I suddenly understood.

Understood that Jack Sparrow was not an adoring young blacksmith who could be teased and coyly flirted with, without my suffering any repercussions for the game. He was not a commodore, a gentleman respected and always proper, who would accept a flirtatious kiss and expect nothing more. Captain Jack Sparrow was indeed a pirate; a dangerous, depraved, lawless man without morals or decency, a criminal against the Crown. In my foolishness, I had freed that part of him no doubt kept leashed for Will's sake.

Propriety for Will, but not for me; it was amazing the pirate had shown even that much restraint. I felt the rapid thrumming of his heart beneath my hand, I felt his uneven breath, I felt the heat rising from his body to mingle with the heat of my own. Was there any hope he would stop if I begged him?

"No, Jack," I said against his lips. "I didn't mean ... Don't do this. Please ..."

"Elizabeth," was his only response, spoken on a sigh.

Wise men say an eternity can pass in the span of a single heartbeat. In that instant, as I lost myself in the warmth of a pirate's embrace, in his need, as I felt my resolve melting, I saw the full extent of life remaining to me ... a month, perhaps a little more. I saw my lingering death here on this lost and lonely island. I saw the broken scramble of my bones jumbled inextricably among Jack Sparrow's.

There is no excuse for what happened after that. No excuse, no justification; no defense even in darkest despair. For no reason other than primal lust and the belly full of rum prompting it, I behaved as might the lowliest of strumpets. I, Elizabeth Swann, daughter of the governor of Jamaica, became a wanton, with no more dignity than the street women I had so meanly ridiculed in the past. For Jack Sparrow, scoundrel and rogue, the hero ... the ~man~ ... I had dreamt about in my childhood ... I lost whatever honor I claimed. I gladly opened myself to him. I reveled in the sheer wrongness of what we did together. Rum, it seems, is as vile a drink as they say it is, and it can make people do vile and disgusting things.

Sorrow and desperation did the rest.

As for Jack Sparrow, I knew he was not yet drunk despite the rum we had shared. His eyes were clear and alert and he knew beyond doubt that what we did was wrong. That what ~he~ did was wrong, for he knew me an innocent. He knew I was a virtuous girl in love with the man he named as friend. It was disgraceful, that he showed so little restraint. Despicable that, sober as he was, he did not stop me when I reached for him, when I began fumbling with his belt with fevered hands. Appalling that he let me touch him as I had never touched another man. And that he touched me back.

I would not have done it had I been sober. At least I have that much of my pride left.



It was full dark by the time I woke. The moon hung over the eastern horizon, a pale ghost seen between swaying palm fronds. I lay with my cheek pillowed on Jack's shoulder, one arm draped across his chest, his arm holding me close. I listened to the gentle sound of his snoring and tried to pretend that none of what happened was true. Belying that dismal wish was the musty old blanket comprising our bed, a faded rag discarded long ago by the rum runners, its aged fabric rough and scratchy against my skin The warmth of Jack's sleeping form was certainly real enough. My head ached dully, as did my thighs and the space between them. We were both unclad, were Jack Sparrow and I, with our clothes tossed in haphazard piles in the sand.

"Jack?" I whispered. As sad as it is to admit, he was the only person I could turn to for solace. The very man who had betrayed me and brought me to ruin was my only hope for comfort.

How pathetic.

I sat up slowly in deference to an aching body, deciding not to wake my companion. I turned my eyes away from him, unable to look, knowing my traitorous gaze would not hold to just his face. I gathered up my shift and waded into the ocean waves to cleanse myself of the stickiness of sand mixed with blood and ... and other things. I thought of Will captured, tortured, perhaps already dead while I ... while I played harlot to a pirate.

Shame was palpable.

I lingered in my lonely bath and lonelier thoughts. I hid my heartache in darkness. I dawdled so long that by the time I returned, Sparrow had awakened and dressed himself, and he had built up a pile of driftwood and kindling. The flame was newborn, still tentative. Soon, I knew, it would be a roaring bonfire.

I dropped down beside Jack, folding my legs underneath myself in unconscious imitation of him. I studied the sand before me as shadow and firelight jigged mad patterns across it. I pushed one finger through the grains, drawing senseless designs, glad that my loose hair curtained my profile from his view. It was better than facing him.

"Was it so awful then?" Jack asked me quietly. I was aware of his intent gaze; I felt his scrutiny.

"No," I murmured. My eyes were moist, my sigh grief-stricken. "It was wonderful, Jack. That's the whole problem."

"Problem?"

Why should he understand? How could any man, let alone a pirate?

I blinked back the tears, unwilling to let them fall. I would not humiliate myself in front of this man. Not again, anyway.

I whispered, "No one will ever believe now that I wasn't ravished by Captain Barbossa and his crew. That I wasn't degraded dozens of times by dozens of different men."

"You weren't forced to it, luv," Jack pointed out practically. He sipped at his rum, still watching me. Flames reflected off the smooth curve of the glass, off the fathomless black of his eyes. "As I recall, you were quite the willin' participant."

"I know." I let the sand trickle between my fingers. One stubborn tear escaped to runnel down my cheek. "That makes it even worse."

Silence.

Jack's finger touched my cheek, catching that single tear. He brought it back for closer inspection, frowning as though he had never seen such a thing before. His tone, when he spoke, was perplexed. "No one need know a thing about it, Elizabeth."

"~I~ will know. As will you."

"Yes, but ..." I could hear it in his voice, the confusion of a man confronted by a woman's heartache. His helplessness as he struggled to make sense of it. Sighing, he admitted, "I never could figure out all your silly rules and standards. Bloody waste of time, frettin' over morals and virtues. Worryin' what your neighbors might think."

"In polite society, such things matter very much," I replied softly.

"And that's the very reason I became a pirate." He shook his head, his dark eyes narrowing as he leaned toward me. "We enjoyed ourselves, Bethie. We had a good time. We took our minds off our sorry situation for a bit. I can't see the harm in that."

"I betrayed Will." There, I had said it. The most horrid truth of all. Blurted out, the words carried on a sob. The dismal reality, standing like a stone fortress between us. More tears spilled down my cheeks.

Again I heard the confusion in his voice. "But you said it was the Commodore who'd asked you to marry him?" Jack shrugged then, making a quizzical face. "Which isn't such a bad thing, really. You betrayin' that prig, I mean. Man has a spike up his arse. Ask me, the man needs somethin' to bring him down a few pegs."

I smiled a little through my tears.

"As for all your worries about betrayin' dear William, I think your purity is probably the least of his concerns just now. Besides which, we're most likely goin' to die on this bloody rock anyway. I think your slow, tortuous death from starvation will more than pay for all your sins, don't you?"

I cast the pirate a quick sidelong glance. "You're trying to make me feel better," I joked. He saw my grin, small though it was. My heart wasn't in it, but it felt good to pretend.

Jack's smile brightened his face. ~And~ my mood, which the astute pirate must have discerned. He tossed me my bottle of rum, long-since forgotten. He raised his own in salute. "To us, Elizabeth Swann. May we find safe harbor, whether in this world or the next." He clanked his bottle against mine, tilted his head back and drank deeply. But I couldn't; my head pounded and my stomach sickened at the very notion of drinking more rum. While he wasn't looking, I furtively splashed a few swallows on the bonfire.

Where liquor touched, flames and smoke shot violently skyward. My eyes widened in shock. Jack, it seemed, had not noticed.

"Ahhh." He wiped his mouth dry on a sleeve. Without warning, he pulled me under his arm, a possessive embrace. And despite everything that had happened between us, I let him. "It happened," he said, "the day after we'd set sail for the Isla del Muerta."

"What did?" I frowned.

"The mutiny, luv." He smiled down at me. His lips brushed my cheek in a quick caress, his whiskers tickling. "As I recall, I still owe you that story."

Oh, yes. Our game. The kiss that had started my downfall.

And so Jack Sparrow recited his tale while I watched his face grow haggard with the memories it brought. Loss of his best friend. Loss of his ship. Loss of everything he had believed to be his own. Each bereavement ... for that is what they were ... had taken its toll on the pirate, body and soul; each had cut a piece from his spirit. I saw the torment of those losses, watched as he drank rum to ease a never-ending agony. A lot of rum. And I, in turn, splashed my own bit by tiny bit on the blaze and was ceaselessly amazed by the near-explosive results.

Slowly, a plan began to form.

It wasn't hard, urging Jack to drunkenness. There was no one on the island but ourselves; no one to threaten him; no one to attack him; no one to steal from him. Our very solitude made him lower his guard. My steady reminders of how he had lost the ~Black Pearl~ increased his intake, as did mention of Will's capture and Bill Turner's watery grave.

I would like to think Jack drank from guilt as well, for so callously plying an innocent girl with liquor and then taking advantage of her loss of common sense. But Jack Sparrow was a pirate, after all, and I wasn't sure he was capable of such gentlemanly remorse.

That night I learned that as a man drinks, there comes a time when the drink takes over. A certain quantity of rum imbibed simply calls for more and more to join it. My task grew easier after Jack reached that point. He insisted I teach him my pirate song and I happily complied, spinning with him around our bonfire, collapsing with him in the sand. I listened to his prattle about the ~Black Pearl~ and freedom, watching in satisfaction as he at last finished his entire bottle of rum and passed out.

I dragged him to a safe distance from the crackling flames, then sat for a long while beside him, gazing into his face while the ocean sang songs of accusation and deceit. My conscience chafed, looking into the face of Captain Jack Sparrow, my ... lover. My first. So handsome, beneath all the dirt and grime; the scars, proclaiming his legend true. With a visceral thrill, I remembered the fever of his kisses, the feel of calloused hands on my body. I remembered his kindness, the gentleness of his touch as he eased me into womanhood. Later, his ardor, the fierceness of his passion as he brought me to pleasures I had never imagined possible, as he made the world crash and shatter around us and ...

No! I would not recall that! I was Elizabeth Swann, daughter of the governor of Jamaica. It was bad enough, what I had done; what I had let Jack Sparrow do.

I refused to dwell on how much I had enjoyed it.

I swallowed back sudden tears, and I wasn't sure if they were tears of remorse for deceiving Jack, or tears of sheer weariness. Perhaps I cried because in one night both childhood and innocence had ended in a pirate's embrace and, in so doing, my girlish dreams of this man had all come true. Or maybe ... maybe they had not ...

I cupped Sparrow's cheek in my hand, a farewell of sorts, as I fantasized about a future that could never be with a man I could never have. I imagined myself in men's clothing with my hair cropped short, standing beside Jack Sparrow while we sailed the high seas together. Would it be so bad, I wondered, to ~not~ burn the rum? To stay on this island, drinking and making love, and simply trust the Fates to send a merchant ship or smuggler our way? Would it be so terribly wrong to give in, even for a little while, to passions so newly awakened?

After all I had been through, would anyone really blame me for such weakness?

I had almost decided to chance it when Jack grumbled in his sleep. He smiled, flailing a drunken caress at my breast and slurred, "There's a good girl, Giselle ..."

Giselle?

~Giselle!~

I shot up to my feet, scattering sand across the pirate's sleeping form. I scowled fiercely down at him; I ground my teeth. My fists were white- knuckled with fury. Too angry for tears, I snarled, "Bloody pirate. ~Bloody rum~. Vile, disgusting, nasty drink. Rum's what got me into this mess, Jack Sparrow. Rum is going to get me out." I started away. Stopped and whirled back, my voice low with rage. "You deserve to lose the bloody rum."

Sparrow could lie around doing nothing for the next month for all I cared, but I was going to be rescued. Not only would I be rescued, but I would rescue Will Turner as well. At least ~he~ was a gentleman.

I stalked past the bonfire to the rum runners' cache. I spared no more energy on silly notions and childish, girlish fantasies.

... continued ...