Disclaimer: I own nothing worthwhile. No suing me.

Chapter 18: Hands

Jack shoved his compass down into his sash alongside his gun. "Mine now," he said gruffly, and started tramping off back down the slope, without another word, toward the distant beach where their shore-boat waited.

"But where did you get it?" Jacobs asked, hurrying off at his heels. "I lost it during a raid. Good raid, that one was. Good compass. Never led me wrong. Led me astray, but didn't ever lead me wrong…Heh heh heh"

Gwen hung back until the sound of his voice, carrying forward with his incessant rambling, wasn't impinging on her thoughts so forcefully. Then she trailed along behind the men, close enough to easily rejoin them with a few long strides, but far enough behind to create a bubble of privacy for herself. When she was sure they weren't paying her any attention, she dug out the slip of paper she'd stolen from inside the cabin.

She actually felt a little rush at just taking the bit of paper with its handwritten message, but she didn't want to find out that her first criminal efforts had produced nothing worthwhile. However, if it perhaps told something about the curse, or-

Gwen nearly walked into Jack, but once again, he had put out his hands to catch her before she collided with him. She looked up at him guiltily, thrusting her hand- with the purloined paper- behind her back. Jacobs stood silently to the side, looking up into the trees as though he had momentarily been turned "off."

"Do not," Jack reprimanded in a gravelly tone, "fall behind." His expression was far sterner than Gwen felt was necessary for his words, and she only stared back at him, perplexed as to why it should matter so much if she just walked behind them a few paces.

Jack gripped her hand awkwardly, his long fingers clasping roughly around the lower joints of her thumb and the upper parts of her wrist. He began walking again, dragging her along, ignoring the bewildered look she was giving him. Jacobs resumed his one-sided conversation as soon as they began moving again, as though there were some mechanism that joined the function of his limbs and his lips.

Jack tuned out the rambling, seriously considering cutting the man's tongue out. He briefly wondered what had warranted Mr. Cotton receiving that very punishment before he'd joined Jack's crew, back when Jack had briefly captained the Interceptor.

Gwen's hand fidgeted within his grasp, and he glanced over at her just in time to catch her other hand floating away from the low-cut neck of her dress. Unabashedly, he studied her chest, looking for any signs that she'd tucked something away down between her breasts, as he'd seen women do before. He was sidelined in his impartial inspection as he remembered her naked and grinned in spite of himself. He looked up at her then and met her eyes.

The little wench didn't seem to care at all that he had been staring at her as he had. She simply smiled back at him, a seductive charm touching the curve of her lip and the glint in her eye. He looked away, scowling deeply and trying to suppress his thoughts before they turned erotic. Now was hardly the time for such things.

"Wouldn't you say?" Jacobs said, more loudly than he had been speaking before.

Jack smiled crookedly at the irony. He hadn't caught the man's actual intended question because he'd been lost in his own thoughts. Much like Gwen tended to do. "Why not?" he answered obligingly, not at all sure of what he was agreeing to.

"That's what I always thought," Jacobs went on, apparently content with the vague response. "Can't imagine much else that…"

Gwen had fallen a bit behind him, so Jack casually tugged her forward, putting her between himself and the old man again. Jacobs didn't seem to notice he was purposely trying to put up a barrier between them. If that barrier happened to be Gwen, so be it.

Gwen sighed quizzically. She felt better, the soreness finally seeming to melt away from the morning's novel activity. Jack glanced across at her to see what had caused her to make such a sound, but she didn't acknowledge him.

Jack mentally shrugged the concern away, turning his mind instead to the matter of his severe lack of treasure. A nutty old man, at least seventy years old by Jack's estimate, was hardly something respectable to show for a venture after riches.

Of course, on the other hand, Jacobs was a very intriguing find. Besides the fact that the man was supposed to be dead, Jack couldn't just ignore the fact that Gwen- or at least his own compass, with her help- had either led or been drawn to the island and their unscheduled rescue of the long-exiled ex-pirate. There was something going on that he couldn't quite piece together yet. Something unnatural and mystical. He was now convinced, more than ever, that it was no coincidence that Jacobs' was the only pirate tale Gwen knew.

His compass was certainly suspect in the matter. As long as he'd had it, he'd rarely known it to act normally.

Old Jacobs, despite his near-constant rambling, seemed innocuous enough. His circumstances, though, were unusual enough to merit suspicion. If what he had related was true, he was the sole survivor of a curse that had claimed his crew and a storm that had claimed his ship. And the fact that Jack's compass had at some point belonged to him was of particular interest. Jack wondered briefly at Jacobs' dealings with the supernatural. Cursed compass, cursed treasure… He wondered, too, if Jacobs had owned the compass before or after it had been enchanted.

And on the other hand, where Gwen tied in to all this… on the… on the other hand…

Jack glanced down at their hands. He'd grabbed her wrist and had been towing her along after him for a while. But Gwen had apparently been fidgeting and slowly sliding her hand within his grasp. Now, their hands were clasped palm-to-palm. And just then, as Gwen found her footing on an awkward drop in the terrain, her fingers laced through his and her grip tightened reflexively as she used him to help balance herself.

Jack almost flinched away, almost freed his hand from hers and left her to hike along unaided. He thought that he knew, and had experienced, everything when it came to sensual relations with a woman, but somehow the idea of strolling along holding hands with his lover made him uneasy. Uneasy in the same half-excited, half-embarrassed way he had felt when he had first begun to realize how thrilling intimacy with the opposite sex could be, back in his youth.

He thought he saw, out of the corner of his eye, Gwen studying his reaction to this, but when he turned slightly to look at her, she was looking at something Jacobs was pointing toward. She nodded sagely at whatever the man was expounding upon, though her gaze did flick toward Jack once and back again immediately.

Jack frowned, pursing his lips and wrinkling his brow, as he looked down at their clasped hands again.

Her skin was still quite pale compared to the sun-browned, sea-smiling faces he was most accustomed to. Compared to his own tanned complexion and unwashed griminess. Her hand was small, her thin fingers not exceptionally long or short. It felt odd and uncomfortably dainty to him- despite his knowledge to the contrary, that she was hardly a delicate little flower- clutched in his own hand. Which suddenly felt very large and dirty and rough.

He could handle- and could do so quite willingly- a woman's hands gliding all over his body, stroking, petting, tickling, grasping, caressing, kneading. Then why should he feel so… well, why should he be affected any differently just because that little hand touched him differently than how he was necessarily accustomed?

His hand was clammy. But he realized hers was as well. Palms pressed together, fingers interwoven.

It really wasn't terribly exciting. Rather dull, in fact, if he thought about it.

Still, he couldn't help feeling somehow peculiarly… stimulated. As though as his sense of touch had been heightened, his sense of masculinity stoked, his sense of his own strength bolstered, and his mood lightened, despite his dubiousness about the hand-holding. And there was a sudden twinge in his gut that simultaneously had absolutely nothing and yet everything to do with his libido. He felt seconds away from fighting down a hard-on. Oddly, he also felt that arousal remaining always just a few seconds away but never quite taking hold, leaving him tingling with something he couldn't exactly define.

He almost released her hand again, deliberately peeling his fingers away from her skin. But he only readjusted his grasp. And then reassured himself he simply wanted to make sure she didn't fall, and he needed to retain a grip on her to ensure this. She was, after all, a bit unsteady even yet, every time she had to take a longer step or hop down from a rock, because of her stretched nether muscles. Because of the little romp they'd started the day with.

And there it was. Jack sighed to himself and glanced down his body, wondering how noticeable it was. No mug of water this time. He wondered if he could contrive accidentally falling into the cool sea-water when they arrived at the beach…

Jacobs' chatter eventually slackened and dissolved into a broken commentary, as his initial babbling 'someone-to-finally-talk-to' complex wore off. He pointed out various subtle landmarks, sharing such trivial details as where he'd stubbed his toe, and where he had once slept every night for a month because of the particularly intriguing way the moonlight shone through the tree-branches, and where he liked to dig up fresh soil to transfer to supplement his garden's fertility, but for the most part grew more tolerably quiet.

Traveling down the mountain seemed to go faster than plodding up it, and they soon passed through the last copse of trees and onto the original strip of beach they'd started from.

"Lovely place, this," Jacobs offered as they stepped from the shadow of the trees into the sunlight. "Better to be higher up the island during a storm, but…" He trailed off as he noticed the Black Pearl waiting about a half of a league off-shore.

"As a lovely as any lady that ever sailed the Seven Seas…" he observed then, his voice suddenly nothing more than an awestruck whisper. "I'd forgotten what a sight it is to behold a ship. Or to…" He trailed off, and then fell silent and remained that way, his gaze fixed unwaveringly on the Pearl, as they dragged the shore-boat down into the water, and as Jack rowed them back out to his beloved ship.

The crew, and Elizabeth and Will, did nothing to hide their surprise at the old man, looking very much like a misplaced prophet stepping into midst of them. From the moment he had been spotted emerging from the trees of the island with Gwen and Jack, he had been pinned with numerous open stares, and from the instant the old man's dirty bare feet touched the deck of the ship, he was bombarded by questions, as was Jack. Elizabeth and some of the more frequent card-players began demanding explanations from Gwen as well.

She couldn't say she blamed them. So far, she knew everything that was to be known about how they had found the old man, and why he was on the island, and how he had understandably been eager to not be left behind when there was a ship to take him away at long last. And yet, she was still at a loss for all of the mystical details of that tale and couldn't begin to explain it all in a way that would make sense.

Jack only explained that here was "Black Bill" Jacobs, as alive as though death had never crossed him, and that the old man had asked to be considered for entry into the crew. Jack didn't mention that Gwen wanted to join as well. It seemed bad timing. The captain ducked away into his cabin, though, before one of the tactless younger fellows could begin to badger him about treasure and ask whether or not they were to believe they had come out so far only to rescue a has-been, legend or no.

He needed some time to think, and some rum. With both of those needs fulfilled, he felt sure he could sort out the truth of this whole situation. And determine if there was yet any profit to be had.

"I'll see that," Gwen said, "and raise another five."

Cannon Tom glanced down at his cards and seemed to pause for a moment to consider. "Fold," he said after a second, slapping his cards face-down on the table and leaning back in resignation.

All eyes shifted to the only other player remaining against Gwen now, the new-comer to the table, Bill Jacobs. He wouldn't suffer them to call him "Black Bill," because he claimed it didn't suit him anymore. Everyone was inclined to agree with that statement. His demeanor and manners and even his clear accent betrayed nothing of the pirate he had once been. And if appearances were to play into the awarding of nicknames, the old man would have to be called "White Bill," besides.

Jacobs hunched forward, elbows on the edge of the table, studying his cards as carefully as though he feared they might change number or suit at any moment.

"Duly met," he answered suddenly, sliding coins across the table to meet Gwen's challenge. "And another twenty as well."

Others' eyes widened at the challenge while Gwen frowned and looked again at her own cards, as though they might be able to tell her whether the old man was bluffing or whether he might actually have a hand to rival her own usual luck. The three Jacks in her hand stared blankly back at her- the Jack of Hearts was the only one absent- nestled between a pair of twos. A fair enough hand- a full house- in any game. But with deuces wild, those twos gave her five of a kind.

She maintained her tight control over her own facial expressions and raised her eyes, lidded suspiciously, to study Jacobs' mask. The man only smiled benignly, looking as though he might at any moment offer her a cup of tea or comment on the weather, as though he were not still sitting in the final bets of an hour long round of poker.

He'd had some dumb-luck fair hands in earlier matches that afternoon, but by and large, it was true that he hadn't played cards in literally decades. He'd had to be reminded of the pecking order of the possible hands before he could join in a game at the beginning, as well.

Gwen felt more confident remembering this, and drew more security from the strength of her own hand as she glanced at it one last time. The five Jacks were as good as gold in her hand, the three real ones and the two frauds. She eyed her remaining coins, and separated them into two stacks of equal value.

"Seen and doubled." She slid the last of her riches forward, forty shillings' worth.

"I call," Jacobs responded immediately, taking no time to deliberate, quickly counting out his own forty to meet her bet.

Gwen waited for a moment to allow the anticipation build a bit more, then laid her cards flat onto the table with a smart clip sound.

"Five of a kind," she pointed out unnecessarily.

Jacobs grinned munificently and set his own cards down for all to see. They were clustered close, each on top of another. Jacobs separated them with a bony finger. There were three- no, four Kings. And a two. A wild two. Another King.

"Five of a slightly higher kind," Jacobs said cheerfully.

"You seem to have a lot of luck, especially for one who hasn't played in so long," Gwen blurted out. As soon as she said it, she was aware that she sounded just as accusing as some of the men had been at her own lucky hands when they'd first taught her to play.

"What is luck, anyway, other than being at the right place at the right time, or simply a happy mix of circumstances that work out in favor of what you want?" Jacobs winked, but his tone was a little less jovial than it had been before as he half-heartedly defended himself from her envious indictment.

Gwen being the last to lose her pot, Jacobs had no challengers left, so the game was over. Without complaint, he was sliding his winnings across the table to the dealer, who had pulled out his record-paper from the first of the game and was already beginning to re-sort the coins into designated stacks to reimburse all of the players with what they had started the game with, in keeping with their policy of not gambling with intent to keep money won from shipmates.

"Luck is only half circumstance," Gwen insisted, sore at losing. "And the other half is skill."

Jacobs only stared back at her for a moment. "Aye," he said pensively, his tired, old, brown eyes locked on hers. There was a dark depth to them Gwen couldn't begin to explain, but she could understand it, on some level. "That it is," he murmured.

But his face instantly brightened as he noted something past Gwen. She turned to look behind her and noted the cook leaving the galley with his tray of food intended for the captain's cabin. As soon as he returned, the crew would be welcome to begin their own meal.

"After all those years eating my own vegetable stews," Jacobs said, who had already eaten lunch aboard the ship, "these meals are like mother's milk."

Gwen smiled at him, her silly jealousy at his winning forgotten. It was, after all, just a game. She and her crewmen chums played nearly every day, winning and losing to each other (although she was admittedly more used to winning than losing) and forgiving as soon as the cards and coins had been taken up again. It was part of the process.

Gwen took leave of the men, exchanging the expected light-hearted challenges and good-natured insults with a few of them, and made her way out of the galley toward the stairs and hatch leading above deck.

Like mother's milk… She suddenly felt very odd at the thought of her own mother. Not guilty, exactly. She couldn't seem to find much guilt left for her actions at all. Everything was too enjoyable to feel guilty about. The sea, the sailing, the freedom. Bonding with the crew. Her more recent, more intimate bonding with Jack…

But what would her mother have thought of her, honestly? She'd told Gwen that the Caribbean was no place for a lady. Gwen had always insisted, in childish persistence, that she could be a Caribbean lady if she wanted to, always using the fact of her grandmother's originating from this part of the world as an argument.

Well, she'd betrayed both of those maternal women, hadn't she? Here she was in the Caribbean, true enough, but she was no lady. Not anymore. She was a common pirate's wench, sharing a bed with a scallywag.

I'm sorry I'm not what you would want, but I'm happy, Mother, she thought silently, reaching reflexively for her old silver locket, which she'd nearly forgotten about.

Two realizations struck her in rapid succession.

Happy? She hadn't really thought of it that way before, but now that the thought was proposed to herself… Well, she couldn't call herself anything else. Happy.

But then that sentiment was quickly forgotten and replaced with a defeating feeling of loss. Her locket wasn't there. Her seeking hand met only the unadorned skin of her neck. She cast about, trying to remember the last time she'd had it.

Had she had it before they had found Jacobs…?