Will saw in his mind's eye the events of the past few days again unfold. Never had the blood stirred in his veins as it had when he'd fought against Jack, fought beside him, then fought to save him from the gibbet. He felt so full of life he feared he could never contain it. The salt wind of the open sea had cleared the smithy's noxious fumes from his lungs and he longed to keep breathing it, tasting it on his lips, feeling the sting of the spray on his skin. He longed to feel the roll of the deck beneath his feet.
He longed.
When Jack, before taking his leave, had called his name, Will had felt such hope. He'd wanted to go with him. The time he'd spent on the ship had wakened the pirate blood within him and if Jack would have asked Will to join him, he'd have had a hard time saying no. But he was bound to Elizabeth now, and surely that dream come true more than made up for staying ashore. Yet still he longed. . . .
It was the sea that called to him, the wind, the taste of adventure. Only that, nothing more. With an impatient shake of his head, Will dismissed from his mind the image of beads and braids and dancing dark eyes. They had nothing to do with his yearning.
It was only the sea.
Only that.
Wasn't it?