Gillette/Dauntless
Night after night, he dreamt of a red-haired woman.
She came upon him in his bed, but it was not really his bed, for everywhere around him he could see green. He was never quite sure if it was the green of moor and meadow or the green of the northern seas. It was definitely the green of her eyes, though.
Her hands were strong and capable on his body, and no matter how he thought to resist, could always coax him into response. He did hold firm when she offered him cold red wine and delicate sweets - his mother's superstitions had taught him better.
When he woke in the morning, a chill washed over him despite the tropical heat; his hands grew clammy and his cheeks pale. The only way to soothe his upset stomach was to open his shutters and look down on the blue bay below, at the ships anchored there. And then he felt right as rain.
He was playing chess with Groves one night when the subject of vessel construction came up, English as opposed to French. Gillette had sailed on French ships as a child, and he used the Dauntless as his primary example of the superiority of English shipbuilding.
Groves gave him a quizzical look. "But the Dauntless isn't English."
"Of course she is," Gillette retorted. "She was new when Captain Norrington came down here."
Tilting his chair back on two legs in a way he knew Gillette hated, Groves shook his head. "She was, but she comes from an Irish shipyard. It was a whole Irish village built that ship ten years ago."
He supposed he must have blanched, because Groves let the chair fall and looked at him with concern. "Andrew? Are you all right?"
"I am fine," said Gillette, and he proceeded to lose three games in a row.