Disclaimer: Not mine...but I treat 'em like they are.

Note: Well, folks, here it is, the chapter you've all been waiting for. Or at least, the beginning of what you've all been waiting for... Hope you enjoy!


XII.
No Place For a Lady

I said, 'My fair maid, pray whence have you strayed?
And are you some distance from home?'
'My home,' replied she, 'is a burden to me,
For there I must live all alone, alone,
For there I must live all alone.

--"I Must Live All Alone"


"Remind me again why this was a good idea," Elizabeth grumbles. She shifts uncomfortably on the rough wooden bench and hunches her shoulders against the raucous noise of the tavern's common room.

Jack flags down a passing bar wench. "Rum, m'lady, is always a good idea." He secures two large flagons, thanking the serving girl with a wink and a brilliant smile, and pushes one over to Elizabeth. "Have yourself a drink of that, you'll feel better in no time."

"What is it?" She sniffs the drink warily, catching a whiff of lime under the strong odor of the alcohol.

"This, m'dear, is grog...the deliverance and purest joy in life of many a lonely, exhausted or freezing sailor. Go on, have a taste. Or a swig--faster you drink it, the better you'll like it." He adds, frowning, "And for pity's sake, relax if you don't want to call attention to yourself."

Scowling back at him, she adjusts her posture into something that vaguely approximates his lounging indolence, and takes a tiny sip of the noxious-smelling substance. To her surprise, she finds the cloying citrus flavor almost tolerable and the alcohol somewhat watered down from full strength.

Jack hoists his cup to her and tosses off about half of it with an appreciative grimace. "Good, eh?"

"Hardly what I'd call it." Nevertheless she takes another, slightly larger swallow, and welcomes the slow burn as the liquid slides down her throat, thinking to herself that she's probably making a mistake. But she's tired of thinking tonight, tired of worrying, tired of attempting to figure out what she's going to do and where she's going to go if she ever gets out of this godforsaken place.

"That's the way," he says approvingly. "I do believe I'll make a proper pirate's wench of you yet, Miss Swann."

She nearly chokes. "Just precisely what are you implying, Captain Sparrow?"

Eyes wide and innocent, he leans back in his seat. "I meant to imply nothing, m'lady, nothing untoward whatsoever." He lifts an eyebrow. "But by all means...tell me what you had in mind. Perhaps I can accommodate your expectations..."

Elizabeth, blushing furiously, is saved from responding by a mocking female voice that cuts easily through the surrounding clamor to interrupt their conversation.

"Well, I'll be damned," it drawls, "if it isn't the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow!"

"The one and only," he answers, grinning past Elizabeth's shoulder; she twists half-around, and recognizes the fiery-haired girl she noticed earlier that day, the one who humiliated the hapless scoundrel in the street. "Wonderful to see you, Nickie darling! Pull up a chair, by all means, join us."

"Thank you, Jack. But it's Nichole now, you know."

"Ah. I see what you mean, love," and Jack favors her with an exaggerated once-over. "It does suit you, I'll allow, for all I prefer a pretty lass in a pretty dress."

Elizabeth glances from one to the other of them, nonplussed, for there's some meaning that's passed between them that she can't quite parse.

"Of course you do," Nichole says dryly, sliding onto the bench beside Jack, and her eyes flick to Elizabeth; there's sly amusement in them, in her tone, as if at some private jest. "And who's this, then?"

"Leslie Swann, meet Nichole d'Bouvoire," says Jack, magnanimous.

Nichole d'Bouvoire gives her a curious look, but extends a hand across the table amiably enough. Elizabeth shakes it; the other woman's grip is firm and callused as any sailor's. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss d'Bouvoire."

"Likewise." Nichole's shrewd green eyes are still watching her appraisingly. Elizabeth fidgets uneasily under her gaze. "Though you needn't bother with the 'Miss.'"

Jack drapes an arm around the girl's shoulders. "Have a drink, Nichole, my sweet, and do tell me how you've been occupying yourself these days."

Nichole accepts the drink, but not the affectionate gesture, shaking him off and glaring at him dangerously until he subsides, pouting. Relieved to no longer be the subject of the woman's unnerving scrutiny, Elizabeth nurses her drink and listens to them regale one another with what are probably vastly exaggerated tales of plunder, flagrant disregard for port authorities, brushes with various hostile forces, daring escapes, and cleverly planned raids.

She observes Nichole furtively. The woman's bright hair is gathered away from her face by a beaded blue cloth, but flows freely down her back; she sprawls on her seat like a man, one leg stretched out negligently to the side, her shirt open at the neck and revealing just a hint of cleavage. Despite her unladylike posture, however, she possesses full feminine curves and seems unafraid of who notices them--and Elizabeth sees Jack notice them repeatedly--probably because she knows she has the skill and speed to defend herself against unwanted male attentions if the need should arise.

Jack pours himself yet another drink--at least the fourth, by Elizabeth's count--from the pitcher the pair of them have ordered. "...So where have you hidden the Seahawk? Or did you just arrive in this delightful city this morning?"

"The Seahawk's gone," Nichole says shortly. "I lost her." Her fist slams down onto the table, startling Elizabeth and apparently Jack as well, as he jumps and sidles away from her slightly. "Those bloody Spanish bastards sunk her three weeks ago, and I nearly went down with her." Her face is tight. "I lost some good men, too, Jack. And all my profit."

Jack nods. "But you don't care so much about the profit, aye, and grievous though it might be, men can be replaced. I'm so very sorry, love." He speaks with uncharacteristic gentleness, and seems for once to be utterly sincere.

"It's just a boat," Nichole says, voice flat. "Was just a boat. I'll get another one." She shrugs. "Morena's been after me for years. My luck just ran out, is all."

"I've heard tell of him. Not a nice man, from all that tell it."

"And when I catch up with him, he'll be a dead man," says Nichole, as calmly as if she's discussing the weather. "They say he was here last night. I didn't know til morning, or he'd never have left."

"I almost pity the man," Jack starts, and then stops as the female pirate's fingers curl reflexively on the table like claws. "He believes you dead, am I right?"

"He's more the fool for it."

"I would offer you a place on the Pearl, if I ever thought you would accept it."

"Aye, and I thank you, Jack Sparrow, but you know there is no joy for me in sailing under another's command. Even yours."

They sit in silence for a minute or so; Jack fills their cups again. Elizabeth frowns. She hasn't realized that hers was empty. Now that she thinks about it, however, the packed tavern has grown rather warm; she wonders idly if she's getting drunk, and is about to open her mouth to ask Jack if he's overheated too when Nichole finally stirs herself from her reverie.

"So what about you, Jack? I take it the Pearl's up and left without you again." Her eyes slide back to Elizabeth. "Doing anything...interesting...while you're waiting out the Spanish?"

Jack's smile widens slowly to a wolfish grin. "Nothing that you would find the least bit interesting, I fear."

Elizabeth looks away hurriedly, and takes another drink.

"Is that so," says Nichole, leaning forward with an equally feral glint in her eyes. "Leslie, my lad, you've been rather silent. Tell me, what do you think of Tortuga? Has Captain Sparrow been showing you the sights?"

"What--? Oh! Tortuga. I find it fascinating, really--"

"I'm sure you do." Nichole sits back triumphantly, smirking, and turns to Jack, who is pretending to be mesmerized by the pattern of woodgrain on the table. "Where did you find this one, Jack Sparrow, and what exactly are you planning on doing with her when you're done with her?"

Elizabeth freezes with her cup halfway to her lips, and glares accusingly at Jack.

He looks inordinately amused. "This one's not mine, d'Bouvoire, and as to where she's going from here, that's her affair as well, so you may as well ask her, not me. And don't you blame me for this, missy," he adds to Elizabeth. "I didn't give you away, I swear to you. You did that beautifully, all on your own."

Nichole laughs, startlingly, throwing back her head and guffawing like a sailor. "Oh, please. I knew long before I sat myself down with you two that Leslie here wasn't what he seemed."

"How did you know?" Elizabeth demands, attempting to gather her scattered thoughts and finding it takes her much longer than usual.

"I was watching you both from across the room." Nichole raises an eyebrow. "I saw the way Captain Sparrow looked at you...and I know that look as well as any. At first I wondered if ol' Jack had acquired a taste for the lads since I knew him last--" Jack makes a noise like a strangled laugh-- "but as soon as I saw your face, I knew you were a woman."

"You see? I knew this was your fault," Elizabeth says loudly in Jack's direction. To her horror she hears herself slur the words. She really needs to stop drinking rum now.

Well, maybe one more sip. It tastes so good, and it prevents her from caring about whether or how Jack Sparrow has been looking at her. Or from wondering just how long it's been since Nichole has been the recipient of such dubious attentions--and why should she care about that, anyway? No reason. No reason at all. Jack has looked thus at more women than not, certainly, and she--Elizabeth--is naught but the most recent lady to be so...insulted. And yet, she cannot find this comforting, not in the least.

"I don't doubt that it was mostly his fault." Elizabeth realizes belatedly that Nichole has risen from the table; that she's almost missed the other woman's pointed glance. Misses the point of it, regardless: warning? Sympathy? Something else unidentifiable? "Still, you should be more careful, lass. This is no place for a lady. In fact, I must be on my way myself; I have business to attend to." She bows sardonically. "As, I am sure, do you. It was lovely meeting you... 'Leslie.' And Jack, as always, a pleasure."

And then Nichole is gone, as quickly as she appeared. Jack gazes after her. "How I do love that girl..."

"Do you?" Elizabeth asks, rather too sharply, and then rushes on. "I saw her fighting, when I was out. Her opponent never had a chance."

"Aye...wields the fastest sword in the Islands, fights viciously given the slightest provocation, a loyal friend and a formidable enemy...quite a woman, is Nichole d'Bouvoire." He finishes his drink, though the eyes that meet hers remain unclouded. "So, what did you think of her?"

"She frightens me," says Elizabeth. "And I wish I could be like her." The unguarded statement slips out, surprising her.

Once again, Jack pours them both more rum. "And why's that, love?"

"Because..." Why was it again? "Because she's not afraid to do exactly as she likes. Because she can do exactly as she likes."

"Ah." He inclines his head slightly to the side, as if a thought has just occurred to him. "Just out of curiosity...what are you doing here, exactly?"

Wide-eyed, she points at him reproachfully. "You dragged me with you to be your drinking partner. Is your memory that bad, Jack Sparrow?"

"No, no. What I mean is, why--" his gesture takes in her clothes, her cap, her general situation-- "Why did you do all this? Why did you leave your happy little home and your comfortable existence in Port Royal, and stow away on a ship to Tortuga, under your husband's very nose?"

"Oh." She considers this. "I was bored," she says vaguely.

"With dear William?"

"No!" She sits forward a little too fast, sways, and grips the table to right herself. "I felt trapped. Living the life I've always lived, in the place I've always lived it, a life in which every day was the same as the last. Drowning in the ordinary." The words spill from her, their urgency astonishing her with the depth of her own emotion. "Will was the thing--the only thing that made it endurable, that made me feel alive. And then," she says, almost to herself, "then Will stopped coming home."

She pauses and looks up, to find Jack watching her intently; he says nothing.

Dropping her eyes, she traces the irregular ridges lining the table with a wayward finger. "It happened gradually, I suppose," she says. "At first he would stay home for many weeks, even months, between voyages. That was after I had been so ill, when we were still newly married. But his absences grew longer, and our times together shorter and shorter. This last time he was gone for more than a season--almost half a year."

"It's in his blood, love," Jack says softly. "Bootstrap's blood. His father was the same. Never could stay away from the sea for long, even to watch his only son grow up."

Her mouth twists in bitter acknowledgment. "I may as well not even have a husband."

"Will loves you, darling. But you must understand something. He can't help himself, any more than old Bill ever could. The sea calls to him, and he has to go to it." Jack leans toward her seriously. "He can't fight that call. And neither can you..."

"I know that!" she says, fierce. "I know Will. I know what he loves and why he loves it. God forbid I should try to take such a thing away from him!" She draws a ragged breath. "I only wish he would take me with him."

"Well, as you may have noticed, your husband has been engaging in some...hazardous activities of late. Doubtless he feels obligated to protect you."

She bridles at that. "I don't want to be protected. Do I look like a woman who needs protection? Do I, Jack?"

He catches her hand, which has somehow wandered across the table to brush his arm. "No, love, not in the slightest." He seems to be laughing at her. She focuses on his face with only a little difficulty. "You do, however, look like a woman who's had rather a lot of rum."

He is making fun of her! She tries to pull her hand away, unsuccessfully. "Here...let go, you...you..." His grip is gentle but inexorably firm. "Come on, Jack, stop it." But she is laughing suddenly too, giggling like a girl, in fact.

She meets his eyes, then, to find them extraordinarily dark and fastened intently upon her, his expression unfathomable; he is no longer laughing. He releases her hand so abruptly she almost falls off the bench.

"Entirely too much rum, I do believe," he murmurs. Rising, he moves around the table to her. "Come. It's high time we called it a night, love."

She pouts. "But I was just starting to enjoy myself!"

"Aye. That's what concerns me." He peels her unwilling fingers from around her cup.

"You're very cruel to me, Captain Sparrow," she mutters as he hauls her to her feet, and casts him her best melting gaze from under her eyelashes. "I can't think why you wouldn't want me to have a good time."

"Move, darling, before you call any more attention to yourself--" he clears his throat-- "and before all Tortuga begins to assume I'm a lover of boys, as did Nichole."

This strikes her as unbelievably funny, and she collapses against him in paroxysms of giggles.

He puts both hands on her shoulders and gives her a little shake. "You're not helping, love." She blinks at him innocently; he sighs. "Please move?"

Giving him a military nod, she feigns solemnity. "Aye, aye...lead on, Captain."

He sighs again, and tucks his arm about her waist to guide her as they make their way across the crowded room.


Jack has just decided that he's gotten Elizabeth away safely when she stops short at the door of their room.

"Jack?" she inquires sweetly.

He cautiously loosens his hold on her waist, since she seems to be maintaining her balance fairly well, and looks down at her. "What now, love?"

She sways slightly, and he puts out a hand to steady her. At his touch, she glances down but doesn't object. "Were you and Nichole...you know..."

"Lovers? Aye, we had our times together. Years ago, that was." He pauses, remembering, and chuckles. "Why, m'dear? Not jealous, are we?"

"Jealous? Why would I be?" But her eyes are huge and luminous in the lamplight, and she steps toward him, her body brushing lightly against his. He inhales sharply and moves away from her a little. "What's the matter, Captain?" She takes another step forward, erasing the distance he's created between them. "Am I making you nervous? You, the famous...the notorious Jack Sparrow?"

He swears softly under his breath, feeling the wall at his back. He hasn't been so effectively cornered in years. "Elizabeth Turner," he says, hearing his voice go ragged. "Have you even given a second's thought to what it is you're doing?"

She moves again, those eyes still fixed on him under half-closed lids, her breath warm on the hollow of his throat, and she's playing with fire, flirting with disaster.

"I'm tired of thinking," she says.

And then she's pressing herself against him, her hands lacing around the back of his neck to pull his lips down to hers, and he too forgets rational thought as the soft heat of her floods his body, all other awareness lost to the rum-sweetness of her mouth.