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XIV.
Moonlight and Shadows
Oh, believe not what the landsmen say
Who tempt with doubts thy constant mind,
They'll tell thee sailors when away,
In every port a mistress find:
Yes, yes, believe them when they tell thee so,
For thou art present, for thou art present
Wheresoe'er I go.
--"Black-Eyed Susan"
"No." Will finds his voice at last. "No. I don't believe it. How do you know?"
"She left a letter for the Governor, detailing her plan. Of course," Norrington adds coldly, "she didn't know the danger involved."
"But...why? How? I never saw her! The Lady Swann's not that big of a ship."
"Your wife is a clever enough woman. If somewhat imprudent. I'm sure she found it easy to remain...overlooked."
Will gazes out at the darkening ocean, unseeing. "If Morena..." His eyes focus on the approaching Venganza. "I'll kill him," he chokes out. He hates Morena for taking her, is furious with Elizabeth for her recklessness, but most of all he is angry at himself; for not stopping her, for letting his guard down in Tortuga, for not knowing that she was there at all.
Without warning, smoke blooms from the gunports of La Venganza, the thunder of her cannon echoing across the water and startling him back to the here-and-now. Surely Morena, though admittedly unhinged, would not fire against two ships at once? But no sickening crunch of breaking wood follows the flash and boom of the guns, and he realizes belatedly--his thoughts still fogged with fear and anguish--that the other vessel is firing blanks. Signal cannon.
"They wish to negotiate," Norrington says, watching him.
Will's fingers tighten on the hilt of his sword. He'll show that bastard "negotiation"...
Joshamee Gibbs puts a warning hand on his arm, and Will starts. He'd forgotten the other man was there.
"You'll get her back, son," the old sailor says, voice somber. "I remember the lass well, and I know as well as you do that she ain't the kind to give up easy. She'll be fine, mark me words...but she'll need you to keep yourself alive to go after her."
Will bows his head. "Aye, Gibbs, you're right. Let's find out what the scum wants from us, Commodore."
Norrington gives a terse order to his men, which is taken up with naval efficiency; the Dauntless's guns roar in answer to La Venganza. Will's stomach tightens as the descent of swinging lights mark the lowering of several boats from the side of the black hulk, now all that can be seen of the Spanish ship in the fading light. If Morena has hurt Elizabeth, even so much as touched her, Will still means to take him. Alone, if he has to. Along with the rest of La Venganza's crew, if that's what the task requires. He would normally decry the sacrifice of innocent bystanders, but all such noble scruples have vanished beneath an overwhelming wave of rage that's unlike any he's ever felt before.
He struggles to gain control of his murderous instincts.
Wait, he tells himself.
Wait for the opportune moment...
Her name echoes over and over in his mind.
Elizabeth...Elizabeth, my life, my love...Elizabeth, why?
"You stay out of this," hisses Norrington to Will as the Spanish party steps aboard the Dauntless.
"She's my wife, Commodore."
"And that is precisely the reason why you should not participate." Norrington fixes him with a steely glance. "Let me do the talking, Master Turner." He grasps Will's shoulder briefly, in a gesture of unexpected warmth. "I will do everything in my power to ensure that Elizabeth is returned unharmed."
He turns and strides toward their visitors, crisp military pride apparent in every inch of his figure. Will tenses; he has picked Morena out from his cronies in the shifting light and shadow cast by the Dauntless's lanterns. Taller and leaner than the rest of the men, Morena's sunken cheeks, sallow skin and exquisitely curled moustaches would set him apart, even without the fluffy Captain's plume adorning his hat.
The man bows ornately to Norrington, who responds by inclining his upper body stiffly in the much more reserved British gesture.
"Commodore."
"Captain," says Norrington, miraculously maintaining his lofty air even though Morena tops him by several inches and thus cannot be looked at down the Commodore's nose. "What brings you so far from sovereign waters this evening, sir?"
Morena's white teeth flash. "The open sea belongs to no man, Senor Commodore," he says in perfect, if heavily accented, English. "Tonight, my duty has led me to pursue--" he points to the Pearl, still fetched up some distance away from them-- "that ship."
"Why then, Captain, do you not hold council with them? Those who sail that vessel are no friends of mine, nor of the British Crown."
A second wolflike smile. "And yet I have reason to believe this ship now carries the fugitive I have been seeking."
Norrington raises an eyebrow, polite incredulity. "Do you accuse me of harboring criminals, sir?"
"Without your knowledge, surely, Commodore, and without intent," Morena says smoothly, executing another quick bow. "This is why I now ask you peaceably to yield this outlaw into my custody before you go on your way."
"And who is this man you speak of?"
Morena fingers the hilt of his cutlass, his features wiped clean of any facsimile of mirth. In the light of the rising moon his angular face seems almost skeletal, the impression enhanced by the merciless set of his mouth and his glittering eyes. "A murderer," he says quietly. And points directly at Will Turner.
"That man, senor."
Captain Jack Sparrow stares up into the shadows of the ceiling's cross-beams. He's never been able to sleep well on solid ground, without the comforting roll of the waves lulling him to his rest. Tonight, however, he reasons, considering all the rum he's consumed and the other...activities that followed the consumption of said rum, he should be blissfully unconscious by now.
He stirs, turning to contemplate the motionless form of the woman next to him. Apparently untouched by the insomnia that plagues him, she lies half-curled away from him, head cushioned in the crook of her arm like a child's.
But she is certainly no child, no virgin miss. His mouth curves slightly at the memory of how she cried out and clung to him wildly when he finally took her. How his name sounded on her lips as he brought her to the height of her pleasure, begging him for more, ever more, urging him on. He's had enough well-bred girls before her, and not a one of them was quite like this one. A passionate, sensuous, inventive creature, sadly wasted on an absent husband whose affection, from all she has and has carefully not said, seems to be mysteriously failing of late. He always suspected that such tendencies lay beneath her imperious manner and sharp tongue; but her clear intent to seduce him and be seduced, the cleverness of her delicate hands and her fine, fine mouth, her utter abandon, have all certainly far exceeded his expectations. And there are such a great many diversions of the flesh which he has yet to share with her.
Allowing his mind full license to explore the possibilities of that thought, in addition to a few choice images from earlier in the evening, he stretches and yawns with the slow delight of a satiated feline, slipping an arm around her unresponsive waist, inhaling her scent, an intoxicating mingling of rosewater and the musk of their union. The delicious lassitude of after-love begins to spread through his veins at last, weighting his limbs; yielding to it as willingly as she recently has to him, he is soon deeply asleep.
And so he doesn't see when the moon, risen almost to zenith, shines through the little window and bathes the face of the woman beside him in its pale light, revealing the glimmering silver tracks of tears drying on her fair skin. He doesn't notice that she is and has been wide awake, her slow breathing the trick of a practiced dissembler, used to pretending peace of mind in intimate quarters.
In fact, Elizabeth Turner does not sleep until the stark blue stain of morning seeps at last into the room. The moon has long set when she finally closes her now painfully-dry eyes and drifts into a dreamless grey slumber that bears little, if any, resemblance to rest.
