Still don't own 'em. Still R-rated. Mild naughtiness in this part.

Thanks again to my reviewers for reviewing. Please feel free to make a dirty little habit of it.

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Elizabeth Swann was certain there was no sound in the world as unpleasant as that of the curtain rings scraping obnoxiously along their rod when the heavy drapes of her bedroom were flung back by an overzealous hand.

"Good morning, miss! Simply splendid day out, it is!"

All right, there's one as unpleasant, she conceded, then mentally smacked herself for being unkind. Estrella's honey-sweet chirping was a bit much first thing in the morning, but at least it came with genuine friendliness. Had it been put on, Elizabeth would long ago have thrown her bedside lamp at the girl's head. Though how anyone could be so bloody happy and energetic as this hour was an enigma.

Raising a hand to block the sun that now assaulted her where she lied, Elizabeth squinted around the room and located the scurrying form of her handmaiden. The girl made her way back to Elizabeth's bed and the tea tray she'd set on the nightstand. "What time is it, Estrella?" she asked, voice still feathery with sleep.

"It's just past nine, miss."

Ah. Not so much first thing in the morning, then. That went a little way to excusing the cheerfulness.

"I didn't wake you quite so early this morning as usual, what with you bein' out so late last evening, miss." Estrella passed the teacup and saucer to Elizabeth. "How was dinner with your gentleman?"

Not half so fine as dessert with my gentleman, she thought, but refrained from smirking. "It was lovely, thank you," Elizabeth mumbled around a yawn. She made an appreciative little noise when she realized the cup held coffee, not tea, and took a long sip.

"Anyway, miss, we'd best get you up and dressed. Don't want to be late for your fitting, do you?"

Fitting?

Fitting.

Engagement party.

"Oh, buggering hell."

"Miss Swann!"

Oops. She hadn't meant for that bit to be out loud, but poor Estrella looked stricken. (Elizabeth would blame it on time spent in the company of pirates if she could, but if she was perfectly honest, that exposure had merely broadened her vocabulary. She'd been able to cuss with the best of them since she'd been about thirteen. Such were the consequences of growing up in a port town.)

"Pardon me, Estrella. I had forgotten all about that," Elizabeth sighed.

"I can't imagine how!" Estrella gushed. "To think, all of Port Royal coming to pay you and Mister Turner their respects. How many people d'you suppose will be there, miss?"

About four dozen more than I want to spend an entire night in the company of. "I'm not sure, Estrella. My father was in charge of the invitations. I really don't know how many to expect."

Didn't know, and didn't care. The entire thing was her father's pet project, and Elizabeth wanted no greater involvement in any of it than simply showing up. Truth be told, even that was more than she wanted to do with it, but this was a compromise. Submit to a huge, glittering annoyance of an engagement gala now, satisfying the appetites of Port Royal society, and she and Will would have the small, private wedding they both had their hearts set on.

"Rank makes certain demands of us, Elizabeth," her father had patiently reminded her. "We must make some gesture of inclusion to our peers where your marriage is concerned. It would be tasteless and rude not to."

Elizabeth had a different sort of gesture she was prepared to offer her peers if they didn't piss off and mind their own business, but she gave in. Partially because her father had been giving her that small, apprehensive, "please don't disappoint me" smile of his, but mainly because she was going to marry the man she loved in a month and a half, and the rest was nothing but window dressing to her. She could endure one night of perfumed social torture when a quiet, perfect little wedding and a lifetime beside Will Turner awaited her.

So she and Will had conceded to the engagement party. After which Wetherby Swann had, in a moment of inspiration, decided said party should be a masquerade.

Elizabeth had nothing against this on principle, but this particular masquerade was going to take place in August. In the Caribbean. Dearly as she may love her father, there were areas where his judgment was lacking, and in this instance, he didn't realize his mistake until after he'd had the invitations sent out.

It was Will who'd made a suggestion to Elizabeth that she found nothing short of brilliant, and not just because it spared her throwing herself from the ramparts in protest of trudging about in costume in the Jamaican summer. Will had left it to her to bring the idea before the governor, and Elizabeth had done just that – after speaking to her clothier and her seamstress, to make sure that the word was leaked and spread among the party-goers even if it was met with resistance by Swann himself. Which, of course, it was. But by the time he found out about Elizabeth's suggested theme, the rest of Port Royal had already known long enough to follow suit, and there was no going back.

So it was that after plying herself with plenty of coffee, Elizabeth found herself standing for the final fitting on a one-shouldered, skin-baring construction of brilliant blue and gold silk of the airiest, most breathable order. The macaw mask she'd had made would fasten into her hair with combs, close-fitting only over her forehead and eyes, the impressive, curving black beak set far enough out from the lower half of her face that she wouldn't smother with it on.

Her father's sense of social duty and propriety would be satisfied, she would once again thrill and scandalize Port Royal, and best of all, in a roomful of island girls and native warriors, jewel-hued tropical fish, scantily-clad mermaids, and birds of paradise, no one would care that the governor's daughter was running about without a corset.

"Thank God for you, William Turner," Elizabeth muttered under her breath, smiling and casting one last glance at herself in the mirror before turning to let the seamstress help her out of the gown. With that tedious errand out of the way, Elizabeth was free to devote the rest of the day to something far more enjoyable.

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"Elizabeth, how many times must I tell you, keep your knees apart. Here, move your foot."

"Like this?"

"Much better. See how much steadier that makes you feel?"

"Mmm, you're right. All right, Will, I'm ready."

"No, you're not. Loosen your grip a bit first. You're squeezing it too hard. You always start off with your grip much too tight."

"I can't help it. Looser doesn't feel right. Feels like I'll lose hold of it as soon as we get going."

"You won't. And trust me, once you're doing this for real, you'll wear yourself out if you try holding on that tight. There you are; that's much better. Good. Now, if you're ready for me, darling..."

Will Turner stepped back from his fiancé, a look that was equal parts adoration and eagerness on his face, and raised his own blade to the one Elizabeth brandished.

"Let's have a go."

Will moved his weapon first, at half-speed and with nowhere near his full strength behind it, leading Elizabeth into the patterns they'd been practicing. He let her get reacquainted with the feel of the blade, waiting until her movements became solid and sure before increasing his speed, just a bit. He never started their drills out at too fast a pace, but he'd hear it from Elizabeth if she thought he was going too easy on her, so he made certain he pushed her a little farther at each lesson. She was a quick study, if not quite a natural, and her progress was impeded more by the sporadic timing of their lessons than by any lack of skill on her behalf. She had a long way yet to go, and at times Elizabeth grew frustrated with herself when she didn't think she was picking up a technique as quickly as she should, but both of them became more confident with each lesson that should the need ever arise, Elizabeth would at least be able to hold her own in a real fight.

Elizabeth, for her part, doubted she'd ever reach anywhere near the level of ability possessed by Will, who was so adept with blades of almost any sort that it had been dubbed downright spooky by some who'd seen him in action. She'd thought she would burst with pride when Will had told her he'd been approached by Commodore Norrington to privately school some of the men in his command who, in Norrington's exact words, "showed the right sort of promise and were worthy of such a teacher." The only downside to the arrangement was that it would leave even less time for Elizabeth's own lessons, but she found that a small enough sacrifice compared to the light that had glowed in Will's eyes when he told her.

"Elizabeth, I wish you could have been there," Will had fairly gushed, eyes almost fever-bright with happiness. "He truly meant it, all of it. He asked me right in front of two other officers!" His glee at this had been so childlike and contagious it had made Elizabeth laugh out loud.

"High time the rest of the world caught up with me figuring out what a bloody brilliant man you are, William Turner," she'd said. "You should be as proud of yourself as I am of you."

The excitement in Will's expression had toned down, become something softer. "There are only two times I've ever been prouder," he'd replied, voice low, and reached out to brush his fingertips down her jaw, take her hand. He'd run his thumb over her knuckles, and over the ring that graced her finger, a band of white gold set with a single black pearl circled by tiny diamonds. Then he'd turned her hand over and kissed the long, thin scar that bisected her palm. Elizabeth had said nothing, knowing beyond words that Will spoke of the day she'd accepted his ring and his promise, and of the time they had stood side by side in defense of the man who carried a scar to match theirs on his hand.

The memory brought a smile to her face now, as she and Will sparred in a back room of the forge, but she also let it distract her enough that Will was able to push through her defenses, locking their sword hilts together and forcing her weapon gently but firmly down, bringing them face-to-face. He clucked his tongue chidingly.

"Careless, my lady," he reprimanded, leaning even closer to brush his lips against her ear and whisper. "Very, very careless."

"Oh dear," Elizabeth breathed, turning to nuzzle her nose against his cheek, where a sweat-damp lock of black hair clung. "I don't suppose you'll show me any mercy?"

"Are you yielding, then, my lady?" Will asked, kissing her earlobe, tongue toying with the dainty gold hoop there.

"I didn't say that," Elizabeth replied, raising the hand not gripping her sword hilt to cup Will's neck beneath his ponytail. "I may resist."

"Really?"

"Really. Haven't made up my mind yet." Her hand slid from his neck down into the collar of his shirt, her nails skimming lightly over the top of his back, between his shoulder blades, finding the spot she knew to be ticklish. Will jumped reflexively, and the movement brought his body closer to hers.

"Don't you know it's dangerous not to cooperate with a pirate?" Will pushed the swords aside, and they dropped to the stone floor, fencing momentarily abandoned. He pressed his hands to Elizabeth's lower back, pulling her more solidly against him.

"So I've heard." She undid the top button on his shirt, and laid a kiss on the skin it exposed.

Will let out a shaky sigh. "You don't seem very frightened."

The next button popped open beneath her fingers. "I've been threatened by pirates before, you know," she murmured against his breastbone. "Never quite so pleasantly, of course."

"I should hope not." Will tugged up the bottom of the ivory linen boy's shirt Elizabeth wore for fencing and slid his fingers beneath the waist of her trousers, searching for the place where the smooth, taut muscles of her back melded into softer, fuller flesh. "This is not improving your swordplay, Elizabeth."

She giggled into his chest. "No, it's really not, is it?" she agreed, pouncing to catch his lips with hers.

"If we don't stop this," Will mumbled between kisses, "we'll have nothing left to look forward to on the honeymoon."

Elizabeth cooed as Will nibbled his way across her throat and collarbone. "You complaining, William?" she demanded breathily, hands moving to his belt buckle now that they'd conquered the last of the buttons.

"God, no."

"That's what I thought."

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The afternoon light had grown heavy and golden as it crept across Will's bedroom floor. He lied on his side, head propped up on one hand, the other running feather-light over Elizabeth's sunkissed brown hair. She was burrowed down into his pillow, one arm flung out and dangling over the edge of the bed.

Will drew her hair back from where it covered her shoulder and stroked his knuckles over the bared skin. "You are the single most beautiful creature ever to walk the earth," he murmured. "Sometimes I think if I look at you too long you'll burn my eyes. Like the sun."

Elizabeth's head jerked up, knocking Will soundly in the chin. "Get the chicken out of the bathtub," she mumbled, never waking.

Will smothered his laughter against her arm. "I love you."

"Hmmm." She made no response, but snuggled back against him.

"Elizabeth, you should be waking up now,"

There was another, louder sigh, a stretching of legs still tangled together with Will's, and then Elizabeth gave the smallest of starts. Will drew back just enough to avoid getting clipped in the chin again when her head came up this time.

"Oh, blast," she muttered, rolling onto her back and looking up at Will. "I have to go now, don't I?"

He smiled, catching up a lock of her hair and twirling it between his fingers. "Believe me, I wish you didn't. But however open-minded your father might have become, if he finds out I've compromised you before our wedding day, I won't live to see it, my darling."

Elizabeth arched an eyebrow. "Who compromised who, Will?"

He considered, recalling a twilight swim a few weeks prior, and which of them had tugged the other free of clothing and into the darkening water. "Fair enough, but I imagine that would be even less well-received."

"You're probably right." She groaned, drew her legs free of Will's, and kicked off the sheet. She padded barefoot, and bare everything else, across the small room to where her clothes lied on a chair. Will watched, and wished there was a bit more floor space between the bed and the chair. "God above, but I'm ready to be married and done with all this nonsense." She tugged her trousers on, and Will bit his lip on a pout as everything at waist-level and under was tucked away for the evening.

"Which nonsense would that be, Elizabeth? Not the sort we were just indulging in, I hope." Will's dark eyes twinkled. "I've heard marriage tends to do that."

Elizabeth turned to regard him over one shoulder, a look of such wicked amusement on her face that Will had to stomp down hard on the urge to drag her right back into the place she'd just vacated. "No, William," she said emphatically, thrusting her arms into the sleeves of her shirt. "Nonsense like pretending we're not indulging. Nonsense like trekking back and forth from my home to yours three times a day to see each other. Nonsense," and this was accompanied by a roll of her eyes that had nothing 'come hither' about it, "like bloody stupid dress–up engagement parties with stuffy, boring people wearing too much perfume and talking about us behind our backs."

Will waited until she was done. "The talking's never seemed to bother you much before."

She faced him fully. "It doesn't bother me that they talk, Will," she said, her eyes full of reassuring warmth for him. "It bothers me that they'll be eating food my father's paying for while they're doing the talking." She buttoned up her shirt with an irritated toss of her hair. "Bloody hypocrites." She sat down hard on the chair and reached for her shoes. "At least he wishes us well. That's the only thing making this ridiculous affair bearable."

"That and the 'no corsets' bit," Will reminded her. "Which you did quite a good job of thanking me for, I should add."

Elizabeth laughed, irritation evaporating. Whether it was only spitting off sparks or burning full blaze, Will had a knack for cooling her temper.

Has to be something about the blacksmith in him. Knows how to work with fire.

"Anyway, love, it's only a little more than a month away," Will said, sitting up and locating his own clothing. He sat up straight with one boot half on, and pinned Elizabeth with a searching look. "Are you certain you don't want any more time, Elizabeth?"

"Why, are you getting cold feet?" Elizabeth teased, then leveled a finger at him. "Careful how you answer that one, Mister Turner."

"I'm serious, Elizabeth. I can't tell you how happy it makes me that you...that we're...I mean, I'm glad you want it to happen quickly. But if you want more time...if you need more time...to get everything as you want it for the day...I understand." He punctuated the stammering flow of words with a shrug. "It should be perfect. That's all."

Elizabeth crossed her arms and stood for several moments looking starry-eyed and, she was sure, like a complete dolt. "But no cold feet, right?"

Will's eyes went wide, and he ducked his head with a chuckle. "No. Most definitely not."

"Good. Because if they are feeling a bit chilly, you've got just over a month to thaw them out. And William?"

"Aye?"

"It will be perfect."

She gave him a quick, chaste kiss on the lips, and then took her leave with a spring in her step.

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"He's perfect, Billy."

Cathleen smiled as she spoke, her face tired and a bit paler than Bill was used to, but sublimely happy. The midwife gave him a bit of a push towards the bed, then excused herself to give the family their privacy.

Bill Turner hovered at the foot of the bed, his knees weak, as he stared at the wee little creature in his wife's arms.

"Well are you going to come over and meet your son, or are you going to wait until he's old enough to walk over there to you?"

He moved, and knelt beside the bed. "He's so little," Bill breathed.

"Yes, they do tend to come out that way," Cathleen laughed, leaning her head back.

Bill reached out and stroked the baby's cap of black hair. Two heavy-lidded eyes lifted to his face at the contact, and Bill felt his own prickle.

"Hello there, young man," he whispered, touching a finger to one soft little cheek. "I'm your daddy."

The baby yawned enormously, then blinked several times. Bill burst out laughing, and the tears that had threatened spilled over. "I don't think he's impressed," Bill observed.

"Well, he needs to get to know you," Cathleen shifted the child in her arms. "Would you like to hold him now?"

"Is it all right?" Bill asked, eagerness and apprehension warring for control in his face and posture.

"Of course it's all right. Come sit up here beside me."

Bill perched on the edge of the bed, and his wife passed him the baby. He sat rigidly, waiting for the infant to fuss, or cry, once he was out of his mother's hold, but the boy only yawned again, waving one tiny, dimpled fist in the air, and settled down into the cradle of Bill's arms without the least complaint. After a moment spent holding his breath, the tension slipped from Bill's body, and he leaned back against the headboard alongside Cathleen, whose dark head dipped down to rest on his shoulder.

Bill pressed his face to his son's hair and inhaled deeply, eyes closed.

"Isn't that the sweetest thing you've ever smelled, Billy?" Cathleen marveled.

Bill said nothing, only pressed his lips to the baby's head. He took the baby's hand between thumb and forefinger, examining each tiny finger, knuckle and nail. The little hand clenched in a fist around Bill's finger, and a grin split his face.

"Have you felt this grip, Catie-girl?" he exclaimed softly. "This little lad's going to be a natural swordsman, just you watch."

"Let's give him time to cut a few teeth first, shall we, Bill?" Cathleen chuckled. She watched her husband and son for a while then, catching her lip between her teeth, eyes glowing. "You know, Bill Turner, I don't think I've ever seen you look so in love. Not even with me."

Bill smiled at her, not entirely sure he could deny it, and knowing she didn't expect him to. He leaned over and kissed Cathleen on the lips, and on the forehead. "Have you thought of a name for him, my girl?"

"He's going to be William, you great silly man." She ran one fingertip along the curve of the baby's ear. "William Christian Turner, like his father. Got to give a child a name he can be proud of."

"Not just saying that because you're too tired to be more creative, are you?" Bill teased, and his wife swatted him on the arm with a strength surprising for a woman who'd just given birth. Bill laughed, and cuddled the child closer. "William you shall be then. And I shall have to do my best to see that you are proud of it."

Little William only gazed up at his father, tip of his pink tongue protruding from between his lips, and gave Bill's finger another mighty squeeze.

"My William."

The rasping scrape of stone against blade ceased, and Bill Turner held his cutlass up to examine the sharpened edge critically.

He ran his finger along the edge; the finger his baby son had once grasped with such strength when he was not yet a half-hour old. His flesh parted almost painlessly, blood running in a bright rivulet over the shining metal. Satisfied, Bill sheathed the weapon. Above him, the faded grey sails of the Ragnarok snapped viciously at the wind that filled them. The sun was setting, hovering just above the horizon and painting the sea and sky around them in colors that should have been breathtaking, especially to someone who'd spent almost a decade without color. Or breath, for that matter.

Bill Turner stared out across the molten-gold expanse of ocean, and thought only of how much more of it lay between him and Port Royal. If the weather and the currents remained as they were, he could expect to reach his destination two nights from now.

Maybe, after he found Barbossa, after he broke both legs and every finger, after he carved his boys' names into each side of that grizzled face, after he finally slit the evil bastard's throat and gutted him for the gulls and the crabs to finish off, maybe then Bill would be able to appreciate the colors of the sunset. Maybe William and Jack would even forgive him, when they looked down and saw what he'd become.

Bill took out his flask, and drank a quick, private toast to maybe.

TBC