(Author's Notes – Gosh, I really can't thank my reviewers enough – so thank you, thank you, thank you!

I'm glad you all liked the appearance of Captain Alexander St. John, and it is with regret that I inform you he makes no appearance in this chapter, there is something which, I am confident, will make up for it.

Apart from that, this chapter is mostly more exposition and a significant piece of backstory, charting the course of the Black Pearl and her pursuers – the Dauntless and the Black Horizon – into a whole new level … essentially, the parody level will be going up shortly. So, without further ado, I present Chapter 11: In which we Laura gains and loses several things)

"Laura, luv, I need a favor."

Laura looked up from her present chore – boiling down the salt junk into something not rock solid. She had been in half a mind to tell Captain Sparrow to use the substance for ammunition, until she realized just who the shot would be used against.

"How large a favor and of what nature?"

"Nothin' too far out o' the ordinary."

Last time he had said that, Laura had found herself hauling lines in the middle of a three-reef gale, so naturally she was a little skeptical.

"What is it, Captain Sparrow?"

She carved a hunk of what she assumed once was pork and tested it, only to realize it was still disgustingly salty.

"Well, Ana an' I 'ave been quarellin'."

Laura looked up again. Captain Sparrow was leaning in the doorway to the galley, looking rather shamefacedly down at his dirty boots.

"And?"

"It's somethin' that's not my fault, really. 'Onestly. I, ah, bugger it, ye don' need to know the particulars. I wanted ta make it up to 'er, a little, ye know, seein' as it's not my fault an' all."

"You need my help with that, Captain Sparrow?"

"Well, I was sorta 'opin' you'd help me out, a bit."

"How so?"

"Can ye cook?"

"Captain Sparrow, I've thus far been cook on your ship for two weeks without complaints."

"I know that, luv, and ye've made a wonderful cook. But I wanted ta make somethin' a little special for 'er."

"Captain Sparrow, I am a gentlewoman, and I should tell you I have never had much opportunity to do much real cooking in my entire life!"

Laura tossed the wooden spoon into the stewing junk, crossing the small galley to the sack of biscuits.

"Didn't mean ta offend ye, Laura, but please, 'elp me out 'ere!"

As much as she was frustrated with the man, for assuming she knew just how to whip up a good meal in the blink of an eye, and for giving her the oddest tasks imaginable – from sewing a Jolly Roger, to hauling lines, to acting as a lookout and a decoy, to shearing the ship's sheep – she could not find it in herself to deny a man in need, even it was Captain Sparrow.

She sighed heavily, knowing what she was about to get herself into.

"You have my aid, Captain Sparrow. When do you need it to be ready by?"

"The beginnin' o' the night watch … Eight?"

"Right. And anything particular?"

"Nothin', though she's a mite fond o' crab. Ye have the run o' the stores – use whatever ye need. I owe ye, luv."

"You've given me back my bracelet, Captain Sparrow. I want either the ring or the cross back after tonight."

"Ye still need ta tell me about that cross!"

"Sometime, Captain Sparrow. Not now."

Jack Sparrow found himself summarily dismissed as Laura began to rummage through the supplies.

Well, she thought to herself, This is a pretty fix indeed. I haven't the foggiest idea of a good dinner, it's a wonder, really, I've made it this far with the little cooking I know. What can I do with this? I've got a barrel of assorted live sea-life, more salt junk of dubious origin than could feed the entire ship for a month, some fresh fruits, about a two ton of hardtack, a bag of flour, spices, a firkin of butter, the last chicken, a few eggs, rum, beer, wine, other drinks hard liquor and not, and whatever else I find. Entrée? Ah … soup? No salad. Oh dear.

Laura tied the makeshift apron around her waist, and set to work improvising with a will.

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Onboard the Dauntless, things were not going according to plan before dinner, either.

James had found himself accosted by Miss St. Croix, who he began to regret bringing along. She would not leave him be, particularly when he was quite in mind to sulk a bit concerning Laura. When he quite forcefully brushed her off, she stormed away.

Good riddance, he'd thought at the time, but his peace was momentary. He'd stepped into his cabin after a very trying watch, only to find Miss St. Croix in a roaring temper.

"Why haven't you said you loved me, James?"

There was only one answer in James's mind, and he saw no point in beating about the bush.

"Because, Miss St. Croix, I do not."

He imagined she would have left after that, but no, he was not so fortunate.

"But James," she whined in a way that was not at all appealing, "You do love me! I am the most beautiful, most talented woman in all of Christendom! My blood is blue! I have hundreds of suitors in London, and no less here; I am the most desirable bride you may well find, and I love you!"

James should have had qualms about being so harsh on this woman, but since he blamed her for Laura's predicament, however unjust that might have truly been, he had none.

"Miss St. Croix, I do not love you. I have known you this half-month, and that would hardly be enough to inspire love even in those destined for true affection. Furthermore, you may well be the loveliest and most accomplished woman in Christendom in many men's eyes, but not my own."

"How can you not love me? How can you value another over me?"

"Because you are not Laura Bell, Madam, and that is more than enough excuse."

He thought he might have driven her off with that, but it was a moment's peace before the storm broke.

"Laura Bell," she cried, "Laura Bell?"

Miss St. Croix drew herself to her full height, eyes flashing in fury.

"How could you take that lower-class rat instead of me? How could you turn down the blossom of the oldest line in England for the fading daughter of a Captain of obscurity? How could you turn away from my beauty for her plainness, my talents for her mediocrity, my vivacity for her dull nature? You love me, James Norrington, for this is some joke! You cannot choose that slime over me!"

James Norrington considered himself a man of even temperament, and knew himself to be a man of tremendous self-will. All the same, there was nothing that could have succeeded in angering him more than to hear his Laura abused so.

"Look at her, James! Look at me!"

He stood still, feeling a vein throbbing in his temple, as she began to circle him seductively.

"You'd rather kiss her than me, James? Her thin, pale lips over my thick, red mouth? When you come home at night, to be comforted on her small bosom over my buxom décolletage? To run your hands through her frizzy molasses hair over my auburn tresses? To cry her name instead of mine in the dead of night?"

Miss St. Croix ran her hand over his chest, looking up at a stony James with her most potent of charming smiles.

"Don't you want me, James? Don't you want to know you own me, body and soul? Don't you want to use me? Just three words, and I am yours forever."

Without a word, Commodore James Norrington picked Belle St. Croix up, crossed the cabin in four sure steps, and threw her overboard.

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Back aboard the Black Pearl, Laura surveyed the finished dishes with pride. The island crab stew was sufficiently spicy for anyone's taste, the rolls came out light, if a little discolored, the butter sauce for the lobster had not clotted and the thing itself had stayed a healthy shade of red, the stock pork was in it's last stages of being boiled to ragout standards, she had found fresh fruits enough for a pleasant presentation, and the apple cobbler (her confessed speciality) smelled wonderful. Balancing carefully, she cleaned herself up a bit – meaning a clean sailcloth apron – and placed the soup on a tray to carry aft. Captain Sparrow was in her debt to a very, very great extent.

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After she cleared up the last course, the apple cobbler, Captain Sparrow pulled her aside.

"Laura, luv, I owe ye one."

"The ring or the cross, Captain Sparrow," she demanded, sweeping the soiled dishes onto the serving platter.

"I'll give ye back both, if ye tell me what about the cross."

Captain Sparrow smirked, arms across his chest, dangling the ring and the cross on the same chain. Laura, lacking the self control she normally possessed, she made a snatch for them which failed miserably. Straightening herself out, she held out her hand.

"Agreed, Captain Sparrow."

"Wonderful."

He dropped the chain into her outstretch palm, watching her with curiosity as she reinstalled them about her person.

"The cross, luv."

Laura looked around for a convenient chair and decided on the one behind the desk, the Captain's chair. Thus removed from his seat, Captain Sparrow sat on the window ledge.

"If you must know, Captain Sparrow," she started with a sigh, "This cross is technically not my own. It originally belonged to the dear friend of my youth, Charity Norrington."

"Any relation to our Commodore?"

"His youngest sister."

How could she be confessing this to a stranger and a pirate? To a member of the clan who killed her, killed poor Charity at the age of five! God, poor Charity, poor Ophelia, poor James …

"Didn't know 'e had a sister."

"He doesn't, at least not anymore."

"Dead?"

"Murdered. His entire family, save him, perished when pirates attacked the convoy they had joined, bound for England."

Captain Sparrow found he could not meet her eyes; they were hardened and blurry at the same time.

"The cross was taken from her body by those pirates. James recovered the cross by a miracle years later, and handed it to me. It has been in my possession ever since. I do not like to be parted from it, Captain Sparrow. It's the last thing I have of my childhood, save James. And now I've lost him, too."

"Ye and the Commodore are more than friends?"

A small, sarcastic smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, producing a self-deprecating grin.

"No, Captain Sparrow, we are not."

Her left hand twitched a little, involuntarily, drawing unneeded attention to the signet ring.

An idea came to Captain Sparrow, one which was decidedly underhanded but what did he care so long as it wasn't the noose around his neck?

"Laura, luv, what do ye make o' this compass?"

Gingerly, avoiding her tired and puzzled expression, he placed the compass in her hand, watching the needle whir about for less than a blink of an eye, fixing on an unwavering point in their wake.

"It's broken, Captain Sparrow."

In that instant, the glint in his eyes made Laura feel as though she'd given away far too much.

"Just special, luv."

He crossed the room in a few quick strides, shouting out the door to Mr. Gibbs at the helm.

"Gibbs! Change o' course. I feel the need to visit Nassau!"

"The Bahamas, Captain Sparrow?"

"Aye, the Bahamas, luv," Captain Sparrow smirked, and it was in that instant that Laura feared she should never see James again