It was only after their return to Port Royal that she realized just how lucky they'd been to come upon Phineas Togg and the Hopeless Wanderer . Unless there was a credible source of intel and coordinates, locating a pirate ship just by happenstance during open ocean travel was a difficult feat. It begged the constant question in her mind.

If you couldn't catch a pirate ship, then how do you trap them? How did you make them want to come to you? But why in seven hells would a pirate ever want to come to a battlecruiser? Nothing about the ship was subtle – whether up close or at a distant, it was impossible not to recognize the silhouette, the prominent guns. And then even easier for the pirate to reserve the engine a'stern and stay out of range.

The question churned in her brain for days.

Until the idea hit her like lightning.

"No." She interrupted the meeting at hand. She couldn't even say what the specific topic of conversation was, but the assembled company of Norrington, Groves and Swann all stared at her.

Swann's brow furrowed, blinking uncertainly. "No…? Are you saying the reports are inaccurate?"

"Oh, sod the reports," she pressed forward, the idea solidifying in her mind, "if we want to trap a pirate, we have to think like pirates. We can't continue to go charging around in a battlecruiser. We might as well just pull our pants down and bend over right now."

The governor stammered, aghast, but she heard Groves' soft, throaty hum of amusement.

Norrington's face was all the usual calm reserve. "Then by all means, what do you suggest."

"A disguise. If I remember rightly, the Demeter is due into port soon, and I think a refit might just be in order. We keep it a merchant vessel on the outside, but fortify it on the inside. Like the sailing ships of old – only run out our guns on close approach. For how else do you get a pirate to come to you? Give them the promise of what they want – a richly loaded merchant vessel just prime for the taking - then blast them to hell."

Another amused sound came from Groves. "And this fortified merchant vessel would be crewed by who? Your EITC lackies?"

"Of course not," she shook her head, unable to believe that he didn't get it, "no, it would be crewed by the Caribbean fleet's finest. But without the military uniforms and salutes – just merchant sailor to merchant sailor."

Norrington's brow pinched with disgust. "You're suggesting placement of naval sailors on a ship without naval discipline protocols?"

"At least on the surface," she looked up to him with a shrug, "flog whoever you like on the interior decks, but we must fully present the image of a civilian merchant vessel. Otherwise, it doesn't matter how alluring the tales of gold and goods in our hold are. And make no mistake – the newly-rechristined Icarus will be too sweet a honeytrap to ignore by even the least reckless pirate." She didn't miss the flash of recognition in Norrington's eyes on the proposed ship name. She had only recently heard that name from him, after all.

Swann looked between everyone at the table, seemingly blown away. "Well, my goodness. That's quite a proposal, Ms. Beckett."

"Indeed." She beamed proudly. "And there's no better time than the present to start working on it. I'll get word –."

Norrington cut her off, swift and cold. "I haven't agreed to it yet, and without my sailors, your idea doesn't leave port."

She leveled him with a stern glare. "You have no authority to countermand my decisions. If you have reasonable objections or concerns voice them for resolution, but this is not open to debate."

"Then, allow me to raise a legitimate concern, chiefly regarding your shipboard presence."

Offense flared in her gaze as she lifted an indignant brow. "You don't get my ship to make any of this happen without me onboard. Non-negotiable."

"My concern stems from our last voyage, and your general incapacitation with the conditions for an extended life at sea. Because make no mistake – what you're talking about will require months at sea, continually sailing from port to port, until we catch our man."

"There's nothing for it. Life on Dramamine, I suppose." She didn't see a reason to gloss over her seasickness. Groves already knew about it, and Swann couldn't use that knowledge against her. "Without me onboard, the paperwork – the fake invoices, the manifests – to say nothing of the funds that we'll need to literally stay afloat – will not happen. So, that's the deal – your sailors, under your command – all under my authority."

"Life at sea, in the guise of civilians." Norrington cast a wry look to Groves. "You're rather quiet about this."

Groves shook his head, widening his eyes with a sigh. "It's a lot to digest. And yes, it sounds a little half-baked at this point, but a refit – hell, an overhaul – of that magnitude will take some time. Who's to say it couldn't be a fully baked plan by the time we leave port? I'll admit that it certainly has the element of surprise, and as long as the EITC is fronting the bills, what do we really have to lose?"

"Good men." Norrington corrected firmly. "Everyone aboard that ship will be at high risk. Disguises only work for so long, and each time we encounter an opponent, we must be the victor. Otherwise, our secret will be blown, and we've expended time and effort – possibly lives – with nothing to show for it."

She looked to him, a challenge in her gaze. "Then, you better choose your crew wisely, captain."

Norrington looked to Groves, a forced resignation in his gaze. "I hope you can stomach a temporary demotion, first mate."

Groves' answering smile held familiar playful mischief. "I think I can handle it, sir."

"Very well. Prepare a roster of proposed crew for my approval. Keep the selection hush – I will not have this venture joining the rumor mill before it even gets off the ground."

She smiled, proud. "Or into port."

Swann looked between them with a hopeful smile. "Well, Ms. Beckett – I must say, you do not disappoint. Nor will I say anything to give the game away. I'll draft up service papers that will have the commodore, Lieutenant Groves, and the rest of their crew assigned to a classified mission of the utmost discretion."

"Excellent." She looked among the three men. "I'll check in with the ship and arrange drydock space."

"She may be your ship, but she's under my command." Norrington fixed her with a hard look. "Her re-provisioning will be done under my purview. Non-negotiable."

She smiled, conceding the point. "Of course. It simply wouldn't do for the captain to not know his own ship." She rose, holding out her hand. "We are agreed?"

He paused for the briefest of seconds but met her hand in a firm shake. "We are agreed."

Come to find out, the renamed Icarus was quite possibly the worst ship suited for the proposed venture. The engineers bemoaned constant reminders that she was not designed for naval service, and no amount of refit could fortify her superstructure to meet all of the commodore's exacting standards. It became a constant battle to keep the engineers moving forward and drive compromises with the commodore.

"I will not leave us exposed like that."

She sighed, frustrated. "The engineers said it's a finite amount of weight we can add. The Icarus is not a battlecruiser, commodore. You cannot have everything that you're used to."

"The defense radar and answering system is a must to ward off long-range attacks."

"We'll be a merchant vessel – there shouldn't be any long-range attacks launched on us."

"Pirates don't play by the rules. It'd be far easier to disable us at a distance, then approach for looting."

"Do most merchant vessels have these defense capabilities?"

"No, but we're not most merchant vessels."

"We cannot risk anything that would give us away. The point is only to engage once the enemy is in close range. Otherwise, we risk being no different than the pirates. We certainly won't be engaging battleships."

"Which are over-gunned compared to the capabilities of your average pirate ship."

"Then you decide what we lose. A compliment of torpedoes? Recon radar or sonar buoys? Armored plating? We are adding so much armored plating."

His lips pursed in a tight line, considering. It was still abundantly clear that he was not the most pleased with this plan, but he was following orders and honoring his agreement.

"I reserve the right to reconfigure shipboard capabilities as our mission progresses. The long-range defense systems can be scratched. Losing our armored plating presents more of a risk, and if we can't defend ourselves, then we better be prepared for a full-out assault. But if our secret gets out – we will put into drydock and rethink our modus operandi. Do I make myself clear?"

But finally, the last appointments had been installed. The last bolts tightened, and the last rivets welded.

It was finally time to set sail.

The Caribbean sun shone bright in the clear sky as she squinted up at the loading crane, at the empty shipping container rigged in its webbing. Despite what the clipboard of manifests in her hand said, she knew it was empty. The ship simply couldn't handle the additional load.

Every last ounce of available cargo load limit had been commandeered for use by naval service and defense. But no one would ever know it to glance at the ship's decks and newly painted hull. In fact, the Icarus was probably cleaner now than when she had first put to sea.

The dock around her bustled with minimal activity from the crew. Groves had remarked on countless occasions that it was rather enjoyable to train the crew for this mission. To purposefully allow the shirking of naval discipline and protocol, and present the appearance of an average civilian crew. Of course, Norrington still expected full decorum behind closed doors.

Well, he could expect whatever he liked so long as he didn't jeopardize the mission.

The hand signal went up from Groves on deck as the container settled into place and the sailors around him worked to secure it.

Not Groves, though, she had to remind herself. Theodore Ellis, now.

And not Norrington or Beckett, either. Nor Cutlena, for that matter.

It felt like something right out of a spy movie. Going undercover and all that. An amused grin lit her face as she checked off the manifest, a confirmation that everything had indeed been loaded. With a satisfied sigh, she turned and surveyed the last of the preparations. Dollies wheeled goods up the gangway. Two men wound a large coil of rope. The commodore strode towards her with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder.

She'd never seen him out of his crisp naval attire before. Dressed now in navy cargo pants and a khaki button-up shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, he made for a fine merchant captain. The garish gold of his shoulder epaulettes announced his rank as he approached, his face carefully blank. For all the outside world, he looked just like another could-care-less civillian captain. Well, except for the tidily combed hair.

"Cathleen," he tipped his head in greeting, "are we ready to sail?"

"Oh yes, Captain Davenport." Her answering smile was bubbly and sweet. "The last container just hit the deck. Ellis has already signaled successful capture."

"Excellent."

She nodded in agreement, playfully raking her eyes up and down his long body. Irritation flashed in his gaze when she met it. "You're looking good, captain. There's just one thing…." She reached a hand up, rising to her tip-toes. His hair carded smoothly through her fingers as she ruffled it, taking advantage of the product in it to effect a messy, bedhead look. She pulled back, smirking in satisfaction and appreciation because, holy hell – it was a good look on him.

His mouth pulled to a tight smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Satisfied now?"

"Mmm, not until you have a day or so worth of stubble to match."

"Not bloody likely." His grip tightened on the duffle as he moved on towards the gangplank. She couldn't help but chuckle at his retreating figure. This voyage would either be the death of him, or force him to actually relax a little. Was that even possible? Probably not with everything that was on the line.

He turned back around, face impassive as he fished in a pocket. "Oh, by the way." He raised his hand, tossing a small, white, rattling object into the air towards her. She caught it, glancing down to see that it was a bottle of Dramamine. "Try taking that before we sail this time. I think you'll find it works better before the symptoms start." He turned without another word, continuing on towards the ship as if he hadn't turned back at all.

She stared back at him, impressed with the man's cheek. It was almost too bad he didn't show that side of himself more often.

Maybe, just maybe, this voyage would be more enlightening than she thought.

The days bled into weeks and turned into months. She knew the venture would take a while to gain traction, for their name and reputation to spread. In a way, it was oddly peaceful. The days at sea, traveling from port to port. Signing off phony manifests and onboarding new equally-bogus inventories. Moving empty shipping containers around with ease.

Everyone had become oddly accustomed to their undercover surnames. Admittedly, it had started off a little awkward, but once everyone settled into a routine, the days were largely uneventful.

Well, except for the time she found the mess table covered in nudie magazines.

The leading seaman chuckled, clearly amused as he cut into the magazine page. "I'd give anything to see the Ruskis' faces." The group of four other sailors chuckled in agreement as they each worked with a magazine, cutting into the pages and discarding the trimmings.

Another scoffed. "Hell, they'll probably scrape off the food and try to eat it! Be sure to get out all the good parts, now."

She looked to the pile of discarded clippings, noting that they were cutting out all the explicit parts of the images. Her lips quirked, bemused. "What on earth are you doing?"

"Hello, ma'am," the leading seaman looked up with a nod, "we're preparing a surprise for our Russian friends."

"Russian friends?"

"Yes, ma'am. We picked up a flea."

"A so-called 'fishing trawler'," another sailor supplied, "but fishing trawler my ass."

He motioned to the magazine in front of him. "So, we're preparing a nice treat for them."

She cocked a wry brow. "By cutting out all the x-rated parts?"

Another low chuckle rose from the group. "Yes, ma'am. And dousing them in cook's old chow from last week."

Her nose wrinkled. "That's disgusting."

"Yes, ma'am. When they see this trash bag doesn't sink, and they scoop it up – they'll think they struck gold. All kinds of British commerce secrets just theirs for the taking. But when they cut it open, it'll be a contest of who doesn't toss their cookies on the spot."

She cocked a brow. "Does Groves know what you're about?"

"Whose idea do you think this was?"

She'd asked Theodore about it later, assuming that such an activity was only allowed because they weren't on a true military vessel. He instantly corrected her. Apparently, a shenanigan of that caliber was quite commonplace among the seamen. Though, very rarely did officers get involved.

It didn't surprise her in the least that Theodore was enjoying this tour. Everything about this subterfuge played right to his personal brand of bold mischief.

And for his part, Norrington captained the ship with a strangely easy efficiency. He either didn't know about the crew's shenanigans or he chose to ignore it. Her money was on the latter – so long as the crew continued to perform to his expectations, he didn't seem to be a total buzzkill.

The Icarus wasn't a large vessel, and it was hard to keep personal business private. As the only woman and non-military personnel aboard, that had put her at an immediate disadvantage. Only until she stocked the galley with filet mignon, scotch and cigars one night. The crew took a decidedly more relaxed, accepting stance on her presence after that night. Even the commodore had indulged. And as she puffed her cigar alongside him and his crew, a page had turned.

It still brought a smile to her face as she took another pull from the rum bottle. There hadn't been much left in the bottom, and it had been such a lovely find from their last stop in St. Lucia. Loose strands of her hair caught in the breeze as she rested her forearms on the deck railing, looking out over the dark water. She pressed the bottle back to her lips, taking another swig.

This had become a favorite night routine. To find this railing just off the quarter deck and watch the dark horizon slip by, the flashing lights out over the water. It gave her time to think. To focus. To take stock of the situation. Maybe it also had something to do with the season. It was Christmas day, after all.

It was far from her first one spent away from London, and the holiday had never held a lot of familial warmth. She took another swig from the bottle, silently toasting the holiday. Let the rest of the world soldier on its merry way, but oddly enough, it struck her how content she was to just be on this faux merchant ship in the middle of the Caribbean.

"Is this the reason the color in your cheeks is much heartier than the last time we put to sea?" She turned at the sound of Norrington's voice, not letting her surprise show. She'd stood by this railing countless nights but he had never once joined her before.

Now she watched as he came to a stop next to her, resting his elbows on the railing as he casually leaned back against it. His sleeves were rolled up to expose his forearms to the balmy night air, his tousled hair catching in the breeze as the ship continued to cut through the night.

Had she ever seen him look so relaxed before?

She held out the bottle towards him. "If that's a knock against my seasickness, I don't intend to fall that indisposed again."

"I rather doubt that was your intention the first time."

"True." She conceded. "The drugs are proving more effective this time around. Though, we have yet to encounter another storm." She sighed, shaking the bottle, her brow pinching as he remained still. "That was…considerate of you before we set sail."

He flashed a wry smirk, at last reaching for the bottle. "It wasn't considerate. It's a captain's job to look out for the crew and that includes you, for the time being."

"Almost makes me wonder if you suffer similarly. Otherwise, I would expect that sort of advice to come from Dr. Powell."

"No. Suffering from seasickness at all would make me a poor sailor indeed."

"Indeed." She eyed him sharply. "Is that why you're here? To tease me? Or insult me?"

"No, on both counts." He tilted his head back to look up at the starry sky, taking another sip from the bottle. "You come here every night for a time. Thought I would see if I'm missing something."

She snorted a laugh. "Well if you were, you're facing the wrong way, for starters. The sea horizon is behind you"

"Don't be so sure."

"No?"

"No."

She shook her head, exhaling amused frustration, taking the bottle back. "This is a productive conversation."

"Who said it had to be? I highly doubt that your loitering and boozing here is productive."

"But this is my time. We're not strategizing or actively hunting. I'm allowed my time to think and process the day, while you captain your bridge."

"Perry's on shift now. Perhaps I'm processing my day, too."

"Right here next to me?"

"There are worse places to be."

What on earth had come over him? She drew a breath to ask, but paused when she felt the rumble of the engines fade. The pleasant, familiar hum of the turbines dropped to a whisper as the ship's forward momentum slowed.

She turned to him, brows furrowed while he looked completely unbothered. "Why are we stopping? Is this Perry's doing? Yours?"

"It's Christmas. The crew should be allowed some time to celebrate." The corner of his lips lifted fondly as he regarded the ship behind her. "Besides, this tub of yours has plenty of heart, but her bones aren't strong. Best to rest the old girl for a night, give her a chance to breathe."

"She's made of metal and mechanical systems. They'll function as they're designed to function without regard for her heart. Which doesn't exist."

"Spoken like a true landlubber." He shook his head with a knowing air of surety. "I told you once that ships have a life force of their own. Much like the sea – a harsh mistress, indeed - merciful as can be cruel. Well, much like any woman, I suppose – limits must be respected before favor is granted."

"Spoken like a man who has only known a string of broken hearts." There was something compelling on the thought and she looked over at him, angling in towards him, taking another drink. "How long have you been at sea?"

"You've seen my service record."

"Which starts when you were a midshipman at sixteen. I meant before that – your first time."

"Getting a bit personal, aren't we?"

She shrugged, handing him back the bottle. "I'll tell you mine, if you tell me yours."

"To be clear, we are still talking about time at sea, yes?"

"Unless you feel like getting even more personal."

He huffed the barest hint of a laugh against the bottle lip. "I grew up on the water. Father had a five-meter cutter. As early as five or six, I remember helping to heave to and take in sails. In winter, there was ice to chip off. In summer, we'd swim. I was fourteen the first time he let me take it out alone."

"Alone in a five-meter cutter? At fourteen?"

He stared back at her, raising an eyebrow at the challenge as he held out the bottle.

She shook her hair out of her eyes, taking it from him. "I was sixteen before I even set foot on a boat. Father had a friend with a yacht. Mind you, we were only invited out because the friend was a perverted old bastard who wanted to see a young girl in a bikini. We went out every summer after that, for a week or so at a time. I tried to beg it off when I was in uni – I'd had enough of that man's stares to last a lifetime – but father insisted."

"That sounds awful."

"It was. Fortunately, he never tried to touch."

"Were you as intimidating back then?"

"You find me intimidating?"

"Personally, no. But you have such a strong persona, it would be easy to overawe those who are not so sure of themselves."

She shrugged, raising the bottle. "I had nothing to prove to the lecherous old creep."

"Was that last voyage your first brush with seasickness?"

"At its worst. At the time, I hoped it was just sheer revulsion to the onboard company. But after the Providence , I'm forced to reconsider."

"It still might be the company. You've had to deal with me on both ships."

"You may be a lot of things but you are far from revolting."

"Getting personal now, are we?"

She shrugged, offering the bottle. "I was twenty and his name was Derek. A self-obsessed director who lost interest in me after seven months because I wasn't one of his leading ladies."

"I really didn't need to know that."

"You're the one who keeps mentioning getting personal."

He wasn't petty enough to roll his eyes, but his relenting sigh spoke just as well as he took a drink. "Eighteen, with a nurse named Angela."

"Older woman, hmm?"

"No, she was schooling at a teaching hospital."

"And you didn't propose marriage on the spot?"

He cocked a brow. "Does that honestly surprise you?"

She shrugged, taking the bottle back. "You did say you were an old fashioned sort."

"Not that old fashioned."

"Ok then, so where were you? At the hospital?"

"No."

"We were on his couch, if that helps."

"It doesn't."

"Oh come on. You can't clam up on me now – you've already kissed and told."

"Would you really want someone else knowing those details about you?"

"I just told you we were on his couch. Do I need to detail the position to convince you that this isn't bashful for me."

"Please no." He licked his lips, obviously considering. "It was her bed."

"Sounds romantic."

"As romantic as two fumbling teens can be. "

"First time for both of you?"

"Obviously wasn't that way for you?"

"One of us needed to know what we were doing. He was a couple years older."

"Like 'em older, do you?"

"It's not the age, it's the man. I wouldn't say no to younger on principal." It struck her that he was about a year younger than she was. Did he know that, too? She raised the bottle, noting only a couple of swigs left.

She held it back out to him. "Almost gone. We should cheers to our first Christmas."

He shook his head, huffing with dry amusement before taking a drink. "Quite the first Christmas."

"Mmm, how ever will we explain it to the children." The lift in her lips matched the tease in her tone.

He took a last drink, licking his lips to chase the last drop. "Their mother is quite ruthless. But brilliant."

Her heart dropped through the deck. What the hell kind of admission was that? Sure, she'd always thought him attractive, but to…even consider that he actually returned the interest? The whole conversation had been teasingly playful, borderline intimate, but…was he actually serious? How fucked up was that? She was sent here to possibly destroy his livelihood, and then we goes and says something like that?

She swallowed, trying to keep her tone light. "I thought I was untrustworthy."

"Only in your current capacity. Beyond that? Who knows. There might be hope for you, yet." He held out the bottle and she took it back, purposefully brushing his fingers.

She hummed in consideration, drinking the last drop. Well, if he was being truthful, then what did she have to lose? "They're fortunate to have such an honorable father. Whose commitment to his duty is unwavering, even in the face of such odds."

"It's the job."

"No. It's who you are."

"Same could be said for you."

She huffed a self-deprecating sound. "What a pair."

His lips pulled to an intriguing, secretive smirk as he pushed off the railing to stand. "Something to consider." He nodded his head, a smile tugging at his lips. "Goodnight, Cutlena. Happy Christmas."

"Goodnight, James. Happy Christmas to you, too."

She watched him go, unable to shake the fluttering warmth in her chest. God, just like a lovesick teenager. Even though she damn well knew better. This was about doing her job and nothing more. No matter if he was interested, whether it be masochistic or genuine. And no matter how much she was interested in return.

It was supposed to be a night of peace, but her mind refused to quiet as she lay awake in her bunk later that night. Analyzing and reanalyzing the conversation, trying to come up with something – anything – that she could take solace in. But, sadly, there was no answer to be found about James right now.

James. Hmm. She could get used to that. Fortunately, she excelled at compartmentalization. James, off-duty. Norrington, on-duty.

When the light of dawn crept through her porthole and the circles under her eyes refused to fade, she hated herself for every last minute.

She hated herself even more for it when they encountered high seas the next day.

It was the most confusing ship-wide announcement. "Secure for sea! Secure for sea!"

They were already at sea. How exactly was she supposed to secure for sea now?

But the crew sprung into action like they were born to answer the call. Coils of straps and ropes exploded into view from hidden compartments. Everyone set to work lashing down anything that could move or topple over. The shipping container restraints were doubled; desk and tabletops were cleared, goods stashed in drawers or cabinets; TV and bluray players tied down; the plates, bowls, silverware all stowed and lashed down.

Trash bags were distributed and stuffed in back pockets. The more seasoned sailors balked at such a greenhorn symbol, but the Icarus was a fair size smaller than what they were accustomed too, and likely more subject to pitching, yawing, and rolling. And sure enough, as the ship hit a 20+ degree roll, more than one sailor turned green. In fact, it was almost a game amongst the crew – who could get the other sailors to toss their cookies the most. Sometimes, all it took was standing in front of someone and swaying with the ship.

She'd never put much stock in divine authority, but each time the ship rolled, she strongly reconsidered. Especially when a roll passed 5 degrees, 10, and upwards of 20 – there was nothing to stop the ship from rolling outright to 90 degrees. The crew had very unhelpfully explained that a 90-degree roll meant the ship had rolled over completely on its side and capsized.

She didn't need that knowledge to add her already knotted, seasick gut.

The details got fuzzy as the high seas continued to batter the ship. Food was distributed at one point – paper goods only – and it might have just been soup and bread. The Dramamine may have helped with normal seas, but there was little to be done against these waters.

Yet – somehow – ship business continued. Each time a sailor soiled a trash bag, another would be stuffed in a back pocket to await the next wave of sickness. It was truly disgusting.

Even Norrington looked a little undone by the high seas. She did remember that – seeing him, with his hair even more disheveled than the relaxed style he'd begrudgingly adopted, skin pale and a touch green. Dark stubble even colored his jaw. Was that a true testament to the rough waters?

The only amusing thing about the whole thing – if there was such a thing – and it had never occurred to her before – but the vast majority of chairs all had wheels. In fact, it became standard practice to look around a room before entering, lest a chair come rolling across the floor with the yawing ship and smash into someone.

But those few meetings in the wardroom had been particularly amusing. Yes, there were ropes that at least kept the chairs somewhat in range of the table. But if the ship rolled and she didn't hold on? Well, she had slid into Groves' chair plenty of times. It even caught Norrington off-guard a couple of times and when she wasn't rolling in a nauseous wave, it was worth laughing at. In fact, the whole scene was worth laughing at – six adults sliding around the wardroom in wheeled chairs.

It certainly put the rest of the wardroom meetings into perspective.

A distant wave of nausea rolled through her on the memory despite the calm waters now. A steady breeze blew in the night air, just enough to keep the mosquitos away from where she sat perched on the edge of the quarter deck, overlooking the poop deck. Plumes of smoke wafted up from the sailors gathered below as they smoked, laughed and sang.

It hadn't taken more than two weeks from initial departure for the three musicians onboard to have the same schedule rotation, and now, these relaxed jam sessions were almost a biweekly occurrence. The off-duty crew always did seem to enjoy it. And even she had to admit – the mix of guitar, mandolin, and accordion was actually quite entertaining, and the sailors were rather good. Of course, they could knock out a bawdy sea shanty or folk song, but the random mix of pop and rock songs always kept it lively.

Though, if she heard 'Whiskey in the Jar' one more time, she might have to outlaw it.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind did the guitar and mandolin start the dreaded, familiar opening notes, a few sailors whistling and clapping their approval. She pursed her lips, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She couldn't remember the last time she'd let it grow out so long, almost touching her shoulders now.

Movement shuffled off to her left and she glanced over, the corner of her mouth ticking up as Theodore stopped beside her, dropping to sit.

She nodded down at the men, clapping with the rousing chorus. "This is your doing, isn't it?"

"Me?" He looked innocent. "I didn't put the whiskey in the jar."

"No, but you set the crew rotation schedule to put those three together."

"Oh, you can't begrudge them this."

"I don't. What I begrudge is hearing the same damn song every time they get together."

"Can't fault them for knowing how to please the crowd. It's also an easy tune to play - one of the earlier ones that I learned."

Surprise flashed on her face. "I didn't know you played."

"I told you there's a lot that's new."

"Then why aren't you down there with them?"

"They don't need the first mate to interfere. Besides, two guitars might just drown out the mandolin." He clapped in rhythm with the song, singing a bar. " Mush-a-ring dumb-a do dumb-a da; wack fall the daddy-o. " He nudged her with an elbow.

She sighed, with a side-eye roll. " Wack fall the daddy-o; there's whiskey in the jar. "

He smiled, proud and amused. "See? You're just as bad."

"Trust me, this isn't something I'll take back to the boardroom."

He chuckled softly, sighing a relaxed sound. "Surely, even you can admit this is nice. Easy days, just taking to the sea."

"The sea was never my calling, but this has been…." She searched for the best word. Revealing? Pleasant? "Oddly enjoyable."

"Ooo, high praise indeed from the particular Cutlena Beckett."

"You're a menace."

"Only to you, perhaps. And only then, off duty."

She shook her head as the song wrapped. A vigorous round of clapping and cheering rose up from the deck below. Another song started on top of it, a thumping, rhythmic number with horrifically off-tone screeching vocals. No, no one should be allowed to butcher Led Zeppelin 'Immigrant Song' like that.

He bobbed his head with the music for the space of a few bars. "An APB came out today for a new captain on the seas. Only known as Captain Henry. Running amok in a fishing sloop with an honest-to-God cannon on the bow."

"A cannon?" She turned towards him with pinched brows. "How on earth did he manage that?"

"Well, the APB came out after the robbery of a historical fort. Guess what was listed among the stolen?"

A laugh startled out of her. "Impossible. How does one steal a cannon? You can't exactly just carry it out."

"Hence why this Captain Henry is a true scourge, a degenerate who must be brought to account. And who must return the cannon." He laughed softly, shaking his head. "Lord help us when such men take to the sea."

"Mm, it's a wonder his fishing sloop could stay afloat with that much extra weight. With all the troubles we had to go through outfitting this ship with armaments, I can only imagine how that went."

"So long as she floats."

"So long. Well, let's hope he sets his cannon's sight on us. That's something I shouldn't like to explain to the board."

"What? A ship sunk by cannon fire? Like something out of the golden age of sail."

"Exactly."

"If anyone could do it, you could."

Her mouth ticked up. "I don't doubt that I could, but it doesn't speak to the success of our venture."

"Come on, it's you." He looked at her like it was the most obvious thing. "That will come, just maybe not tonight. So don't spoil it. Especially when I just want to be near you and not talk official business."

"Well, you're the one who brought up the APB." His words shouldn't flatter her, but dammit, they did. He did. Being around him day in and day out had that effect. Why was it so hard to let go of him? And really, falling in with Theodore would be far less complicated than James. But was that what she really wanted?

A new song drifted up. In the town where I was born, lived a man who sailed to sea; and he told us of his life in the land of submarines.

"You're not allowed to say anything against this song." He said softly. "That's treason against the Crown." He raised his right hand with an admonishing gesture, the movement tugging on his rolled shirtsleeve to reveal more of the black ink on his skin.

She hadn't thought about it much since that first night, but it still intrigued her. It didn't surprise her that the young man from that second-story library had a tattoo. Yet, no matter how scorching the temperatures, he always seemed careful to keep his sleeves cuffed just below his elbows. Surely he wasn't embarrassed by it. But that just further begged the question.

Before she could overthink it, she reached over and tugged at his sleeve. It was his fault for bringing out this somewhat mischievous side of her.

She snorted at the revealed ink on his skin, the black outline of a skull and crossed swords staring up at her. "No fucking way."

He matched her amusement with an unbothered laugh of his own. "The ink doesn't lie."

"No wonder you don't flash it around. How drunk were you?"

"Sober as a judge, swear to God."

"Mmhmm. Did you do this before or after your crush on Sparrow when he stole the Interceptor ?"

"Before." He continued over her scoffing noise. "Oh, come on – you can't tell me there's not something to admire about the life. That you haven't, at least once, thought about just leaving it all behind. Shedding your name and becoming someone else. Making your own calls, living by your own rules instead of someone else's."

She fixed him with a raised brow. "Why would I? I have everything I want."

"Really? Everything?"

She didn't back down from his searching stare, but…. What was he hoping for her to say? Everything but him? A knot clenched in her chest but she refused to let it show. The rousing chorus sung by the crew on the deck below drifted up between them in the silence.

"Well..," she said at length, "everything except a yellow submarine." The corner of her mouth lifted in a small smile, trying to recapture the light mood as she joined the chorus, swaying with the beat, " we all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine."

He smirked at her, eyes heavy with shrewd resignation. The light played handsomely off his face and she knew he wasn't satisfied with her diversion, but it wasn't a question she wanted to answer. Not with her interest in James nagging in the back of her head. And fortunately Theodore didn't press her.

She leaned over, still swaying with the song, nudging into his arm. He chuckled softly as her smirk coaxed him to sway with her. His arm wrapped around her shoulders, moving with her as they sang, content enough for now.

"We all live in a yellow submarine, yellow submarine, yellow submarine."

The memory of that night probably shouldn't make her smile so much. But only in private moments. Only when she let herself devote brainpower to the conflict between her lingering attraction to Theodore and the bothersome interest in James. But now was not such a time.

She looked back to her laptop, proofreading the email again.

Kraken – If you wish to keep your heart safely locked away, then please refer to the attached. I will not hesitate to act on this information and see you both hunted to the world's end. Make no mistake – we found you once. Her, too. And we will again if you do not comply. You have 12 hours to acknowledge.

It had taken the company spies a little while, but that could be forgiven. The zip file that landed in her inbox yesterday had more than proven its weight in gold. She couldn't hold back the pleased smirk as she attached it to the email and hit send.

That should do it. Brevity was the soul of wit, after all. Even when threatening a man and his wife's life. But needs must.

She opened her next unread email, forwarded by her father. No doubt he had his secretary trolling the media sites for all references to her name.

Cutlena - for your sake, none of this better be true.

DISAPPEARING JAMAICAN LOVE TRIANGLE

Sadly, all has gone quiet in Cutlena Beckett's developing social scene. It's been over three months since Beckett was spotted out on the town with either of her rumored paramours.

Official word from the Colonial Office has Commodore James Norrington and his second in command, Lt. Theodore Groves, out on a highly classified assignment. Sources confirm that it is not unusual for the commodore and lieutenant to ship out for extended periods of time, but the conjoined absence of Ms. Beckett lends credence to speculation.

Have the three eloped to quieter waters away from prying eyes to pursue more romantic enterprises? Or has the Governor sent them off on a top-secret mission against the pirates? What do readers think? Sound off in the poll below to weigh in on the mysterious disappearance! And stay tuned for developments – when and where will the lovers surface, and who will Beckett choose!

She groaned at the disgusting drivel. Were they really so desperate for new stories? Sure, it wasn't convenient for them to notice her absence, but nothing linked them to their current venture. She deleted the email, not bothering to dignify it with a response, as another incoming email pinged her inbox.

Hm, that was almost a record. Then again, it wasn't a hard decision for Jones to make.

Acknowledged. Will continue pursuit as originally instructed. Evil bitch. – Kraken

She chuckled softly. Jones' spirit had always been something to admire, even if the face of defeat. But with that business concluded, the rest of the night was hers. Perhaps it was time to go ashore, take in the live music scene at a bar she had researched.

Closing the door to her cabin, she took the stairs down to the quarterdeck, taking in the harbor night air. A smile threatened as she neared the gangplank, easily spotting Norrington with a clipboard in hand. Two other crewmen milled further behind him, a loud laugh rising up on the otherwise silent deck.

She paused her walk on approach to the tall man. "I thought you'd be ashore."

Norrington looked up from under his mussed hair. As much as his clean-coiffed look flattered him, it held nothing on his bedhead look. "No, I took quarterdeck watch to allow the whole crew a night off. They've earned it."

"I'd say so. The heat these last few days has been so oppressive. But on the whole, I have to admit that I'm impressed. You and Groves did well with crew selection and training. And as for you, you're taking all this better in stride than I had originally thought."

"Yes," he quipped dryly, "I'm just full of surprises."

Her lips pulled to an unbidden smile. He wasn't entirely wrong. Without the full staunch of his naval uniform, James had a nice, dry sense of humor. It always reminded her of their conversation on Christmas night and now always brought a nagging, fond burst of warmth in her chest.

He nodded over his shoulder at the two crewmen down the deck as he continued. "Though, some of the men seem to be enjoying themselves a little too much."

She huffed, amused at the scene – one man rolling around in a wheelchair, feet in the air as he tried to balance on the wheels, while the other sailor smoked idly, laughing. She looked back to James, at the annoyed crease to his brow.

"Simmons, if you please." His voice held none of its usual commanding edge, more that of an irritated parent. The crewman called out a casual apology and dropped his feet back to the deck.

James turned back to her, cocking a wry brow. "Are you sure a little flogging isn't in order?"

Her lips lifted in a teasing smile as she adjusted her stance without thought, pitching her body forward. "I already gave you permission to return to the punishing ways of ye olde days."

"Well, we are - supposedly - thinking like pirates. And without naval discipline – how else does a captain keep his crew in line?" He sighed, a heavy, put-upon sound.

She couldn't help a soft chuckle at his casual dramatics. "Why, promises of plunder, matey. Gold, women, booze. Don't you know anything about pirates?"

She shifted her feet again, her balance strangely...wait a minute…this…. Something was happening.

The ship's deck continued to slope away from her feet, the world tilting on its axis as the ship rolled. The ship's list grew worse, falling heavily towards the portside. She struggled to keep her feet, pitching her body against the slant of the listing ship. Simmons' cry sounded out as the wheelchair slid across the deck and he made a daring leap out before it crashed into the railing.

She cried out, startled, as the slope of the deck became too steep for her footing. It caught James, too, and they both stumbled into the railing, gripping onto anything they could find for balance.

What the fuck was happening? This roll was well beyond the measured 20+ degrees that they experienced during the high seas. And yet, the ship still rolled. God, were they really going to capsize here in the harbor?

She looked around wide eyed, uncertain, trying to find her bearings. James was already trying to move down along the deck, gripping the railing and calling out to the crewman on deck.

"Simmons! Rafferty! Get below – sound the ship and report!" He turned and crawled his way back towards her as the ship finally came to a rest at the severe angle.

She stared at him wide-eyed as he tore open a compartment. "What the hell is going on?"

"I don't know for sure yet. But something has upset our balance. Now, we just need to fix it." He looped the rope into a wide circle, tying off the end with a quick knot to form a crude lasso. It look him a few tries, but he hooked it around a light fixture, testing the hold. He started to pull himself up the sloped deck, towards the bulkhead door.

She grabbed the end of the rope, making ready to follow him.

He reached the bulkhead door, throwing it open and climbing up inside, standing on the bulkhead. It was indeed a surreal sight to see James standing on the bulkhead like it was the floor instead of a wall.

She pulled herself after him, working against the steep slope. She huffed out fast breaths of exertion as she finally reached up, pulling herself up through the door and resting against the bulkhead. "Guess I've been lax of my arm days."

"Can't quit on me now." He reached out to unhook the rope. "No telling how many more decks we'll need to scour to solve this."

She drew another deep, collecting breath before standing up, feet firmly against the bulkhead, a bracing hand against the deck. "By all means, commodore – after you."

It took the better part of two hours to return the ship to rights. Who knew that something so simple as standing on a pipe could cause enough damage to trigger the automatic emergency dump of the starboard bilge tanks? With the sudden loss of weight, the ship listed to port, finally leveling out at a steep 45-degree angle.

At least, the only damage had been to the gangway connection as it ripped off the rolling ship, stranding the crew on shore. Well, that and the bent pipe that the crewman had been standing on.

It became Theodore's favorite story of the whole voyage. And James' lips pursed with infuriated annoyance during each retelling.