The Gift
Chapter 4: Leading Tone
Setting: Post POTC 3
Characters: Norrington/OFC
Plot: A fluffy holiday love story. Who knew that James Norrington played the violin?

Although he could have played music with Lucy all day, his meeting with Gillette had been vital. It wasn't Sparrow that his new Captain had encountered but a less personal threat and just as menacing -- Barbarossa. He was even closer this time to the English shipping lanes, and Norrington wondered if the man wasn't in league with Spanish traders or perhaps the Spanish government.

"Prepare to make sail immediately, Captain." Norrington commanded.

"Very good, sir."

Gillette bowed, but after the lesser officers left, Andrew lingered in the doorway.

"Sir…may I speak with you in private?"

Norrington looked up from the maps that scattered his table.

"Of course."

"I have reason to believe that Barbarossa is aided by another in his ransacking of English ships. Possibly…he has a man in Port Royal."

The admiral's eyes flashed.

"Where did you come by this information, Captain?"

"A less than reputable source... A woman..." Gillette sighed. "A whore, but nonetheless, one whom I trust. And if it were true, then perhaps the Spanish have infiltrated our communications from the Crown. It would explain how Barbarossa is seconding our every move so quickly."

James felt his stomach turn. The Gaglianos were not the only foreign family in Port Royal, by any means, but yet…it made him uneasy. They were Italian. Could they also be Catholic sympathizers? He pushed the thought far from his mind.

"I will consider it, Gillette. Your friend's suggestion is within the bounds of consideration."

"Thank you, sir."

Gillette bowed but before leaving the room, he added, "And sir, my sailor indicated that you, too, have a new lady friend."

The comment surprised Norrington, but he didn't miss a beat.

"Indeed, she is a lady; and that being known, she is not my friend."

He nearly added, "Savvy?" but somehow managed to conclude the comment with a tired look of indifference despite his time in Sparrow's pirate crew giving him a good dose of humility and an entirely new outlook on the English language.

After a moment of silence, Andrew nodded.

"If you're lucky, sir, that will change. Good day, sir."

"Good day and good weather, Andrew," James replied to the empty room.

That night, James Norrington's dreams were haunted. In sleep, seductive images of Lucy twisted and intertwined with nightmarish glimpses of Barbarossa. Andrew called out for James as he drowned beneath crashing waves; and in the background, Jane Groves giggled behind her frilly fan, her eyes cunning.

And like most nights since he had visited the music shop, he awoke sweat-covered; but unlike the previous dreams, this one left him with a warm, sticky wetness covering his legs and dampening his bed gown. Throwing back the sheets and sitting up, he pulled the shirt off his body and dropped it to the floor. The coolness of the December air quieted his racing heart and heated skin.

As he rung a sponge from the wash stand over his legs and erect maleness, he thought of the 'little Italian' and wondered on her background. She was no young girl. He guessed she was in her early twenties, perhaps a bit old to still be unwed. Also, she was a foreigner passing for English…the daughter of a musician, not exactly a lady, as he had confided in Gillette.

Running the sponge down his torso, rivulets of water ran over his naked flesh like blue rivers in the Caribbean moonlight and he wondered, ashamedly, if she had ever known a man. Would he still want her if she had? His member lengthened against the sponge and James, braced his free hand against the washstand. God help him, his body and soul confessed that they didn't care. There had been a time in his life when he thought the Governor's young and innocent daughter would make a suitable wife for him, but betrayal changes a man. Being publicly spurned by Elizabeth had made him reconsider what qualities were truly important in a wife.

Eventually, he learned that he wanted a woman, not a caudled girl. Not that he knew a lot about women, but in his estimation it wasn't necessarily age that distinguished the two. A woman's character was formed the same as a man's -- from experience. Just how much experience he was willing to accept? Well, he wasn't sure. One thing he did know is he desired loyalty, not just to him but also to Queen and kingdom. She had commented that she was "Italian in flesh but her heart and soul was English." But could he trust her?

His body now clean, he climbed back into bed unclothed, stretching out his long body against the cool linen. James was not overly educated in the arts de amour but was Lucy? Or was she as innocent as her eyes conceded?

"She is Italian after all," he mused aloud. "Don't they have a different standard?" Then his mind raised back to Wednesday. "…My heart and soul are English." Then again, he'd known many English wives, especially of the noble classes, that lived more lasciviously than Italian opera singers.

Finally overcome with confusion and sleep, James rubbed at his face. Dear god, I've only met her once and she's already clouding my mind. In roughly eight hours, he would face her again at her little music shop, a place where the world seemed less complicated, a little piece of the Caribbean where he could just be known as James and could speak her name aloud without gossip or speculation.

And before he felt into a dreamless slumber, he practiced her name one last time.

"Lucy…"