A/N: This chapter doesn't have the same lighthearted tone as the first three. It's much darker and more unsettled, with a fairly vivid dream of Barbossa's. Considering the part of MoM this corresponds to, the serious tone seemed better suited to that part of the story to me. Once again, mind the rating.

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Chapter Four ~*~

--

If there was one thing Barbossa hated, it was having to admit he was wrong, but after the very long day of miserable tension between himself and Madeline, he was nearly ready to apologize.

Which was a testament to how much he had come to care for her, and also to how much he wanted her, because he rarely apologized to anyone. But if the intense dreams he was having, now that he knew she wanted him too, were any indication of how things were going to be for the duration of her voyage, he was going to go mad if he didn't soon make amends and get her into his bed.

He stole glances at where she was currently sitting across the bonfire from him, looking miserable but trying to do her best to converse with Chevalle. No doubt her subdued demeanor was his doing, and he regretted the fact that he'd stuck her. He hadn't meant to hurt her, but when he'd thought he was losing her to that fucking Bellamy, he'd seen red, and all coherent thought had ceased for a moment.

A nudge to his ribs caught his attention, and he turned to find Turk watching him carefully.

"Yeh should talk to 'er, mate," Turk said quietly, jerking his head ever so slightly in May's direction. "Apologize, Barbossa. She's a smart lady. She'll understand."

Barbossa had another sip from the bottle of wine he held as he tried to ignore him.

"She wants yeh, yeh know," Turk said, trying a different tack. "Why do yeh think she's so miserable?"

"The lass has plenty of reasons to be miserable, Turk," Barbossa spat back under his breath, "includin' the fact that she'd be stuck among pirates against her will, and that once the captain was fortunate enough to earn her trust, he betrayed that trust sharply and painfully."

"Yeh made a mistake," Turk said quietly with a shrug. "Don't make another by lettin' her go. Yeh'll both regret it."

"Pfhhh!" Barbossa huffed and turned away again, trying to ignore Turk's advice.

Turk scowled. "Fine then, be like that, but don't yeh complain to me about not gettin' any sleep!"

Barbossa had to admit that Turk had a point. Significant sleep was nonexistent right now with the way he kept being woken by the vivid and realistic nature of his dreams. Last night's, in fact, had caused him to awake before dawn and to end up pacing his cabin in agitation...

--

The night before he'd been contemplating how to go about managing reconciliation with his surgeon, after he'd berated her for not following orders, and to find a way to explain to her that the reason he'd chosen not to let her go ashore was because of his very real concern for her safety. The fact of the matter was also that some selfish part of him hoped to keep her on board long enough that she might come to desire not to leave him at all.

Of course, that was folly, for he knew she didn't belong in his world, and the way things stood at that moment, it seemed likely that it wasn't him she wanted after all –rumor on the ship was that despite the late hour, no one had yet seen Bellamy emerge from her cabin.

Barbossa sank defeatedly into his chair, furious, frustrated, and experiencing a host of other emotions that he was unfamiliar with; most of which he couldn't put his finger on, but definitely didn't like. He was certain that jealousy numbered among them, and he gave a short, bitter laugh at the thought that he, Hector Barbossa, scourge of the Spanish Main, one of the most cunning rogues and fearsome swordsmen in the Caribbean, and Pirate Lord of the Caspian Sea, was envious of a simple deckhand of moderate skill and no reputation.

"Huh!" he snorted indignantly.

But the fact remained that jealous he was, and not just a little resentful of Bellamy, but flog him again until he dropped dead envious. Barbossa sneered, knowing that no matter how much he hated Bellamy at that moment, he'd never be able to follow through with such thoughts, as it would horrify and completely alienate her.

Another wave of unfamiliar and wracking pain washed through him, and he pressed his fingers to his temples, agonized. Was she with him right now, as the crew had speculated? Was she kissing him, letting him touch her? Was he sharing her bed, watching her as she moaned and tossed her golden head back, reaching over her head to grasp the edge of her bed in ecstasy and with passionate abandon? Was she clinging to him, wrapping herself around him and gasping every time he drove into her again?

Had she cried out Bellamy's name?

Abruptly, Barbossa slammed a fist into the table before him and jerked himself out of his chair; his hands trembling with rage at the thought of Bellamy having her that way, and he tried to bring himself under control. So he'd fucked her. So what? What did it matter?

Why did it matter? It shouldn't really...

Bloody fuckin' hell! Barbossa pounded his fist against the nearest wall. He'd kill the bastard with his own hands if he'd touched that woman!

Barbossa's own passionate rage eventually burned itself out, leaving him exhausted and staring at his bed. He needed sleep desperately, but he knew what awaited him if he closed his eyes. He'd dreamt of nothing but her since she'd set foot on the Rogue, and he knew tonight would be no different.

So be it, he thought with an agonized sigh. If that were the only way she could be his now, he'd take the sweet torment of his dreams and perhaps hope that he never awoke...

--

Despite the fact that it looked like a storm might be gathering, with the way the sky had curdled and darkened, and the way the swells had gathered in strength, Barbossa found himself the only person on deck and standing at the helm of his magnificent Rogue Wave.

True, he'd never actually be alone on deck in a storm, but it was his dream, and he rather liked the idea.

Movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and there she was, slowly climbing the stairs toward him.

He was vaguely aware of a distant rumble of thunder as May came near, wearing a loose, flowing shift of cerulean-gray the same color as the churning sea below them; the golden tresses that fell down her back tossed gently in the wind.

"You should get below," he said to her with a meaningful glance at the storm clouds overheard. "Tis not safer fer you here."

"Why must you always order me away?" she asked softly, slowly advancing until she stood very close.

"I want you be safe, lass. This is no place fer a lady to be," he said, trying to ignore how close she was.

"Safe?" she asked, reaching to lightly touch his face. "And is it the storm I should fear?"

"The storm poses less threat," he said meaningfully but softly, reaching to gently pull her hand away from his scarred cheek, but finding himself unable to completely relinquish all physical contact with her.

She tightened her grip on his hand. "I do not fear the storm," she replied, "not with you here." She smiled in a fetchingly shy way and glanced at where his other hand still held the wheel.

He couldn't help but smile a little at her. "This storm is naught compared to many I've sailed, lass. I'll have us through this squall soon enough."

"I see," she whispered, still holding his hand and slipping into the narrow space between him and the wheel. She gazed up at him, meeting his eyes as best she could. "I wonder, Captain, if an experienced helmsman such as yourself might steer me through my own tempest?"

Something in the way she had spoken the word 'tempest' captured his attention, and he quirked an eyebrow at her question. "Yer own tempest, Doctor?"

"Aye," she'd answered breathily, "a raging storm that desperately needs to be tamed." A less distant rumble of thunder threatened overhead.

Ah, so it was to be one of those dreams. So be it, if he was to be tortured thusly.

He met her gaze steadily for a moment, making sure he hadn't misinterpreted her request, but by the look of longing he found there, he knew for a fact that he hadn't. "Tis but a simple matter," he replied, letting a trace of arrogance into his tone.

He could tell that her breathing had quickened with as close as she stood to him. "Ah, so ye mean now?" he asked, a roguish smile tugging at his mouth as she nodded. "Well, in that case, m'lady, ye'll have to relinquish all control to me, if I am to navigate this particular storm. Can ye do that?"

Another silent but meaningful nod set his heart racing, and he untwined his fingers from her own and reached to tip her chin up. "Can ye?" he asked softly, leaning close. "Can ye give in completely...surrender yerself entirely to me?"

She nodded again, and he firmed his grip on her chin, claiming her mouth roughly with his own, but meeting no resistance. In fact, she kissed him back hungrily, too absorbed in their passionate embrace to notice that he'd let go of the wheel with his other hand and then placed them both on the neckline of her shift.

He broke off the kiss and stared down into her eyes intently. "Do ye surrender completely?" he asked once more. She nodded again, and he yanked violently, tearing her dress open to the deck, causing her to gasp in surprise and take a step back. Of course her back encountered the ship's wheel, and she was trapped between it and him.

"Did I not say the storm poses less threat, me beauty?" he asked, sliding the ravaged shift back off her shoulders a little, exposing her bare breasts more fully and letting his eyes wander down over her nearly naked body as another rumble of thunder rolled overhead.

"You did," she whispered as he placed his left hand back on the wheel next to her, and let his right gently caress a full breast. He was content for a long moment to enjoy her softness and warmth, and then the beating of her heart beneath his fingers as he slid his hand across her chest to fondle the other one.

She gasped, letting her eyes close and her head fall back when he ever so lightly dragged a long nail across her already erect nipple, and pleased with the response he had gotten from her, he continued doing so. Eventually, he captured the sensitive tip between his thumb and forefinger and began massaging her delicately as he leaned down to breath in her ear.

"Are the storm clouds gatherin' m'lady?" he whispered, getting only a slight nod in return from her in her utter distraction. "Are the winds howlin'?" he asked, continuing his attentions.

"Yes," she sighed.

"And are the seas now great swells ye must cross?" he asked, then kissed her neck roughly.

"Yes!" she gasped again.

"Then allow me to take the helm," he murmured into her hair, and continuing to steer the ship with his left hand, he slid the other slowly down over her stomach and lower. He couldn't help but be pleased with himself so far, and a tiny self-satisfied smile passed over his lips when she inhaled sharply at him pressing two strong, elegant fingers between her thighs, and he discovered how much she'd already responded to him. Moist warmth met his fingertips as he expertly sought out the next center of pleasure for her.

He continued to whisper near her ear, as his fingers set up a gentle circular rhythm. "One steady hand then, fer each of me finest ladies, to guide them through their storms," he said, allowing another touch of charming arrogance into his words as she found herself clinging to him, the wind tossing her hair as it gathered strength around them.

He watched her carefully, judging when to notch up his tempo by the intensity of her soft moans; finding himself becoming aroused as she held onto him tightly, burying her face against his shoulder. The gale was increasing in force around them, streaming her hair along with it, and causing the sails to ripple and snap overhead.

The next clap of thunder was loud, but it still didn't drown out her soft cry at the increase in pressure from his fingers. He could tell by the way he had her digging her nails into his arm and whimpering in delirious ecstasy that he was in complete control, and he spoke softly to her again after first kissing her earlobe.

"Are ye mine, lass?" he asked, pressing harder into her warmth and causing her to gasp again as she nodded against his shoulder.

"Are ye?" he asked her again, his own breathing becoming a bit faster as hers became ragged. "Are ye mine to control...mine to possess?" he demanded from her in a whisper.

He took the slightly desperate cry she gave as a yes and redoubled his efforts, increasing his rhythm's tempo and intensity again, knowing she was about to lose control. Left hand upon his ship and right upon his woman, he masterfully guided them both through the storm surge and howling winds.

Her grip on his arm suddenly tightened, and she strained against his hand, evidently desperate to have her release. Feeling his own storm gathering as heat rushed to his groin, he spoke once more. "Are ye mine to command, m'lady?" he asked.

"Yes!" she gasped, her single word surprisingly feral.

"Then come for me," he ordered her in a softer whisper, bringing her to her climax but a moment later. His own heart was pounding fiercely in his chest as she cried out and collapsed against him, panting and letting a few settling whimpers escape her lips as he removed his hand from between her legs and wrapped his arm around her waist to steady her.

He let her linger in ecstasy against him for several long moments, content to hold her and navigate the remaining storm. Rain started to fall softly, causing her at last to raise her head from his shoulder and gaze up at him. A strong thunderclap split by lightning caused her to jump, and she smiled and spoke after being jarred from her euphoria.

"It appears that I may find more threat in this weather after all," she said, blinking back the rain as the next crash of thunder struck.

"Is that so?" he asked, his voice darkly amused as he caressed her cheek and then reached to take her hand in his. He brought it to his lips fleetingly, and then gently brought her arm out to her side and placed the hand upon a spoke of the wheel.

It wasn't until he let go of the wheel with his other hand, and repeated the gesture on the other side, kissing her fingers and then reaching to wrap them around a peg, that she appeared to grow concerned.

He kissed her long and passionately, and when he broke away there was a wicked gleam in his eye. "Foolish girl," he said with a measure of amusement and yet also of affection, "did ye not realize that this was the calm at the eye of the storm?"

He closed his left hand over her right on the wheel, preventing her from moving it, and then his right over her left, now trapping her completely as he pressed up against her. His eyes never left her face even as she realized that he'd undone his breeches while kissing her so ravenously a moment before.

Her eyes were wide with concern and perhaps a measure of fear, and she looked away as he moved against her. "Look at me," he ordered softly, staring intently into her eyes when she glanced back up at him. She tensed and looked away again, but didn't resist as he nudged aside one thigh. "Look at me," he repeated, softly again but with greater insistence. "A long time I've waited, and I want to look into yer eyes when I have you."

Thunder rolled past the distant tops of the mast, loud enough to drown out the wind and the sea for a moment, but he was sure the way she trembled against him had nothing to do with the storm overhead. He could tell she steeled herself for what they both knew was coming, and when she met his eyes again, he took her forcefully, reveling in the feel of her moist warmth as he plunged deep, and the way she cried out and threw her head back.

Holding very still for a moment, he pinned her there, savoring the feel of her body and her surrender. Unable to resist the temptation of her exposed throat, he kissed the delicate skin there once, and then nipped her, eliciting a shocked gasp of pain and pleasure, and then a second as he thrust against her roughly. Yet again his teeth found the tender skin of her neck, and once more he drove inside her, gripping her hands and the wheel to gain more purchase.

The cry she let out made him fear he'd actually hurt her, and he paused to whisper near her ear. "Is all well, m'lady? I mean not to harm ye this night," he asked her, concern evident in his voice.

Her answer was music to his ears as her eyes met his with a look of intense desire, and in a husky whisper she said, "Don't stop..."

He obliged her once he knew she was willing to brave both the rainstorm and his lust, and for the next few moments, both raged fiercely; the wind-driven rain soaked her hair and streamed down her body, and he buried his face against her hair, thrusting into her with reckless abandon. Her fervent cries only served to feed his passion and urge him onward, and fully aware of the fact that this was not a moment when either tenderness or restraint was called for, he savagely pursued his need.

Lost in his single-minded erotic endeavor, he smiled briefly when her cries become more urgent again, and she suddenly shuddered, coming again quickly with the intensity of his passionate onslaught. Not far behind her, he panted from his efforts, gasping her name softly as his own climax became an inevitability.

"Madeline...I've wanted you," he breathed into her wet hair as the rain and thunder continued, "I've...needed...want ye...to be...mine..."

Twice more he drove himself deep, finally spilling within her and gasping her name again. "Madeline!"

Vaguely aware that she tried to free her hands from where he'd held them against the wheel, he released them, only to find that she quickly wrapped her arms around him and clung to him desperately. He left one hand on the wheel and reached with the other to cradle her head against his own; breathless and spent, he lost himself in the feel of her warm, soft body against him and the smell of the Caribbean rain in her hair...

--

The first thing that Barbossa became aware of as he woke from the dream was the fact that everything was quiet. No wind howled, no thunder roared, and no woman cried out with passionate abandon in his arms; only the slow, creaking groans of the Rogue shifting with the tide filled the cabin. Judging by the faint light outside the cabin, it was shortly before dawn, and knowing that it was useless for him to try to go back to sleep, after so many nights of delicious but disruptive dreams, he rose and shrugged into clothes, soon finding himself pacing in agitation in his cabin.

A knock at the door was followed by the entrance of both Turk and Harlow, and Barbossa stopped his pacing and looked at them with silent expectation. It was Harlow that spoke, after he issued a frustrated sigh, and Turk made it a point to look anywhere but at Barbossa.

"Bellamy left her cabin about half an hour ago...snuck out quietly and then pulled his boots on once her door was shut," he said flatly.

Barbossa said nothing for several long minutes, but both of the other pirates knew him better than anyone, and saw by the look in his eyes and the way he set his jaw that a real storm was brewing.

"Where is he now?" Barbossa's voice was soft but clearly dangerous.

Turk and Harlow shared a look, and then Harlow spoke again. "Hector," he began, hoping to be able to reason with his captain.

"Where is he?" Barbossa snarled fiercely, already heading for the door.

"On deck," Turk said gravely, knowing better than to try to stop his old friend as he swept past and out of the cabin.

Had Bellamy been further aft, he might have noticed the door to the great cabin flying open, and had he been less absorbed in his work and in his recollections of the night before, he might have paid attention to the fact that his enraged captain bore down on him, the first mate and bo'sun hot on his heels. Barbossa was nearly upon him when he realized something was amiss in the sound of the rapid footsteps approaching, but by the time he looked up from the rope in his hands, Barbossa's own had roughly grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

Straightening as he turned, Bellamy still didn't have the chance to gain his balance as Barbossa grabbed him by his shirtfront, propelling him back a few paces and slamming him up against the foremast. Instantly furious himself, Bellamy met Barbossa's fierce gaze and reached to tear the captain's hand from his shirt, but before he could move Barbossa's dagger was in his hand, and in the space of a blink it was at his throat.

Cold steel pressed unpleasantly against his skin, but Bellamy stared Barbossa down defiantly. Neither spoke a word for several long moments until Barbossa finally leaned closer, snarling with quiet menace.

"If ye so much as breathe too loud on this ship, Master Bellamy..." he growled, letting his unfinished statement convey all he didn't need to say. The two men glared at each other a moment longer, and then snarling again with wordless frustration and rage, Barbossa shoved Bellamy away and flung the dagger to the deck. Barbossa stormed away and disappeared back into the great cabin.

Bellamy straightened up and tried to compose himself as Harlow fetched the dagger where it had stuck firmly in the deck of the Rogue. He regarded the pearl-handled dagger thoughtfully for a long moment, and then looked at Bellamy.

"You're one lucky man, Bellamy. I've rarely seen him draw this," he said, holding up the dagger, "without using it."

Still looking quite unhappy, Bellamy nodded silently, knowing that Harlow was right.

Turk spoke quietly. "Don't do anythin' stupid that might make 'im draw it again, mate. Yeh won't walk away a second time from Barbossa." He left Bellamy to deal with the stares of the rest of the crew present on deck, and followed Harlow back to the cabin.

__

And so the day had started, and then gone downhill from there, Barbossa thought, where he was sitting across the fire from Chevalle and May. She'd just excused herself in French and headed off down the beach, and he had all he could do to pay attention to what Andre was now saying to him as he tried to keep track of where she was going.

Turk, sitting next to him and well on his way to being inebriated, nonetheless was still sober and savvy enough to engage the French pirate in conversation, and if Barbossa wasn't mistaken, he felt a surreptitious nudge in his ribs, indicating this was his chance as Turk created a diversion in the conversation.

Knowing he should swallow his pride and speak with the young surgeon while he had the opportunity, Barbossa rose and straightened his hat, and then headed off into the woods.