Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter fifteen of "Rubicon". I'd like to thank everyone who took the time to read and review, Tiera-Tarie, ElfLuver13, Faith-Catherine, NazgulQueen, and anotherblastedromantic. Your comments mean so much to me, thank you all! As always, I do not have a beta for this fic so all mistakes that appear are my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean.

June 14, 1731

Log,

This weather is insufferable. No, insufferable does not suit my mood. This is Hell.

During the day I must sit and sweat in my offices upon the docks. No breeze touches the waves, none at all. Upon my balcony I am greeted by the sun alone and the pestering chatter of gulls. The citizens of Port Royal move about slowly, red-faced. They are beaten down by the heat as am I.

At night I throw off the blankets and hope for cool air to brush my skin. But I will not open the windows, now matter how Anne protests. I shan't have her fall ill for the relief one breeze brings.

She mumbles and complains and tosses and turns. Neither of us may find any rest. Sometimes she wishes to converse with me, but I almost too weary for words or anything else, for that matter.

I think Anne is angry with me. I think all of Port Royal and the damned Caribbean is angry with me.

Oh how I miss England and the normalcy it brings. I do not wish my child to be born here. But Anne, with her blood-shot eyes and desperate cough, assures me that all will be well.

She is still beautiful, though and I would have her know it. Does she not see the way Norrington dares to look at her? I nearly came to blows with him over it. He stares too boldly for my liking.

Anne came to my office two weeks ago and I caught him with her in corridor. No smile touched his lips, but in his eyes there was a pained look, a look of longing.

When he came to my office, I scolded him. The man had the gall to deny my claim.

My voice rose against him and he simply stood there, shoulders slumped. He seems rebellious of late. I wonder what thoughts tempt his mind. What Eve and serpent seduce him? Shall he be my Brutus? I pray not.

Another, more irritating matter arose two days ago as well. Elizabeth Swann was sighted by one of my ships near the Orient. And she is reported to be healthy and well and wretchedly alive.

I would not be so concerned had Weatherby Swann not found out. I do not know how the news came to him, but he was in my office for a long while afterwards.

Norrington appeared quite overjoyed himself. Damn them both.

Swann is no longer troubled by my threats and I am worried. After he took his leave, I called Mercer to me. If Swann continues on this way, he will be disposed of.

I will not lose my hold upon the Caribbean. Not now.

Jones, however, has done his duty without another word. I do not know whether to be pleased or paranoid.

Paranoid, perhaps. There is nothing wrong with it. A self-imposed state of readiness, when not induced by panic, may be most beneficial. After all, did not Caesar anticipate his crossing of the Rubicon? And I daresay he was most successful.

Here I stand, trapped betwixt Norrington, Swann and Jones. A new triumvirate are they? I think not. Only one will emerge victor and I must assure it is myself, for Anne's sake.

Both Norrington and Jones are of the utmost use. I shall not dispatch them yet. Swann, however, must take care.

Oh if only this wretched heat would lift. Then I should think more clearly.

My other cause for concern is less natural, carrying over to the preternatural. Anne has told me of her dreams and while I had hoped they were inspired by illness, I begin to doubt.

So similar they are to mine, so exact. Who is this woman and why does she haunt us?

I put little store in prophecy and foresight, but I do wonder, is this not a sign? I remember the Romans and their augers, splitting the stomachs of sheep to discover what lay within. I remember the accounts of many dreams that warned or doom and brought news of victory.

Is this woman a priestess or specter? Goddess or demon?

Perhaps my ruminations are useless. The warmth of the air twists the mind and conjures strange thoughts and fancies. That is all it is mayhap, a fancy.

So I hope.

There is good news to be had, though and I must speak of it. Our little son, young Cutler, reached his first birthday in good health and pleasant spirits. He walks now or tries to as Anne says. Just last week he took a step across the lawn and then another, before falling upon his knees. He is determined though, much like myself.

To celebrate the happy occasion, I presented him with a silver rattle and for Anne, a very grand gift. From Lord Nesbitt I secured a fine horse, a young mare of good-breeding and possessing a most kind temperament.

She is a queenly creature, better than some that come from England or Europe. Anne was quite pleased with my gift and she rode the horse about the stable yard against my wishes. Though I suppose it is silly of me to think she will not ride.

As to the naming of the animal, we had another joyful disagreement. I suggested Cleopatra, for the beauty of the Eastern queens. But Anne scoffed and said she would not have her horse named after a whore. Instead, she dubbed her Octavia, after the faithful wife of Mark Antony.

Anne has always possessed a most clever mind.

She is happy now, I think, I hope. And if riding her horse about the stable yard keeps her content then I will say little of it.

But horses and gifts will not keep her well. I must send for a doctor, a good doctor. And such doctors are only to be found in England.

I must have time to think and to rest. Damn this heat.

Lord Cutler Beckett