Chapter Seven

The waxy green apple sat directly in front of him. The waves rocked the Pearl, but Barbossa held the fruit in one hand. There were coins to recount and a crew the captain, but he couldn't remove the image the girl from his mind.

For the first time, Barbossa had almost been tricked. Had been uncursed, he'd probably find himself still locked in the brig, and that was unacceptable. Something about that girl had shaken him, but he didn't know what. He had been with his fair share of women (harlots and harbor sluts, mainly), but even as one susceptible to and widely aware of the pleasures of the flesh, Barbossa had never experienced . . . whatever it was caused by the girl's touch. He could sense something on her lips, but he couldn't feel it. He recalled the other women: Sonya, Giselle, Marie, Pamela (to name a few). Barbossa always assumed he'd be drawn the most towards women like himself. Black-hearted, selfish, bitter, and unbreakable.

This girl was none. She seemed in constant pain and sorrow, yet hopeful and pure. The combination almost made Barbossa shudder. Such females were only girls. Too soft, too idealistic for the real world. They dealt with a higher notion of justice--one that, when it betrayed them, would harden them into the kind of women Barbossa would heartily welcome to his bed.

And yet--

something in the girl's kiss had nearly ruined him. It was not the kiss of a girl who'd recently grown into her mother's dress, but that of a temptress . . . wanton and heated. She played a cheap trick on him; one that could have lost him his ship.

She had begun a dirty game with no rules.

She had begun to think like a pirate.

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Miranda felt filthy. Maiden modesty had bothered her before Captain Barbossa's visit, but now every inch of exposed skin burned in shame. Her dress had been reduced to a raggedly short underskirt and a bodice never meant to be seen by anyone but the wearer.

The difference between the time before Barbossa visited her and the present was that before, Miranda had some dignity left. Now she was stripped, both literally and figuratively, and all she felt was shame.

Beyond the shame of breaking a social indecency, Miranda struggled with a deeper law--that of morality and principle. She had tried to seduce a man, and that was not something a proper Englishwoman was allowed to do. Moreover, she had tried --and failed (mustn't forget that she abandoned her dignity for a low-down trick that hadn't even worked)--to seduce the man who killed her brother and countless other innocent men.

And she had enjoyed it. There was the rub. There was the most damning part of the equation. She had enjoyed using her sexuality to try to overpower a man. She had enjoyed Barbossa's kiss. He was a rotten hull of a man--dangerous, unfeeling, yet . . . something more. Something beyond his cruel actions and rough words had been on his lips. Something almost . . . human.

Moonlight spilled softly through the scarred hull and into Miranda's cell, and, despite her troubled mind and livid pain in her legs, she fell asleep.

When she awoke, she found herself in a bed. This was startling enough, but as Miranda shot up and looked around in confusion, she found Barbossa sitting calmly by a blackened window, a green apple held loosely in his hand. His eyes were fixed on her.

"Why am I-" Miranda began, but Barbossa cut her off.

"With ye bein' incapacitated an' all, I thought ye might get more use from my bed than I would."

"That's . . . I . . . Thank you," she finished weakly, too surprised by his moment of kindness to say anything else. She glanced down and remembered how indecent her underclothes were and quickly yanked the covers up to her neck. Barbossa's growling laughter met her ears.

"No need for that, Miss Farthin'. Ye got nothin' to be ashamed of."

"Be that true or false," Miranda began hotly, feeling her cheeks flush, "I have a sense of decency and I won't-"

"Do ye now?" Barbossa challenged, standing up and discarding the apple to the floor. "Then who be that fiery little wench did try an' seduce me yesterday?"

"Haven't the slightest," she snapped, feeling her face redden even more. "She certainly isn't in this room now."

"If'n she were, I'd be a right lucky man." Barbossa turned and gazed out the window.

"I hate to disappoint you, but she won't be coming back." Miranda's words were quavered and weak.

"Don' be so sure, missy. The sea changes everyone. She brings out the best, she exposes the worst, but above all-" Barbossa turned again to face Miranda. "-she shows ye who ye truly are."

"And who are you, Captain?" Miranda found herself asking. A deep, rough laugh trickled from the man's mouth as he approached her again.

His lips brushed Miranda's temple as he whispered, "Yer nightmare, Miss Farthin'."