Chapter Twelve

It didn't matter what she felt.

It didn't matter what she thought he could someday feel.

It didn't matter, because emotions were no substitute for reason.

Miranda sat on the steps leading down to the brig, staring helplessly at the empty cell. Hours ago it had held a woman in the prime of her life. Sinful, yes, but human. Now it held only the water that coursed in and out with the tilting of the ship. In, out. Miranda wished she could leave her fate so easily.

Barbossa was a killer. She'd been witness to his actions numerous times now, but something kept drawing her back to him. Was it freedom? Was it the actions he allowed to betray his passions as no true English gentleman would? There were no rules of civility, no rules of etiquette, only truth.

She had to escape. She felt fondness for an evil man, and as long as she remained on his ship her judgement would become more and more clouded. She could become one of them. If her hand caused her to steal, she must chop it off. If her eye caused her to sin, she must pluck it out. If her heart caused her to love the wrong man, she must break it.

Miranda stood wearily. The crew had been celebrating all evening both the added contribution to the gold they'd deposited and the entertaining execution. She could hear the strains of a cheery reel being played on the fiddle by one of the men, and thumping overhead as the men danced and drank rum they could neither taste nor enjoy.

Bloody pirates.

Miranda made her way up the steps onto the holding deck where the men celebrated. No one noticed her as she slipped up the final steps to the main deck, and Miranda caught herself searching for Barbossa's face among the men and instantly reprimanded herself. Once she reached the cool sea breeze her head cleared of dark and heavy thoughts. She was to be free.

There was not a soul on deck as she stole into the captain's cabin to stock up on food for her voyage. She had no qualms stealing from a crew that had no need to eat, but she did defy her morals as she slipped a few extra things from a cabinet into the haversack.

Reaching the rowboat was perhaps the most difficult task. It was not tied directly by the Jacob's ladder clinging to the side of the ship, and Miranda had to haul the heavy, sea-swollen rope to which the small boat was knotted to grasp the edge.

She tossed the supplies she'd collected recklessly into the boat and then climbed shakily in. Using a stiletto she'd found in Barbossa's cabin, she sawed furiously at the rope until the rowboat was released from its leash.

As the boat drifted away from the Pearl, a thick wave of panic overcame her as she realized she was completely on her own in the middle of the ocean. Although she'd stolen a few of Barbossa's navigational instruments, including a small spyglass and a compass made of dark wood and edged in brass, these tools were useless if she didn't know where she was to begin with.

Her main priority, however, was to get away from the ship. Her absence would probably not be noted until the next morning, but Miranda would take no chances. Knowing how fast the Pearl could sail in favorable conditions, she rationalized the best thing to do would be to row against the wind and hope Barbossa would assumed she'd done the opposite for convenience's sake, should he search for her.

Miranda now knew what she meant to him--what she'd always ever meant to him: she would have been an easy outlet for him to test the rewards of breaking the curse. It was a shameful role he intended her to play; vulgar, selfish, and demeaning. And yet . . .

. . . part of Miranda had been stirred by the words soon I'll have every part of you.

/\

On the third day of Miranda's escape, she saw land growing on the horizon. It didn't look to be a fully-civilized island, but as the waves towed her closer, she saw docks and and a little town resting by the seaside.

As she neared it, however, her hopes began to fall as she saw the ships that docked in the bay. Some had innocent colors flapping in the wind; reds, blues, solid blacks, but several bore a recognizable skull over crossbones, cutlasses, or feathers. This was clearly a pirate's port.

Miranda steered the small boat away from the harbor; she wanted to attract as little attention as possible. The sun was low in the sky, and Miranda feared she might be forced to spend the night. All she really needed, however, was to get her bearings. Once she new in which direction to sail towards Port Royal, she didn't even need a second party to get her there.

She tugged the boat ashore and crudely tied it to a palm. Gathering her supplies and shoving it back into her haversack, she slung it over her shoulder and began to hike into town.

Trying passionately to not judge the townspeople as she stepped onto the main street proved difficult. Women with heavily painted faces wearing nothing but skirts and corsets glared at her as they walked haughtily by, and boys no older than fifteen darted in front of her path and almost got away with the spyglass in Miranda's sack. How he'd opened it without her knowledge was beyond her, but she snatched it back at the last second, chiding him as he ran away. Men approached her, tactlessly looking her up and down before asking her rates.

Ducking through a door with a swinging sign above that read "Aesop's Tables", Miranda escaped the newest of her willing patrons and found herself in a bar.

The evening was still quite young; it was obvious the business was still setting up for the wild evening that would surely come, but already a few men with the painted women at their sides sat at tables and argued, laughed, or both with one another.

On the far side of the wall was what delighted Miranda. Yes, it was old and faded, and somewhat incomplete, but it was a large map of Central America nonetheless. She hurried up to it and began examining it. Much of Mexico was ripped from the frame, and lewd comments had been scribbled on certain islands describing the women one could find there, but she could still read the labels.

Hesitantly, she tapped the shoulder of the man nearest to her, who was in a drawling conversation with two younger men. He looked lazily up at her, but his dark eyes bore fiercely into her with a strange familiarity of mania.

"Yes, love?" Even his voice sounded familiar.

"What island is this?" Miranda asked sheepishly

He looked steadily at her, laughter in his eyes. "Amann."

Miranda nodded, and turned around, hastily searching for Amann on the map. It was nowhere to be found. Frustrated, she looked back at the man to whom she'd inquired. He was back in conversation with the others. She approached him.

"Pardon, again," she began, keeping her voice even, "but I can't find Amann."

"Maybe your rates are too high!" The table of men laughed heartily at his joke, and finally the first man added, still chuckling, "I was just liftin' your skirts, love; this island is Liebres."

And suddenly Miranda remembered where she'd seen him before. He was the man on the island.

"Jack," she tested. He glanced back up at her.

"Have we met before, lass?"

"I hardly recognize you without your beetle face-paint," Miranda contributed. Recognition dawned on the man's face.

"Aye, you're the girl I almost had to eat!" he exclaimed, delighted. "And how are those fine legs of yours, love? Still burned?" Without another word he began pulling up the hem of her skirts, but Miranda jumped back. Jack and the men at the table roared with laughter at this.

"They're still healing," Miranda replied hotly, and whirled around to look again at the map. She located Liebres on the map with much more success, and was heartened to find it was not impossibly far from Port Royal. Miranda dug around her bag in search for the compass.

"Where are you headed, love?" Jack called to her curiously as she rummaged about.

"None of your business," she snapped, locating the small wooden box and withdrawing it. In less than a heartbeat Jack was at her side, his hands raking forward to snatch the compass from her grasp. Indignant, Miranda clutched the tool to her chest and glared at him.

"Where did you get that?" He demanded softly, looking at her with a new look in his eyes.

Miranda repeated her last reply to him, but remained otherwise motionless.

"What do you want for that compass?" Jack asked, his voice suspiciously smooth and gentle.

"A free ride to Port Royal," Miranda suggested sarcastically, tucking the box back into her back for the time being.

"Done." Jack's agreement startled her and she looked at him in disbelief. He grinned toothily. "You see, love, that compass is rightfully mine, but was stolen by a man of profound presumption and conceit."

"Barbossa?" Miranda hazarded, and Jack's grin widened.

"Ah, so you've met."

Miranda nodded, still looking warily at him. Jack returned to the other subject. "It is great fortune, love, that I happen to be sailing in the direction of Port Royal in the morning. If you hand over that compass, I'll be willing to jeopardize the luck of the crew by allowing you on board."

"How very kind of you," Miranda said condescendingly, but it was wasted on Jack. His grin never faltered, and he finished the deal with, "Lovely. Be on the north dock at sunrise. Look for me or the Tempest."

Miranda thanked him and made to leave, but Jack caught her by the arm. "I don't suppose you'd give me the compass now?"

It was Miranda's turn to grin. "When I am standing at Port Royal, then you may have the compass."

"Clever girl," Jack approved. "It will be bad luck to have you on board."

/\

It wasn't until noon that Jack staggered onto the dock the next day. Miranda had been sitting on a barrel next to the small ship christened The Tempest for more hours than she wanted to count waiting for him. She couldn't believe she'd waited so long for this clearly hung-over pirate to carry her home, but it was some consolation that due to her uncomfortable bed in the forest away from town, she wouldn't have slept much longer than daybreak anyway.

"Ah, you're early," Jack exclaimed unnecessarily. Miranda was top irritated to dignify his comment, and merely stood as he drew nearer. He continued, "Almost thought you wouldn't make it. It is sinfully early."

"It's noon." Miranda reminded him drily, "And you're late."

Jack sauntered up to her, amused by her accusation. "Love," he began, patronizingly slow. "I said sunrise, and sunrise is a word for morning, and morning is whenever I wake up. I'm right on time, love; you're the early one."

Miranda gave up arguing. "This is your ship?" She asked, changing the subject and gesturing to the small vessel behind her.

"Of sorts," Jack replied mysteriously.

"Where is your crew?" Miranda was suddenly suspicious.

"With a ship this small, darling, I can sail it by me onesies and cut the cost of salary. Now, come."

Although the prospect of sailing alone with this madman was not altogether desirable, it was a much better alternative to rowing her way back to Port Royal. The voyage will be brief, Miranda told herself as she followed Jack up the narrow gangway. And soon all this dealing with pirates will be over. This thought cheered her. She watched Jack untie the ship from the dock, offering no help--she had no obligation to aid him--he could, as he'd said, sail it by his own "onesies."

As the westerly wind caught the sails and gently pulled the ship from the harbor, Jack sighed with content. "Now the ship is mine."

No sooner had he said that then a ringing screech echoed from the dock. Miranda whipped around to see the figure of a dark-skinned woman sprinting down the dock and halting gingerly at the edge.

"Jack Sparrow!" she screamed. "That's my ship!"

Jack laughed and ran to the side of the boat. "You never were good with grammar, my Anamaria. Was your ship, love. Was."

Although the sails were catching more wind and sending the ship faster along the waves, Miranda could see the woman's face darken in rage.

"You'll regret this, Jack!" she shouted furiously, but the man merely barked another laugh and glanced at Miranda. Seeing her look of disapproval, he tilted his head to the side.

"Pirate." His gesture was much more grand this time now that his hands were not compromised by netting and rope.

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A/N: So sorry it took so long to get this chapter out. School and word are totally owning me at the moment. Hope you liked it; I realized while writing chapter four I love writing for Jack-- I hope he's still in character; let me know if you have any pointers, since he'll be in the following chapter and . . . well. Maybe a few more after that.

Anyway, thanks for the reviews I've been receiving so far; they really are wonderful to get and motivate me to write more (hint, hint). But, seriously, they're great.