Scars

Around the back of the tavern, Jack caught sight of the singer standing in the tiny back yard. From the back, which was all he could see of her, she wasn’t bad. She was shorter than Jack by several inches, and her hair was a rather nice reddish brown and was in a single braid pinned up at the back of her head. She certainly had hips, even though he couldn’t see much else due to her long skirt. She was half bent over a tub of water set on a waist-high tree stump, scrubbing sheets on a washboard while she sang. She finished the last sheet, and turned to empty the dirty water out when she caught sight of Jack lounging against the building, watching her. The song died on her lips and she looked as if she thought he had sprung from the depths of hell.

“Hm, not bad,” Jack thought. She wasn’t what he considered pretty, really. Her nose was a shade too long, her mouth a shade too small, her face a shade too round, but her eyes were amazing. They were a brilliant emerald green, with long lashes and dark brows. “A man could drown in those eyes,” Jack thought. He’d have to be careful he didn’t drown in them, himself. He wrenched his gaze from her eyes and glanced at the rest of her. Breasts that fit with the size of the hips, long legs for her height, arms that looked in proportion to the legs. Not bad at all, he thought, but he decided to leave her appearance alone for the moment, especially since she knew he was watching her.

“With a voice like that, you could be singin’ for your bread, not servin’ rum and dodgin’ drunks, luv.”

“They didn’t want singers, they wanted serving maids. And I wanted the money.” Surprising. A brain to go with the rest of it. Jack grinned. This was indeed going to be fun.

“Point, t’be sure. How did you wind up in Tortuga anyhow?”

“Morals.” Jack snorted, amused. If she thought she was going to find morality in a tavern here, of all places, he’d take back the thought about the brain.

“In Tortuga? Not likely, luv.”

“More so than in an aristocrat’s house. I’ve been thrown out of three, no, four houses now because I wouldn’t accept that the chambermaid’s job was to clean the master’s house and warm the master’s bed.”

“Ah. And it’s the bed y’ had troubles with, then?” Jack found himself wondering if she preferred women, or if she was one of those unfortunate but common cases who had been introduced to the world of carnal pleasure by way of rape, or the next thing to it. He hoped not, on both counts. He could imagine—hell, he’d experienced--worse things than waking up beside this woman tomorrow morning, and he didn’t want to have to take all day about getting her in bed.

“It was. I will not whore myself, and I won’t let anyone else do it for me. I choose who I take to bed. And I don’t take money for it.”

“Morals, indeed. And in a tavern wench, yet. Funny world, innit?”

“Not so much. Set up that way. Without references, because my former employers didn’t see fit to provide me any, gentle service became impossible. Not knowing any trade, I couldn’t very well make my living in one. So what did that leave me? Barmaid or whore. I set out to prove that the first doesn’t mean the second.”

“What d’you mean, you don’t know any trade? Singin’s a trade right enough.” There was a small pause, which puzzled him, and then she answered.

“For a man, maybe. For a woman to do it, she needs a patron. A tavern owner, for instance. And as I said, they didn’t want singers, they wanted serving maids. Can you imagine these men wanting to listen to a singer? They’d be shouting for rum to begin with and throwing things to go on with. And I’d be lucky if all they threw were blunt objects.”

“Point, again. Y’re on the wrong island for singin’. Is the tavern-wenchin’ that much of a living, then?”

“It gives me a place to sleep where I’m not going to get rained on, and food once a day at least. And they at least try to keep the drunks off me. If they can’t, I can.”

Uh-oh, careful, Jack lad. “And how’s that? Got a dagger under that skirt, have you?”

“What’s under my skirt is my business, thanks. I thought I’d said that.”

“Aye, luv, you did.” Jack flashed his gold-edged grin at her. “Might I at least ask the name of the lady I’m insultin’?” The grin very rarely failed to melt a lady’s heart at least a little, and he was relieved to be met by an answering one, without gold in it.

“Anna. And who am I being insulted by?”

“Captain Jack Sparrow, of the Black Pearl.” Jack bowed with a flourish and took a step away from the wall. To her credit, Anna didn’t back off from his advance, although she did look slightly wary. “I don’t suppose you’d finish that song, would you?” Amazingly enough, she blushed again.

“That’s the other problem. I can’t sing for anybody. It won’t work.”

“Ah, luv, that’s a shame. It’s not every woman’s voice can wake me from across the street. “

“If I had known it would wake you, I wouldn’t have been singing at all!” She turned back to her washtub full of sheets to hide the tears threatening to escape. Damn him for making her admit her weakness! Damn him for making her remember! Damn him for being a light sleeper, and damn him for that bloody attractive grin, and damn him for making her wish she could sing for him, and damn him for seeing her falling apart!

Jack was shocked. There was something very wrong here. Most women would have said something to the effect of not being just every woman, and he would have been well into the process of seeing what the rest of her looked like. And here was this one, bent over her washtub again, so tense she looked from the back as if she were trying to hold up the entire tavern with the strength of her arms alone. What the bloody hell? He took another step toward her just as she turned around again. What little composure she had regained slipped completely and he was just in time to catch her as she fainted.