Chosen Path

Elizabeth awoke reluctantly at eight bells. She’d slept fitfully, plagued by dreams she didn’t want to enjoy, dreams of someone she shouldn’t be dreaming of. But she couldn’t stop thinking about him, about the kiss they had very nearly had last night.



She had tried to tell herself that Barbossa’s presence in her mind was simply due to her concern over his well-being, but if she was to be honest with herself, he had taken up residence well before their escapade in Cuba. And she was curious about kissing him. What would his kiss taste like? Surely it wouldn’t be so terrible to find out. Just one kiss.



Just…not when she was already in his bed. That would certainly give him the wrong impression.



Elizabeth gathered up William, who was already quite awake and eager to start the day, and made her way to the galley. Their stores were running low; they’d make Tortuga just in time. She found some biscuits, water, and a lime, and pressed a biscuit into William’s hand. “Come on, darling, we need to visit the Captain again.”



“Cappinbossa?”



“Yes, love. We’ll bring him breakfast.”



William ran ahead of her up the stairs, tripping over some rope he encountered on deck. Elizabeth looked around at the crew, coming alive slowly in the early morning light. “Alright, there, lad?” Mullroy offered his hand to William, who scrambled to his feet easily.



“He’s fine. But do make sure the deck is clear. We certainly don’t need any more injuries on this ship.”



“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”



Elizabeth grinned, took William’s hand and entered Barbossa’s cabin. William eagerly ran to him, pouncing on the bed.



“Ye again, lad?”



“Breakfast, Cappinbossa!”



“Swann.”



“Barbossa.”



“Ye left rather abruptly last night.”



“We’ll discuss it later. Eat. William, come sit over here, you’ll get crumbs on the bed.”



Their paltry breakfast didn’t take long to eat. Elizabeth retrieved the medical kit and set about changing Barbossa’s bandages, ordering William to stay put in his chair. To her surprise, he did. She tried to bathe the wound and wrap his bandages without touching him any more than was strictly necessary. Her hands shook slightly, and she wished she could say something to break the tension between them, but she couldn’t think of what.



When she tied off the rags holding his dressing in place, he took her hand, rubbing her palm softly with his thumb. She met his eyes, and was caught for a moment. When he started to pull her hand towards him, she drew back. “Please don’t.”



Barbossa released her, then shifted against the pillows. “Are ye going to let me out of bed yet?”



Elizabeth wadded up the used bandages. She would have to wash them later. Not an attractive prospect, but no worse than nappies had been.



“Mister Murtogg said to stay abed for a week, except when necessary.”



Barbossa heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Goin’ out of my mind in here.”



Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “I’m sure you’ll manage. I’ll bring you something to do.”



“Keep me company?”



Elizabeth stood. “You know better than that. I’ve a ship to run. But I’ll come back when I can.”



She returned after her shift, which had previously been Barbossa’s, at the helm. Barbossa put down his book and frowned at her. “What be this?”



Elizabeth dropped her bundle on the bed beside him. “You wanted something to do. The sails need mending, as do these shirts. I assume you can sew?”



Barbossa’s eye twitched. “Every sailor worth his salt can sew. Haven’t done in years, mind.”



Elizabeth placed the needle and thread on his night stand. “I’m sure it will come back to you. Keep an eye on William; I’ve got to attend the log.”



“What am I supposed to do with him?”



“Story!” William jumped into the pile of sailcloth and burrowed beneath it, popping his head through a tear in one of the sails.



“Stop! Yer makin’ it worse.” Barbossa pulled the fabric over the boy’s head and pulled it into his lap, reaching for the needle. “Alright, sit still, ye’ll have a story. How much do ye know about Jack Sparrow?”



William sat attentively, and Elizabeth left reluctantly to complete her navigational duties at the table. She was interested in what sort of stories Barbossa might tell of Jack, almost as much as she was interested in Jack’s current whereabouts. She would have to ask after him in Tortuga. If there was any place that might have news of Captain Sparrow, it was Tortuga.



Looking at her charts, Elizabeth judged them to be about ten days away, if they continued at their current speed. “Can we get a bit more speed?”



She heard Barbossa shift behind her. “We’re sailin’ windward?”



Elizabeth left her charts and walked to his bedside to collect William. “Last I checked.”



“Then we’ll not get much more. Keep tackin’ and hope for better conditions.”



She nodded. “Thank you.” She let her hand brush his as she gathered William into her arms. “I’ll be back tonight.”



* * *





When she returned that night, he was flipping through Cervantes. Raising his eyes to hers, he waved the book at her. “Can I entice ye to stay a while?”



She smiled as she collected the medical kit. “Alright. But I’m staying over here this time.” She lifted his shirt, carefully removing his bandages and bathing the wound, which looked far better than it had to this point.



“What are ye afraid of?”



“I’m afraid you’ll press your advantage.”



“And that bothers ye because yeh don’t want it, or because yeh do?”



“Does it matter? I can’t, that’s the point.” She tied off his bandages and put the medical kit aside. Barbossa took her hand as soon as it was empty, sliding his fingers through hers.



“I won’t press. Just like havin’ ye beside me.”



Elizabeth rolled her eyes and smiled, then climbed onto the bed beside him. He lifted the covers to allow her to crawl under them, but she shook her head. “That would be pressing your advantage, Captain Barbossa.”



He lifted his hands. “Apologies.” He held out his arm to her and she tucked herself into it, leaning against him. It was getting far too easy to do so, but she wasn’t terribly inclined to stop.



Barbossa flipped through the pages until he stopped at one that appeared to be the first chapter. He cleared his throat. “Capítulo primero. Que trata de la condición y ejercicio del famoso hidalgo don Quixote de la Mancha.”



“Captain.” Elizabeth swatted his chest. “I can’t understand you.”



“Ah, ye said we’d read. Yeh said nothing about translating.”



Elizabeth rolled her eyes. “Would you please translate?”



Barbossa chuckled softly. “Aye, si te gustas, cariño.”



His soft words in her ear sent shivers through her body. She tried desperately not to show him, but she suspected he could feel. His arm tightened around her waist and she covered his hand with hers. “I still don’t understand you.”



“Chapter one. Which treats of the condition and pursuits of the famous gentleman, Don Quixote de la Mancha.”



Elizabeth smiled and rested her head on his shoulder. “Thank you.”



Three nights running, Elizabeth curled into his arms and let him read to her, until she was too tired to listen anymore. His Spanish, she discovered, was imperfect, having been unused for quite some time, and never of an advanced literary level, but she got the gist of the story. On the third night, she felt her eyelids drooping from the moment she sat beside him, but fought to stay awake.



He was reading about Dulcinea, the country maid whom Don Quixote declared a princess, a fine lady, and his one true love. Elizabeth began to imagine herself as Dulcinea, though she had never herself been a maid, having been born a lady.



But she became Dulcinea in her own mind, and Don Quixote loved her, and dressed her as a lady, although she was naught but a maid. He gave her a gown of the finest silk, and when she wore it, she was a lady again, and he would be her knight. She heard his footsteps behind her, Don Quixote, the man who loved her.



“Maid or not, it suits ye.”



She turned, and he was there, and he was Don Quixote, and she was Dulcinea, but then he was Barbossa and she was Elizabeth again. Though Barbossa didn’t love her, this man did, and he knelt before her, kissing her hand, calling her his Dulcinea.



She pulled him to his feet, her knight errant, and held his hands in her own. She was Dulcinea and he was Don Quixote and he loved her, and she would love him, surely. And he was too proper to think of kissing her anywhere but her hands, but if he loved her, he would kiss her mouth. She had but to think of it and he did, and he was Don Quixote, but he was also Barbossa, and when he pulled her into his arms, she closed her eyes against his neck as he whispered her name into her ear.



“Elizabeth?”



Elizabeth kissed his neck, softly, then lifted her hand to his face to turn it to her mouth. As she pressed her lips to his, he started to draw back, but she curled her hand in his hair and then his lips moved against hers, gently at first, then more insistently. Suddenly his mouth on hers felt very real and very wet. It hadn’t been wet before, when she was Dulcinea.



But she wasn’t Dulcinea, and he wasn’t Don Quixote, but he was kissing her, soundly, and there was something not right about this. Elizabeth opened her eyes against Barbossa’s cheek, and that was definitely not right.



“Mmmph!” Elizabeth drew back and pushed against Barbossa’s shoulders, gasping for breath, suddenly wide awake. “What are you doing?”



“What am I doin’? Ye kissed me.”



“What?” Elizabeth blinked, then looked about, taking in her surroundings. She was in Barbossa’s cabin, in his bed. Why was she in his bed? “What happened? Why am I – ? What happened?”



Barbossa waved the book in his lap at her. “Don Quixote got the better of ye. Yeh fell asleep.” He reached behind her to put the book on the nightstand, then let his arm curl around her shoulders, pulling her back against his body. “Didn’t want to wake ye, but ye started moanin’. Though it was a nightmare until ye started with the kissing.”



“I was dreaming, I think. I was Dulcinea…” Elizabeth’s fingers touched her lips. She had wondered how kissing him would feel, but she had been only barely conscious, and now she could scarcely recall the sensation of it, the taste of him. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.”



“No need to apologize.” His lips brushed her cheek, his fingers tightened on her shoulder, and in sudden panic, she twisted out of his grasp.



“No, there is. I shouldn’t have. I’m not Dulcinea, and you’re not Quixote.”



He didn’t speak for a moment. She met his eyes, and saw the struggle there, the pained look she knew her face must surely echo. She wondered if he would ask her to stay again. She wondered how much longer she would be able to turn him down.



“Go, then, if that’s what ye be wanting.”



It would be so easy to kiss him again. Two steps and she’d be back at his side, able to crawl into bed beside him, wrap herself in his strong embrace, and lose herself in his kisses. It had been so long since she had been kissed. The very idea made her breath hitch and her stance unsteady on the rolling boards.



Elizabeth forced her feet to step backwards, forced a shaking breath into her lungs. “I love my husband Captain Barbossa, and I intend to wait for him. You would do well to remember that.”



His gaze turned sharp at that, and she could no longer bear to meet it. Squeezing her eyes shut, she turned and managed to walk – not run – from his cabin.



* * *





It was slow going to Tortuga, but they held the course as best they could. Barbossa, grumbling, mended sails and braided ropes as Elizabeth brought them, and kept William entertained with tales of pirates long past, or of his own past.



She continued to read with him at night, or rather listen to him reading, but he no longer pulled her into his arms. She sat beside him now, arms just barely not touching. He did not attempt to kiss her again. She supposed she should be grateful. She certainly was not disappointed. Certainly not.



On the fourth day, though, he began to grow irritable, growling about being trapped in his cabin, being stuck in bed, and the sewing needle pricking his fingers. The fifth found him becoming snappish with her, and she declined to join him for their reading session. By the sixth, he was downright impossible, and she declared she would read with him again when his temperament improved. It did not. On the seventh night, Elizabeth dragged a reluctant Murtogg with her to inspect the wound.



“What’s he doin’ here? Told ye to keep those hands off me.”



“Reckon it’s time for the stitches to come out, sir. She wanted me to help.”



“Yeh don’t touch me. She can touch me. Yeh don’t.”



Elizabeth rolled her eyes and peeled off the bandages. The injury had healed nicely, though he would likely still have a scar. Murtogg handed her a small scissor, and she carefully snipped at the threads, making sure to pull every fiber from his body, lest an infection turn his condition worse.



“Watch what yer doin’, yeh nearly stabbed me!”



Growing impatient with his attitude, Elizabeth snapped back. “Do it yourself then, if you don’t like it. No? Then do keep that wretched mouth closed.”



She tugged the last bit of thread free and dropped it on the plate Murtogg held. Satisfied that he was no longer needed, he beat a hasty retreat from the cabin and the storm that was brewing between the two Captains.



“Most women have nicer things to say about me mouth.”



Elizabeth tried to keep the tremor from her hand as her eyes were drawn inexorably to his lips, curled now into a half smile. She could almost recall the taste of him. Though she couldn’t help the desire that pinched her insides, he had been more than a little unpleasant these past few days, and she was not about to reward such ill-tempered behavior. “I imagine they were being kind.”



“Not so.”



“No? Why couldn’t you free Calypso?”



It was a cruel blow, and she knew it, but she was growing sick of his snappishness. He had been laid up for over a week, and was certainly going a bit stir-crazy, but that was no excuse to holler at the one person who kept him company, tended his wounds, and ran his bloody ship.



“I’ll not be answerin’ a question such as that.”



Elizabeth applied the bandage she had washed earlier in the day. She was, perhaps, not quite as gentle as she usually was. “It needs to be said as if to a lover. I thought you were her lover. Why couldn’t you say it?”



He snarled at her. “I’m not that kind o’ lover.”



She gestured to him to sit up, and he pushed himself forward as she wrapped the rags that held the bandages in place around him. “What kind of lover are you?”



She realized she had her arms around his waist as she asked this, and he took advantage of their position to leer at her. “Kind that’ll make ye scream.”



She drew back, rolling her eyes at him. “No wonder it didn’t work.”



“Turner never made yeh scream?”



“Of course not. Why would I want him to?”



It was meant to be a rhetorical question, but he wouldn’t take it that way, and in truth she couldn’t deny her curiosity. She knew she should be disgusted with him, but whenever he waxed lascivious, she learned something she could store away for retrieval later, when she lie alone in her bunk at night. Ten years was a terribly long time to go wanting, and one day’s worth of memories only got her so far…



He chuckled softly. “Ye’ve no idea, do ye?”



“Of course I do. I am married, Captain.”



“Aye, I received the invitation. How was the wedding night, if yeh don’t mind me askin’?”



“I do, but it was lovely.”



“I’m sure. Lie back an’ think o’ England, eh?”



“It was much better than that!”



“But yeh were on yer back, weren’t ye?”



It was really none of his concern, and she should have said so. “Naturally. How else would I be?”



It was another question that should have been rhetorical. With most men, it would have been. Well, no. With most men, she would never have answered. Most men wouldn’t have asked.



“Yeh really want to know?”



She met his eyes for a moment. There was hunger there, to be sure, but something else, some sparkle of something she couldn’t quite identify. She had certainly swallowed a butterfly, and the thing was fluttering about in her belly like it wanted to burst through her skin.



“I – ” she began, but the words caught in her throat. She should walk away before this went any further. So she always said to herself, every time things between them grew heated. She did want to know. If only to supplement her fantasies of Will.



“C’mere.” Barbossa reached for her, and she let him pull her forward onto the bed beside him. “Like this.” Guiding her over him, his hands moved from her arms down to her hips. “I won’t hurt yeh.” He nudged her legs apart, and when she realized what he was indicating, she pulled back, shaking her head. He took hold of her hands then, and watched her. He didn’t pull her towards him, didn’t even hold her tight enough that she couldn’t easily walk away. She couldn’t explain why she didn’t. Curiosity, perhaps.



She leaned forward and let him steer her into position, as surely as he guided his ship. She straddled him, realized their fingers had interlocked somehow, and stared down at him. Her breath quickened. He had not replaced his shirt, and, though she had seen him without it all week, she had never seen him from this angle. In fact, she had never seen anyone from this angle, quite this way.



“It works this way?” She knelt over him, and though there was still the safety of a small space between them, it was easy enough to imagine lowering herself until they touched.



“Aye,” he breathed, “it works this way. Have to get a bit closer, mind.”



She hadn’t meant to get any closer. She was certain she had intended to remove herself from temptation entirely, but instead she was scooting forward, letting her body sink down on top of his until they were touching.



She had grown accustomed to the gentle rocking of the ship on the waves, so much so that she rarely noticed it, except in a storm. She noticed it now, though, the shifting of the world beneath her making her rock a bit to compensate. She could feel him, through her breeches and his, pressing against her as she steadied herself.



She closed her eyes and tried to think of Will, dear Will, but she caught Barbossa’s sharp, guttural exhale, and all thoughts of her husband fled as she stared transfixed at the man beneath her. His head was tilted back, eyelids half-closed, and he breathed through clenched teeth. He almost looked to be in pain, and she wondered, if she kissed him, would he feel better?



Her focus caught on his lips, parted and dry. What had they tasted like? Apples and wine or salt and sea and wind and freedom? Surely all of that, but she couldn’t recall it. The need to know was overwhelming, and she found herself sinking down, melting into him. One kiss, and she would know.



No.



It wouldn’t be one kiss, it couldn’t be, not with the way her body burned with the feel of him, the way he struggled to maintain his composure. If she kissed him now, she wouldn’t stop, and then…her body shook with anticipation.



It was too much. She couldn’t, wouldn’t do this, not with him. At least, not now, not while he was still injured. She glanced down to the bandages she had so painstakingly laid on him, and pulled away. She started to slide off him, but his hand came back against her hip.



“Where do ye think ye be going?”



“You’ll hurt yourself. I just took those stitches out, I’ll not be putting them back in again.”



“I’ll be fine. Yeh want to know how it works.” His hands on her hips rocked her fore and aft, sliding along her thighs. The feel of him between her legs was sending flares of pleasure through her body. Why had she not done this with Will, this way? “Let me show ye.”



“No, Captain, really, I can’t do this.”



His fingernails dug into her skin as his hands stilled on her legs. “I warned ye about offerin’ – ”



“You started this one!”



“Then let me finish it!”



“No!”



He released her roughly and she scrambled off him. She straightened her clothes and stole a glance back at him, catching him run a shaking hand through his hair. Her own hands couldn’t keep still, her legs were horribly unsteady, and there was a terrible, wonderful ache in the pit of her stomach.



She willed her feet to take her out of the cabin, but instead she took an involuntary step back towards him. “Captain?” she whispered.



He tugged his shirt back over his head and shifted against the pillows. “Stay away from me, girl; I won’t let yeh go twice.”



Elizabeth was rooted to the spot on which she stood. She watched Barbossa as he breathed, heavily, eyes locked on hers. Time seemed to stop as she stood, caught between what she knew she should do and what she desperately wanted to do. In her mind’s eye, she saw herself moving forward, climbing back on top of him, kissing him fiercely as she slipped her hands back under his shirt. Her knees buckled slightly as the image overwhelmed her.



“Captain, please, don’t be angry with me.”



“Make up yer damn mind, girl. Ye want me, I’m yers. Ye don’t, stop yer games. Can’t take ‘em no more.”



“This was your game, Captain.” Elizabeth mocked him. “‘You really want to know? I won’t hurt you.’ Your game.”



“Aye, until ye started ridin’ me like ye meant it.” Barbossa threw off the covers and swung his legs off the bed.



“Don’t, you’ll hurt yourself.”



Barbossa snarled. “Been abed all bloody week. Reckon I’ll know if I hurt meself.” He advanced on her, and she took a step back, but his arm came around her waist, his other hand in her hair. He pulled her flush against him, and though her hands dangled uselessly at her sides, she could still feel the heat of his body through his shirt, could still hear the rapid pounding of his heart.



“Tell me yeh feel nothin’ when I touch ye.” His face came around the side of her head, his breath hot on her ear. “Tell me true that ye don’t want me, not at all, and I’ll ne’er touch ye again.”



Elizabeth raised her chin. “And if I did? Want you?”



“Do ye? I’ll make ye feel, mark me words. I’ll make ye scream, and ye’ll love every minute.”



Trembling, Elizabeth shut her eyes as his fingers tightened against her neck. It had been so long since she’d been properly kissed, since she’d been touched. He already made her feel, without even trying. If she let him, she could feel so much again.



By betraying her husband. She was glad her eyes were closed, lest her sudden tears flow before him.



“I love Will.”



“That’s not an answer.”



“It’s the only answer I have to give.”



Barbossa all but threw her from his arms. “Get out. Come back when ye make up yer mind.”



On shaking legs, Elizabeth fled his cabin.



Back in her own bunk, Elizabeth pulled out the chest she stashed beneath her bunk, and held it in her lap. Pressing an ear to the cold, hard metal, she listened to the faint sound of her husband’s beating heart.



“Mama? Why are you crying?”



Elizabeth brushed away the tears she didn’t realize she had shed.



“I miss your father, William.”



“Father?”



Elizabeth put down the chest and climbed into her son’s bunk, pulling the sleepy boy into her embrace. “Your father, Will Turner. He was a good man. Is a good man. He’ll come back to us, someday. Would you like me to tell you about him?”



“Okay, Mama.”



Elizabeth breathed in the scent of William’s baby hair and told him all about his father, the kind blacksmith, the dashing pirate, the fierce swordfighter. She kept talking about Will, long after her son fell asleep, but for all that she tried to think about Will, her dear sweet Will, she couldn’t banish the thoughts of Barbossa.



As she closed her eyes and let sleep claim her, it was Barbossa’s voice she still heard murmuring softly in English and Spanish in her ear, Barbossa’s eyes piercing her as his body moved beneath her. Barbossa arms, holding her firmly against him. And though she whispered Will’s name, it wasn’t his lips she dreamed of kissing, wasn’t his body she dreamed of holding.



Make up yer mind. His words haunted her. She needed to stop the games, but she couldn’t. Didn’t want to. She needed the games, the flirting, needed him to want her, when none had for so long. She couldn’t expect him to give her the attention she craved without wanting something in return. How much was she prepared to give? Could she really wait seven more years to feel again?



“Oh, Will,” she whispered. “I’m not sure I can make it…”