Parlait

Elizabeth felt as though she’d drowned, and now was being gently towed back to shore as she nuzzled the side of her face into the red chest hair that tickled her eyelids, nose and lips. It felt so very good to be held by this man, cradled to his powerful body, strong arms holding her against him, even his chin tucking her head beneath his as if he meant to keep her safe and protected with the whole of him. She couldn’t move, wanted to wrap her arms around his neck, but everything ached with the weariness of having been made his. His, what? Her body was tired, she wished her mind could be as well, but instead, it began to race. Barbossa had set out to claim her, and he had, but what did it mean? What was she to him? What was he to her? With what she was feeling at the moment, Barbossa may as well have been the first man to ever hold her in his arms.

“Elizabeth,” he kissed the top of her head, she shifted against him and resettled herself, pushing her body against his as if she knew some way of snuggling even closer to him than she was. He came to realize it had made him smile, and he did his best to push that happiness away, but it wouldn’t go. “Y’can’t crawl inside me chest, dearest, no matter how diligently y’try. A bed, we’ll both be more contented, and I pledge y’can lie all o’er me there as well.”

“No,” she heard herself moan the word before she even thought it, and as soon as Barbossa made to move away from her, her arms found strength, one over his shoulder, the other across his chest, over his heart. She’d nearly forgotten the names upon that spot until she felt him unconsciously pull away. Why did he react so? She let her hand drop away from his heart, cupping it over his pectoral muscle instead. She was so tired now, and so secure where she was on the floor, wrapped in his embrace. “The invitation is lovely, but please, just another moment or two?”

Barbossa sighed, the aches and pains that had plagued him for the past few years dissolved upon his re-emergence into the world of the living, but all the same, he was tired of sitting on the floor of his cabin. But Elizabeth, she’d laid her head back upon him, her soft hair brushing his nipple, and her little fingers kneading away at the thick muscles of his shoulder, skin like satin pressed to his. How could he abandon her, abandon this? Why did he care? “Don’t be fallin’ asleep,” he tried to sound gruff, but even if he’d managed it, Elizabeth took no notice; just sighed herself and held onto him more tightly, her warm, soft body seeking some sort of happy comfort from his. No woman had sought such from him in so very very long, it stirred his past, made him remember not just being in love, but being something other than a pirate once.

To his surprise, the melancholy was fleeting, turning instead to wonderment that he could still feel what he felt all those decades ago. He’d been such a young man the last time holding a woman like this had made his heart morph into a bird soaring free in the sky. He’d forgotten, had made himself forget, what it was like, this feeling that lifted him up, how the smell of her hair made his pulse race, how the feeling of her body against his was like a leeward wind, billowing out a topsail. There was no fighting it; he wanted this as badly as Elizabeth did, just to hold a lover to him in pure joy and adulation. He tightened his arms around her, hugged her to him as much as he could with her back to his chest, until he feared his strength may cut off her air, or bruise her ribs. She moaned softly and happily, turned her head into the crook of his neck; her eyelashes brushing his skin, and her arms wrapped over his in front of her. There was a new pounding in his chest, against her back. No, not close enough. He needed her heart to his. “C’mere, lass,” he ground out ardently, and lifted her from the floor just enough to turn her to face him, her legs over his, her arms around his neck, and his arms pressing her to him so tightly that her breasts flattened against his chest.

Elizabeth sighed again, her skin warmed by his embrace, her heart by something else. She wished she could hug him back with at least half the fervent strength he enveloped her within. Such a debauch and base act, followed by such an intimate session. Such a man…tall, strong, foreboding, and yet suddenly and mysteriously sensitive. For most of her life Elizabeth had fought everyone who dared to try to tell her what to do, to control her. She’d defied her governesses, her father, James Norrington, Will Turner, Jack Sparrow, everyone, but him. She’d searched and searched for an equal in this life, perhaps she’d found him? Could that be? All she knew for certain was that it had never been so easy to melt into anyone before, rejoicing in every ounce of them that held her. She felt Barbossa’s great chest rise against hers as they drew a breath together, one breath, an amalgamation of beating hearts and veneration, and for a brief, perfect moment they couldn’t have been made any closer.

His grip lessened as he eased himself back from her, one hand tilting her head up; her eyes were closed, she hadn’t the will to open them, but she felt his mustache and beard brush her mouth, followed by his lips, tender against hers, more rubbing slowly than actually kissing her, like an affectionate nuzzle that grew into a kiss. She was tired, so tired, but she could bear this, she could always bear this! She pulled her arms tighter around him, let her lips part and invite his tongue as he grew stronger against her. His hand moved to the back of her head and she angled her neck towards him, their lips opening and closing softly against one another’s as their tongues flirted; the taste of their mouths sweet.

Had her mouth not been so pleasantly occupied, Elizabeth would have smiled. He’d done quite a flawless job of mastering her and establishing the control he could make her give to him, only to now be sitting on the floor with her, kissing and holding her, though it was he who had demanded they move to his bunk. He was slowly kissing the outline of her lower lip now, his mustache bristling gently along her upper lip, making her move against the ticklish sensations. Such attentions from him were precious fare, and it felt good to have this with him, she wanted to encourage it to never end. Elizabeth dipped her head down just enough to kiss his lower lip, sucking gently, her chin buried in his beard, for the moment halting his ministrations, letting him know that she desired this closeness they shared just as much. Her eyes were still shut, but she felt him smile against her mouth, and then kiss her, engaging her lips in a firmer pressure, his tongue once more seeking out hers. A few sweet strokes of his tongue over hers and hers over his, then he trailed down her chin to her neck, holding her a little tighter and giving Elizabeth another chance to steal a brief rest.

“I’m so tired,” she half whispered, willing her eyes to open, but the spell he wove seemed to want her to remain placidly sleepy. “I want to keep kissing you, but I don’t know if I can—“

“Then don’t,” Barbossa’s breath was gone as he laid his finger to her lips, his mouth soon against his digit and her mouth, his finger sliding away slowly, leaving them joined once more, only this time Elizabeth was afforded the luxury of being kissed, her lips remaining supple and pliable beneath his, but static. His plan, to kiss her until she fell soundly asleep, no matter how much it troubled him to admit he desired to do so. He was too solitary, too grizzled, too old, to be in love again, and with Elizabeth Swann? He’d never met a woman of her caliber, had never expected that she’d so gracefully submit and trust the way she had; and yet retained such beloved defiance. It just spoke more of her incredible fortitude. But, what were the chances of her returning that sentiment he felt? For all the captivating joy it cast upon him, he expected nothing but tragedy for reveling in it, and yet, for all his strength, he was powerless to resist it.

Bed, put her in the bed, she wasn’t something to be made to sleep upon the cabin floor. He shifted her tired body across his as he got to his knees, and began to stand, lifting her in his arms as he did. Elizabeth’s eyes opened briefly to see what was occurring, “y’ll sleep more pleasantly in the bed, girl,” he said to her, gaining his full height and adjusting his arms under her shoulders and knees. She smiled, and laid her head against his chest as he strode to his bunk.

Barbossa settled her into the muslin sheets, and then she was covered by his big body, his mouth at hers again, kissing softly as though he meant not to disturb her as she lay back. Or did he? The overall feel of this was not sexual, she felt him against her, but his cock did not harden or flinch. Elizabeth would make herself available though, always eager for the chance to hold him within her, no matter how tired. She raised her arms around him weakly, attempted to spread her legs around him as well, only to have him abruptly lift his head and sever the lightest of contact on her lips.

“No,” he whispered, smoothing his hand over her cheek and leaning down to gently kiss each of her eyes closed again. “It’s not that I want, girl. Feel me beneath yer hands if it pleases ye, but sleep.”

She was amazed, did not know men did this. If Jack kissed her, or even touched her, she had very little time to get her clothes off before he did so for her. She’d never minded that, but this, being kissed, not having to so much as return it, was more than endearing. “You make me feel like something so extraordinary.”

“Sleep,” he answered quickly, very quickly, as if what she’d said had already discussed more emotion than he wished to.

Elizabeth smiled, and lay back, just feeling what he did to her, the gentleness and attentiveness of his mouth. What they’d shared before had been rough, the feelings it stirred sometimes frightening and brutal, but she knew that he’d always kept her from harm and danger. He was what pushed her to limits beyond that which she’d ever been tested, but had managed to keep her so protected and make her feel so unlike any other woman. He kissed her now, again and again, straying from her lips to her neck, languidly moving over her collar bones, every inch worshipped with the brush of his beard, mustache, hair and a soft, slow, silent kiss that caused the most charming and alluring tingles to overcome her skin. And still he went lower, moving down her body with care, caution and respect, kissing her, kissing her everywhere as sleep pulled at her. Such a man…perhaps she was so tired she couldn’t fight it any longer, but the love she felt for him settled clemently over her, holding her as tenderly as Barbossa did in his strong arms. Could he love her? Did the old, raised from the dead, salt still bother with such emotions? She fought to ponder this, strived to concentrate on every kiss he lay upon her skin, sought to understand some deeper meaning behind each pressure of each osculation, but the last she remembered was Barbossa’s beard skimming up between her breasts, and his lips delicately upon hers, like a sweet kiss of goodbye seconds before she sank beneath the gentle waves of sleep.

There, at peace. Barbossa lightly stroked her face, and then got to his feet. He wished he was at peace, wished he could sleep, for he was tired too. But what he felt wouldn’t let him rest, the sheer joy of the feeling itself, and the darkness so oddly attached to that joy jerked his mind and heart wide awake. He loved Elizabeth Swann, Sparrow…suddenly, her marriage to Jack was such an annoyance! But what did it matter? He knew ultimately he couldn’t keep her, and that she wouldn’t stay. Whatever was between them stayed as it was; a brief and wonderful encounter that she would likely never mention to Jack, or think of again. It was best that way, keep on their heading to where he’d last seen The Pearl, and give her back to Jack. But in the time it took to find him, why not enjoy her? It would likely hurt later, but at this point in his life, what sense did it make to run from pain? He’d built his life around such. Barbossa loved Elizabeth, but she was not his. And even if she were, he was likely to fail her.

The names inked over his heart suddenly felt newly branded on his skin. He knew he imagined the sting, but it was still enough to make him seek a wet cloth that was in the fresh water bucket in the corner of the cabin. He looked down at Elizabeth again, asleep in his bunk, beautiful white body lying upon the muslin sheets as if floating on a cloud, her golden hair neatly framing her face. He’d made her trust him, but there was no use in entertaining thoughts of making her love him. But if she only knew…what would it change? Nothing, he told himself, standing there watching her sleep. She was likely dreaming of Jack now, despite his best efforts to bleach Sparrow from her thoughts. Too much thinking, too much pondering…wash; press the wet rag to the imagined searing of those names, say a ten millionth apology to the two whom he owed so much more than that to, and when Elizabeth woke, coax her into another passionate distraction. Keep it at that, and only at that.

* * *

Elizabeth stirred at water being wrung out of a cloth, the sound like the clean resonance of rain; a gentle awakening that turned to disappointment when she discovered herself alone in the bunk and not tightly curled against Barbossa’s chest as she’d dreamed. Instead, he stood with his broad back to her a few feet away, rubbing the wet cloth over his arm and shoulder. He didn’t know she watched him, and Elizabeth smiled, not wishing to disturb him, so contented to just lie in the Captain’s bunk and stare at his strong body as it glittered with dampness. He was still naked, she must not have slept too long, in fact, if she tried hard enough, she could still taste his kisses upon her lips. There was a new smell in the cabin, like something burning, a heady, cured spice type of aroma, and before Elizabeth could attempt to place it, she saw Barbossa take a half spent cigar from his mouth and blow out the smoke leisurely. Again she smiled; her father had sometimes smoked a pipe, but even in the Governor’s Mansion, cigars were a rare commodity from Cuba, but of course Captain Hector Barbossa would have a supply of them. It added to the roughened majesty that was about him.

Did he usually wash? Or was it in honor of her presence? It didn’t matter, she so enjoyed the show of rippling muscle, noted the lines of definition in his legs, the roundness of his buttocks, and of course the broadness of his shoulders; he was well put together, she’d seen scragglier looking men half his age. She should be the one washing his body, wanted another opportunity to run her fingers over the muscle and power of him again; she by now knew her place with him, and she loved having it.

On his back was a large tattoo of a beautiful harem girl, a scimitar balanced elegantly a top her head as she was in mid twirl. The ink seemed to dance as he moved, reaching back to wipe the nape of his neck. It too made Elizabeth smile, until she remembered his other tattoos; could that odalisque be ‘Graciella’ or ‘Juliana’ with a sword on her head? No, she wouldn’t start her speech with jealousy in her voice, and she swallowed her venom back.

“Y’ve hardly slept long enough, girl.” By now Barbossa could feel when eyes were upon him, and though he welcomed her gaze, it had still prickled the hair on the back of his neck, something that came with being a wanted man for as long as he’d been one.

She was so stunned that he’d spoken Elizabeth forgot what she was going to say. “How did you know I woke? Did I make some noise?”

Barbossa turned halfway towards her and only smiled smugly at her, taking another long draw on the cigar in his mouth, not offering to indulge her curiosity; perfectly satisfied to let her wonder if he was somehow superhuman. “Go back to sleep.”

“No,” she sat up, yawning and stretched. “I’ve a second wind,” she smiled, not able to peel her eyes from his form. She could just make out his flaccid cock, profiled against his thigh. She smiled, thinking of something she knew he’d like, something due him, and rose to her feet. “I’ll sleep when you sleep, Captain” she walked over to where he stood; dipping her hands into the bucket of fresh water and then cupping it to her face and neck. “When I can feel you beside me so that I know I am safe.” She added with a smile, and then leaned against him, nuzzling her head along his biceps.

Her words made his heart jolt within his chest, and he was happy to hear her equating safety with being close to him. No, he had to have mistaken her meaning. He exhaled the smoke, blowing it away from her face. “Yer not the first woman to find her fears lessened by knowin’ where I am at night.” She only snuggled closer, wrapped both her arms around his; Barbossa gave a low chortle of satisfaction. He took the cigar from his lips, held it down to her, not sure if her time at sea and aboard pirate vessels had encouraged a tobacco habit in her, but ready and willing to share the best of such with her if it had.

Elizabeth smiled but shook her head, honored and happy to have been offered a toke from him, even if the only part of the cigar that had appealed to her would have been what taste of his mouth remained upon it. A manhandler of ladies indeed! She turned her head away and pressed a ‘thank you’ kiss to his strong arm and then sank to her knees at his feet, taking the wash rag from his hands as she did. His softened cock hung just above her lips and the taste of him flooded her memories. That would come again soon, but not yet. “Something tells me that no woman truly has very much to fear from you at all.” She reached behind her, moving the bucket to the floor as Barbossa eyed her suspiciously.

So now she saw him as some noble protector of women? He fought off his smile, however proud he was that she thought so. “Somethin’ tells me yer a little girl givin’ to romantic notions.” She knelt in front of him, looking up at him with bright eyes, shining with some thrilling idea. “And what notion have y’now?”

Elizabeth plunged the rag into the cool water, pulling it forth again and wringing it out. “Is this not a pleasure I owe you, Captain?” She folded the rag and pressed it over his foot, slowly working it up his leg a bit before plunging it back into the water, wringing it again, and starting again at his ankle. “A duty I am prescribed?”

She was so full of surprises, even in submitting she took the lead, thought of things he did not, performed that which he would have assumed she was too proud to do. He could see how she looked at him, her eyes downcast to where she washed his feet, but there was always a glimpse upwards, subtle and disguised, but a secretive, hungry glance at his cock nonetheless. She wished to bathe him, to remove herself from that scepter between his thighs in some fashion of homage. In truth he’d already scrubbed his skin all over, had just been finishing up when she woke, but he’d had no course in mind to impede that which she offered to impart. Slaves were a dime a dozen in the Caribbean, it would have been no trouble to purchase some comely niggress to use and then make a hand servant of, but not only was this avail freely given, Elizabeth was who freely gave it.

“Fancy yerself a bathhouse maid?” It was difficult not to drop to his knees and kiss her as she eased the wet cloth up his leg, over the scrimshaw like tattoo of an octopus devouring a crab on his calf muscle, up the bend of his knee which he strove to keep from quivering. Once in awhile her fingertips brushed his skin and it was if he’d never been touched by a woman, but then, he hadn’t, not by a woman who put herself before him like this. Did she wash Sparrow like this? He doubted it; he’d not seen any such reverence in her actions when it came to heeding a man that was her lover in their prior encounters this night. Sparrow…how had a woman like this ended up married to him?

“I am of the assumption that you would better know the conduct of bathhouse maids than I,” Elizabeth smiled, stealing another glance at his cock, wondering if he was beginning to harden yet. “Perhaps you could tutor me, if you wish to?”

What she felt was so difficult to describe, not entirely love, not entirely lust, but a desire, no, a need to be close to him once more, her body so suddenly and severely addicted to the feel of his. She’d do anything to have him above her again, that big chest heaving against her breasts, strong arms squeezing her against him, and his cock stabbing into her again and again, piercing her heart with each thrust and allowing this great love within her for him to flow through them both.

“No,” Her hand and rag were nearly up his thigh now, Barbossa felt a march of tingling sensations climbing each vertebrae of his spine; it had been so desperately long since any woman had made such sensations occur in him. “Yer no whore of the bathhouses.” He took another drag from the cigar, then had to put it out in the mother of pearl ashtray on the table, for he was far too distracted to smoke it now.

“No?” Elizabeth smiled, eyed his cock again, dunked her rag into the water and came a bit closer to it this time; to her excitement, she saw the head of it twitch and Barbossa’s eyes closed. Soon, she thought, soon he’d be upon her again, making her his, fucking her, cumming in her…such an odd and sudden fixation, but she so anxiously wanted him to cum in her again. Her heart was beating faster now, she pushed back the urge to put her hands on him and stroke his cock into hardness, fought for something else to focus on besides the readiness that pounded and slickened between her legs. Bathhouse maids…she had been curious to know what he was used to having with a woman, and what kind of woman he was used to having. However, that very concept now intrigued her; Barbossa did not see her as a whore. “What am I, Captain?”

“Elizabeth,” her name pushed through his lips on a heavy breath, eyes hooded, pulse racing in his ears like the sound of breaking waves. What was she? One of three women he’d loved in this world. The thought alone was like an anchor, grounding him, stopping him from this drifting that could only lead to something being said that would sink him. His muscles contracted sharply as he flinched, rousing himself from this dreamy state, but not about to endanger where it would ultimately lead. His cock was beyond his own control now anyway, its inner fibers expanding as it grew larger and began to rise against his thigh. He loved this woman, but it was not a topic for discussion, and so he said the only other thing that had been so annoyingly on his mind. “How is married life?”

Elizabeth nearly dropped her rag. “Why do you ask that?” At a time like this, he inquires as to her and Jack? Had it not been his goal to make her not think of Jack? She didn’t want to think of Jack, it complicated things so unnecessarily.

She seemed as if she was hiding something. Barbossa’s eyes opened and peered down at her. “Answer me, girl. I’ve a right to know, it’s me who’ll be facin’ down yer jealous husband, is it not?”

“Your reasoning is very weak,” she said, wrung out her rag, became determined to take him off this course. She loved Jack, didn’t doubt that she did, but being married to him had not proven to be an easy thing. “Married life is married life. It was what Father Caymulhy set down between Jack and I on the day we wed; love, honor, obey, protect, til death. What more is there to be said?”

There was only one word in what she’d said that meant anything to Barbossa, and it made his heart beat even faster. “Caymulhy? The little priest turned pirate? That be who married ye, lass?”

“You know him?” She’d noticed before that his cock was beginning to harden, but now he was fully erect. How odd, and unfortunate, for asking about her marriage had caused Elizabeth’s mind and desires to stray. It startled her when Barbossa dropped down to his knees in front of her, leaning forward and kissing her, she’d hardly even returned his kiss, though he’d come at her with some fervor. She wanted to join him in what had seemed to overtake him, but what did this mean?

“It were I who recruited Caymulhy!” Barbossa smiled, and laughed when he saw her furrowed brow, she clearly didn’t understand what had made him so enthused. “Caymulhy was defrocked two years prior to joinin’ me crew on The Pearl. Defrocked priests cease to be priests; no collars, no prayers at vespers, no last rites, no givin’ of Communion, and no joinin’ of souls.” His smile widened, he pulled Elizabeth into his arms and held her tightly, claiming her with all his strength as he looked her in the eyes. “Elizabeth, yer not married!”