The Passing of the Storm

Title: The Passing of the Storm



Summary: Post-PotC: DMC. Jack and Elizabeth. A game gone too far. A thunderstorm ready to break. Yo ho ho, a bottle of rum, and a major whoops for our heroes...



Chapters: 2 (Complete), Words: 12,000





Will Factor: (1-10, 10 being complete Willabeth/Eliziam/Swanner and 1 being an AU where Will was never born): 5



Metaphors: (Heavy... light?) Medium [Resurrection and To Rest were 'heavy'. My earlier stuff was not.]



SPF (Smut Percentage Factor) (1 being hardly any, 10 being a PWP): 7



Deflowering: Yes



Acts of God: (e.g. rolling of ship, dumb luck, crashing masts, perfectly timed claps of thunder): Yes



Gratefully and Cleverly Beta'ed and Rescued from Hell By: shatteredmind





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Part 1: The Storm Gathers



Elizabeth Swann threw open the door to the captain's cabin and marched resolutely inside. It was Jack's now, and even though the ship wasn't the Pearl - would never be - he'd tossed Barbossa out on his ear immediately, finally grudgingly appointing him second mate for his role in Jack's rescue. For the time being.



Jack's head rose before his eyes, which were more blackened around the edges than before. Before he... left us, Elizabeth thought, refusing to remind herself that he had, in fact, died. He's not dead now, she thought again, turning and closing the door firmly. Latching it. She whirled to face Jack.



She was angry, he saw. Quite angry. He knew why, too. Ever since he'd been back on board, he hadn't spoken a single word to her. For two entire days he'd taken it easy, had drunk lots of rum, had sung songs with the crew, staggering happily around the deck until all hours of the night. A celebration of life. He simply failed to include her in it. She was, after all, the one who'd damned him. He really wouldn't hold it against her, of course - he'd been an inconvenient price for all of them, and she'd happily paid it. He couldn't fault her for it. Rather admired her, in fact. But he'd be damned - again - if he was going to waste any more time of his suddenly-valuable life on Miss Elizabeth Swann. Oh, he could feel her eyes on him, always. He remembered how she'd stepped forward from the gathered crew, as though expecting him to greet her with open arms. He had almost pitied her, then - her eyes a bit red and puffy, so perhaps she'd shed some tears of remorse - but in the next second discarded that pity and concentrated on getting back to living. The ship. A real crew, not this motley bunch of miscreants who'd set off to rescue him, save for a few.



Oh, he wasn't angry at all. She would love for him to be angry. He was sure she'd imagined it, just as he was sure she'd imagined - at least once - him sweeping her up into his arms and capturing her mouth to finish what they'd begun. Hell, he'd imagined that, too. Once or twice. But then he decided that she was best left aside. Leave her to Will to deal with - he was the fool that was going to marry her. It occurred to him that ignoring her was possibly the worst punishment he could have inflicted upon her, not that he'd consciously intended it as such, now looking at her blazing eyes and the hard set of her jaw. He smiled at the thought. Smiled at her - not broadly, not menacingly - just nicely. Politely. And he saw his politeness having precisely the desired effect - a decided increase in the mercury of Elizabeth's temper. “Why, Miss Swann,” he said, aiming his small smile back down at his charts. “I'd expect a more charming entry from such a proper lady.” He glanced pointedly at her men's clothing, and then back to her face. “Well, on second thought, no... perfectly apt.”



Elizabeth took a deep breath, and longed to let it out, but it seemed to dissipate within her chest, leaving her breathless yet again. He was insulting her. That was good. It was better than the stony silence she'd received thus far. She knew the game he was playing at, and she would have none of it. “Jack,” she spat out. “Enough.”



He raised his brows at her. “Enough?” He glanced at the bottle next to him. “You can't mean enough rum. There's never enough rum.”



“No, I don't bloody well mean the rum,” she countered, glaring at him fiercely.



“Course not, as I said. Care for a drink? There might be a tumbler around here somewhere.” He stood, shoving the chair back, and went to rummage through a cabinet built into the wall. As Elizabeth watched, she ground her back teeth. So he was going to kill her with kindness, was that it? Well, fine. Two could play at that game. She took another deep breath to steady herself.

“Yes, thank you. Captain Sparrow.” She seated herself on the opposite chair, tucking her ankles delicately beneath it.



When he turned around, he saw her sitting as primly as she might in a drawing room of her father's house. Proper, despite those ridiculous pants, that he briefly considered how best to relieve her of, as he casually poured rum into a mostly-clean glass. He set it before her gently, not meeting her eyes, and sat back down. Picked up the small metal tool with which he'd been measuring a distance on the map, began to fiddle with it, as though she were not there. He heard her sip the rum. No coughing, like before. She'd learned to drink, had his Lizzie. That was interesting. No, he reminded himself. Not his, never his. Sit still. Measure.



A rumble of thunder sounded in the distance. Moments passed, and the silence between them grew more and more deafening. He scratched on the parchment and peered at the shapes and markings with feigned absorption while he listened to her drink. Heard her shift in her seat. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her hand lift to the collar of the shirt. Unbutton a button. His hand froze on the instrument for a moment, but then he forced himself to continue. “If you are overly warm, Miss Swann, might I recommend the air on deck? That is, of course, unless this storm decides to break.”



She looked up to find his eyes upon her, black as the night visible through the stern windows. So he had been watching her, after all. It was awfully stuffy in the confines of the cabin, and she couldn't breathe buttoned up to her neck. How could he stand it, wearing a shirt and tunic besides? He had to be boiling alive. Well, no less than he deserved. Until he stopped pretending she didn't exist, and spoke to her. “I'm not going anywhere. Thank you.”



He accepted her reply with a tilt of his head, and finally tossed the implement on the table. Folded his arms. “I take it, then, you've got something you wish to discuss?”



“Of course I do.”



“Oh, naturally. Forgive me - you are a woman, after all, notwithstanding that outfit.”



He was pleased to see her lip curl back in frustration. She set the glass down resolutely after taking a long swig. She turned her eyes upward, and he noted what an interesting color they had... tea, or rich bark, or something equally of the earth, but bitter. Hard, now, as they fell upon him. “Jack, your attempts to keep me in suspense are unacceptable. And rude. Whatever punishment you've planned for me, let's have it.”



He raised his eyebrows at her with a bemused smirk. Clearly he thought this was a matter of great enjoyment. She fumed as he steepled his fingers, leaning his elbows on the table. “Punishment? Why, whatever do you mean?”



“You know damn well what I mean,” she said, surprising herself with the vehemence of her retort. “No more games.”



“Oh.” Jack smiled. “Pity. I like games.”



“Do you?” she said pointedly, reaching for the bottle to fill her small glass again.



“Oh, yes,” Jack said, and she noticed his voice had gotten lower, breathier. Another low rumble of thunder from outside. Her hand shook on the bottle as she poured. Only a little. But Jack saw. Of course, he would see.



She was nervous, or else so worked up her hands were trembling, he concluded. Excellent, in all cases. He was enjoying this thoroughly. “Would you care to play a game, Miss Swann?”



His tone was dangerous, Elizabeth thought. Low and soft and completely treacherous. Perhaps confronting him had been a bad idea. “What sort of game?” He smiled at her again, and it was a wicked smile. Truly wicked. She caught every gold glimmer of his teeth, every spark of mischief in his eyes. Her breath caught. Oh, no. She had to get out of this, and fast. She set down the glass. “On second thought, never mind. I'm not interested in games. It's better if we simply talk.”



“Oh,” he said, sticking his lip out in his trademark faux pout. “You've disappointed me. And I had just thought of a delightful game, too.”



“Jack, we have to talk.”



“There's where you're wrong, Elizabeth,” he said, picking up the bottle and taking a long drink, dabbing an errant drop from his mouth with his wrist. “We do not have to talk. At all. In fact, shouldn't you be snug in your cabin, right at this moment? Let's find dear Will, and you can yammer into his ear all night. He should be prepared for what you'll be like once you're married, after all.”



He was immensely pleased to see her gnashing her front teeth as she pressed her lips together before taking another sip from her glass. He watched her swallow it, set it back down. “You refuse to converse with me, then?” she said. “You still refuse to acknowledge that you're angry about what happened, and you're just going to send me packing?”



He attempted to keep his expression carefully blank. “One, I am not angry. Two, I have not refused your company - in fact, I've suggested a way to pass the time, which you have, now, refused.”



“The game?”



“The game.”



A long, quiet moment.



“Very well, Jack,” she finally said in a patronizing tone. “What's this game?”



“Oh, it's one of my favorites. I'm very good at it, and I expect you will be, too.” The flare of heat in his eyes sent shivers down Elizabeth's spine, but she held herself still and waited for him to continue. “It's a game of deception. And yet, it requires an implicit trust between its players. I don't know if we have that, do we, Elizabeth?”



She looked at him, a little more sincerely. “Trust?” The sound of thunder from beyond the cabin was louder now, a closer, more ominous rumble.



“Yes. You'll understand once we play, but I don't know that it will work.”



“If it's only a game, what motive do I have to trick you?”



“Precisely. It is, as you say, only a game. So we're agreed?”



“I don't know what I've agreed to.”



“To be honest, with me. With yourself. When called for.”



She considered his statement, thoughtfully. She glanced around the cabin, noting its four walls, the ocean outside the windows. The night was dark, and the candles would burn out. There was no one to hear any secrets or inconvenient truths she might reveal.



No one, except Jack.



“I'm amenable to your terms, Captain Sparrow,” she said, folding her hands together in her lap, as calmly as if she were her father engaging in a business transaction.



“Listen to you,” he said, leaning forward on the table. “You even talk dealings like a pirate.”



“I'm learning from the best, aren't I? Well, on with it. Let's play.” She leaned forward, too, several pieces of her hair falling forward onto her face. He watched the candlelight flicker over the strands for a moment, before returning his eyes to hers.



“It's quite simple. True, or false. One person makes a statement. The other guesses whether the statement is true, or not. If they're correct, it's their turn, and it continues.”



“And if they're wrong?”



He smiled again, tilting his head sideways to peer at her from just above his lower lids. “Then, it gets mighty interesting. Very interesting indeed.”



“Stakes?”



“How deep are your pockets, Miss Swann?”



“Money?”



“No. Gumption. As I'm sure you haven't got bollocks - “ He glanced down at her lap, and then back up. “Fairly certain, anyway - I'm wondering how much you're willing to lose.”



“I'll meet the ante you name,” Elizabeth said, keeping perfectly still. “I don't intend to lose.”



“Then I'll give you your choice of poison, since you're so very confident. For every wrong answer, the player shall drink a glassful of rum. Obviously, this impedes their reason and puts them at a disadvantage.”



She scoffed and sat back in her chair. “You think to make me inebriated so that you can behave like a perfect lecher? What's the other option?”



“You forget, Miss Swann, I shall become inebriated as well, if you play as well as you say. But the second option involves the removal of garments. I'll even lend you my hat and tunic as a handicap. Clearly a player must cede when he or she no longer retains decency.”



“What choices! Only a pirate.” She glared at him fiercely. “Is this what you lot do in your leisure time? Get drunk and strip off your clothing?”



“More often than you'd think, lass.” A pause. “Well, what's it to be? Good night, or game on?”



She cocked her head and looked at him, a challenge in her eyes. “Game on. And I will take those items you offered, as I am somewhat handicapped in my ability to remain decent.”



“That's an understatement,” Jack muttered as he leaned over to grab his hat and toss it to her. He then unbuttoned and shrugged out of his tunic, and handed that over, too, watching as she opened it and hung it on the edges of her shoulders. “Very well, shall we begin? Ladies first.”



Elizabeth secured the hat on her head, and leaned back in the chair with her half-empty glass, pondering where to start. Soon an idea came to her. “All right. True or false: when we lived in England, I was taught to ride. I loved horses - the smell and the animal wetness when they nuzzled your hands never bothered me. My father bought me a horse - a mare - and I named her Bonny. I was very sorry to leave her behind when we left for Port Royal.”



“True,” Jack said.



“A good guess. For all you know, I could detest horses.”



“A very good guess. Sidesaddle, or astride?” Jack's eyes seemed to light with amusement.



“Sidesaddle out of the stable. Astride when I was out of sight of the stable and could get it off easily, or when there was no one about and I saddled her myself.”



“Excellent,” Jack replied, leaning back in his chair. “All right. True or false: I single-handedly sacked the port of Nassau without firing a shot.”



“The legend?”



“The legend.”



“False. I'll bet there were no shots, but I don't believe you did it single-handedly. In fact, I heard a story that it was another pirate crew who took out all the guards, and then you and yours simply swept in after them.”



“Very good. It was something like that. In truth. But truth is over-rated, as I'm sure you're coming to learn. Next?”



She leaned forward again, folding her fingers together on the table. “True or false: James Norrington was the first man I ever thought of marrying as a young girl.”



Jack swirled the liquor in the bottle as he debated. Did she have to bring up that man? Just when he thought he was rid of him. He couldn't remember precisely how long she was supposed to have known Will, but he was fairly sure he'd heard mention of the then-lieutenant guarding the young Miss Swann and her father on the crossing from England. Yes, Gibbs had said that. A teenage girl... a handsome officer. He looked at the mischief in her eyes. She wanted him to say no, out of spite for the commodore, he could tell. He wouldn't give her the satisfaction. “True,” he said, taking a drink.



“False,” she said with a broadening smile.



“Damn. I thought you'd have fancied him before you even met the soaking-wet Will Turner. He is handsome, wouldn't you agree?” Jack reached for the buttons on his shirt, and began to undo them rapidly. He was pleased to see her watch, transfixed.



“Oh, quite handsome,” she agreed. “But not half as exciting as the man I imagined myself...” He was doing it so fast, she thought. She hadn't time to prepare herself, his hands were flying down the row of buttons... then pulling apart the sides, exposing bronzed, roughened skin dusted with black hair... she raised her eyes to his face. He was regarding her with a knowing smile. He cast the shirt aside on the floor.



“True or false,” he said, crossing his now-bare arms with a cocky smile. “The story about the sea turtles has nothing to do with the rum-runner's island, but in fact was started by a tavern wager in which a sailor entered shouting about two sea turtles who'd crawled up to lay eggs on the beach, and bets were placed as to whether a man could ride the waves by standing on their backs. I succeeded.”



She considered for a moment. “True.”



“False.” He watched her nose wrinkle in annoyance as she took the tunic from her shoulders.



She fingered the fabric of the tunic as she took it off, surprised to realize she was sorry to let it go. It smelled like him, smoky and spicy and warm. She resisted the urge to lift it to her face, gathering it between her hands. “You failed, didn't you? I should have known that part was a falsehood.”



“I certainly did fail. Got up on them, fell right in the water when they both swam in opposite directions. I was pretty sloshed, too. Somehow the rumor began that I'd ridden them out to sea. Crazy drunken pirates.” The tunic landed on top of his shirt, and the two of them regarded each other. “Your turn, Miss Swann.”



She debated, and finally decided to raise the bar somewhat. “True or false.” She took a deep breath. “When I was twelve, my mother drowned herself in a pond not a half mile from our house in England, out in the country. My father told everyone it was an accident, but I was sure she'd done it on purpose. She loved to bathe in it, even though the local folk whispered that she was soft in the head. She'd never have drowned... accidentally.”



Jack stared, considering. He swallowed, lifting the bottle again. Swigged. Set it down. “True,” he said, a little softer than before.



She lifted her brows at him, and then found herself staring at her hands, but without really seeing them. “False. I was eight. By the time I was twelve, we'd come to Port Royal.”



Jack took a deep breath, and let it out, slowly. “I should have guessed that. I knew you'd been the Caribbean for eight years or so. So be it.” He reached up, lifted his hair, and untied his bandanna, coiling it into a tiny heap on the table. “I'm sorry,” he said.



“Thank you. Your turn.”



Jack cleared his throat. “True or false: half the scars on me back are from when I was an upstart of a deckhand on various merchant ships and the like. The other half I received as a young man... from my uncle.”



Elizabeth looked at him. “May I see?”



“You want to see? Be my guest.” He rose and turned his back to her, and she drew in her breath as her eyes fell upon the criss-crossing network of raised pink lines, some faded to a pale white against the deep tan of his skin. She stood and walked around the table to look more closely. The muscles of his back were well beneath the skin, creating a soft layer that looked smooth to the touch. She reached out and brushed her fingertips across it, snatching her hand back when he seemed to shiver at her touch. He turned back around, suddenly. “Well?” It occurred to her that he might feel odd about his stripes, that he might not like others to look.



“True,” she hazarded, looking at the slightly hurt expression in his eyes. Like a dog who'd been kicked. Then it was fierce again, the light coming back. He smiled, but it wasn't a nice smile.



“False,” he said, lifting his chin toward her, just as defiantly as when he'd called her pirate.



“False?” she echoed, feeling the stirrings of anger. After what she'd told him, he would dare to play upon her sympathies in such a fashion? Her palm itched to slap him. She didn't realize she was raising her arm until his fingers wrapped around her wrist. The muscles of their arms tensed in a silent war.



“It was my father,” he whispered, lowering his head to look at her from beneath lowered black brows. She closed her eyes, and the impulse came upon her to trace each of those scars with her fingertips. When she opened them again, the mischief had returned to his eyes, and she realized his hands were on the open collar of her shirt, grasping a button there. He would undo them, as rapidly as he had his. She discovered she was holding her breath.



Jack found it hard to breathe as he rested his hands at the opening of her shirt. She could feel them there, had to know what he was doing. Was she going to let him? His pulse began to pound and he felt a surge of blood through his veins as he popped the first button deftly through its hole. Her eyes remained closed as he undid a second, and a third. His breath came out in a silent, hot sigh. When he reached the bottom, he couldn't resist the urge to slide his hands inside, longing for the silky feel of her skin... and he was surprised to feel thick cloth. He looked down. Beneath the shirt she had wrapped yards of linen around her torso and chest, binding the gentle swells of her breasts to her body. In surprised protest, his eyes came back up to her face, below his hat, which she still wore. There, he saw a bit of feminine satisfaction, a bit of naughty vindication. Her lids rose to reveal pleasantly mischievous dark irises. She stepped back, stripping the shirt from her arms, and then walked back around to the opposite side of the table.



It was her turn. “Jack, I rather think it might be more interesting if we changed the rules a bit.”



“Meaning?”



“So far the statements are judged for verity by the other player. I'd like to play so that the player himself must be confronted with a truth or falsehood.”



“For example?”



“I present you with a statement. You confirm or deny it. You may elect not to answer any question you wish, but that is a mark against you, and you must take something off.”



Jack pursed his lips. “A very interesting twist.”



“Shall we?”



“Certainly. It's your turn.”



“True or false, Jack: you find it easier to forgive women for wronging you than men.”



Jack tilted his head, thinking. “True. Well, more true than false.”



“I suspected as much.”



“So the object, here, is really to present the other player with a question he or she does not want to answer honestly, it seems.”



“Perhaps. Refusal to answer is an option, remember... just a costly one.”



“All right. But do recall your oath of honesty, love. I shall hold you to it.” Jack leaned forward on the table again, pieces of his hair falling forward over his shoulder. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “True or false, Elizabeth: you regard your approaching nuptials with nothing but the strictest of happy anticipation.”



She hesitated. He was looking at her, could see her hesitation. She had a feeling that if she lied, he'd know. So she reached down and pulled off a boot. She tossed it at him, and he leaned to one side to avoid being struck in the shoulder. “True or false, Jack: when we were marooned on that island, you were furious I'd gotten us rescued because you fancied the idea of staying there a bit longer.”



He drew back in surprise, and then smiled a warm smile that reached his eyes, his lips resting closed, his arms reaching down to pull off one of his own boots. “I ought to throw it at you, too.”



“That would be ungentlemanly.”



“So are half the other things I thought of doing on that island.”



His calm, evenly spoken words lit a little flame within her. Her lips parted. “Really, Jack. Can you remain civil?”



He blinked at her. “Love, you're sitting half-naked with one boot and a bottle of rum, in the cabin of the most infamous pirate in the Spanish Main. Where do you get 'civil' from that story, hm?”



“Be as flippant as you like. You're only one turn away from losing. You've only got your boot left.”



“Oh, that's where you're wrong, Lizzy,” he breathed, and she felt a delicious shiver as she realized he'd slipped back into using that silly nickname, which meant something was slipping... something was going to give.



“You can hardly remove your breeches in my presence. You said yourself - when decency is compromised, the game is won.”



He furrowed his brows, nonetheless scheming something behind those dark eyes. She rose, securing the hat on her head, and walked around the table to face him on his side of it. He leaned back a few inches as she leaned forward, setting a hip on the edge of the table. She held his gaze as she lowered her face to his, whispering almost against his lips: “True or false, Jack Sparrow. You're angry I tricked you on the Pearl, not because you came to harm, but because I made you believe, for a moment, that I actually would want to kiss you.”



He closed his eyes in despair. His answer choices were False, You win, or... oh, shit. And he suspected she knew that false would be, well, false. He could easily lie in order to best the situation, but to what end? She'd be angry and defensive, and might even leave... and that would hardly get him what he ultimately wanted, would it?



“True,” he said. There it was. And, oh god, look at her face. She was so close to him now, he could reach up and bring her lips down and that would be the end of all of this... His hand was reaching up as she backed away, eyes wide. She was certain she'd beat him, there. Never expected him to admit it. “My turn,” he said, and swallowed, his mouth feeling dry. He took a drink of rum, looking up at her as she stood before him. “You kissed me to enact your little trick, but you were surprised by how much you liked it.” There. Let her chew on that.



She narrowed her eyes at him, and then leaned down to tug off her other boot. It came off easily, since they didn't fit her tightly. She set it on the floor, and faced him again. “You rowed back to the Pearl because you finally felt guilt for all you'd done to us.”



“False,” he said. His smile broadened at her puzzled look. He took a step closer, and she was backed against the table. He shifted his weight in front of her and placed his hands on the edge of the table, effectively trapping her between them.



His bare chest was inches from her body, and she felt a bit dizzy as she tried to find a safe place to look. His eyes, bad. His lips, equally bad. His shoulders, bad as well. She shut her eyes, and could feel him leaning closer to whisper into her ear. The caress of his breath on her ear made her jump when he spoke. “True or false, Lizzy. The closer I get to touching you, the more you think about what it will be like with Will.”



She was relieved her eyes were closed, for if they had been open she almost certainly would have given herself away completely. “A refusal to answer is not an acknowledgement, nor a denial. Any answer to that question would be improper.”



“Naturally. And you've no bollocks, as I said before. So, shall it be impropriety, or the hat, love? Your choice.”



She raised her hands to lift the hat off her head, and placed it upon his. She was suddenly reminded of the day they'd met, when she had put his hat on in much the same manner, with much the same degree of misgiving and annoyance. And he gave her the same grin of saucy satisfaction. But he was so close she could feel the heat of his skin along her entire body, even though he was perhaps an inch away; so dangerous. She had to nail him down... “True or false: you're hoping I won't cede and you'll get to see me in an improper state of undress.”



“True,” he said, without a moment's hesitation.



“You admit it?”



“Why not? Why shouldn't I?”



“All this pretense of playing fair!”



“I am playing fair. No rule says I can't have a little fun while I'm at it.” Suddenly he grasped her shoulders, tightly, and his face fell into a more intense expression. “True or false: you honestly were never sorry, you're still not sorry, that you chained me to that ship and left me to die.” His voice was a low growl.



Her head fell back, her mouth open. Now he'd gone and done it. And this was the moment she'd been waiting for all night - the moment when he would confront her about what she'd done. But she hadn't been expecting it just then. She'd been expecting it for two days, and now she was lost... her choices were limited. She could say True, and lose him forever, she was sure. He'd cast her aside as another indifferent woman, not a friend. Not as anything special. And she'd know she was a liar, and he'd probably know too, and it would probably stay that way. Or she could say False, and finally admit to him that she'd done what she had to do, but that didn't make it good, or right... and she'd have done anything to get him back.



Or she could remove her breeches. Or her wrappings.



Jack was closer now, his arms coming to rest on her waist, his breath hot against her neck. Was it worse to give him access to the secrets of her heart, through the truth, laid bare to both of them? It was terrifying to think of that, with Jack. Nothing had ever been plain between them.



She could, of course, refuse to answer, and give him indecent access to her body, instead. A sudden spark of need flared deep in her belly, and she nearly groaned. Think of Will Turner, the closer Jack got? Hardly. Almost never, when Jack was around, loath as she was to admit it. And she didn't think about Will then, either, or not for long, as she lifted shaking fingers to the end of the linen wrappings, tucked in at the bottom, near her side.



Her eyes were closed, but she felt Jack's reaction when he saw what she was doing. His fingers tightened on her shoulders, squeezing hard, as she began to coil the linen in her hand and unwrap it from around her chest. She had passed it back and forth three or four times before Jack made a sound deep in his chest, like a moan he'd trapped inside, and his hands left her shoulders to find her hands. He guided her fingers faster, harder, unwrapping the cloth around her middle three or four more times, his mouth almost against her shoulder as he helped to pass the bunch of cloth behind her. She began to breathe more quickly, wondering what would happen when she finished... but still there was lots of cloth left. She'd bound herself tightly, not wanting to give away to anyone who didn't already know that she was a female, not to mention providing some modesty from lecherous glances.



“This'll take bloody forever,” Jack said, impatience roughening his voice. He shoved her shoulders back gently, and she stopped unwinding, opening her eyes to look at him quizzically. He turned and took a few steps away, picked up something from a side table, and turned back to her. She was so intent on his smoldering gaze that she didn't know what he'd done until she felt the cool tip of the metal blade at the base of her sternum. He meant to slice the rest, she realized. The thought both frightened her and excited her at the same time. He paused, looking at her. He was waiting... he wanted her to want him to, she wanted him to want to... oh, rational thought was escaping her as she nodded, once, and the blade slid upward along her belly, feather-light, and she heard the heard the snap of the threads as the linen was shredded. Rrrrrrip.



The bandages fell away, but Jack was still looking at her face. He set the dagger down beside them, and the two of them looked at each other. As long as she held his gaze, he wasn't looking at her body. “Your turn,” he whispered, his voice no more than a harsh rasp.



She looked straight into his eyes, which had not left hers since he had stripped her. “True, false, or take off that boot: it vexes you that you still desire me, even though I killed you.”



He smiled a bitter smile. “Don't suppose I can count the hat?”



“No, you may not.”



“Very well.” He bent over and propped his foot on the chair, tugging at the boot until it came loose and he tossed it aside. He wore his breeches, and his hat. She wore hers. He turned back toward her, and she inhaled sharply as he slid in front of her, and reached for her waist. His palms were searing hot on her sides, and she was so unsettled by his nearness that she could barely draw breath. Still he hadn't looked at her, and now his eyes were closed, dark half-moons, as he held himself inches from her naked upper body.



He tried to keep his eyes closed. He told himself it had gone too far, that he should have stopped before he started tearing her clothes off, but there was the rum and the candlelight and that challenging look in her face, and God help him, the woman was just what he needed to remind him he was alive again. One look. No touching, just a look. Something to call forward from his mind in the future, when she was gone and married and he was alone with a bottle in his cabin. Just one little peek...



She was startled by the ragged sound of her own breathing. She forced herself to continue: in, out, in, out, and all the while she waited to see if Jack would open his eyes. She knew he wouldn't be looking at her face, if he did. Oh, no. They were past that, now. And suddenly she realized that she wanted him to look... his eyes flicked open, then, only halfway, and she held her breath again as she watched him look at her. His eyes were still as he took in all the parts of her that were now exposed. Then his eyes were back on her face. Burning hot. So hot. Thunder again, from outside. A bit closer.


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Click "Next Chapter" for Part 2: The Storm Breaks.