Your Move
Chapter 1 - Game
by
Pairing: J/N
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 12/17/03
Note: Would like to thank my wonderful beta reader, Theresa, and of course firesignwriter, L. M. Griffin, and webcrowmancer, whose characterization of Norrington I have shamefully hijacked. And lizzie_omalley, truly my partner in crime in these rather delicious waters.
Summary: This series is set two months after Jack Sparrow's "fall" off the battlements of the fort in Port Royal. While Elizabeth Swann and William Turner prepare for wedded bliss, James L. Norrington has come to terms with his unrequited affection for Miss Swann, unfortunately, he cannot come to terms with the extreme boredom that is like a second skin these days.
Rating: NC-17 overall
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 12/17/03
Note: Would like to thank my wonderful beta reader, Theresa, and of course firesignwriter, L. M. Griffin, and webcrowmancer, whose characterization of Norrington I have shamefully hijacked. And lizzie_omalley, truly my partner in crime in these rather delicious waters.
Summary: This series is set two months after Jack Sparrow's "fall" off the battlements of the fort in Port Royal. While Elizabeth Swann and William Turner prepare for wedded bliss, James L. Norrington has come to terms with his unrequited affection for Miss Swann, unfortunately, he cannot come to terms with the extreme boredom that is like a second skin these days.
The first letter arrived two months to the day Jack Sparrow tumbled off the ledge of my fort into the water and once more to freedom. I sat at my desk, nearly drowning from a surfeit of paperwork. My almost phenomenal efficiency at such tasks has led everyone to assume that I find this part of my job as satisfying as standing on the helm of a ship. They are wrong. Some days all I want to do is set a match to that parchment. I dream of a conflagration that consumes my office, reducing my hated desk to cinder, its ashes floating over the harbor of Port Royal. As always, however, my almost religious sense of duty prevails. Tamping down the screams of frustration and boredom like the dutiful son of His Majesty's Finest that I am, I slog through whatever stacks of parchment that have found their unfortunate way to my desk. Day after day of endless paperwork, unless by some miracle there is report of pirates in these waters. Then I rally my crew and the hunt is on. This is the only reprieve I get.
Today, unfortunately, no reports of pirates. The pungent scent of salt wafts in through my windows, calling to me, reminding me that I haven't been out in over a week. The wind was up and it would be a fine day for a sail. Just a couple of hours on the ocean would be enough to dispel this foul humor I've been in all week. My lieutenant, Mr. Gillette, all but begged me to go out with them as they made an inspection of the coves and inlets surrounding greater Port Royal. No doubt this request was a desperate move on Gillette's part to put an end to this most evil of moods that has plagued me. While acknowledging the wisdom of such a request, the mountains of paperwork and my weekly luncheon engagement, the only bright spot in the entire day, demanded I decline.
Even as my quill scritch-scratched across the parchment, I could hear the yells of the men as they called to each other, the slapping of the sails, the clanging of the rigging as the ship prepared to set sail. The sounds of a ship preparing to weigh anchor always moves the deepest part of my soul. Every time. "Dammit to hell," I cursed, as the ship glided out of the harbor without me. Tearing off my wig and throwing it across the room in a pointless display of irritation, I watched the Dauntless's sails billow as she leaned over in response to the wind's nudge, with all the elegance of a young woman bowing to her dancing partner. I followed the last bit of sail as it rounded the corner of the island before I picked up my quill again.
I spent the morning scrutinizing fraudulent requisitions that required writing stern warnings informing said providers of victuals and supplies to the His Majesty's Royal Navy that unless amended requisitions appeared on my desk within the morrow, I would make a personal visit to ascertain that these charges were, in fact, valid. My reputation as a fair, but hard man is legendary, and it is with no small satisfaction that I know that every questionable requisition will be amended. It is an unusual man who doesn't cave under the flinty and unforgiving (my nickname is No-Quarter Norrington) scrutiny of James L. Norrington. It did beg the question why they continued this charade, but I'd come to accept this as part of the game. Unfortunately, it also meant all these tedious requisitions would once more make their appearance on my desk.
The harsh Caribbean sun beat a tattoo on the back of my shoulders warning me that it was nearly time for lunch. I was to dine at the Governor's mansion. Every Tuesday without fail I'd dined there before Elizabeth's unfortunate engagement, and I saw no reason to cease now if only because I had no intention of acting the lovesick fool for the gossiping matrons of Port Royal.
To my chagrin, it was no secret that I had asked for Elizabeth Swann's hand in marriage, had been accepted only as payment for rescuing William Turner, with whom she was in love, and then my own honor demanded that I release her from this absurd promise because how could I possibly wed a woman who was in love with another man? Port Royal knew this history backwards and forwards, no less than five minutes after Jack Sparrow's arse hit the water and had escaped for yet the umpteenth time. Indeed, his escape and our little triangle combined to provide society with the scandal of the decade. With the precision of a military strike, Elizabeth, William Turner, and I embarked on a tacit agreement to act as if none of this had happened. Elizabeth's engagement to Mr. Turner was announced, I dine at the Governor's mansion on a frequent basis, and to all intents and purposes, Elizabeth, William Turner, and I are excellent friends.
This is a double-edged sword. My apparent nonchalance about Elizabeth's pending marriage silenced the gossips but had the unfortunate result of making me suitable marriage fodder. Invitations began and continue to flow in by the dozens. Dinners, cotillions on behalf of young women coming out, teas, and even the occasional boating party. As part of my promotion I am obligated to accept all invitations with good grace. So I smile, smirk, pass off bon mots, and dance (I am an excellent dancer), the whole time a corner of my mind wondering whether a man can die of boredom. The young women are boring, their mothers are boring, their fathers and brothers boring. In fact, I find most everything boring these days except for the sea and Miss Swann, who unfortunately found me boring compared to the dashing Mr. Turner. Only in the darkest hours of the night do I question whether there might never be a one to replace her in my affection and esteem, effectively making boredom the watchword for the rest of my life.
Fortunately, events at the Governor's mansion are always the exception to the rule. The food is excellent, the wine superb, the cigars, ah, the cigars. The Governor is a learned man, with a quiet wit he hides from most people—unfortunately, his daughter has inherited this wit, which made the loss of her all the greater. She has beauty, intelligence, and wit. Mr. Turner is a lucky man. And to my double horror, I've found myself actually beginning to like the lad. Our recent adventures with the Black Pearl and a number of luncheons have convinced me that Mr. Turner is actually worthy of Elizabeth's regard. Dammit to hell. I sighed, signed yet another letter, and moved on the next mundane task. But that sigh turned into a small smile. I was nearly at the end, one more letter.
This was personal. Blast, another invitation. How many of these could I endure without going barking mad? I turned it over, no return address, no stamp, no seal, the paper merely folded in three. I didn't recognize the handwriting. Surely there wasn't yet another matron with a daughter in need of a husband? With my luck, she probably had a whole fleet of daughters, all desperate for marriage. Perhaps I might not open it, perhaps it was for this evening, and I'd plead, well, indigestion. The cook at the Governor's mansion would forgive me.
Looking at the inscription again, I frowned. It wasn't addressed to Commodore James L. Norrington, just James L. Norrington. Odd. Most people were more enamored with my new title than I was. In the currency of polite society, it was a feather in one's cap to issue invitations to a "commodore."
Studying the letter further, it didn't look like the hand of a woman, but it also didn't look like the hand of a man either. The hand that held that pen was firm, my name in bold letters filling the page, which declared this writer to be masculine, yet the very edge of the "L," the tips of the "N" were embellished with flourishes, little scrolls, suggesting that writer was female. Curious. I opened it and for the first time in a week wasn't bored in the least. On cream-colored parchment in big letters were the words, "Thanks, mate." No signature. I turned over the letter to double-check the return address. This was pure form because I had already ascertained there was no address. More to the point, I knew who wrote the letter. Jack Sparrow. Captain of the Black Pearl.
***
"Why aren't you out on the Dauntless for the reconnaissance, James? It's a fine day for a sail." Elizabeth Swann gestured toward the harbor. "You've been cooped up in that dreadful office for at least a week. Surely, you could assign clerks to do most of your paperwork. Your temper over the last few days has Port Royal all abuzz."
After yet another delicious luncheon repast at the Governor's table, we were taking our stroll around the garden. Another tradition that Elizabeth has decided is written in stone. I am glad. Aside from having the most beautiful woman in the entire Spanish Main on my arm, I have a rather secret passion for flowers. Every tabletop in my house overflows with any posy my housekeeper can get her hands on. For many months I'd harbored an elaborate fantasy (truly a fantasy as events have unfolded) about Elizabeth and me residing here in this house with her father after our marriage. I love this garden, its proximity to the ocean, its enviable position on the topmost hill in Port Royal with a command of the harbor. Yet another silly dream lay to waste. It seems that it will belong to me only on Tuesday afternoons. Elizabeth threads her arm through mine, with the nonchalance that only a woman whose heart lies elsewhere is capable of.
"I seem to have a gift for minutia," I said dryly in response to her query regarding clerks. "My humors are the talk of Port Royal, Miss Swann?" I tried to sound lighthearted, but my irritation must have shown through.
"Oh, please, James. Mr. Gillette has been practically sobbing in his ale every night at what a foul mood you've been in. And he's not the only one. Mr. Grant at The Tipsy Tar is doing quite a trade, what with numerous sailors under your command licking their wounds from your verbal barbs."
Elizabeth had no patience for the polite facade I'd shored up over the years, a bon mot at a time. I'd foolishly thought that this meant that she returned my regard, that she could see the man behind the uniform. I willfully mistook intelligence and perception for love.
"Oh, please, Miss Swann," I teased, making one last attempt to find safe harbor in silly polite banter. "Surely not every night."
Again, I ignored the use of my first name and did not repay her in kind. Ever since she'd become engaged to William Turner she'd began treating me like an older brother, a familiarity that both pleased and irritated me no end. I enjoyed immensely these little tête-à-têtes she cultivated and yet resented the hell out of her for them. On the one hand, I was grateful for the clear regard she felt for me and that she had no embarrassment vis-à-vis our brief, ill-fated engagement. On the other hand, it pained me that her affection for me would always be fraternal. Once my proposal of marriage was given and rejected—clearly a sword of Damocles in her eyes—she'd had no compunction about actively seeking my friendship. Despite convincing myself most thoroughly that William Turner and Elizabeth Swann were destined for wedded bliss (one could never see them together without noticing their eyes constantly affixed to each other with a most becoming suppressed passion), it nevertheless still stung when her ease only confirmed this. I put it down to pure vanity on my part, not exactly the most enviable of personality traits. What else to name it but vanity—to desire something that you know is impossible?
"Oh, yes, Commodore," she mocked, with a rather sharp inflection on the "commodore," a rebuke to my pathetic attempt to keep our dialogue limited to meaningless claptrap. "Every night. Come sit on the bench with me." She uncurled her arm and with a graceful sweep of her skirts, sat down on the bench facing the sea. "We can watch the Dauntless come into the harbor while father and Will finish their game of chess. Will's new passion."
My spirit lightened. Perhaps Mr. Turner and I might engage in a few rounds. Chess happens to be a favorite of mine. Card games were currently all the rage, and while I am an excellent card player, chess is a natural game for a naval man. My patience and ability to strategize has in no small part played a large role in my success. Few men can claim the honor of making commodore by the age of thirty. Sadly, few men can play chess as well as I. But William Turner might be a formidable opponent. I had high hopes. He was intelligent, and I knew full well the unexpected bold nature that lurked beneath that polite exterior. Positioning myself next to Elizabeth, I inhaled the wind blowing in from the west. The brisk odor of salt and sea acted as a restorative. For the first time that day, I felt remotely human.
"I must learn to curb my tongue. Or perhaps not. If news of my ill temper reaches the good homes of Port Royal, my social obligations might drop off."
Still facing the ocean, Elizabeth noted dryly, "I'm afraid nothing will not stop the matrons of Port Royal in their rapacious quest to see you wed, James. You must realize that the very act of your drawing breath will be construed as a reason to end your unmarried state. You could be the happiest of men, the surliest of men, or the grumpiest..." I scowled. Surely, grumpy is a little too harsh. "In fact," and here a wisp of a laugh left her lips. "You could probably be a raving lunatic and as long as you were still a commodore, they would auction off their daughters without a second thought."
"True," I grimaced.
The Dauntless came into view. With a hand over my brow to shield it from the sun, I stood up to watch her perfect lines cleave through the water. She was beautiful, a ship any man would be proud to be captain of. I longed to be on her deck, feel the pull of the wheel as her rudder fought the current. Even though she was far away, I knew down to a man what every hand was doing. An army of sailors pulling ropes, bringing down the sails, preparing the anchor, a dance graceful as no other. Once she anchored, I sat down again.
"That's the first time I've seen you smile in two hours." Elizabeth swatted my arm with her fan. "Thank goodness my vanity is in good order or I'd be quite insulted."
I sighed. "It's the first time I've felt like smiling in at least a week. In fact, the last two months have been day after day of exquisite boredom, if you must know."
If she insists on treating me like a brother perhaps I will act like a brother. With every advancement I found myself with fewer and fewer opportunities for confidences. Now as commodore, I found myself with virtually none. I realized with a start that I was both bored and lonely. My recent promotion had left those under my immediate command, Gillette and Groves, somewhat at a loss. Over the years the three of us had become confidants and friends, both on and off shore. Unfortunately, they were still unsure whether this promotion had changed all that. It hadn't in my mind, but we were all still feeling our way. Perhaps my bad temper these days was not very conducive to friendship. Hmmmn. I must invite them over for dinner this week and assure them that the commodore and the captain were the same man.
I turned toward Elizabeth, her cheeks flushed nicely from the brisk wind running off of the ocean, those golden curls a bob. I frowned. My God, is she the only antidote from boredom on this island?
"You look most disgruntled, James." Disapproval was strong in her voice. I stifled a snort of irritation. A small glimpse of what it might actually be like to be married to Miss Swann? "You play chess, yes? Perhaps you and Will should play. Might improve your mood." This she said with a saucy smile. I forgave her everything. And naturally for a moment I hated Mr. Turner, whose adoration, given and returned, allowed her the ease to play with me, to tease me. She is the only person I let tease me. I wonder if she knows this.
Chess, I told myself. We are talking about chess.
"Yes, I'd like that." I smiled to let her know I was sincere, not just playing polite. "Whist players abound. It is hard to find a decent opponent in chess."
She smiled back, and gave my forearm a gentle squeeze. "Thank you." Gratitude? I realized with a start that I was perhaps one of the few in Port Royal who treated William as a gentleman. "Will's learning a number of strategies. You should see the two of them together... so amusing, so droll." Her voice held a little laugh. Song birds pale in comparison with that trill.
"Oh, really," I murmured, distracted. A gust of wind scattered orange blossoms into the air, swirling around us for a brief moment like a snow flurry before being carried away to God knows where. Funny, I've never thought of the Governor as particularly amusing or droll. "I know your father's never played the game. Who is William's teacher?" Really, the scent off of those orange blossoms was intoxicating. I must plant such a tree in my garden. Perhaps I could take a cutting today...
Silence.
What is this? Elizabeth is never at a loss for words. Hold on. Droll and amusing might be the last words I'd use to describe the Governor, however, they fit to a tee another of our mutual acquaintance. I turned my head sharply.
"Elizabeth, did you hear me? Who is teaching William all these marvelous strategies?"
She did it beautifully. And almost succeeded. Coughed once, then twice, and turned to me with the most beguiling smile, betraying herself with only the slightest hint of a blush. "Me. I've learned to play chess. There's no end to my charms."
Absolute nonsense. If Elizabeth is teaching William to play chess then I am a pirate.
The letter with no stamp. The strong, no, egotistical serif of the person who penned that letter. William's sudden interest in chess. It was all too clear.
"Is he still here, Elizabeth?" I demanded, playing the trump card without mercy. This was the first time I'd used her first name since that fateful day on the battlements when Jack Sparrow escaped through the offices of the foolhardy but brave William Turner, whom Elizabeth had chosen over me without one look back.
"Whomever are you talking of, Commodore?" The fan snapped open and began flying backwards and forwards in front of her face.
"Elizabeth," I intoned in my most commodore-of-the-fleet-like voice. "I'm disappointed in the extreme. I thought you of all people would capable of telling an absolute bold-faced lie to my face with much more aplomb. Point of order," I raised one finger. "I have known your father for ten years. In that time, he has never asked me to play chess." I raised a second finger. "I've been dining at your house for these said ten years and this is the first," and I lowered my brow just slightly, "the very first time I have ever seen a chessboard in your home." I raised a third finger. "Although a chess set has a prominent place in my parlor, and may I remind you that you, your father, and Mr. Turner have been my dinner guests a number of times, none of you have expressed any interest in the game." I was laying it on a little thick, but couldn't help myself. I clasped both hands behind my back in complete confidence. "Now, perhaps I might be jumping to conclusions," although the tone of my voice indicated that I was not, "but I suspect that your Mr. Turner's recent fascination with chess is a result of being tutored by none other than that completely despicable pirate Jack Sparrow. Although I must confess, I never pegged Sparrow as a chess player," I finished with no small degree of irony.
The fan moved faster and with a gaze absolutely blazing with confidence—God, this woman was a marvel—she stated flatly, "I told you, James. Will learned from me. I play chess."
I could not contain a broad smile. "Shall we play? Now?" I challenged with a sweep of my hand indicating the chessboard not fifty feet away in the house.
The fan stopped, the cheeks blushed, but the eyes were no less defiant.
"James, you shock me. Most ungentlemanly of you. To call my bluff like that. And no, he's not. Set sail this morning. With the wind," she smiled in triumph. I will never find another like her. Damn William Turner.
"Let's go inside and see how the game is progressing," I said smoothly.
***
In something of a snit, she ignored my preferred arm as we crossed the garden, marching in fine umbrage ahead of me to enter the house through the French doors that fronted the parlor. The words "checkmate" were just leaving William Turner's lips as we entered the room. As befitting his role as a son-in-law, William wasn't gloating over his win, and I assumed by the lack of affect on his face that Governor Swann was less than a scintillating opponent. We made our way over to the chessboard.
"How was your stroll my dear?" The governor gave his daughter an indulgent smile. It is an absolute miracle that Elizabeth isn't in the least bit spoiled.
"Fine," she snapped.
I shot her a warning look as both the governor and Will started at the sharp tone in her voice.
"Father," she cooed in the honeyed tones that she used only with him. "Did John tell you that some important looking letters arrived on the packet boat this morning? I've placed them on the desk in your study. Some of them have ministry seals." She played him like a harp.
"Oh, really, my dear? Why didn't you tell me sooner?" He stood up and gestured to his seat. "Commodore, you must take my place. No doubt William will find you a much more formidable opponent than me. He's used to playing... I'm afraid I must bid you a good day, Commodore." He held out his hand. "I foresee an afternoon writing letters."
I shook his hand. "That was my unfortunate lot this morning. Farewell, Governor, my compliments as always to Mrs. Brown. She's the best cook on the island. Thank you for your seat, but I hesitate to challenge William." I remained standing. "I understand he's been learning from a master."
The shock on both William and the Governor's face was priceless. However, I am not a cruel man, and I had no wish to embarrass the governor in his own home. Elizabeth and William, however, were fair game. I would deal with them once he left the room. "I understand Elizabeth is quite a player."
"Oh," he squeaked. But displaying that grace under pressure for which he is noted, he looked me straight in the eye. "Quite a player," he lied and then left the room without a backward glance.
I was too kind on him. They have all been lying to me.
"Beneath you, James. Such tawdry behavior," Elizabeth hissed.
Will just sat there mute, his forehead crinkled with worry. I could tell he hoped that what he had surmised wasn't true, but the smirk on my face did nothing to allay his worst fears.
"He knows, Will," she confirmed in a low voice. Headless of her skirts, she threw herself on the sofa behind William's chair and glared at me with what looked like considerable frustration and not a little rage.
Ducking his head, William began returning the chess pieces to their proper places to give himself a few seconds to gather his thoughts. The boy apparently was not only learning chess from Sparrow.
"He set sail this morning, Commodore." The white and black pawns were all in order. He moved on to the bishops and knights, his callused and work-hardened hands handling the chess pieces with great care. "He'll not be back, rest assured." Will gave me a brief look, as innocent as the governor's. "Said he had to drop off an important letter."
Ironically, they probably thought he was lying about the letter. Important letter... whatever did that mean? Important in what sense? I bent over the chessboard and picked up the black queen. Rolling it in my hand, I relished its weight and noted the fine craftsmanship of the carving. This was a nice set, fitting for the Governor of Jamaica. I raised the queen to my eyes to inspect it further and it hit me. The smell. Rum and cinnamon. Sparrow had held this piece in his hand; I knew this as well as my own name. How the ivory had picked up his essence was a mystery.
"Is he a good player, William?" I put the queen back but not until I had clasped it firmly in my palm imparting my own scent. I wondered what I smelled like.
"I would venture to say that to Jack all life is a game," William commented ruefully. "However, he owes that chess is his favorite, uh, real game. He's excellent. Beats me every time, actually. I'm convinced he lets me take a few men so as to not embarrass me," he said rather crossly. William was competitive enough for that to rankle. Good show. I'd find it insufferable myself. Bloody pirate.
"Beats me every time," rolled around in my brain. How often did Sparrow visit this pair? How often were there laughter and games and fine meals among the four of them?
I bowed. "I must ask for your leave, Elizabeth. I need to speak with Mr. Gillette regarding the reconnaissance. William, barring any reports of pirates in these waters," they had the grace to blush, "shall we schedule a chess game for Thursday afternoon? Say, three o'clock? Here," I pointed to the table, "or at my house?"
William and Elizabeth looked at each other, wary, not sure of where I was going with this.
"Your house, James, if you prefer," William said slowly. "It's closer to the smithy."
Elizabeth got up from the sofa and braced herself against William's chair. She laid an elegant hand on his right shoulder. His hand reached up in response.
"Elizabeth," I bowed. She nodded her head once, with her usual ease, but I could see her fingers digging into William's shoulder. "Good day, William," I held out my hand and with his free hand he shook it.
"On Thursday, then, James?"
"I look forward to it." I turned to leave. Was that a sigh of relief behind me? Perhaps, but it was quickly followed by a hitch of breath inward as I turned back to face them. "Do me a favor will you, William? Please tell Mr. Sparrow the next time you see him that he is welcome."
"He's welcome? Excuse me, James, I don't understand." William's brow, which was just beginning to unfurl, scrunched up again. Elizabeth's fingers dug deeper into William's shoulder. "Not that I'll be seeing Jack any time soon," he stammered.
"Of course not," I smirked back. "And no, William, you couldn't possibly understand." I wanted to hammer home that they weren't the only people harboring secrets. "This is between me and Mr. Sparrow. Just tell him that he is welcome."
Unable to keep silent any longer, Elizabeth blurted out in what only could be called desperation, "You're not going after him?"
"Pointless, Elizabeth." I looked out the French doors. The wind was still coming in from the west at about ten knots. "He's chosen a perfect day to escape my clutches. No doubt he's halfway to Tortuga by now."
William gave Elizabeth's fingers a little squeeze.
I made a move to turn and then turned back yet again. "One more thing..."
The pair stiffened.
"Tell him that I play."
***
The next two weeks were spent repairing my friendship with Gillette and Groves. I even went so far as to get so completely soused at The Tipsy Tar one night that it required the two of them to virtually carry me home and put me to bed. Amazing how a complete lapse in moral fiber can endear you to your friends. We were as thick as thieves again and, once I had recovered from the worst hangover in my entire life, my mood improved immeasurably.
Another change in the wind was that William and I began playing chess on almost a daily basis. In those sleepy hours before dinner, William and I would set up the old, battered chess set my father had given me upon making lieutenant, and we'd get in a couple of games before Elizabeth would come to fetch him after spending the afternoon at her mantua maker. The Governor was spending guineas like a drunken sailor to outfit his daughter's trousseau.
One rainy afternoon as William and I sat hunched over the chessboard, Elizabeth swept in the room without so much as a hello. Pacing in front of the fireplace in a rage, she began her usual post-mantua-maker's tirade.
"What a perfect waste of time! How many clothes does one woman need?" she demanded. We had gone through similar scenes almost every afternoon as she vented her spleen at us because she couldn't possibly deprive her father of his delight in outfitting her for her marriage. Even though we were in the middle of play, we both stood up. "Oh for God's sake, sit down, both of you," she grumbled. "And don't speak to me, Will, I'm in a perfectly foul mood."
Words to the contrary, this naturally had the effect of him doing exactly what she'd intended in the first place. Practically leaping out of his chair, William sidled over to her and whispered something in her ear. Good humor was instantly restored. I had become immune to their overly frisky displays of affection, although why they indulged in these sorts of high jinx in my presence is beyond me; it's only when the three of us are alone that this insufferable nuzzling occurs. More whispering, a giggle here and there. Elizabeth wound an auburn curl around one finger, pulling William even closer. I coughed. They ignored me, William's mouth was almost but not quite touching Elizabeth's right ear, while one hand had stolen up to caress her cheek. I rolled my eyes. God's teeth, they'd be rolling around on the hearth in a trice if I didn't put an end to this. I coughed louder. No response; William seemingly deaf to my entreaties. Understandable. However, it was his turn, and I was one move away from checkmating him.
"Miss Swann, Mister Turner!" I intoned in my most emphatic the-commodore-is-NOT-amused voice. They broke apart, Will wide-eyed and embarrassed, Elizabeth not one whit concerned. "William," I gestured to the chessboard, "do you plan on finishing the game sometime this century?" I tried to make my voice light but I knew I sounded, well, peeved. With a flick of her hand she shooed him back to his seat.
As William scurried back to his chair, she mouthed "Prig," at me.
"Hussy," I mouthed back.
"Um, sorry, James," Will apologized. "There," and he moved his bishop to possibly the worst place on the board.
Elizabeth leaned over to see where William had moved and then tisked in sympathy. "He's got you, my love."
William studied the board, frowned, and gave me a stern look. "Oh, yes, he does. Rather unfair, James. If you hadn't been badgering me, I probably wouldn't have made that move."
"Badgering had nothing to do with it. May I remind you that it was Elizabeth's charms that distracted you." I turned and glowered at her, whose hand had discovered the bowl of candies I had put on the table in anticipation of her arrival. She's rather partial to sweets. She winged a distinctly naughty smile in my direction, which was immediately followed by a distinctly choking noise coming from William's direction. The woman was incorrigible. I turned back to William. "If you were engaged to Miss Bowden and she was shoving candied almonds down her throat..."
"James?" she cooed. I swiveled around. She stuck her tongue out at me.
Ignoring her, I turned back to William. "...I strongly doubt you would have made that move."
"Miss Bowden?" William looked puzzled. "Is she the one who never stops talking?"
Elizabeth giggled. "Remember, Will? She cornered you for at least an hour at the Assembly Ball last month and told you the life story of her cats." There wasn't a resident in Port Royal who hadn't been bored to tears by Miss Bowden, who, despite a formidable marriage portion, has to yet find a husband because any suitor must first pass muster with the cats. Which they never do. Miss Bowden clearly prefers the unmarried state.
"Oh yes, I do remember." Ever polite, William just raised one eyebrow in comment. His noble bid to not insult the absent Miss Bowden, Mittens, Mouser, and Boots had Elizabeth and I clutching our stomachs in near hysterics, an occasional "meow" escaping my lips whenever I could catch my breath.
For several minutes we howled at each other like alley cats, even William unable to resist our mirth and finally joining in with a rather credible imitation of a tomcat in heat. We only stopped when my butler came in to light the candles, a reminder of how late it was. We stumbled our way to the front door, all of us wiping away tears of laughter. Elizabeth was just about to curtsey good-bye when her hand flew to her reticule. "I almost forgot, James. I have a letter for you. One of the lads from the fort said I was to give it to you directly."
I stopped breathing.
Every day I scoured my desk, tearing through the neat stacks of paper repeatedly and reducing them to a disordered heap. No square of cream-colored parchment with my name on it in bold black letters appeared. I'd even gone so far as to get down on my hands and knees and check underneath my desk a few times. I stared at the letter in Elizabeth's hand, almost afraid to take it. In the impending dusk I couldn't tell what color it was. What if it wasn't from Sparrow? And most importantly, why did this mean so much to me that I was practically paralyzed with dread and/or anticipation? I must have had my hand held out because all of a sudden I felt my fingers clutching the letter, the parchment rough against my fingertips.
Something must have shown on my face because Elizabeth narrowed her eyes and in a playful voice insinuated, "A secret admirer, James?" Quick as a cat she lunged to snatch it out of my hand. Fortunately, her fiancé, whose reflexes were extraordinary due to his almost maniacal devotion to swordplay, was faster and caught her by the wrist just in time.
"Elizabeth. No," William admonished. "The carriage is waiting, we're expected at your father's in twenty minutes, and we need to dress for dinner. Besides, I'd say that James should be allowed to have a few secrets from us, don't you? Considering." He looked at me with as close to an apology in his eyes as I was going to get. My estimation of William Turner went up quite a few notches in that moment. I didn't envy him, caught in the middle between the feisty Elizabeth Swann and the irrepressible Jack Sparrow. His life was sure to be a misery.
She scowled at him and moved to pull her hand away in pique, but then William's thumb began to gently circle the base of her wrist. Was that a slight hitch in her breath? "Yes, Will," she said quietly.
Perhaps the old adage still waters run deep rang true in this case. Perhaps he could tame this wild filly.
Then turning her head so that I couldn't see her face, she gave him a look. It must have been quite a look because even in the gloom of my dark hallway I saw William turn six different shades of red.
On second thought, perhaps not.
She turned to me, her eyes devoid of whatever saucy, come-hither glance she'd bestowed on him and said in farewell, "Tomorrow, James." William dipped his head, in part good-bye and in part to hide his blushes, and the two of them were out the door. Any more moves like that on Mr. Turner's part and the wedding would have to be moved up a couple of months.
***
No sooner did the door shut behind them than I grabbed the first candle I could lay my hands on and raced up the stairs to my bedroom, desperate for privacy. The absurdity of this headlong canter up the stairs didn't quite penetrate until I was in my bedroom with the door shut. Who was going to watch me read this? The servants were busy preparing dinner, I lived alone. Nevertheless, I sat down on the bed and placed the candle on the nightstand. Turning the letter over in my hand I saw that it was of the same paper but no name inscribed on the outside. Folded the same way but, again, no seal, no stamp. I held it up to my nose. Ah, the faintest hint of cinnamon and rum. Something deep inside me relaxed, like a muscle lodged deep in my back that I'd never known I possessed had been aching, twisting, getting tighter and tighter over the past couple of weeks and then, voila, unwound when I smelled his scent. I slowly unfolded the letter, afraid to see what it said, more afraid to see what it didn't say. Written in that same smug, overconfident hand was the single word, "Interesting."
I waited. I played chess with William. I inspected the troops. I sailed the waters around Port Royal. I conferred a captaincy on the most deserving Mr. Gillette in honor of his bravery fighting Barbossa's undead pirates. And I waited.
One week passed. The worst part was that I didn't even know what I was waiting for. Another letter? A visit? An encounter? A simple game of chess? But nothing was ever simple with Jack Sparrow. We might be moving chess pieces around the board, but I suspected there would be always be a subtext. For the life of me, I couldn't begin to fathom what that might be. I told myself that all I wanted was to play with someone who wouldn't give me any quarter, who wasn't intimidated by either the commodore or the man.
I spent most of the second week entrenched behind my desk, hands steepled together deep in thought. I was at my leisure, having shuffled all correspondence to my subordinates. Gillette and Groves plowed their way through the odious paperwork with nary a whimper of complaint, their chagrin and dismay hidden under the necessity of following orders. His Majesty's navy trains his men well.
What was I thinking by giving him that most ambiguous, "Tell him that I play." Was I supposed to reply to his latest missive? What is the proper etiquette when corresponding with a pirate? His Majesty's navy is quite silent on that subject, let me assure you. Well, I had a hope. If I didn't send word via William, perhaps it would end. Yes? No doubt he was waiting for a reply. A horrible thought. Did I want it to end? Something that really had not yet begun?
I was asking questions and completely unable to answer them. This in itself was most unnerving. I rarely ask questions. I decide. Life is more or less a series of black and white circumstances that require action. Do you love Elizabeth Swann? Yes. When you receive your promotion you will have the means to support her, therefore, ask her to marry you. This was logical. And, despite the many, many mitigating circumstances surrounding the affair of the undead pirates, when you capture Jack Sparrow, a man whose list of crimes would cripple any clerk who had the unfortunate task of listing them all, you hang him. Again, considering Sparrow's history, most logical and fair. And I follow the rules because the rules are more or less fair. But... but... the rulebooks. They do not address vagaries, the gray areas, such as what do you do with your heart when your lovely Elizabeth becomes engaged to a blacksmith or when a completely disreputable pirate saves your life and the lives of your men. And then writes you a letter.
I'd stopped looking under my desk for errant letters. Conversely, I did not stop rummaging through my correspondence searching for another letter.
What would be the worst thing that could happen? That he would best me at chess, that I'd find my opponent at least as able at chess as he was at sea. Of that I had no doubt. And why Sparrow? Was he the only other answer, the only antidote to my boredom besides Elizabeth Swann, perhaps the only other person of my acquaintance I saw as my intellectual equal? And despite the many things I deplored in Jack Sparrow's character—let me count the ways—the man was never boring.
Even more confusing was this nagging sense that something was missing. Something that I thought only Sparrow could furnish. I had no doubt of the Governor's regard, my relationship with Elizabeth as her brother in training was in some ways much more fulfilling than being her fiancé in waiting. William was fast becoming a good friend, Gillette and Groves would lay their lives down for me, no doubt, but this didn't seem to be enough. Why else would I deliberately taunt Sparrow with that pert reply, like a maid flirting with her beau? Even worse was the stark realization that if I had received that letter six months ago, I'd have been amused and then thrown it in the fire. No doubt have made some enormous show to Gillette and Groves about washing my hands to rid them of the stench of pirate. Now? In the darkest of moments I would hold his second letter up to my nostrils in a desperate attempt to recapture the faint smell of rum and cinnamon that had finally disappeared.
I had a truly horrifying thought. Did I see Sparrow as an equal? Doubly horrifying was the question did I desire him as an equal? My mind immediately shied away from answering that question. My soul said possibly.
This stupefying epiphany was followed by a wild evening the night before at Tar to celebrate Gillette's promotion, which had resulted in two hours of sleep and a vicious, insistent headache. Thursday was spent largely counting the minutes until six, when I could leave for home without a qualm. Norrington, thy middle name is duty.
Thank god it was the servants' night out. I didn't even have the stomach to partake of the cold repast my cook always laid out for me before they decamped. I hung up my hat and coat with an enormous sigh of relief.
I loved having the house to myself. It was small and the parlor chimney smoked when the wind came in from the east, but it was mine and over the years I'd made it comfortable and rather nice, really. I spent all my waking hours in the front parlor. My favorite books lined one wall, a pianoforte sat in one corner (am quite fond of music), the table with the chess set in the opposite corner, a small dining table and two chairs in the third corner, and a comfortable if threadbare sofa squatted in front of the fireplace. I'd chosen the house for its view, I could see the harbor from my window, and its garden. Night jasmine, trumpet vine, lush ferns, and tropical beauties with no name fought for space around a small patch of lawn. There were few things more satisfying than having a cigar in one hand and a snifter of armagnac in the other, relishing the aroma of the flowers as they competed with the briny odor off the sea.
I had my hand on the railing and was just about to pull myself up the staircase and to bed when out of the corner of my eye I saw the parlor door ajar, muted candlelight slipping through the opening. Simon being careless again. Forgot to douse the candle when he laid out my dinner, I must speak to him on the morrow. I pushed the door to find my parlor filled with pirate. A pirate who was eating my dinner, with my knife and fork, drinking my wine, and, to every appearance, enjoying himself most thoroughly.
"E'ening, Commodore," Sparrow greeted me by raising my glass and then taking a healthy swallow of—yes, I'd laid down that vintage down in my cellar not six months earlier—my wine.
I must be hallucinating. I closed my eyes, counted to five, and then opened them again. He was still there. Although I knew this to be impossible, I felt four completely conflicting emotions simultaneously: joy, dread, relief, and irritation.
Joy, dread, relief, and irritation aside, I got to the point. "My dinner, Sparrow. You are eating my dinner."
With a swoop and a flourish, a finger corrected me. "Not really, mate. Tried to wait, but worked up a powerful appetite rowing in. And m'not exactly eating your dinner, we're sharing like." With a broad hand, Sparrow swept his hand in front of my plate. True, he'd neatly divided everything in half. Unfortunately, it didn't apply to my napkin, knife, fork, or wine goblet. Which he then proceeded to empty.
Definitely not a hallucination. Same Jack Sparrow. Steals into your house, appropriates your utensils, dinner, chair, and wine without so much as a by your leave. The man was the living embodiment of gall.
I pulled out the chair opposite him. "Mind if I sit?"
"Not-a-tall," he slurred, as if it were one word. "Your table."
I sat down. "I wondered if that had escaped your notice."
"Not much escapes my notice, Commodore." It wasn't a boast so much as a matter of fact. He flashed me a smile, those gold teeth of his glinting off the soft light from the trio of candles on the table. "Hungry?" He pushed the plate toward me, his "side" clean.
"No thank you. I've suddenly lost my appetite. Be my guest," I gushed. The sarcasm was lost on him.
"You sure, mate?" he asked and cocked his head in that peculiar, well, "sparrow" like of his.
In a perfect imitation of him, I swept my hand in front of his plate. This was not lost on him. He cocked his head in the other direction, the black eyes widened a fraction. I'd surprised him. Then he looked away and murmured, "Good. I'm starving," and with much enthusiasm began to polish off the rest of the food. He was just about to pour himself another glass of wine when he stopped and studied me in earnest. "You look peaked, mate. Never seen more anyone more in need of the hair of the dog than you." He raised the wine bottle. "Get yourself a glass."
With great difficulty, I restrained a smile. The man was absolutely too much. Leaning over and picking up a wine goblet from the sideboard, I set it on the table. Having witnessed enough of Sparrow's pratfalls and stumbles, I braced myself for imminent disaster. No doubt he'd somehow miss our glasses, spill half the contents on the table, and I'd end up with a lap full of wine. But with none of the usual ridiculous bravado and flourish that so characterized most of his movements, he filled both our glasses with such a practiced and sure hand that I forgot what I was going to say next.
"Cheers," he said gaily, raised his glass and took another big slug. "Nice stuff you commodores have. Good food, too. Could use a decent cook. Might try to pinch her. She 'ave the same silly prejudices against pirates you do?"
I raised my glass back at him. "Most definitely. But I'll inform Mrs. Pince of your sentiments. She'll be quite pleased. Her treacle tart is renowned in Port Royal. And I'm warning you now, Sparrow. Don't so much as set foot in my kitchen. You've pinched my dinner, pinched most of my wine, and most likely have pinched anything that wasn't nailed down in this room. Keep your hands off of my cook," I warned.
"Ate the treacle tart first," he grinned and then proceeded to ignore me, eating and drinking until all was done. We sat in companionable silence as he finished his meal. My face showed nothing, but inwardly I was more than a little surprised. These were not the table manners of a ruffian. Someone had taught this man how to hold a knife and fork properly. The delicate lift of the napkin to the lips, the fork in the left hand, knife in the right all bespoke of training from a very young age, not the awkwardness of someone who'd learned good manners late in life. I pictured a very frustrated nanny teaching the hellion of a boy Sparrow must have been how to cut his meat. The woman is no doubt hearing the lyres of heaven.
In short order, he'd finished my dinner and then emptied the rest of the wine bottle into his goblet and sighed. "Dead sailor, hate that. Open another bottle, Commodore. It's a celebration. Please?" he wheedled and then batted his eyes at me. The man had ridiculously long lashes. The only person I knew who had longer ones was me.
"Do not flirt with me, Sparrow, I am oblivious to your charms." I leaned back in my chair with no intention of moving a single muscle in the direction of the wine cellar. "That sort of currency doesn't work with me."
"Really, Commodore," he sounded truly surprised. "How about this? Sorry I ate your dinner. May I have more wine, please?" He brought his chin down, pushed out his bottom lip, and gave me the most sorrowful look of such manufactured remorse that I laughed out loud. No doubt he'd bamboozled that veritable saint of a nanny every time. Again, I got that funny regard, like he'd just seen something he didn't expect.
The light from the fireplace cast a gentle glow over him. His body almost caressed the chair; he wasn't sitting so much as curling himself around it. He looked much the same as he had three months ago. His naturally dark complexion bronzed from the sun, the slap-dash application of kohl—did the man even use a mirror when he put it on—defining and magnifying those black eyes that seemed to light on nothing but take in everything. He was still clothed in the most outlandish array of striped silks, grubby linens, battered hat, and, hmmm, new boots, and, by Jove, he'd polished the silver trinkets and stones threaded through that tangled mane of black hair. But there was something different about him. What was it? Ah, he'd lost that desperation lurking underneath the charm, the sway, the theatrics. Although still slender, that sharp look of a man who missed meals on a frequent basis no longer defined his jaw line. He countered my appraisal with one of his own.
What he would see? A tall, slender young man of thirty, formal wig concealing dark hair that had a tendency to curl in the humidity, green eyes that I've been told can be just this short of cruel if the situation demands it, white breeches with nary a mark or crease, starched, pressed linen blouse, and boots polished to such a sheen that a man could see his reflection in them. As much as Sparrow was the picture of the "perfect" pirate, I was the picture of the "perfect" commodore.
"The wine, Commodore, the wine," he reminded me with a roll of his hand, the blackest of eyebrows wriggling frantically in the direction of the empty wine bottle.
I groaned, made my way to the cellar, grabbed a bottle, then grabbed another; after all this was a pirate. When I'd returned, he'd shifted his chair so that he could lay his head back against the wall; his legs stretched out in front of him crossed at the ankles, one side of that lithe frame tilted a little toward the fire to catch some warmth. Eyes closed, glass held out for me to fill, contentment written large all over that face. He strongly resembled a cat who'd just swiped a large paw into the cream jug.
"Got a nice place here, Commodore. Checked out your wee library. Got the same taste in books." This was said in my direction, the eyes still closed, wine glass held aloft. He waited a beat, then said slyly, "Isn't that an 'orrifying thought?"
I quickly scanned my bookcase to see if anything was missing.
Without opening his eyes, he drawled, "Don't get your breeches in a knot. Didn't nick any. Own most o'those meself anyway." This was followed by an impatient wave of his glass.
Again, another surprise, like the table manners. Sparrow owning books? Reading Shakespeare, Marlowe, and More? Who exactly is Jack Sparrow, or more to the point, who had he been?
As I opened the wine, I asked with a nonchalance I didn't feel, somehow I knew I wasn't going to like the answer, "And just what are we celebrating, may I ask?"
At the sound of wine gurgling into his glass he finally opened his eyes. "Fill 'er up, Commodore. That's more like it," he approved as I filled his glass to within a hair's breadth of the rim. Without spilling a drop, he raised his glass in my direction and grinned. "You, too. Prefer not to drink alone and can't toast alone."
"Oh for God sake, man," I muttered. I filled my glass, and raised it to meet his. He was priming me for defeat, as if he'd maneuvered his chess pieces so that checkmate was only a move away but he'd decided to torture me with a few pointless encounters with his bishop. Whatever was coming I knew I'd be eating, well, sparrow. "You are without a doubt the most irritating man ever born," I hissed.
"That's what they all say," he said with great satisfaction and gently clinked our goblets together.
"To the lovely and feisty Elizabeth Swann, her generous spirit..." He lifted his glass to his lips and drank with much gusto, studying me out of one eye. "You're not drinking, mate," he complained.
I took a perfunctory sip. "Why are we toasting Miss Swann?" The words were devilishly hard to get out. This was not going to be good, I could feel it in my bones. But like a mosquito bite that you scratched at until it bled, I couldn't help myself.
"Her generosity, my dear Commodore," he countered, with such an air of studied innocence that I knew the boom was about to lay me low, knock me to the deck. I braced myself. "Wedding present from Lizzie to Will. Really sweet of her, can't tell you how much it pleased him. Me being sort of a father figure now that ole Bootstrap's gone. Must admit though, there'er times when I think that boy's bitten off more than he can chew. She's a hand full at twenty. Lord knows what she'll be like at forty. He'll either be the happiest man on the face of this earth or..."
"Sparrow!" I shouted. "What are you blabbering on about?"
The eyelids closed to half-mast, the broadest of grins took over his face, a thumb hiked in the direction of the fireplace.
"Clemency, mate. Lizzie wheedled it out 'o the Governor last night. Would 'ave been here last week but the Governor's made of stronger stuff than I thought. She 'ad to work on him."
Like an old man, I pulled myself out of my chair and walked stiffly to the fireplace. There on the mantle was an official-looking piece paper with the Governor's seal on it. The headache was now unbearable. Perhaps if I asked nicely Sparrow would put me out of my misery by cleaving my head open with the fireplace poker. Temple throbbing, I hoisted myself gingerly out of my chair and walked stiffly to the fireplace. Wrenching apart the seal with a little more force than was absolutely necessary, I read the blasted order.
"But... but this is only for one day, one day a week," I stammered, waving waved the letter in the air, thoroughly confused.
"Yeah," he grimaced. "Lizzie tried for general clemency but couldn't swing it." This last bit was said with a smirk. "'aven't given up 'ope though. 'Ave a lot of faith in Lizzie. So for now tis only from Thursday sundown to Friday sundown. One night and a day. Need the day on Friday to get me Pearl into safer waters. Got to dock her out of sight, too." He frowned. "Made me promise not to bring her into the harbor."
He was grumbling. Grumbling! I would have rolled my eyes but was terrified it would only make the headache worst. One of the, no, perhaps the most notorious pirate in the Caribbean was peeved, peeved (!) because although the Governor had yet again caved into the pleas of his headstrong but charming daughter, he'd had the foresight not to humiliate all parties involved by asking Sparrow to secrete his ship away from the fort. As if this was an outlandish request. With those black sails, the cut of her jib, she was as obvious as a six-inch spider on a wedding cake.
I pressed the hand not holding the letter to my temple, the headache not alleviated by the wine, but exacerbated by it. "And what is so important that requires clemency only one day a week for..." I reread the document, "as long as the Governor sees fit."
A moue of disappointment flitted over his face. "Figured you for a brighter lad than that, Commodore. But I'll give you 'nother chance. Must be the hangover. Heard you an' your boys had quite a party last night at the Tar." Impossibly long and elegant fingers trilled in the direction of the chessboard. "M'partial to the green."
In the place of my beloved but nothing more than serviceable set was, without a doubt, the most beautiful chess set I've ever laid my eyes on.
***
How I missed not seeing it when I walked into the room is beyond me, even accounting for Sparrow's presence at my dining table, the hangover, and did I mention Sparrow eating my dinner? The chess pieces didn't so much as glow from the firelight as inhale whatever light came their way and then magnify this light out a thousand fold. The men were carved from jade, fiery green on the one side, the palest, most elegant of pinks on the other. They sat majestically on their square of alternating white and black marble inlay.
One absolutely immutable canon handed down from naval officer to naval officer is the ability to remain unflappable under all circumstances, even in the face of death. English sailors invented stoicism and aplomb. The sight of that chess set in my modest little parlor completely unnerved me. A complete disgrace to the service, I gasped and reached out to pick up the pink jade queen, the craftsmanship the like I've never seen before or since.
Quick and as quiet as a cat, Sparrow rolled up from his chair and sidled over to me. "She's a beauty isn't she? Pick her up, mate. Feel her in your hand," he said in a low voice, almost a whisper. "Can remember the first time I saw her myself. Though it was the green lady that caught my fancy."
I tentatively held out my hand, but then hesitated. What if I dropped her? Sparrow picked her up and with his free hand turned my hand over so that my palm was facing upright and placed the queen in my hand, his hands callused but gentle and warm as they moved my hand. When he let go, I felt a chill. I brought her up to my eyes, the inner fire of the jade winking at me. Closing my hand around her, the delicate detail of the carving nipped my hand.
I caught Sparrow's eye. The joy of holding something so beautiful, so exquisite must have shown on my face because he stepped back a couple of steps and I swear his eyes said to me, "I know how you feel."
Reluctantly, I put her back on her square.
"You're a lucky man, Sparrow. I envy you."
He slapped me on the back. "No need to envy. Was a lucky man. Now yours. A gift, mate, from me to you"
Twice within the space of two minutes, I lost my composure. This time I didn't just gasp, my mouth dropped open. Sparrow's index finger caught me just under the chin and pushed gently so that my mouth closed.
"Realized that my little letter didn't quite convey my gratitude for not 'anging me. Wanted to show my appreciation for saving me neck." He stretched his head to the side in a morbid imitation of a man being hanged.
The ability to speak returned. "In that case you must give this to Mr. Turner. I did nothing. I merely gave you a day's head start. Certainly that doesn't warrant... this?" I pointed to the chess set.
Sparrow leaned over and picked up the green queen, rolling her in his palm. "Must admit Will was mighty instrumental, but on the battlements just before I jumped..."
"You fell..." I intoned.
"No," he insisted. "Jumped..."
"Didn't look like a jump..."
"It was a jump!" he pouted. I held up my hands in defeat. "Anyway, that five seconds we locked eyes, I 'eard you asking yourself, do I let him go or not? Do I take advantage of this nice little opportunity and let the man go because by all rights he should be free? And I then I saw you say yes. And you let me. Anyone else, you wouldn't 'ave. Say it was some other bastard who hadn't saved your Lizzie, hadn't saved many of your men by me rather quick thinkin' in the cave. You'd 'ave pushed Lizzie out of the way for your blokes to fill 'im with shot. But you knew. You knew and wanted to repay that small little favor I did you by the bringing the undead pirates back to life. And you didn't really put any effort into finding me, did you? Knew right away when I saw you on deck of the Dauntless that you're a good enough sailor to find the Isla de Muerta. Didn't even try to come after me, did you? Am I right?"
I moved over to the sofa and sat down, trying to marshal my thoughts for a few seconds. How much do I admit to this man? Will he use my words to against me the next time we're in the company of others, perhaps in the company of my men, thereby undermining my command?
Oh hang it. Yes, he deserved nothing less. How long would we have lasted with those evil fiends, one hour at the most, then all my men would have been dead for how can you kill undead pirates. Studying the flames in the fire, I confessed. "Yes, I did think that. I did see William's foolhardy behavior as a way to let you walk free." I faced him. "Thanked him for it afterwards. A Godsend, frankly. And no, I didn't even try to recapture you. We sailed around and near the island, but after a couple of days I gave the order to return to port."
"Knew it!" Sparrow crowed. "Even thought you were signaling me to jump..."
I nodded.
He cocked his head to the side. "You saw the parrot. You knew me Pearl was out there."
"Yes, Sparrow, I knew. Nothing much escapes my notice," I drawled.
This brought a hoot of laughter from him. He swung around in a complete circle, trinkets, jewels, and bones, that irrepressible hair all a jangle. But when he'd come around a second time, the mirth had left his face. He leaned into me, our eyes locked.
"But you couldn't see fit to commute my sentence, couldn't be sure that mebbe young Will wouldn't be such a noble and brave spirit."
For the first time in ten years I blushed. In shame. "No, I couldn't, I hoped..." and my voice trailed off.
Leaning down, he forced me to look at him, our eyes no further than six inches apart. He touched a finger to my red cheek. "Thought Jack would once more pull the proverbial rabbit out of his hat, eh?"
I nodded.
"Sorry to say didn't have no aces up my sleeve that day. No matter. 'Aven't met any commodores yet that would first 'ave twigged to the parrot. To tell you the truth, surprised me on that one, mate. An' two, taken advantage of the opportunity to let me go. Did a fine line o' walking that tightrope, something ole Jack is somewhat of your expert on."
I pulled away from those dark eyes to stare back into the fire.
It was the truth. I had prayed that he'd pull some amazing stunt so that once more we'd be shaking our heads in amazement, the brilliant escape of Jack Sparrow being ballyhooed in every tavern by nightfall. As the marine read out Sparrow's list of crimes, I kept waiting. Waiting for him to move. For a noise. Something! And when I realized it wasn't going to happen, that we were near the end and that no miracle was going to free him, a dread, a sense that I was witnessing and collaborating in a horrible crime, a sin, twisted my gut. Sparrow was wrong, I wasn't walking a tightrope but a knife's edge. But not on the battlements when it was obvious that he'd jump, no, it was right before I saw the feather on William's hat and knew for certain that he'd do something outlandish and hopefully free Sparrow in the process. It was so easy for me to assume Sparrow's lucky star to once more be in ascendancy and when that star failed, when the hangman stepped forward in anticipation, I had three seconds to make a choice. Do I let Jack Sparrow hang for crimes that he indeed did commit or grant him mercy for saving the very lives of most of the people witnessing his hanging? William Turner freed me from making that choice—after that act of stunning bravery and decency he truly deserves Elizabeth's hand. To this day I don't know what I would have done.
"Give it to William, he's the one you should reward."
A gentle brown hand touched my shoulder very briefly. "Perhaps, but young Will didn't struggle. He just does things like that because it's the way he's built. Deep-drafted that lad is. Just like his father. Probably didn't give any thought to putting his life on the line for me. But you... you had to fight yourself didn't you? Admire that. Had to ask 'ard questions. The victory over ourselves is the 'ardest victory of all, Mate. Look, we both got what we wanted. You didn't have my death on your conscience and I didn't get to spend the next few months rotting in Deadman's Cay, letting the seagulls feast on me.
The shame I'd felt slowly abating came back with a vengeance. "I'm sorry, Jack. Truly." I held out my hand, hoping to God he'd shake it.
He stared at my hand as if not quite knowing what to do. His eyes searched mine for something, what it was I didn't know. "It's 'Jack' now is it?"
"I'd... I'd like it to be Jack. And James." I mumbled. You nearly hang a man, the least you can do is offer him the courtesy of using your first name.
"James," he rolled my name around in his mouth, tasting it. He didn't so much clasp my hand as own it. Again the warmth of his hand was amazing. It was like holding a sunbeam. I pulled away.
He smiled that tiny smile I'd come to understand meant he knew something I didn't. Now it was time to cock my head. What?
"Apology accepted, James. An' if I had any qualms about parting with this set before, I don't now."
Damn the man. Does he have to make everything so difficult? I got up and stoked the fire. Turning around I forced myself to face at him. "I can't take it, Jack. It's a wonderful gift, but I... can't."
His reaction wasn't what I expected. I thought he'd be offended, in high umbrage over the rejection of such a magnanimous gift. If it had been me I'd have been most insulted. He turned away and took my place on the sofa, the feline quality never more obvious. He didn't merely sit; he arranged his sash, lifted his scabbard, draped first one arm, then the other, and gracefully stretched his legs. And naturally he sprawled all over it. For a small man, he took up an inordinate amount of space, leaving me no option but to remain standing. Was the very art of moving a dance to him? Once all his "fur" was in good order, he gazed at the fire for a few seconds before turning to me. I was coming to realize that Jack never just looked; he studied, scrutinized, watched.
"Didn't think you'd take pirate loot."
He understood. Thank God. Commodores cannot taken stolen property from pirates no matter how much said commodore would love to have this chess set, how much said commodore would never be able to play with his real set without regret...
"Wasn't stolen, mate. So don't worry."
I raised my eyebrows in disbelief. "You expect me to believe you didn't steal this. That this wasn't plucked off of some Spanish galleon on one of your pillaging and plundering ventures?" I hadn't thought it possible but his body sighed even more firmly into the sofa. Why did I get the sense he was enjoying this?
"Ask me," he yawned, not so much out of exhaustion but feigned boredom.
"Oh all right, I'll play..."
"Thought we'd already confirmed that, James." Another yawn.
"Did. You. Steal. This. Chess. Set?"
A light laugh. "No. Commodore. I. Did. Not."
Headache be damned, I rolled my eyes. "It's James. So...?"
"Jaaaammmess," he cooed. "Gift from a lady I knew in Singapore. Loveliest woman you ever want to meet. Taught me 'ow to play in fact."
I snorted. "Surely, you don't expect me to believe that. Where would a woman get a chess set like that?"
"Some Indian potentate. Course that was before she set up her own place. She was still working for someone else when I first saw it. Ah, Sal, quite a woman. Holy Mary, mother of God, her mouth on your cock was like dying and going to 'eaven. She'd do something with the tip of her tongue in your slit and..."
Silence. He closed his eyes and licked his bottom lip. I wouldn't have put it past him, but I think he did this unconsciously. On second thought, perhaps not. I did not look in the general vicinity of his crotch but imagined he was grateful he was sporting those bloody bloomers, as opposed to the tight breeches I was wearing.
He thought to shock me. The crude words, the description. Jack didn't know his man. I commenced some rather fine lounging of my own, spreading both arms along the length of the mantle, not bothering to hide my own arousal. Which was considerable.
"I know."
The eyes blinked open at that. Then blinked again. He sat up straight. If he'd actually been a cat I'd have expected his fur to be on end. His eyes widened at the big grin on my face, then went wider still as they traveled down to the nice bulge in my crotch. For probably the first time in his life the man was speechless. There have been few times in my life as satisfying as seeing Jack Sparrow mute.
Finally, he squeaked a noise that sounded something like "What?"
"Singapore Sal. I agree. A sweeter mouth doesn't exist in the Seven Seas. She also had a way of going down on you and cupping your sac..." I was laying it on with a trowel but I wanted to make sure Jack knew I wasn't bluffing. I licked my bottom lip.
He shook his mane. Not so much a cat now as a tiger. Wary, unsure of the man before him. "You've been there. To her place." It wasn't a question.
"Many times. What sailor doesn't know about Sal's? Spent a good deal of my first packet of prize money there, to be honest." I sighed.
"And she did you? You know she just doesn't go down on anyone," he huffed.
It was all I could do not to burst out loud laughing. His astonishment that the proper young commodore had availed himself not once, but many times to the administrations of the most famous madam in the Orient was priceless to behold. That she had done him.
Now it was my time to smirk. I'd endured a plethora of Jack's little twists of the lips, it was time he suffered under the same irritating complacency.
"I know," I reiterated, restraining my glee with much difficulty.
"She never liked you Royal Navy gobs," he sputtered.
The smirk broadened into a full-scale grin. "She made an exception in my case."
Jack leapt up from the sofa and began walking back and forth in front of me, eyes traveling up and down my body, studying me from every angle. Then he grabbed my shoulders, turned me around to get a full view of my backside, and then spun me back around so fast that I didn't even have time to protest.
He did one of his characteristic backwards side lurches, where he's sort of perched in the air, then murmured, "Commodore James L. Norrington, I would love to play with you. Next Thursday, seven o'clock?"
I hesitated for a moment, but then thought, why not? "Six thirty. Dinner before? I will tell Mrs. Pince to lay for two, with a special request for treacle tart." I received that rarest of Sparrow smiles, the winsome one. This was the smile hardest to elicit, the most gratifying to receive.
But another quick glance up and down my body and the air between us shifted. Suddenly it made my little game to prove that I may be a commodore but not a prude seemed distinctly unwise. Pride goeth before a fall. "Chess, Jack. We're going to play chess."
Now why did I say that?
He didn't reply, just gave me what I was coming to recognize as the vintage Jack Sparrow smirk. With an extravagant bow, he was out the door.
He'd reached the foyer when I called out to him. "Jack."
He poked his head around the door frame.
"Thank you. The chess board is the most beautiful thing I will ever own in my entire life."
"You're welcome, James." Again, the winsome smile. He withdrew his head. It popped back a moment later.
"We'll play chess, too," and he blew me a kiss.
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