Your Move
Chapter 2 - Set
by
Disclaimer: Pirates of the Caribbean is owned by Disney, etc. No infringement intended.
Originally Posted: 12/26-30/03
Originally Posted: 12/26-30/03
The next week was a blur. Although fairly certain I fulfilled my duties at the fort, comporting myself with what I hoped was typical naval efficiency and due process, for the life of me I can barely remember anything that occurred that week. I do know that I forgot my hat four days in a row and my Tuesday luncheon date at the Governor's mansion. When I didn't arrive, Elizabeth sent a frantic William to see if I was indisposed. He found me pacing the top battlement of the fort lost in thought, rain soaking through my jacket as my feet pounded back and forth in a relentless march. And when he asked me if I was well, I actually hesitated. I did not feel ill, but I did NOT feel well.
I felt very un-commodore like, if I can put it that way. Outwardly I was all spit and polish (minus the days I forgot my hat), but inwardly my emotions embodied the storm of all storms.
Once again questions plagued me. What if he didn't come? Worse, what if he did come and what if this clemency was just a ruse? He could easily be using all four of us, William, Elizabeth, the Governor, and me, as pawns in some nefarious scheme, no doubt at the expense of all our livelihoods and reputations. I mean, really, the man was a bloody pirate after all! What if the chess game meant nothing, the chess set merely an effective way to seduce me, to charm me, to distract me? My pride, surely my most grievous fault, would be easily capitalized upon. His supposed desire to play chess with me stroked me in just the right spot. While I was busy patting myself on the back—the most notorious pirate in the Spanish Main wants to play chess with me—he could carry forth his plan. Perhaps he did know his man a little too well. Interesting that Sparrow knew that vanity was my Achilles heel, whereas no one else did. Well, perhaps Elizabeth did, but she'd never use it to steal Port Royal blind.
My mind would not stop. And if the questions of the previous weeks were vexing in the extreme, these questions were agony. They racked my every waking moment and made sleep impossible, the very bedclothes sheer torture against my skin. I'd toss and turn until the darkest part of the night, and then finally in desperation I'd pad down to the parlor. Seeking out the green jade queen, I'd roll her around in my hand, as if by some miracle I'd be privy to the inner workings of the man who played her. While standing there my parlor, my back flush against the fireplace, those damn questions would whirl around my mind like a mental hurricane almost driving me mad until the final question was asked: "Are you being a total fool?" It was at this point that I'd then bring her to my mouth, the jade cooling my lips, and miraculously the questions would cease. I'd then put her back in the carrying case and finally stagger up the stairs exhausted, able to eek out a few hours of sleep before dawn.
And yet I did not write a note back telling him not to come. I drafted at least ten letters: the first one accused him of plotting to rob the armory by trading on the affections of his friends to accomplish such a vile scheme; the second told him in no uncertain terms that consorting with a known pirate would fatally damage my career and if he arrived on Thursday I would clap him in irons clemency or no clemency; and the rest of them were undignified requests for an explanation as to why he was going to such lengths to play a simple game of chess. With me. I sent none of them but burned each one, the fire in the grate licking away the words that I couldn't voice but couldn't stop hearing.
The nasty weather continued, fat droplets the size of gold pieces lashed against my windows. Will and I still played chess every afternoon, but not on the set Jack had given me. That was safely stashed away. The gift of the chess set must remain a secret. How could I possibly explain the magnificent gift given to someone who deserved it not? It was a painful reminder of the commodore who hesitated and delegated to another the brave act of saving the man who had saved his life. The fact that I'd let Jack go free in no way compensated for what I was beginning to view as probably the most shameful day of my entire career. It was so easy to let Jack jump from that battlement. So easy to placate Gillette and pretend we were trying to catch him. So easy. The events that shape us, make us men, that separate the wheat from the chaff are not the easy victories. I had enough scars on my person to vouch for that.
Distracted in the extreme, William actually beat me twice. Even more astonishing, Elizabeth had ceased her tirades against the dressmaker (and the intolerable nuzzling) and would sit silent for a good thirty minutes nibbling on candied almonds. Elizabeth silent! William's brow was now continuously creased in my presence, Elizabeth constantly touching my forearm for no reason, a question poised on her lips but never asked.
On Thursday morning, I retrieved the mountain of paperwork that threatened to suffocate Gillette and Groves; I needed to do something or I'd go mad. They, too, were watching me. Only years of friendship stopped me from issuing one of my withering set downs when Gillette had the temerity to ask me if I was well. Of course I was well! What was wrong with everyone?
Had I made it clear to Mrs. Pince that we needed two place settings?
The paperwork put to bed for the night, I walked home from the fort, the rain finally abating for the nonce. The long walk up the hill ameliorated some of the tension eating me alive. The only time I'd felt this sort of dreadful anticipation was that horrible moment before going into battle, when you are waiting for the enemy's sword to fall, to lunge, to strike you, to draw blood, and you know that it will come down to you or him.
Would he actually appear? If he did not?
As I approached the house the faint tinkle of a pianoforte could be heard above the rush of the wind, a Scarlatti piece that I'd been trying to master without success. The player was quite accomplished, a sure hand glided over those keys. This musician had a sense of humor, the embellishments and trills cheeky and bold. They drew every nuance possible. I sighed. I'd never be able to play this well. I leaned against the doorway to my home waiting for the end of the song. And yet another surprise. Instead of a rousing finish, which is what I'd have expected from the boisterous interpretation up until now, the musician finished on a melancholy note, no trills, just a few soft notes. And then it was done. Perfection. I leaned my head in the direction of the music, savoring every sad tone, every beautiful sound coaxed out of my pianoforte... WHAT! This was MY pianoforte making that beautiful music.
I wrenched open the front door. Not bothering to hang up my hat or coat, I'd reached the parlor door just in time to see Jack closing the lid of the pianoforte.
"James," he greeted with a broad grin in an effort to hide the deep blush flaming both cheeks. "Little early today, hope you don't mind. Wanted to take advantage of the break in the weather. Didn't fancy rowing in the gale I smell brewing offshore. Mrs. Pince has done herself proud. Been peeking. Treacle tart..." a pink tongue licked his upper lip while lifting up the napkin covering his plate, "and nice looking cheddar. Poured myself a glass o'wine already, got a little chilled... James, you don't look well. Everything ship shape?"
I pointed at the pianoforte.
The blush that had been abating returned. Then Jack did that little headshake he does, a sparrow-like twitch in the direction of the instrument. "Keep her tuned. I see." He sounded wistful, an unusual mood for Jack. "Nice instrument. Like I said before, you commodores live almost as good as us pirates. May I pour you a glass of wine? You look like you need it."
I nodded. Jack poured the wine with a deft hand. No swaying, just that feline ease so intrinsic to him that made even the most simple movements emanate from his very toes and roll up his spine. So much more entrancing than his usual overblown flamboyance.
I first removed my hat and placed it on the pianoforte. Then my coat, which I folded into a neat, rather naval issue square, all these movements buying me time to stop the silly shaking of my hands, all in absolute relief that he was here in my parlor. Despite that saucy good-bye, that bow, that deep something in those black eyes before he'd blown me that kiss, I wasn't sure he'd come back.
Once assured that I was once more in control, I turned and reached for my glass. "Why no theatrics, Jack? With everyone else there's the sashay, the arm roll, you know, the movement." I rolled my arm in a series of elaborate curlicues and sweeps, not a single dropped spilled despite the show. Tossing in a few smirks accompanied by fluttering eyelids, I then downed a big swig of wine.
He laughed at loud at that, and bangles and trinkets chiming together as that black unruly mop swayed back and forth in time to his amusement. Like everything Jack did, this wasn't a meek laugh, but something from the deepest reaches of his gut. A laugh that you couldn't help joining in on. The essence of mirth. "Very good, Jamie, very good. You're full of surprises, you are, mate." He sat down at the table, shook out his napkin, and placed it on his lap. Eyes still crinkled in glee. "Pointless with you. You see beyond all that. Most people, it makes them underestimate me, think me a clown, the worst pirate they've ever seen."
I started at that. "Yes, it does have that effect. Clever."
That warranted a smug, self-satisfied smirk. "If I wasn't clever I'd be dead. Probably the one reason 'em not hanging in Deadman''s Cay as we speak. For some people intimidation is the ticket," a sly little smile was hiked in my direction. "But I don't have the height like some..." a nod with his chin at my forehead, "...nor the temperament. Eventually you find out what works to get your way. Found mine. Works with most everyone, but you know better, now. Seen all of Jack's tricks."
The little pout that followed was supposed to lull me into complacency. Hah! "Don't be ridiculous, Jack. You and I both know there's no end to your wiles. As the worst pirate act is no longer successful, it's now the 'best' pirate act."
That got me another full-fledged, no holds barred grin. "Is it working?" An elegant sweep of his hand invited me to sit down.
"No. Jack, may I ask you why you are always inviting me to repast at my own table? I can only hope that one day I'll return the compliment and issue you orders while on the deck of the Pearl." I sat, unfurled my own napkin, and raised my glass in a toast.
Jack toasted me back. "You could try," he chuckled. "Don't think you'd get very far. That Anamarie is a tartar, mate. You're forewarned. Can you tell me why you seem reluctant to eat in my presence? If we don't move things along we'll never get our game in. And I don't have all week, now do I, James?" He cut into the treacle tart first, the fine, most proper manners that had shocked me last week once more in evidence.
"Do you always eat your dessert first, Jack?"
He paused, fork midway to mouth. "James, have had enough meals in my lifetime where I didn't eat dessert first and then some bloke who wants to hang me hauls me up from the table ..." a pointed look in my direction, "...or a woman upends me dinner and then slaps me face..."
"Well warranted, no doubt."
"Sometimes," he grinned, "...or a thousand other reasons I could name and the treacle tart doesn't get eaten. 'ave to take your pleasure when you find it, James. 'aven't you learned that?"
I cut into the treacle tart and ate a piece. Delicious. Maybe there was something to this dessert first bit. "Seeking pleasure has not been an overwhelming occupation in my life. The navy rather frowns on that."
Jack stopped eating, his face somber. "Yes, I can well believe that." And then as if he'd said something unforgivable, he ducked his head and continued eating.
"The pianoforte. You play beautifully. I've been struggling with that very song for months."
He lifted his head. Another blush? "Thanks, mate. Seem to have a gift for that." He poked a fork in the direction of the instrument. "Can't keep a pianoforte on the Pearl. Salt wrecks the insides. Can't resist playing whenever I have a chance. She's rather a fine piece. Do you play?"
"Before hearing you, I'd have said yes. Now I merely plonk." The memory of those last few measures, so haunting and melancholy, one could listen to this man play for hours. I put my fork down, appetite gone. Every minute spent in the company of this man did indeed disarm me. Upended my notion of pirate, of Jack. Damn, he wasn't even Jack Sparrow anymore, he'd forever be Jack.
"You're not eating," he admonished. "Yet another thing you learn. If you get through dessert, try to get through the rest because you never know when your next meal might be."
I grimaced. "Yes, that might be the pirate's lot but seldom do I wonder where my next meal is going to come from, although it might be moldy hardtack. The playing, Jack. Really beautiful." I couldn't let this go; I needed him to know how much this had moved me.
Oh, the winsome smile.
"Glad you like it, James. Like it so much, work on the Governor for another night of clemency. Maybe we could start a musical society on Wednesday nights? Eh?"
The thought of Jack resplendent in his pirate garb, the hair trinkets sparkling in the glow of twenty candles, nimble brown fingers caressing my keyboard...
"Jamie, you with me?" Jack interrupted my train of thought.
I smiled and took another sip of wine. "I was thinking of you at that keyboard and a host of Port Royal's finest being regaled by your playing. You have to admit it's an amusing tableaux. They'd be enthralled and yet worried that at some point you'd pull out a pistol and relieve them of their jewelry."
He'd finished his dinner and daubed his mouth once more. We locked eyes. I couldn't read their expression. Usually Jack's eyes flashed, sparkled, but now they were opaque. Unreadable. "Don't play for others, just meself." He paused and then added, "But will play for you if you like." A flicker of those eyes and it was back to filling up his wine glass. If it had been anyone else I would have sworn he was shy.
Another gift. Freely given for no reason this time and from the guarded look on his face, as precious a gift as the chess set.
"I'd... like that. Perhaps if time permits you can come early next Thursday." I tipped the goblet and took a deep draft of wine. "If there is a next Thursday."
Sitting back and hugging the chair with his back, he had look of a cat waiting for the mouse to move. Although his shoulders and neck were relaxed, the muscles in his forearms flexed the slightest bit. If possible, the eyes became darker, more unreadable.
"And why wouldn't I be coming back, Commodore?"
The formal address caused me to blink, to blurt out what I had no intention of articulating. "I don't quite understand all this, Jack. The chess set, the dining together..."
"Didn't expect that, didn't ask for that, mate. That was on your hook," he reminded me.
"Yes, I know." I refilled my wine glass, wondering how to phrase this without insulting him. We'd crossed a line. Somewhere between the table manners and piano playing, Jack had become my equal and he should and must be treated with respect. Yet, how do you tell a man that you suspected him of plotting illicit, illegal acts destined to ruin you and yet not mortally offend him, pirate or not?
"Having second thoughts? Thinkin' mebbe having a pirate as a chess partner might scotch your chances of making admiral by forty? Thinkin' mebbe I've got some plot of my sleeve, like 'commandeering' another boat... uh... ship, or some such nonsense."
I slammed my wine glass down a trifle peeved. "May I remind you, that the Interceptor is now lying on the bottom of the ocean, full of holes from your Pearl's cannons. I'm damn lucky I didn't get a reprimand for that little nonsense, as you term it, not to mention a court-marshal."
He wasn't taking any of it. Black eyes a blaze, he snorted, "Take that tone and shove it up your naval arse, James. Can be sure if I'd been at the helm, Barbossa wouldn't have sunk her.
Breathe deeply, James, I reminded myself. You're in uncharted waters here. "Granted. Your skill at the helm is not in question..."
"Just everything else, though, from my piratey little toes to the top of my piratey little head."
I decided to be honest. I hoped he'd be honest with me. I couldn't go through another week like last week. I might as well reserve a space at Bedlam if this continued. "Yes, I need to know what games you're playing, Jack," I said simply and met his eyes, hoping this didn't sound like begging.
He didn't flinch or even blink. "Was wondering when you'd get around to quizzing me. No reason to get your goods in a knot. Rest assured, Jaime. I'm only here to play chess. Don't have any designs on your little fort." The arm muscles tensed up again. "In the market for a little fun, to be honest. Don't find many people who can beat me." Black eyes narrowed to slits, assessing me. "Think mebbe you can give me at least a run for my money. Not that you'll beat me..."
"You are a monster of vanity."
"Takes one to know one," he commented and stuck his tongue out at me. Obviously, he and Elizabeth have spent far too much time together. "You'll have to trust me on this one. You have to believe that this here," an elegant hand swept the room, taking in the pianoforte, the dining table, and the chess set, "is between James and Jack, not naval commodore and pirate captain. Savvy? Now, either we have an accord or not because won't play if we're not square on this. Just take my sorry little pirate arse out the door and consider it a day. And the next time you see old Jack, we'll be playing a much more deadly game. No doubt you'll be firing the long nines in my direction. Not that you'll catch me and the Pearl..."
"Yes, Jack I know. She's nigh uncatchable." And for a second I very much envied him that ship. I suspected that she was only that way for him. That her preternatural ability to master the ocean was more in response to Jack's devotion than the skilled carpenters that built her.
My comment elicited the expected smirk of confidence, and then he wiped his face clean of all expression. "Do we have an accord, Commodore?"
"Don't call me commodore," I barked back at him. Suddenly I became aware that my hands were coiled into tight fists, the nails biting savagely into my palms.
"Can't have it both ways, James. Think you can trust the man who happens to be a pirate?" He held out a hand across the table, eyes almost half shut. "After all, 'em trusting a man who happens to be a commodore and you nearly bloody well hung me."
I let that ride, in part because it was true. "One question: why the chess set? You didn't have... I don't deserve it, man. You know that."
His shoulders stiffened just a tad. "We're even now, mate. I meet you somewheres official like, and you can fire those long nines without a thought." That was said with something between a grimace and a grin. "And by all rights, I'll run you through should you be lucky enough to make it to the decks of me Pearl." That was said with such ferocity that I sat up straight. There was no doubt in my mind that he would skewer me if it came down to that. It would be me or him. "Don't like being in anyone's debt. Not even yours, James." Those eyes that had been snapping with confidence looked away to the fire.
"One more question."
Now it was his turn to roll the eyes. He huffed at me in frustration, the hands beckoning me to get on with it.
"The pianoforte. The offer to play. Not lightly given, I think." I murmured.
"No, not lightly given," he admitted. "Again, don't like being in someone's debt. Realize the risk you're takin'' having me at your table. In your house. So, do we have an accord, Commodore?" he repeated, voice gruff with some emotion I couldn't read. He held out his hand again.
A beat, two beats. I looked at the chess set, then the pianoforte, then the man. How can a man who never is without expression look so completely blank? The commodore in me warned me, berated me, nay, demanded that I end this once and for all. That I ask him to leave and never come back. And take that bloody chess set with him. The man in me grasped his hand and whispered, "Accord." He uncurled himself from the chair and leaned into the table, his face solemn, not exultant as I expected, and was that relief I saw? "I knew you could do it, Jamie, love."
And again there was that sense of holding a sunbeam. But even worse, I could feel the heat of him across the table, like the rays of some nearby sun or star. It heated me through like the kick and burn you get from swilling back a mouthful of cheap rum. I pulled away and walked swiftly over to the fire. Grabbing the fire place poker, I scattered cinder and ash everywhere.
"Think it's quite hot enough in here already, James," he drawled.
By the time I'd turned around I was once again the model of British naval sanguine. "Are we going to play chess or not?"
Negotiations over, he reverted to feline. One arm lolled along the end of the chair, the other casually stroked the wine bottle. A look that could only be described as an out-and-out leer played over his face. "You know, Jamie, you really do have an exceptionally nice arse. For a commodore. For anyone for that matter. In fact," and the theatrical Jack Sparrow, making a special appearance, crooked a beckoning finger and nearly fell off his chair trying to peer around my side. "Can I have 'nother look see?"
I turned away for a fraction of a second and ordered myself not to blush. I turned back. "No."
"Pwease," he begged and touched his hands together in mock supplication.
"Absolutely. Not. This commodore's arse wants to play chess, Jack. Are you going to sit your also rather fine piratey arse at this table?" I pointed at the chair across from me.
An exaggerated moue of disappointment tugged the corners of his mouth. "If you insist. And knew you noticed my arse, love," he cooed as he sashayed to the table take his seat. Not even those loose breeches he favored could hide the blatant invite of that extremely luscious backside, which demanded a second and even third look.
I sighed. "Don't call me love."
"Bob's your uncle, love."
***
If I'd ever wondered what Jack Sparrow's face looked like before going into battle, my curiosity was now sated. He didn't so much sit down as fling himself into the chair. A positively feral gleam darkened those eyes as he inspected the board, the grin menacing in the extreme. Every man got a fingertip caress and then a nudge so that they sat exactly in the middle of their square. He left the queen until last. He picked her up, closed his eyes, and then put her to his mouth and kissed her. His eyes flew open. Wide. He leaned over the table until he was no more an inch away from my face and sniffed. I blushed. A tiny shake of the head and then he grabbed my hand off the table and LICKED IT! Mouth curved in bliss; he licked it again.
Oh my God, my hand felt like he'd branded it. That peculiar heat from him raced up my spine, danced across my shoulders, caressed each nipple, and then pooled in my groin where it continued to burn and burn and burn. Only years of naval training stopped me from moaning out loud. I wrenched my hand away. It grasped its brother, tight. I placed both of them behind my back, out of reach, and studied the chess board as if my life depended on it.
He fell back into his chair, and a full-blown "Ah" escaped from his slightly parted lips. "Treacle and lemon," he murmured. "Jamie," he whispered. I did NOT look up. "James L. Norrington," he sing-songed. "What have you been doing with Jack's queen. Eh? Have you been a bad boy?"
Satisfied that my furious blush had calmed somewhat, I looked up. "No. I. Have. Not." I spat back.
I got the smug, know-it-all smirk. Curling into the back of his chair, he brought the queen up to his mouth and laved her with his tongue, front and back, slowly up and down the jade.
Reinventing the words "stiff upper lip," I straightened my back as it has never been straightened, snatched the queen away from him, and I placed it back on the chess board. His saliva wet my hand. I clenched it, the sweat from my palm mingled with his spit. I coughed to hide the burn that reignited ten fold in my groin.
An amused chuckle and a finger, so light I could barely feel it, tugged on my ear lobe for just a second. "Oh, Jack thinks differently. Am ready to play. Are you? Am really, really ready, Jamie. So ready I can taste it. Jack wants dessert."
A night for revelations. In addition, to knowing what Jack will look like before he plunges a dagger into my heart, I now know what he sounds like in full arousal. His voice deepened to the softest basso, throaty, needy. Beautiful. He leaned forward again, the aroma of rum and cinnamon and musk overwhelming. Another point of fact. I now know what Jack smells like in full heat as well. Damn him to hell.
"You've had your dessert, Jack."
"Jack's still hungry, James. Please," he whispered in my ear.
As much as I regret it, sometimes only a French word will do. Sangfroid, James. You have untold reserves of sangfroid courtesy of the British navy. Use it. Lifting my head, I faced him full on. I shoved the palm of one hand forcefully onto his shoulder and pushed him back into his seat. I leaned back in my chair with a facsimile of ease, thanks to a generous helping of royal navy grit, and, using my frostiest, the commodore-is-irritated-to-the-utmost tone, bit out each word. "Jack will have to starve. Chess. I am ready to play chess. And chess is the only game I'm willing to play."
"What about me?"
"What ever are you speaking of, Jack?" I noticed my king was slightly off-kilter. I realigned him.
"Me, what do I taste like, mate?" he wheedled. "Won't play till you tell me, so cough it up."
I cannot tell you how long we stared at each other. Him, perched on the edge of his chair, mouth parted in a little "oh" of anticipation, me trying to appear as nonchalant as possible while the chair rungs bit into my back.
"If I tell you, will you shut up and play? Not another word?"
Eager head nodded frantically. Charms jangled.
"Rum. Cinnamon."
"Prove it," he demanded.
I slammed both hands down on the table. "We agreed. No more talking."
Completely unphased by my little display of temper, he shrugged and smirked, "Pirate."
I picked up the green queen, licked her front and back, and then replaced her on her square. I ignored the rather loud hiss coming from Jack's end of the room.
"Like I said. Rum. Cinnamon. And since you broke our accord, I shall move first."
***
Outside of the words "check" and "checkmate", we said nothing for the next three hours. For the first two games we weren't playing so much as measuring each other, feeling each other out, seeing which moves the other man favored. Foreplay, if you will. I won all four games. The fourth game was a bit of a struggle, but I won. As a testament to my character I did not gloat, I said nothing, just re-aligned the men. I must admit it took every ounce of good breeding I possessed NOT to gloat, especially after that crowing I'd had to listen to earlier.
At midnight, Jack stretched, his lithe body leaning into a loud yawn. "Think we need to call it a night, James. Ole Jack's worn out."
Indeed, he did look worn out, the kohl now smudged halfway down the right side of his face, as he had a tendency to lean on a tanned cheek when studying his next move. In the dim light he looked like a sleepy chimney sweep.
He rolled up from his chair to warm himself at the fire. I followed him up and stretched myself out on the sofa. I moved my neck back and forth to get the kinks out; we'd been hunched over that table for hours. When I lifted my head, Jack was studying me. "You look happy."
I smiled at him. I was happy and sleepy and best of all not bored. "Aside from a rather stiff neck, yes, I am. I like winning." Surely, a little gloating wouldn't be out of order.
"Hmmmn, guess will have to wait until next week to see how losing sits on those lovely, lovely shoulders." A long finger trailed a path from the crook of my neck to the top of my arm.
"Stop that," I ordered. "And what do you mean losing?"
I now know that eyes at half-mast means mischief and more mischief is on the horizon. "Bothers you, does it?" Another easy, one-fingered caress of the other shoulder.
"No," I lied. "You didn't answer my question. Losing?"
With a languid motion, Jack brought his arms behind his head, closed his eyes, and stretched again, displaying just how long and just how slim was his waist. Despite the generous cut of his linen shirt, there was no mistaking the lean line of that body. The vee of his shirt gaped open, revealing a bronze chest, as brown as his hands. Was he brown everywhere? I immediately banished that most un-commodore-like thought from my mind.
"Yes, mate. Losing." The stretch now done, he now did a rather accurate imitation of me last week, with both arms out wide, hands absentmindedly fondling the intricate carving of the frontpiece. If I had any question of whether Jack Sparrow possessed the physical grace and beauty of ten men, it was answered. I doubt I'd complimented my own mantelpiece one smidgen as well. But what was this about losing?
"That seems presumptuous in the extreme, Jack. As I've just beaten you four out of four."
A lazy hand stifled another yawn and then fingers returned to curl around the mantle edge. "Oh, wouldn't exactly call those wins, James."
"Oh you wouldn't, would you," I said in my shirty best. "Don't know what sort of bastard rules pirates play by, but for us lowly royal naval gobs, checkmate usually signals the win. One for the road?" I walked over to the sideboard and held up a bottle of my best armagnac.
"Thanks, mate. Will warm me insides for the long row back."
"Do not," I handed him a glass, "think for one minute that I believe you're rowing back to the Pearl. The rain has been pounding against the windows for the last hour. And despite that, even you wouldn't be insane enough to try to row in the pitch black. In a gale. I assume that you're staying with either Elizabeth or William. Do NOT tell me whom. It's better if I don't know. Besides, you're free until tomorrow afternoon."
"That I am." He finished off the entire contents of the glass in one gulp and held it out for another helping. I obliged him. "You're going to put ole Jack out in the rain are you? Make him all wet. Might melt, you know." The eyes were definitely at half-mast, swimming with some emotion over the rim of the snifter. The heady scent of the liquor climbed up sides of the glass and wafted out as he swirled the glass first this way and that, his eyes never leaving mine. With a start I noticed that in this light his eyes were exactly the color of armagnac. Funny. I've always thought of them as black, but they weren't. I looked away. I saw a question in those eyes I couldn't answer.
Perching myself on the end of sofa, I took a healthy swig myself. "Never known a sailor who minded a little water. Besides, William will be in hysterics if you don't show up soon. No doubt he's waiting up for you to ascertain that I haven't hauled you off to the fort."
"Well, if I didn't show up he'd no doubt come barreling over to your place demanding an explanation in that earnest way of his and he'd find me. And no 'arm done. Course he might appear at the most inopportune moment..."
"No, Jack..." and I let the sentence die. I didn't know what to say or how to say it.
With a resigned little sigh, he repeated, "No 'arm done," and leaned over to give my cheek one of those feather-weight caresses he seems to have perfected. "Don't mind losing this round. Jamielove." It came out as all one word.
"Rounds, you mean," I snorted.
"Wasn't talking about the chess, mate. Anyways, like I said. If you call that winning..."
"Stop speaking in riddles, Jack. I clearly won," I said indignantly.
"Let you win. Lllleeeettt you win, James. Learn almost everything you need to know about a man's game by letting him win. Won't happen next week, I assure you." Eyes blazing, mouth cracked wide in a most predatory grin.
"Empty threats, Jack Sparrow. I checkmated you four times."
"Jack Sparrow is it now? Oh no! He's bringing out the long nines! Jack is vewy afwaid." Jack brought his hands up to his face in mock horror and peeked out from behind his fingers.
I laughed. He was ridiculous, charming, and teasing me. And I let him. He laughed with me, both of us chortling together long and loud. Somehow, I found myself standing in front of him, our hands on each other's shoulders to prop ourselves up, weak from all that laughter. It took me a few seconds to realize that he wasn't laughing anymore, but had rested his forehead lightly against my chest. His fingers dug into my shoulders and he pressed harder into my chest. Then abruptly he pulled away. Face sober, lips pursed, his eyes traveled over my face with an intensity that took my breath away. It was like he was memorizing every plane, shape, and line.
I took my thumb and wiped the smudged kohl from his cheek. "You've got kohl down to your chin." I looked down. The front of my shirt was black.
A hoot of laughter. "To remember me by, Jamielove. Until next week." A finger went to his lips, then that same finger to mine. And he was out the door.
***
The days from Thursday to Thursday confirmed in my mind that there is indeed a God. The natural order of the world returned. Those non-stop questions that had been battering me for weeks ceased. I penned at least thirty letters threatening those foolish enough to try to steal from His Majesty with nice long holidays in the jail cells of my fort if they did not forthwith revise their fraudulent requisitions. I slept like a baby every night. My colleagues and friends stopped giving me those pitying glances as if I had a fatal disease. I soundly beat William in every one of our afternoon chess matches. Elizabeth resumed her rantings and ravings against the mantua maker. Unfortunately, Elizabeth and William resumed as well their infernal love-making in my presence. Not even my sarcastic, "Why don't you two just rip your clothes off and sate each other on my hearth" had any effect. Both of them just laughed. And to top it off, Elizabeth and I had a delightful stroll in her garden on Tuesday afternoon, the entire time making snarky remarks at the expense of Port Royal's finest citizens. All in all, a splendid week.
A delightful medley of country airs teased me as I walked up the street to my house. Hastening my step, I reached my front door, saw Jack's battered pirate hat hanging on a hook, divested myself of my own hat and coat, and stepped into my parlor. Jack was seated the pianoforte, playing like mad, and wearing a wig.
Not just any wig, mind you. A confection of gray curls that most definitely had last been seen on the head of Governor Swann.
"Lo, Jamielove." Jack ceased playing at my entrance and gave me the broadest of grins. "Miss me?"
I marched over to him and thrust out my hand. "Give it to me. Right now, Jack," I growled.
"What?" he asked, the little devil the picture of innocence. That long-suffering nanny once more came to mind.
"The wig," I shouted. "You've stolen..."
He held up a finger...
"Do not even utter the word commandeer in my presence. You stole Governor Swann's wig," I sputtered
He swatted away my hand. "Didn't steal it," he huffed. "Just borrowed it like. He's got lots. Won't even miss it. Felt underdressed to be honest. You in your smart navy duds and me in my little ole pirate rags."
I pressed a hand to my forehead. A headache was brewing. Had brewed. Was now pounding away. "Rags," I managed to eek out. "Except for the shirt, you are clothed in silk and satin from head to toe, nice new boots," at that he did a little jig with his feet, "gold, silver, and is that an emerald, are woven into that unruly black mop of yours, and you feel underdressed? You are a little grubby, I admit, but you're as colorful as a parrot. Now give me that wig."
His eyebrows raised to the ceiling in glee. "Oooohhh, I like that description. Not the grubby part, but the parrot part. Why you clutching your head, James? 'Nother headache, love? Here, let me get you a glass of wine."
He sidled out from the piano and handed me a glass that had been already filled, keeping his head back so I couldn't reach the wig. I downed it and poured myself another.
He'd sashayed over to the mirror above the fireplace and began tossing his head this way and that. "You know," he said, and both hands traveled down the length of his torso, "think I'm rather fetching in this wig. Kind of hot and itchy tho', How can you stand wearing one night and day? Bet you even wear it to bed."
"I do NOT wear a wig to bed," I insisted. I flopped down in my dining chair and watched him preen in front of the mirror. Nothing in my living memory was more ridiculous than Jack in full pirate regalia, silks, sash, trinkets in hair, billowy linen shirt, boots, in juxtaposition with that cascade of gray curls bobbing on his head. I had no intention of encouraging him and it was only with the greatest of difficulty that I stifled a laugh. "You are, without a doubt, the vainest man I've ever met."
He grinned at me through the mirror. "Like I said before, Jamielove, takes one to know one. Why you wear it all the time?" He slapped his cheek, "Gee, mate, is it because you're bald? Haven't got any hair left, 'av you? An you probably not even topping thirty-five."
I slammed down my wine glass. "I am thirty-one and I am NOT bald."
He turned around eyes at half-mast, a glitter with mischief. The look I'd come to dread. I groaned inwardly.
"Sooooo, take it off. Don't fancy playing you wearing that bit of fur on your head. Reminds me of the day you nearly hung me."
What was that word? Sangfroid. "No."
"You take yours off, I'll take mine off," he challenged.
"First of all, it's not yours..."
"It's on me head, isn't it?"
"And second, this," I pointed to the wig, "is part of who I am."
He pouted. "And your real hair isn't?" He cocked his head, a puzzled look on his face.
"What?"
"Trying to imagine you without any hair, mate." Head cocked in other direction. "Still think you'd be as cute as a bug on a rug."
"Oh for God's sake," I pulled off the wig, thrust my head in his direction, and then stuffed it back on my head. "Satisfied?"
"Not exactly," he purred. He sauntered over and stood before my chair. I stiffened. Coiling a finger around an errant brown curl, he pulled ever so gently. "Got a sweet curl to it."
"It's the humidity," I ground out the words through the side of my mouth.
"Pretty," he whispered and tucked it under the rim of my wig. He then sat down. I slowly let out a sigh of relief.
He lifted his wine glass, "Cheers."
"I refuse to toast you if you're wearing that wig."
He unfurled his napkin. "Doesn't suit me? Think it's the gray meself." He cast an acquisitive eye in the direction of my head. "Need a white one like yours."
That made me sit up. "You steal my wig and you're a dead man.," I warned him.
"Temper, temper, James. Take yours off and I'll take mine off."
Ignoring him, I cut into the treacle tart and then put my fork down. The headache still raged in full force. How was I going to get that wig back? I scooted my chair around so that I could lean against the wall. I shut my eyes and listened to the tiny sounds of knife and fork meeting Jack's plate as his ate his dinner.
"Eat something, you'll feel better. How'd you join the navy, James? Must say it suits you to a bloody tee. 'M curious."
I let out a small laugh. "Can imagine your curiosity had led you into many scrapes."
"Happens actually to be my saving grace, mate. The best times of my life were because I was curious and asked questions and did things to satisfy that curiosity. Now fess up. You tell me and I tell you. Few people know much about Jack Sparrow so you'll be getting a treat."
"Not much to tell, really. Younger son of minister who had a surfeit of children. Uncle was an admiral and saw much promise in a rather solemn young boy. Set out to sea when I was twelve. End of story. You're right. It does suit me. I'd be... lost without it. Now you." I opened my eyes. Jack had finished his tart and was now buttering a piece of bread.
"Another thing you and me have in common. Father was a curate. Poor curate. Lots of children by second wife. She didn't like me much. Bitch." This was said without rancor, just a matter of fact. "Was too much like first wife in both looks and temperament I'm told."
"How old were you when you went to sea?"
"Ten."
I raised an eyebrow. "That seems a little young."
Jack finished his wine and there was a little pause. "Well, dear old father never forgave me for killing his young bride in childbirth, so he was more than glad to see the last of my backside. Told you the other wife hated my little guts. Only person who shed a tear over my going was my nanny. Wonder if she's still alive?" A sad wistful note to his voice. The feral grin returned. "Think I'm a handful now, was a total hellion as a boy."
"No doubt in my mind on that score."
"Made her dance a merry tune most o' of the time. But she sewed and packed all my clothes for my first voyage with all the care and love as if she'd been my real mum," he sighed. He raised his glass. "Dear ole Bessie, did Jack proud."
I raised my glass to Bessie. "Who was your captain?"
"First captain was Frederick Wentworth. Good man. Fair man."
My eyes bugged out of my head. "You were with the navy." It wasn't a question.
Jack's eyes danced with mirth. "Sure, mate, How do you think I've survived this long? Know all your little rules and regulations and what not by heart. Not much about His Majesty's finest I don't know. Have special insight into what you're doing to do in battle, always the same thing, mind you. You blokes don't have much imagination." He raised his glass. "Present company notwithstanding."
Oh, it all made too much sense. Why he'd eluded every trap, why he could steal British naval ships and pilot them without a single fumble.
"Usually don't tell people that little fact about meself, but it was worth it to see your face. James," and with that he went into peals of laughter.
When he'd stopped laughing, a considerable amount of time later, I prompted him, "And second?"
He paused. He put down his knife and fork and filled his glass. The wine bottle hit the table with a sharp thud. Placing his hands flat on the table, he raised his head, his face twisted into the most frightening display of complete hatred I've ever seen.
"Captain. Jock. Ritchie." He paused between each word, as if it were physically painful to utter that name. And knowing the man, perhaps it was.
Jock Ritchie was an affront to the Royal Navy. Everything I'd done in my career was in direct repudiation of that man's conduct. He had been addicted to the lash, discipline merely a fancy name for sadism. Haven't met a man yet that didn't blanch when his name was mentioned. His cruelty was legendary; the man should have been court-martialed. But he had his supporters, equally vicious men in high command who felt that every man was expendable and that it was a bloody shame that there weren't many more captains like him. Ten years into his command the men on his ship mutinied and killed him, every man sticking a dagger into him in revenge.
"Were you part of the mutiny?" I asked quietly. I placed a hand over his. "I wouldn't have blamed you, if you were."
"No, 'm sorry to say. Didn't have the pleasure," he grimaced. "Have to hand it to Jock Ritchie, though, learned how to be bendy under his command."
I raised an eyebrow. "Bendy?"
"You know, use whatever I could to survive. Learned that those rule books were only as good as the person applying them. Ritchie was an absolute stickler for rules and regulations and it didn't save me or anyone else from his brutality. Decided it was time to make a few rules of my own. Being his cabin boy was trial by fire in that respect..."
His cabin boy. It must have shown in my face because his hand moved on top of mine and squeezed it tight. "Yes, James, his cabin boy with all that entails and then some." Still not leaving go of my hand, he shifted chair and stared into the fire. "Think I'm a sight to behold now, imagine me at fourteen. Looked like a lass then, I did. And Jock Ritchie was very partial to slight young boys who looked like lasses. At least being his cabin boy saved me from the lash. Didn't want his nightly fuck marked up. When he found out I was the son of a curate he used to make me quote scripture when he buggered me. Sick bastard. But I eventually got my own back on him and like I said, I learned how to be bendy. Wouldn't have survived as long as I have without those god-forsaken years on his ship."
"Your own back?"
Jack closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the wall. "First learned that getting buggered wasn't necessarily all that bad and then learned to like it. Kept that from him though. Wouldn't have given him the satisfaction. Shortly after I turned sixteen we docked in New Orleans. One night he told me he loved me. Believed him, too. As much as that shit could love anyone. That was what I was waiting for. In the middle of the night I jumped ship and found me a pirate ship more than willing to take me on. End of story." Another grimace, the eyes, already shut, tightened .
I squeezed his hand back. He sighed and said quietly, "Past is past, Jaimielove. Let's play some chess."
***
He beat me soundly the first two games. The third game. And then the fourth. And it was only ten o'clock.
"Take off that blasted wig!" I ordered. "It's distracting me."
"Never pegged you as a sore loser, James. And I warned you. Told you I was letting you win last time. The fourth game was harder, I admit. Take more chances. You play it a little too safe. Know you've got some pirate in you. Use it and you'll beat me," Jack commented rather matter of factly.
"I have no intention of turning pirate." I threw my wig across the room. "There. Now take it off."
"Don't think I will now," he cooed. "Me good luck charm."
"Jack," I warned. "Take that wig off now or I'll take it off myself."
"Oh really?" and the eyes went half mast.
I reached across the table to grab the wig, but he was too quick for me. He scooted back his chair and skirted out behind the sofa. A finger curled up and invited me to follow. My parlor is not that large. I leapt from my chair and lunged for him. Anticipating my move, he made to edge around the sofa but those long legs of mine were too fast. Tackling him, I pushed him against the wall and reached for the wig. Snatching it off his head, he secreted it behind his back.
"No fair," he complained. "Legs too bloody long."
"Commodore," I smirked back at him and reached behind him to grab the wig.
Both of us wriggled madly, he trying to keep the wig out of my reach, me struggling to finally grab it and end this farce. I leaned into him and scooted my arms behind him. Eureka, I felt a curl and grabbed. "Got it," I yelled in victory. I got an "oh" in my ear in response and realized all too quickly that there wasn't even a hair breadth between the two of us and one of us had a massive hard on and the other one of us was quickly matching suit. Breaths quickened, cocks got harder. I couldn't move, relishing the sensation of complete heat that blanketed every pore in my body. He curled into me ever so slightly.
"Your move," he whispered, his breath hot and wet.
Oh,jesusmaryandjoseph, why did this feel so right when it was so wrong. I groaned, as much in desire as in agony. "I cannot," I whispered back.
"Aren't you hungry? Jack's hungry. Oh so hungry for James." His breath ghosted across my ear. Each word forced out in between short, hot pants. I could feel his mouth resting against the hair near my ear as he began whispering over and over again in a gentle litany, prettyprettyJamielovesweetJackwantswantsprettyJamielove.
Why doesn't he put his mouth on me? The spot between my neck and collarbone ached for that most beautiful of mouths to caress me, to bite me. If he did that I would be lost, I would not be able to stop. I would succumb to that scent, that litany, that innate sexuality that so defines him, that so seduces me with his every heartbeat. His panting deepening as his mouth moved over my hair, the litany becoming more ragged as his desire heightened. And then he stopped. And like the other night, he leaned his forehead against my shoulder. We panted together in unison. I heard a muffled, "Christ, James, please." Clearly it was my decision. I was yet again on the knife edge.
"I cannot," I groaned and wrenched myself away from him. I stood in front of the fire, my back to him, shivering, my body as cold as if I'd stood naked in an ice storm. I could not look at him. "Jack, I'm begging you, please go."
"James, there's nothing wrong..." desire still held his speech, his voice raspy and deep.
"Dammit, Jack, GO!"
I don't know how long stood there, arms wrapped around me in a futile attempt to stop the shivering. When I'd thought, hoped, he'd gone, I turned around. He was standing in the doorway.
"Do you want me to come back?"
I nodded once. He nodded once back. He left.
***
I should reserve a space in Bedlam. I wanted to fuck a pirate. Despite everything that I held dear, every moral and social canon I'd believed for the last twenty years, I burned for him, I craved him. I lashed that jade queen with my tongue over and over again in the dead of night as I fisted myself to completion. But no matter how many times I orgasmed, it did not slake this passion. And I realized that every time we sat down to eat, I'd not bothered and that was because I'd been feasting off of him. His scent, his laughter, every movement, every saucy smile, even his pain, and it was good and enough and I had been fulfilled. Yet I could not, could not give in to this desire, even though I knew for certain that it was reciprocated, was equal to mine.
Because I am a creature of habit, and even in this new madness habit seems to be the rule of the day, I drafted more letters. They all said the same thing. "I cannot." That is all: I cannot. I watched the fire consume these two words over and over again.
Despite the rather stiff exterior, I am a passionate man. I've labored hard to suppress this facet of my personality. This trait has been the undoing of many men. I have seen it. The captain who never makes commodore because of his temper. The lieutenant who is forever a lieutenant because of a fatal attraction to bawds, male or female.
The bitch goddess ambition demanded that I channel this passionate nature, and I admit with no small degree of pride that I have done so. It manifests itself in a shocking ferocity in battle, extreme loyalty and love for my king, my navy, my men, my friends. It is fed through my love of music, flowers, fine wine, and good food. My love for Elizabeth was equal parts of love for her wit, intelligence, and joie de vivre, as well a healthy desire to bed her.
Now I wanted to bed Jack. And not with a throw away passion. Oh no. This was the sort of lust that ate my insides and no matter how many orgasms I achieved on my own, still left me still wanting in the dark.
But commodores do not bed other men. Aside from the issue of bedding pirates, even if I had desired an officer, say Gillette or Groves, the potential consequences on our careers if we'd been caught would have been catastrophic. The Royal Navy bans relations between men on religious and moral grounds. However, it also recognizes that ships are not manned by saints, and I've always turned a blind eye in my command to such goings on. Six months on a ship with nothing but a calloused hand in the middle of the night is above and beyond the call of duty. But officers are held to a higher standard. We are the living rule of British grit and, as such, we're supposed to suppress desire until it is appropriate to indulge in it. You wait until you get into port. Then you find a brothel with clean women and what you do behind those closed doors is nobody's business. And if carnal relations between officers were discovered? Certainly dishonor and demotion if we were lucky, possible expulsion from the service if we were not. Being caught having carnal relations with a pirate. Both of us hanged the next morning.
And yet this wasn't my over-riding concern. Although perhaps it should be.
Not an outwardly religious man, I did have a deep abiding faith that did not just manifest at the alms box. Was this a sin against God? Three months ago I would have said yes. Absolutely. And now? I had no answers. I'd never desired other men. I was lucky, my captain was the opposite of Jock Ritchie, a fair but stern man with a brood full of children and no desire to corrupt young boys. So my experience with men was limited to a few youthful exploratory rubbing of someone else's cock, or letting someone rub mine, and hearing the whisperings and grunts in the night of my fellow midshipmen who took pleasure where they found it. A few curt rebuffs on my part and my considerable height saved me from the attentions of other men. I'd never considered men for sexual sport no matter how desperate I became. Ever. Which might explain why I spent a goodly portion of my first prize money at Singapore Sal's.
Of course, Jack Sparrow wasn't an ordinary man, but surely that shouldn't matter. And this wasn't just lust, I knew that. I think if it just had been lust I could have succumbed to his pleas without any qualms. There was a deeper desire that clothed the lust, that complimented it, that fueled the desire. That made me want to bed only him, not slake myself at the nearest brothel, which I could easily have done and have done so in the past. No, I wanted him. The most luscious whore in the world couldn't compete with the mere touch of that man's tongue on the back of my hand.
The next week was a living hell. I was commodore in name only. If distracted the previous week, my state of mind this week was nothing short of being nearly insensible. I cancelled all engagements. Itold William my duties at the fort demanded that I forego the chess games for a while. I spent that time in church on my knees begging for guidance. I received no solace from this. God was silent. Clearly, the answer was to be found in my heart and soul. The only thing my heart told me was that he would be here in six days, here in five days, etc. I was so confused that I didn't even know what would happen Thursday next. I was too weak to tell him to stay away but unable to succumb to this desire either. The commodore in me shouted duty, restraint, obligation, resolve. These should be your watchwords. The man in me whispered desire, love, passion, companionship. These are words to live by.
***
I was late Thursday evening, and no music greeted me this time. With relief and dread, I saw the pirate hat in the hall and hung up my hat and coat next to it. I steeled myself before entering the parlor.
The weather had finally broken. Simon had laid faggots for the fire, but it was really too warm for that. A breeze sent the curtains aflutter. Jack stood at the fireplace waiting for me.
"Lo, Jaimelove," he smiled a tight smile, not sure as to whether he was welcome or not.
"Lo, Jack," I stood with my back to the parlor door, really not knowing what to do.
He studied me. "Want me to leave? Will."
I shook my head. "Play something for me, will you, Jack?" I was almost in tears. I leaned back against the door and closed my eyes. I heard the faint thud of the lid of the pianoforte and then blessed music. At some point I moved myself on the sofa. I couldn't tell you what he played, I didn't pay attention to the notes. I just let the music wash over me and ease out slowly every self-doubt I'd tortured myself with during the last seven days. After about an hour, I raised my head. "Thank you. You hungry?"
"Not tonight, mate," He still sat at the piano.
"Come, Jack. Sit with me." I patted the floor in front of the sofa.
"You sure?" he asked.
I nodded.
He ambled over to the table and poured us two glasses of wine. When he reached the sofa he handed me one and then raised his glass to toast me. His eyes met mine, and they were so full of compassion that those tears I'd been relatively successful in tamping down for the last hour filled my eyes again; it was only with the greatest of efforts that I stopped them from coursing down my cheeks.
With that grace that brought another lump to my throat, he eased his way to the floor and leaned against the back of the sofa, facing the fireplace.
There was silence for a few moments and then, "Rotten time of it this week?"
"Hmmmn."
"Governor Swann get his wig back?
"Hmmmn."
"Think mebbe our little game got out of hand?"
"No. Nothing you did. Nothing that wasn't reciprocated." I amended. "I'm... just confused. Very confused. Not something I readily admit to, I must confess. His Majesty does not like confusion in its commodores. Bad for morale, don't you know. " I didn't even feel like drinking. I put down my wine glass next to him and shut my eyes.
"It's not wrong, James."
I sighed. "Jack, perhaps for pirates it isn't wrong, but for commodores it's so wrong that I'd be hung along side you in Deadman's Cay should we be caught."
"Is that all you're worried about because I don't plan on spreading the news at the Tar that Commodore James L. Norrington is buggering me. You're not the only one with a reputation to protect."
"No, it's not just that."
"Ever bugger, been buggered, James? Men? Women?"
"No, no, no, and no. You obviously have done any and all."
"Now it's my turn to say hmmmn."
That made me chuckle.
"First laugh I've heard from you tonight."
"Hmmmn."
"Ever done anything with a man?"
"Just some rubbing when I was young. Nothing else."
"Hmmmn. Who was your first woman?"
"Sal."
His head snapped around, charcoal eyebrows scrunched up so high they nearly assaulted that red scarf he wore around his head. "Sal?" he squeaked, his voice up two full octaves.
"Yes, think she felt sorry for me."
He snorted, "Doubt that, lad. Sal is one of the finest women I've ever known, but didn't know her to spread her legs for anyone once she got her own place."
"Just lost my mother."
"Oh. Then she might have done. Has a little soft spot few people know about. Well, that makes you and me the only two people I know who've had the pleasure. Did you bugger her? Know for a fact she's rather partial."
"Jack, what part of 'no' don't you understand? I did NOT bugger her."
"Just checking. Old cock in cunt thing? Thrust, grind, roll your hips, thrust grind."
"You have such a way with words. Yes, we did that and then some. Hand me my wine glass."
"Care to go into copious detail?' He looked like a child pining for the last lollipop on earth.
"No."
"Well, what ever you did, did you like it? Your parts all seem to be in very good working order... and Sal really is quite gifted in all regards... and any man that didn't enjoy her probably would be made of stone and..."
I cuffed his shoulder. "Shut it. Of course, I liked it. In fact, like is far too mild a word. And before you ask, yes, I've been with a few women since. And I liked it those times, too."
"Was a little worried, mate, must confess. Want you to know that it's more or less the same thing. Cock goes in hole, thrusts, grinds, I do something with my hips most people like very much..."
An image of Jack bent over me, my legs wrapped around his waist, his cock in me, ohlordhelpme.
"Anyway, so if it's not a problem with the commodore buggering the pirate thing..."
"That's not a small consideration, Jack," I protested. "I don't fancy a noose around my neck any time in the near future and after your recent brush with the hangman would assume that you, too, would find it most objectionable. But no, it's not the main consideration."
"Ahem, you're interrupting me, Jaimelove. So you and me keep quiet whatever delightfully naughty little fantasies we perpetrate on each other. Am warning you, I have a very fertile imagination..."
"Tell me something I don't know, Jack..."
"...You're interrupting, again," he huffed. "Now where was I? We've ascertained that your cock likes nice, warm tight places, which I might add am very glad to hear because this pirate cock also likes nice, warm tight places and very much wants to feast something terrible at the commodore's table quite often and quite loudly. Think you feel the same."
I was silent.
"I'll take that as a yes. Can only conclude that it's a nagging little moral issue."
I was silent.
"Jack's hit the nail on the head has he?"
Silent again. Then because he deserved some sort of answer, I muttered. "Men don't do men, Jack. Or they shouldn't."
"Who says?" he countered.
"I think the Bible is fairly explicit on that particular sin."
"Also says that thou shalt not kill. Haven't noticed that little commandment stopped the Royal Navy from hanging pirates or running them through or shooting them dead. Last time I came through Port Royal saw several men I knew hanging from Deadmen's Cay."
"The first man I ever killed still haunts my dreams."
"Aye, me too, but we still go on doing it and no doubt you'll kill a few more men before you die, as will I. Give me your hand."
With great reluctance, I eased my hand over his shoulder. He took it in one of his and traced the calluses with his fingers. "I love your hands. I watch them move the men around the board, and it's all I can do not to grab them and kiss them. Still man the ship I see."
"Every now and then. Like to feel the rigging run through my hands."
He shifted himself so that he could see my face. He brought my hand up to his mouth, kissed every knuckle, and then returned it to my lap. Sweet heat, not desire, warmed me through.
"Know am upsetting your apple cart here, Love. But I've learned that you need to discover what rules work for you and what don't. You know, pick and choose. Let a pirate jump from the battlement of your fort even though the rule book says by all rights he should hang. Because he saved your life and the lives of your men. The rule books don't like to take those little details into account. Granted, you've done very well with all those rules and regulations you've lived by. Nice house, very nice pianoforte, good books. But ever wonder if there's something more beyond the rule books, or even that they might be wrong? They're only written by men, you know. Known men to make a few mistakes."
"This is important to me," I cried. "The career, the house, my status, my men."
"Ssh, love, not saying it isn't, not saying you have to give it up. Just you might find what something you hadn't bargained for beyond those rules, regulations, and the Bible. My philosophy is simple. If it doesn't hurt anyone, do it. Men or women. Grab whatever happiness you can because tomorrow you might get run through or come down with typhoid and die a miserable death begging for water that's nowhere to be found. Be a little more bendy. We have something here, James." He leaned his head against my knee and rubbed it exactly as a cat would. I fought the urge to caress that hair, fondle the charms, run my hand over his brow. "Something that I haven't run across too many times in my life. I ask you to meet me halfway. That's all."
The tears were very close. "Don't know if I can."
"I know. It'll be a stretch for you. But it's like your chess game. Nine times out of ten I can predict exactly what you're doing to do. But that tenth time, love, you surprise me. So look to the horizon for that tenth time."
The night jasmine must have just bloomed because the room was suddenly filled with their heavy, sensual scent.
"James, two more things," his voice was sharp, I started. "Look at me." Eyes the darkest I've ever seen them. "First you need to know this isn't just a fuck."
I blushed. "I know that, Jack. I know."
"Second, you need to know that I won't play pirate for you. Won't take you so that you can tell yourself that it was the wine or the heat of the moment. And I want to take you, James. By God, I'm burning to take you. Make no mistake about that," his voice husky and deep. "Could have done when we were plastered together against that wall. Knew that if I'd touched you or kissed you that you'd be ripping my clothes off faster than you can say suck my cock. But if it's going to be any good between us you need to make the first move. You need to choose me. Don't have a problem swiving men meself, but you do. So you need to come to terms with it. On your hook, James. Might say we're on the battlements again and you deciding. Except this time, it's you who's going to jump or not." He uncoiled himself from the floor and took off my wig, placing it next to me on the sofa. He brushed the hair back from my face with a brown hand. "Savvy?"
He didn't wait for a reply. He went to the window and inhaled, sniffing the breeze coming in from the garden. "Can you smell the night jasmine? Ah, that's lovely. Let's take her outside," he pointed to the chess set. "Play out in your garden. Nice garden you got."
I rolled my eyes. "I assume you've been through every drawer, cupboard, and niche. Is there any part of this house that you don't know intimately?"
"To quote you, no. Would be a disgrace to the code otherwise. Come on, let's play under the stars."
So we marshaled some candles and set up the board outside on the lawn. Like young boys, we flopped down on our stomachs and played. He beat me three times, I tried to think like a pirate, sacrificed men so that I could maneuver into a better position, forced myself to make moves that were bold and possibly foolhardy, and I beat him once. That sent him crowing with delight. "See, James," he whispered. "You're getting there."
The clicking of the cicadas, the warm breeze off of the ocean, the heavy sweet aroma of the jasmine all began to lull me to sleep. I found myself dozing in between moves, relaxed for the first time in a week.
"James, your move."
"So sleepy, Jack."
"Hmmmn. What do you miss about England?"
"Roses. The smell of fresh cut hay. You?"
"Strawberry and rhubarb tart. Bessie."
"Why did Sal let you? You didn't tell me?"
"My considerable charms aren't enough?"
"Yes, I acknowledge they are considerable. Was there another reason?"
"She had a boy. Fine lad, full of mischief, reminded me of meself at his age. Stole away on the Pearl when we heaved anchor in Singapore. Had some fool notion that he wanted to be a pirate. Five days out I found him near starved, hiding in the powder magazine. Turned the boat..."
"...Ship."
"...Ship around and returned him to his mother. She was eternally grateful, he hated me for it. Ended up joining Barbossa's crew a few years later and no doubt was one of those undead pirates you hanged a couple of months ago. Tired, Jaime?"
"Yes, Jack. So tired."
"Ssh, stay there. Be back in a tic."
I heard him pick up the chess board and take it inside. I must have fallen asleep because all of a sudden I felt him gently lift my head and place it on a pillow. He blew out the candles, lay next to me, and curled his body around mine, the warmth of him enveloping me. A chaste kiss to the forehead was followed by his hand finding mine, which was followed by a "Sleep tight, Jaimelove."
I squeezed his hand and brought it up to my chest.
I awoke at dawn, but he'd already gone. The green jade queen was on the pillow next to me.
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