The Briar and The Rose: Chapter Ten

[whoreoftortuga]

The months passed into Evie’s twenty-third year and the climate of Tortuga was changing. At first it was subtle, like the far distant scent of cannon-fire on the breeze that sometimes swept into the bay and Evie thought perhaps it were simply that she were getting older though her mirror still reflected back an altogether pleasing countenance. But then when Jasmine, and Giselle, and even little Mary-Beth made an aggrieved observation, Evie knew it to be true: Business was definitely slower on Tortuga.

Pirates who had been as much a part of Tortuga’s scenery as its seamy taverns and voluptuous whores suddenly vanished. One night a familiar fellow by the name of Briggs arrived in port and Evie shared a tankard with him in The Lamb & Flag.
“And what of your mates?” She queried, swinging her legs. “Thompson, Belvedere and Grenouille? ‘Aven’t seen them around in months now.”
Briggs swallowed hard around his ale and grimaced. “You ‘aven’t ‘eard? They’re all dead - met their makers at the end of a rope, courtesy of the East India Trading Company.”
It was the first Evie had heard of the Company, but it was not to be the last. Tortuga was the hub of gossip from all parts of the world and the sailors and pirates kept the whores well up to date with all manner of goings-on. The East India Trading Company desired order upon the seas and it was order they were pursuing to devastating consequence. Those of piratical leaning had especially to fear - the Company’s ships were heavily armed and designed for battle and although pirates were ferocious fighters and ruthless defenders, it was more often that the sleek size of their ships were an aid in affording them escape than they triumphed by other means. The trials of the seas were steadily multiplying for pirates.
But those pirates who sailed the seas still and did not retire either by free design or by force fought back with all the greater ferociousness, pillaging so freely that the waters ran red around brutalised ships for miles and many ports went without luxuries from Europe for months upon end. The Company retaliated with equal brutality and that year many a pair of boots that dangled along the Spanish Main were those of a pirate’s.
All of this meant little to Evie and the other residents of Tortuga - Tortuga was still a free port and governed by none - except for what it meant to their collective income. Things weren’t so very bad just yet - it’s just that there was space to move your elbows about in the taverns now and time to catch your breath between biters - and Evie rather thought the whole thing would blow over and The Company would quit its zealousness once it had made its point and realised that piracy were as much a part of the seas as the waves, the fish and the tales of Davy Jones.
Barbossa and his new crew came and went with increasing unpredictability, their visits to Tortuga sporadic and brief. He seemed wearier to Evie each time and she secretly worried for him but daren’t let it show for he was vexed enough as it was.
The Captain who was so quick to laugh uproariously, to drink the taverns dry, to fuck her until her head spun - seemed to grow ever surlier and more disenchanted by that which had so pleased him before. Even the most sumptuous meals that Tortuga could offer he would push away half-finished, a disappointed grimace contorting his mouth. No longer would he dance with her to the grinding pulse of the accordion or the fiddle’s whine, no more would he celebrate successful hauls with his men, but usher her hastily and grimly to her room where he would scull endless bottles of liquor and fuck her to increasingly breathless and strained climaxes.
She did her best, expending all her skills in enviable efforts and he left her more and more gold each time, spent more and more gold on food and wine and other vices - cocoa leaf, opium, snuff - but the more he spent, the more dissatisfied he seemed.

The afternoon thrummed with the endless beat of rain and Evie huddled under blankets and groaned in protest as sleep slowly abandoned her. A sharp pain gripped her skull like a gull’s claw, intensifying the more awake she became until finally she could bear it no more and flung out an arm, fumbling by the bed for the gin bottle. It took several big swigs before it took effect and the headache dulled to a dim throb. Still, it would take a bottle before it vanished altogether. It would take two just to get her through the night. Evie groaned again and rolled over onto her back. It was almost time to be getting up and getting ready for the night’s work and she resisted the knowledge, not wanting it to be true. Her bed was warm and terribly comfortable - she’d even changed the linen before retiring that morning and the thought of getting them soiled again was a tiresome one. She forced her eyes open and stared up at the canopy, and her reflection in the mirror that hung there. Distorted though it was, she could see well enough to know she looked weary. She puffed and listened to the rain, feeling it and the gin working to lull her back to rest.
Evie had worked every night non-stop for a good six weeks now and knew she was well overdue for a night off. Between the rain and her headache, it seemed as good a night as any now. She could wash her hair, go through her wardrobe and sort out her dresses, even do some mending if she felt like it.
The decision made, all tension flew from her body and with one last big gulp of gin she settled back against the pillows and gave herself up to rest.

She was not sure how much time had elapsed when she was roused from her slumber, but it was clearly evening now for beyond the thin walls came the cheers and laughter of Tortuga. For a moment, blearily rubbing at her eyes, she was unsure what had awakened her until she came slowly to realise that rising above the gun shots and cheerful music beyond there was a hammering at her door that became increasingly violent.
Thinking it must be Giselle, or some other whore, Evie stumbled from bed, tripping over her shoes as she did, head swimming drunkenly from a sleep disturbed before it was properly finished. But, by the time she reached the door, pressing herself up against it with a beating heart, the knocking had grown so that the wood near splintered and with a lurch of the stomach she knew it must be bullies, come to assault and rob her. What to do now?
“Evie!” A voice barked from the other side of the door. “Open this god-forsaken door, wench, or I’ll kick it apart and ye as well!”
Barbossa! Hastily, she fumbled with the lock but before she could pull the door, it flew open into the room, knocking her backwards and stubbing her toes.
She yelped as Barbossa strode into the room, dampened with the rain from outside, his attitude fierce, Jack the Monkey crouched upon his shoulder. She could not imagine what she had done to vex him so but she felt there might be a hiding for her at the end of it and the thought struck her numb with fear. She edged backwards as he advanced upon her, until she hit the corner of her dresser and her hands fumbled to get purchase, steadying herself against the solid wood as she faced his terrible scowl. He was in the same clothes - same grey jacket, same bright vest, same brown pants - that she had last seen him in, and they were already becoming weather-worn, a sharp contrast to the brilliant figure he had cut in the past. There was a desperate tinge to the grimace he bore, a weariness as though he had not slept for many nights. She barely recognised him, and that frightened her more than anything.
He took stock of her with hard, cold eyes as she stood trembling in her old nightdress, his face settling into a dangerous calm.
“Where are the medallions, Evangeline?” His voice was measured, though raspy as a blade against flint.
She was confused; medallions? “Wh-what d’you mean?” She dared to question. “What medallions?”
He took a step forward, his brow splitting with rage and she started backwards, crossing her hands across her breast.
“Don’t be daft, whore.” He warned her. “I am not much inclined to patience. The medallions I gave ye some months ago. With a death’s mask upon them.”
Realisation dawned on her as she suddenly recalled his gift of the two pieces of Aztec gold, and she turned and fell to her knees, fumbling beneath the dresser for the hidden compartment there. “’Ang on, I ‘id them away. Lord, you frightened me, I was lost in sleep when you came a’rattlin’ you know, no need to make such a fuss, all just a matter of a minute or two.” She realised she was babbling, but could scarcely stop. And what did he want them back for, was he hard up or something? Even when he had been that brief time, he’d refused her charity. Her fingers grasped the little enamel music box he’d given her two years ago, or was it three now? Withdrawing it she turned back to him and he loomed over her, face drawn tight and anxious, as she slipped a fingernail beneath the lid and popped it open.
The metallic notes of a tinkling melody filled the tiny room and he grasped a candle from the dresser and lit it with a shaking hand, holding it high above them.
The lick of orange light leapt over the medallions, their gold surfaces burnishing in the low gleam and Barbossa visibly relaxed, his shoulders releasing with a silent breath. One ringed hand reached out to caress the coins, tentatively as though he feared they might vanish in the flare of the candle’s light, and then he scooped them up and pocketed them, dropping his hand back to rest upon Evie’s head for a moment, fingertips scooping in her hair.
“I knew I could trust ye.” He murmured and turned away from her, limping towards the door. At first she thought he was going to leave, as soon as he had arrived, and she opened her mouth to protest, but he simply shut and locked the door. Slowly she got to her feet as he sighed and pulled his hat from his head, tossing it to the chair. Cautiously she went to him and helped him from his jacket, laying it down beside his hat and he cupped her cheek in thanks and she felt some of the old Barbossa there and was glad.
“What’s this all about then?” She queried him, some of her usual spirit creeping back into her voice now that it seemed the danger had passed. ”Bargin’ in ‘ere and kickin’ up such a fuss, rousin’ me from me beauty sleep, eh?”
She was glad to see him chuckle and gladder still that his arms went about her and he gazed upon her with the old fondness and she felt his hardness pressing into the space between her hip and her groin.
“Never ye trouble ye little self about it, Missy.” And he laid a kiss upon her lips. “There be matters of greater concern at hand for ye now.” He pushed against her again and a sudden rush of gladness filled her heart; joy to have him with her again so that her fear of only moments before was entirely forgotten.
They kissed as garments were pulled off and discarded and embraced, naked flesh sliding, hands stroking. He cupped her breast and bent to it, teeth tugging at it teasingly and she grasped his shoulders and giggled. He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the bed where they stretched out and embraced again and Evie lost herself to the kiss, to the feel of his tongue against hers and the warmth it filled her with.
After several luxurious moments she broke the kiss and slid down his body to take him in her mouth. He swelled harder against her administrations and she noted it with satisfaction, working earnestly to arouse him, swirling her tongue around his engorged head. She thought that she was doing well, his hands curling in her hair, until from above came the hoarse command: “Harder!”
She obeyed, working on him as hard as she felt able, and then again, barking this time: ”Harder, whore!” She tried, her mouth growing numb with the effort, and then he sat up, grasping her hard and near-shouted: “Harder!” forcing her head up and down in such a way that he choked her and she braced her hands against his thighs to stop her face from being mashed into his pelvis.
She could not satisfy him in this way, however, and he flung her from him so that she sprawled upon her back, dazed and dry-mouthed, and then mounted her.
She had grown moist from their earlier embraces and at first found his ferocious thrusting to be pleasurable. The woman in her relished such open lust, felt some primal force within herself rise to meet his bestial efforts as he grasped hold of her buttocks and drove hard into her, his forehead glistening with perspiration. She drove her fingers into his back and lifted her hips to grind against his and he continued to pound her as though it might be the very last time he would do so. She did not think he would last long at this pace.
But she was wrong. He slowed his pace for a while, breathing hard, and sat back. Now he pushed into her languidly, softly, lowering one hand to her pleasure spot to manipulate her there and she felt her juices begin to flow once more. His other hand toyed with her nipples, increasing her enjoyment and she moaned and let him behold how much pleasure she was taking in his administrations. Stealing a glance at him from beneath her lashes, she saw that his countenance was still and sombre, not lifted with the usual smug smile he bore when observing her lust. When he lowered his head to let his lips play upon her breast, the combined sensations of him deep inside her, his hand on her clitoris, his teeth and tongue teasing her nipples, all crescendoed quickly, the sensations tumbling over each other, into an intense and satisfying climax.
He did not chuckle, or quip or even pause to kiss her, but began again to thrust hard, her newly lubricated depths clenching around him still. Faster and faster the pace built until she began to gasp - oh, he was going too hard now, far too hard! True enough, she liked it a bit rougher on occasion and true enough, he’d been a bit rougher than even that on other occasions, but this was going far beyond that. Clenching her teeth she screwed her eyes shut and grasped hold of his shoulders. Far too much, but she could hold out until he’d finished - he couldn’t be long now. Just until he’d finished. He slammed down with a savage pulse and she could not halt the little yelp that burst from her lips. Now it was truly beginning to pain her and for the first time over these past years, she wished he would hurry up and finish. But Barbossa showed no signs of slowing; indeed she thought he even picked up the pace a little and now her cunny was beginning to burn and her back to ache from where it was being driven into the coverlet. She pushed against his shoulders with her small hands, urging him to stop.
“I need a breather, darlin’,” she managed to gasp. “I can’t take no more of this right now!”
But he did not heed her, only continued his business, and she pressed against him harder, as hard as she could though little good it did her - he did not budge an inch and she could feel the strength in him far exceeded hers. “Please, Hector, just five minutes!” She gasped and then slapped at his arms and shoulders in sudden panic, her slim brown fingers scrabbling over his faded tattoos. She was not prepared for him to suddenly grasp hold of her wrists and pin them hard by her sides, near burying them in the mattress. His grip pinched, his weight bore down on her crushingly and although she strained against him, the expenditure was futile: he was immoveable and still, still he continued to drive into her.
“Yer a whore, aren’t ye” he hissed, his eyes shining and fierce. “How many times a night are ye used?”
“Not like this!” she cried and heaved upwards against him, her whole body covered in a slick sweat from her efforts to escape. Oh, how it hurt!
Not being able to bear looking at him, she twisted her head to the side and gazed outwards, to where the embroidered burgundy coverlet stretched, upwards to the heaping of tatty, colourful pillows. On them perched the monkey, staring at them with a curiously blank expression and wretched, she squeezed her eyes shut and felt the harsh curl of the embroidery scratch against her cheek with every painful thrust Barbossa gave her.
“Shut up!” Barbossa spat and slowly, above the creakings of the bed and the grunts he emitted she became aware that she was yelping, an involuntary noise that sprang from her every time he drove himself forward and now that she heard it, the noises became louder, to the Captain’s vexation.
“Shut up!” He hissed and pulled out of her. But the relief was only momentary for he rolled her onto her stomach and entered her hard again, pushing her face down into the pillows so that her cries were smothered. The terror she felt now as she tried to breathe was unlike any she had known before. She tried to shout that she could not catch her breath, but the words could not be formed against the chocking fabric. She flailed her arms about desperately, trying to grasp him, trying to push herself up, but he only pushed her down harder and continued to fuck her mercilessly. Again and again she tried to draw in a deep breath but all she breathed in was the scent of worn linen and straw and the dour taste of cotton. Oh Lord, how could this be happening, how could he not realise that if he did not release her very soon, she would die¸ suffocate just like her poor dear Mum, all those years ago. Of all the hands she thought she might die at, Hector Barbossa’s had not been amongst them. Why oh why would he do such a thing to her -
Evie’s mind was tearing itself upon that last point again and again as she felt herself grow so heavy she could no longer struggle, as though she were underwater and pushing against the tide. Her head grew giddy, swam and spun and more alarmingly still, she began to find she did not care overmuch when through the fog and the darkness, she heard a great roar from Barbossa. A wretched cry that was somewhere between a scream and a groan, and the pressure on the back of her head was suddenly lifted and she threw back her neck and sucked in a great gasp of air before collapsing back on the bed, a loud buzzing in her ears.

Behind her he was still and silent. The room came back to her slowly; the press of the fabric beneath her, the cool of the pillow against her cheek, the dim glow of the candlelight, his fingertips yet pressed into her buttocks, but still she felt curiously numb. She could somehow not bring herself to move, to rouse herself, but lay there, blinking against the half-light, feeling spittle gather in the corner of her mouth before pooling over her lips and dribbling onto the pillow.
Barbossa shifted and his hands left her body. She realised suddenly he was still inside her - she had become strangely accustomed to the sensation - and there was a final screech of pain as he pulled slowly out, leaving her burning. She could not see him, only hear him as he stood, crossed the room slowly and began to dress. He passed into her line of vision only once, to gather up his sash from where it had been discarded and she saw that he wiped himself off with it and then tossed it back down.
There was the clink of his sword as he refastened it about his waist, the pitter-patter of Jack the Monkey scrabbling across the room to some unseen gesture and then silence again. She did not move, did not turn her head to find him, found that indeed, she could not. He stood in the semi-darkness for a long moment; perhaps debating whether to speak, perhaps waiting for her to. He would have to wait. Even if she could form words, none sprang to mind. Her nether-regions throbbed and her head ached. All she could wonder, somewhat hilariously, was whether or not, after all that, he’d come.
Finally, she heard him turn on his heels, the click and creak of the lock and then the door clap shut. She shifted then, feeling a hot stickiness between her thighs, a flare behind her eyeballs and a wetness that filmed her gaze so that she felt obliged to let drop her eyelids .

When she’d finally felt able to move, a searing pain ripped through her loins so that she’d doubled over against the pillows. When it passed, she’d rolled gingerly onto her back and beheld with no small amount of horror that her thighs and stomach were mottled with blood and that blood was splotched over the coverlet. Ruined, she thought dumbly, I’ll have to spend a dozen mornings at the docks to find another. She had not been aware of the tears rolling down her cheeks, only the groan of protest from her back as she’d slid to the edge of the bed, placing her toes onto the rug and pulling herself up. The ache in her groin had settled to a low hum but she’d known she would not be working the next few nights - he’d done her some damage and there was no doubt of it.
She’d stoked up the fire and put on the pot of water to boil, swigging from a bottle of gin to numb the pain. It was near three-quarters empty before her head began to buzz and she could muster just enough energy to curse the name of Hector Barbossa as the pot began to sizzle and hiss.
That had been four nights ago now and Evie sat in her room, rubbing thick scented cream into her cheeks, her eyes red ringed from weeping, gin bottle at her elbow. She could not stop the tears, it seemed, though she cursed them with every foul word she knew, but still they kept rolling, often preceded with a flash of memory of her Captain in kinder days when he’d been sensitive to the workings of the female body. She was still healing, a dozen finger-shaped bruises scattered upon her body, her sex still red and puffy, her insides raw, and she knew not how long it would be before she felt safe enough to go walking again. To save coin, she’d not been eating, only consuming the stores of her cocoa leaf and polishing off the gin as fast as Giselle could deliver it to her, and she knew that she appeared thin and haggard as a result. If this went on much longer, she would have to delve into her stash - really, there was plenty of it! But Evie was terrified of finding herself penniless, loathe to touch the accumulated coin in the fear it would vanish in a twinkling.
But it was more than her injuries that kept her from going about. Pain did not knaw at her body as fiercely as it tore apart her heart. The only time she had felt emotion quite so intense was at her mother’s deathbed, and this was an altogether different sort. It was this pain that set the tears falling so readily, this pain that made the thought of stepping beyond her doors quite unbearable, though her chamber pot was reeking. This pain that had her hugging her pillow against her breast and sobbing in an agony of loss. Evie was simply heartbroken and did not know the words to express it, even if she could admit it to herself.

Giselle entered, high cheeks splotched with red, two bottles of gin tucked beneath her arm.
“’Ow are you tonight, love?” she queried and dropped a kiss on Evie’s scented cheek before placing the bottles across the room on the sideboard. Her peach-coloured dress was unfortunately clashing with her pallor, an artificial whiteness that did not quite mask the dark circles beneath her eyes, and her blonde hair was escaping from where it was secured about her head. Evie could see that Giselle had been hard at work and envy mingled curiously with relief. Giselle poured herself a glass of gin then passed the bottle to Evie who accepted it gratefully and answered her friend’s query with a shrug.
“Could be a lot worse.”
“You goin’ about tonight then?”
Evie jerked her head, her voice hoarse. “Nah. Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow.”
Giselle clucked and raised thin eyebrows. “You got to sooner or later, ducks. Can’t sit about feelin’ sorry for yourself forever.”
Evie sighed and rose from her dresser, idling over to the bed. “Aye. I know. And what if I were to see him about?”
Giselle swallowed her gin in one gulp and scoffed. “You won’t be havin’ to worry about that. They haul anchor with the Dawn and like as not won’t be back for a few months.”
Evie was run through with a cold shudder, her body arrested suddenly by an icy grip. He left then, at Dawn, and though she tried to tell herself fiercely it was good, there was the ache of emptiness in her breast.
And then, much to Giselle’s astonishment, she was hastily shrugging out of her shift and fumbling for her stays and petticoats, stumbling over the rug as she pulled them on. Giselle tittered a little and took another drink.
“Well, you recovered mighty quick at that bit of news, love. There’s not much left to the night though, you know!”
“I know.” Evie’s response was grim as she wiggled quickly into the nearest dress her searching hand had found when thrust into her wardrobe. Red sateen. She did not notice it was the same dress she had been wearing the first night they had met. Pausing then only to run a brush hastily through her hair, she jammed her feet into a pair of shoes and flew from the room, leaving Giselle standing by the sideboard, a startled expression on her face, an “Oy!” forming on her lips.

Evie had hurtled down the rickety staircase of the Maison Rouge and out into the streets beyond and had not stopped until the reached the docks of Tortuga, scanning them in the dim dark blue of morning, her breath misting on the air. Yes! Yes, he was there, his crew piling into long boats, he with a hand upon his hips and Jack the Monkey chattering upon his shoulder, directing them as they loaded the boats with provisions for the journey ahead.
Gathering up her skirts she ran towards them, and he caught the flashing of her movement and turned to her, not able to mask in time the look of startlement that darted over his features.
By the time she reached the dock, panting and with an ache that flared up in her groin from the effort, he had fixed his face into a closed and sombre mask, watching her with hard eyes as she slowed her pace, struggling not to reveal her pain.
Behind him his men paused to watch her approach, exchanging glances amongst each other and catching their sudden stillness, Barbossa turned to the Bo’sun and jerked his head roughly to which the Bo’sun barked commands that they should return to the ship with haste. And hastily they resumed loading the longboats, took up the oars and began rowing. The Bo’sun himself leapt into one lone boat, and awaited his Captain silently.
Barbossa and Evie stared at each other a long moment in the gloaming of that shivering Dawn, her eyebrows knotted together, his lips pulled downwards at their corners. His attitude was nonchalant, legs apart, one arm dangled by his side, another at his belt. The monkey, who had lately acquired garb of his own, screeched excitedly to recognise her but there was barely a flicker across Barbossa’s countenance and she crossed her arms over her breast and managed a wry smile.
“You wasn’t even goin’ to say goodbye then?” She tried to make the words harsh, but they fell flat. A muscle moved in his cheek but he said nothing. She took another step toward him and a hot flash of pain flared up in her loins. She hesitated only a moment, but he caught it, and the hand she pressed against her belly to quiet the fire.
“I apologise for the disservice I done ye.” His voice was hoarse; it was also guarded and she grew angry.
“Disservice?” She spat, advancing upon him. “Disservice? You bloody well tore me apart! I ‘aven’t been able to work! I don’t know when I will be! Do you know what that means in a place like this? Do you have any fuckin’ idea?”
His expression did not change, but he turned his head as though he did not care to listen and she grasped at his arm and jerked at him, ignoring the shriek of protest from the monkey, ignoring the clench of his jaw.
“You listen to me, you pig-headed bastard. I always done right by you, done the very bloody best I can and you’ve got no right to disregard that. You can shout at me if I’m lazy, backhand me if I give cheek, even give me a ‘idin’ if you felt it was warranted, but don’t you ever fuckin’ interfere with my means of earnin’ my livin’, do you ‘ear me? I won’t be a fuckin’ beggar and I won’t bloody well die on the streets and you respect that, same way I respect you’ll always set sail again and got no obligations to me. Do you ‘ear me?!”
He jerked his head sharply back to her, his eyes blazing with some unspoken emotion. They were all that betrayed him in his stony face and she felt her own well with tears.
“And apart from all that,” she did not mind the way her voice shook, that he could starkly see how greatly he had affected her. “I’ve always tried to make you ‘appy, as ‘appy as you’ve made me. And I don’t know why you had to go and fuck all that up and make me so bleedin’ miserable.” She did not know how else to express her heartbreak to him, but even still her words caused a flicker in his eye and he shifted his gaze above her head and stared back at where Tortuga was slowly quieting down for the daylight’s sleep. She could no longer hold back the sobs that wracked her body and abandoned herself to them, a whore with tousled hair and shabby dress weeping for a broken heart on a stinking dock in the pirate port of Tortuga. And before her, the cause of her misery, the tall and fearsome pirate Captain whose fortune had of late been visited with grevious luck. Evie knew nothing of that, all she knew was that the man who has so delighted her the past four and a half years had vanished, and a stranger stared back at her from his eyes. A stranger who swallowed his remorse at her distress and fumbled now in his pockets, withdrawing a large animal skin pouch, heavy with coin.
Taking up her slim brown hand in his calloused one, he pressed the pouch into it and squeezed her hand between both of his own, speaking softly in the still cool of dawn.
“To recompense ye for yer losses.”
Blinking through her tears she looked down at the pouch, its brown leather patched and worn, its weight heavy in her hands and knew its sum far exceeded what she had lost. Her heart thudded dully in her breast. It was not truly what she wanted, and her stricken gaze turned upwards to him spoke it in volumes. Barbossa shook his head slowly, a half-smile twisting his lips.
“Now, now wench,” he rasped. “Ye can’t be askin’ more of me than that.”
She flung herself upon him, throwing her arms about his waist and burying her face into his chest, her cries shaking her shoulders, her tears wetting his vest. He did not move, did not push her away, but stood still as stone and let her weep against him. She pushed her face into the folds of his linen shirt, to where she could feel the rough of his skin and the spring of his hair and it was thus, breathing in great gasps, that she became strangely aware that he had no scent; nothing, not sweat or brine or even tobacco could she catch upon his person, and a sudden jolt of terror struck her.
“What’s ‘appened to you?” she entreated in horror. “Oh Lord, what’s ‘appened?”
A great shudder shook his body and she felt his hands moving in her hair, tangling through it as he lowered his head to rest his cheek upon her forehead.
“Evie, Evie.” A murmur so low she had to strain to hear it. “Ye sucked me dry, do ye not know? Drained me of the very last scrap of feelin’ I had left. I’d say we were square, now.”
She pulled backwards so that she might look up at him, her hands lifted to cup his face and he did not pull his gaze from hers, instead staring deep into her eyes with a hollow and lost sorrow she could not bear.
“What are you talkin’ about?” she pleaded. “Aren’t I your very own Evie? Speak plain with me, please.”
And he sighed and straightened so that her hands must fall instead to his lapels, which she gripped and tugged on, not daring to let go in case he should turn on his heel and leave her there with her pain. He raised a hand to her neck, pushing back the curls of her hair, discovering there the marks of his own fingers and stroking them so that they ached a little and Evie winced.
“Sparrow’s curse,” he said, and he said it without rancour, sounding merely weary. “as it turns out, was real.”
He finished there and she could see, from the bitter glint in his eye, that is all he would say on it. She gripped hard on his jacket and tried to pull him towards her, pushing herself against the length of his body, already feeling the agony of his absence.
“Please,” she whispered with shining eyes as the sun broke over the horizon and danced brightly on the waves that lapped about the dock they stood upon. “Please, come back to me.”
She did not know if he realised her meaning, but he smiled, a gentle look, and lifted a hand to stroke her cheek. His other arm went about her waist, pulling her tight against him and he gazed into her eyes for a long, heavy moment, before lowering his lips to hers.
The kiss was so sweet it near broke her heart again and she surrendered to it with all the abandon of one who knows it is the last time they would know such sensation. Her arms went about his neck and she parted her lips so that his tongue might slide against hers and a warm thrill ran through her at the scratch of his beard against her chin and the press of his nose against her cheek. She did not know how much time elapsed that she was entwined in that kiss, only that as he broke it a low moan crept from her throat at the suddenness of loss she experienced.
His hand cupped her cheek a moment still, his eyes, bright blue in the growing light, fixed quietly upon hers. Then he turned and was gone, leaping down into the long boat where the Bo’sun waited, turning his back to her to stand at the helm, facing The Black Pearl where she hulked silently in the waters, awaiting the return of the Captain.
She watched as they rowed their way to the ship, as the water turned a luminescent green with the rising of the sun and the gulls began to squawk and flap about in the sand at the spoils from the night before.
She watched as the sails were let out, and the anchor was lifted and the great ship began to move, slowly at first then picking up rapidly, moving with surety from the bay and into the great, wide ocean beyond.
She watched until the ship had vanished altogether from view, until all that she could see was the beating, frothing waves the Pearl left in her wake and the curved dark walls of the rocky bay that so tightly enclosed the port of Tortuga.
Then she turned and went home.