The Briar and The Rose: Chapter Twelve
These days Evie earned her living as much from card-playing as from whoring. At twenty-seven she was still a fine girl to look upon, the care she took in her skin and hair paying off despite the quantity of liquor she drank, so that both were still soft and shining. Her teeth were not too yellowed though she had lost a couple - up the back, thankfully, where they couldn’t be seen. Small mercies. Since she had never given birth her breasts retained their firmness and sat high still and although her hips had spread a little she never really ate enough to make them much wider. More often she was pinning her hair back, but not high and tight - loosely, so that small curls escaped and scattered about her cheeks and forehead, softening her face and allowing her best features to be seen - her eyes, round cheeks and full lips. In the soft flare of candlelight, from a distance, she could still pass for a girl of twenty and it did not matter overmuch once they got near enough to discover differently for after fourteen years on the game she could flirt her way into any man’s trousers, provided his eye was not first caught by one of the far younger girls Tortuga was increasingly finding itself home to.
But for those times, she had her cards, and she was never beaten - if she did not wish to be. Younger and younger girls arrived on ships seeking a better fortune than their prior port had offered, for everywhere was feeling the pinch of the East India Trading Company. Fresh, young faces - especially those that could claim virginity with some blood and pig’s gut - would reap the best of the pickings for a few months, then sail off again to some other port. By the time they returned again, in six months time, enough of the old pirates had been hung with enough new hopefuls risen to take their place to make them a bright new face again. A lot of Evie’s old companions - Mary Beth, Suzette, even Jasmine - had followed suit, but Evie had never been out of the port of Tortuga and too much feared the ocean, and what lay beyond it, to even contemplate the notion. She was bound to Tortuga, as much as if her ankles were rooted into the spurious black of its earth.
And, she wanted to be easily found, should Barbossa ever return, whole and laughing once more. Though this was not something to which she would easily admit, even to herself, even in the last blinking hours of the night, when she opened her music box and listened to the pretty, tinkling melody it played, wearing her ruby necklace and drinking mouthful after mouthful of gin until she could no longer keep her eyes open.
And there were benefits too, to being a familiar face. She could be relied upon for a quality of service the bright young things never much bothered with, being as transient as they were, and she still kept her comfortable lodgings with all the little extras that so differentiated her from them all, who were impatient and barely able to disguise their contempt for their clientele, deigning only to turn around, hoist up their skirts and bend over under the docks before moving quickly onto the next fellow.
There were enough young virgin lads still seeking glory on the seas who wanted the guidance and nurturing hand of an older woman (which, blast it all, they now saw her as!) to teach them the skills they finally dared pursue and enough older salt dogs, bow-legged and weary, who did not want the revolted disdain the prettiest and youngest whores could afford to treat them with, and they all cherished Evie’s cheery temper and gentle manner. Oh Evie still did well enough indeed, thank you.
But cards served her just as well, and she played the young travelling whores as hard as the men, though they hated her for it - more than once she would take a girl’s entire earnings of the evening, why she might as well have fucked the fellows herself! She’d not play her old pals - Scarlet, Giselle or any of the others - but had little scruple when it came to those opportunistic saucepots! Well, they had few scruples themselves, and all of them had to make a living and keep themselves in clean drawers, a bed and liquor! And, in Evie’s case, her cocoa leaf, which she had learned of late from a customer to grind up into a fine powder and smoke. It had a far more powerful effect in a far shorter expanse of time in this fashion, but she also went through far greater quantities of it - one leaf could last her a couple of hours, one pipe of the crushed mixture but a few minutes.
She was finishing off a nice fat pipeful one crisp and peach-grey morning, the sort that promised a glorious day ahead, sitting on the docks and looking out across the harbour. Every centimetre of her skin was tingling and her head felt pleasantly heavy, as though the smoke had not fully billowed from her nostrils, but had filled up all the empty nooks and crannies of her skull, providing cushions for her thoughts to bounce off against. It had been a good night for Evie, good by the standards of the day at any rate, starting off with a successful game and finishing it with a few quick ruts behind a couple of taverns. She had a lovely cold pork pie waiting at home for her, and her sheets had not even been soiled that evening - all in all, Evie was feeling rather marvellous and thought she might idle for awhile and watch the sun come up
So she was not altogether sure whether to cheer or shriek when the ship with black sails glided into the bay, its figurehead with the sorrowful eyes and outstretched hand clasping a dove on the brink of flight calling to mind a pale dawn some nine years earlier when another ship with another figurehead, scarlet and blazing in the early sunlight, had dropped anchor and delivered calamity into her contented life. She had waited - days into months and months into years and not a one of them with any particular expectation beyond a dull hope - to see this very sight and yet she could not know what it would mean for her. Indeed, if it weren’t for the cocoa leaf enlivening her blood she may have got up and dashed for the Maison Rouge, but instead she leant back on her elbows and watched to see what would happen next.
The men, from what she could make out of them (and her eyesight was just not what it was, constantly blurring at the edges, a stray tear sometimes inexplicably trickling down her cheek), were somewhat livelier this time about, but only a smattering of them clambered into the long boats to head for the Tortugan shore. They bore a few trunks and sacks, evidently for trade, but nowhere near so great a haul as Barbossa had so often brought in years long past. The long boats heaved up and over the waves, inching towards the shore. Behind them, the Black Pearl sat and swayed, just a little, not even the pretty pinkness of the early morning able to alleviate the gloom of its visage.
The longboats reached the docks, two of them and the men upon them went about the task of securing them in a businesslike fashion at the wharf two down from the one she occupied. The Bo’sun, the man who had sailed beneath Barbossa’s command for some fifteen years or more now, was amongst them, directing the men with little more than a grunt and a glare. Evie saw him glance up, survey the port about him and take note of her, his glower heavier than ever she supposed from the past years of whatever hardship Barbossa had led him to, his dark muscles gleaming in the sparkling sunlight. But he made no acknowledgement to her. He and the men, a filthy, bedraggled lot, even by piratical standards, hoisted their goods upon their shoulders and made for the town.
Evie let herself flop back onto the decking and stretched her arms high above her head, feeling a succession of quick pops in her back. It felt good and she stretched again, but could not achieve the same effect. The sky was almost entirely light now and the sun’s light was pleasantly warm. It was going to be a glorious day indeed. Evie withdrew her flask of gin and toasted the few clouds that scattered the skyline, changing their lavender hue for the most splendid yellows and pinks in a show that was most definitely flirtatious.
It did not take long for Barbossa’s men to return from the town, walking single file, as silent and solemn still as they had been upon arrival. Evie pushed herself back onto her hands so that she might observe them closer. They had evidently been successful as their loads had gone. Strange, though, they had made no effort to secure their purses or hide the jangling of the coins. True, they were cutthroats, but they were on an island of cutthroats, and opportunistic cutthroats at that. It seemed they had met with no trouble, however, and Evie attributed it to the early time of the day - just about everyone was abed by now. The long boats were untied; the oars delved into the water and steadily, serenely, the pirates rowed their way back to The Pearl. Seems they had not bothered even to stop and see if there were any working whore still about - and there must’ve been a couple. She could see them, just barely, climbing back up into the ship, disappearing below deck.
Evie could not say what prompted her to wait, but wait she continued to do.
And soon enough, there was activity aboard the Pearl once more, the merest flicker here and there of a body moving upon it and then another long boat set out toward the docks, and now she sat up straight and crossed her legs and watched it intently, squinting her unaccustomed eyes against the harsh glare of the morning sun. It made now for the wharf upon which she perched, and she found that she was not at all surprised by it, or to see the Bo’sun stood in this one too, presiding over the other gents with great hands on his great hips. One dark fellow with a head of straggly dreadlocks roped the boat up and they all clambered onto the wharf, stepping over Evie’s skirts and feet, for she did not bother herself to move. One or two of them glanced down at her, eyes darting and lips quivering, but just as quickly returned their gaze to the town beyond, the direction in which they moved. All except the Bo’sun, who remained in the boat, staring up at her from under his heavy eyelids, the keltoid scars which patterned his flesh less fearsome by daylight, seeming more like dull jewels that had been pressed into his flesh. Pressing her lips tight together, she lowered her eyes to his and returned his gaze calmly; at that he outstretched an arm to her and she took his hand and was lifted down into the boat.
And for only the second time in her life, Evie found herself travelling rapidly across moving water, watching the stern of the small boat tip up and down, the brilliant green waves parting willingly to make way for their passage to the dark and mighty Pearl.
This time it was not the rocking of the ship, the opaque mystery of the waves or the unsteady climb upwards that occupied Evie’s thoughts; it was what state she might find Barbossa in, what new strangeness she might find upon him. The Bo’sun delivered her safely to the deck and without another word, left her there; disappearing through a hatch he shut with a sharp click behind him.
She turned, slowly, in a great circle, looking about her at this strange new ship which was so very different from the jolly and grand Siren of Barbossa’s younger days. Oh, the Pearl was grand, there was no doubt of that, but a gloominess seemed to linger about her mast and sails, a tired and aching temper bowed her great shoulders and spine. Even in the crisp brightness of dawn a mist seemed to hover in the air and, involuntarily, Evie shivered a little.
“So how did such a flower come to be so far from earth?”
Evie whirled around to find Barbossa, sitting and stooped over, on the stairs that led up to the thingy deck, a little smile on his lips and his eyes hooded, Jack the Monkey perched on his shoulder and looking at her with wide, curious eyes.
She recovered quickly and made an effort at pertness. “Not exactly suave, sneakin’ up on a girl like that! If you’re goin’ for the element of surprise, a bottle of gin would’ve stood you better.”
Barbossa’s smile widened, and leaning forward he lifted himself to a standing position, straightening slowly all the way to his full height, the little monkey chattering and pattering his paws upon his master’s shoulder as some bloom of recognition came over his little brown features. He was Barbossa still, in many ways, but in many ways also he was so altered a man Evie may well have been persuaded to think him taken over with a doppleganger. He was unkempt, and ragged, the years showing themselves all the harder on this clothing and rusty hair. The grey coat was beautiful still, but it was worn and ragged as was the brilliant vest and she did not think he had bothered overmuch to have changed his shirt lately; not like he used to. He appeared not to have aged any further, not in the addition of new lines or mists of grey, at any rate, but there was a great weariness that seemed to bear his shoulders down, a cavernous ache in his pale blue eyes.
“Apologies.” He said, limping heavily around to the door of his quarters. ”I am quite sure I have somethin’ laid down that may make amends, if ye care to join me. “ Opening the door with a flourish he turned to her and made a small, mocking bow. “I’ll have ye as my guest, wench, if it pleases ye.”
She could not help the smile that leapt to her lips; there was very much something of the old Barbossa here in his manner and it gladdened her heart so that she practically skipped forward to take up his invitation, feeling her hair bounce around her face with the levity of her movement.
“You seem to limp most when it suits you.” She couldn’t help observing with a nod down to his knee as she passed him and he chuckled, shutting the door behind them.
“Ah. Some days it be stiff and causes me trouble. At least, I suppose it be such, for I cannot feel it, only know that it impedes me movement.”
“And I see that you’re still about, you little bugger!” she declared to the monkey who seemed to understand her and shrieked in return. Evie chucked her tongue and shook her head and Barbossa smiled wryly, lifting a hand to stroke the monkey’s brow.
“You ‘aven’t wanted to dump ‘im overboard yet then?” she queried and Barbossa allowed a short, sharp laugh to leap from his throat.
“Nay. Not yet. Indeed, he has proved to be most agreeable a companion, and a useful one too, though that may be to your disbelief.”
Leaping from Barbossa’s shoulder the monkey scampered across the floorboards and jumped upwards; onto a cushioned chair and from there onto a perch that dangled from the ceiling and had evidently been placed there for his express use. Somewhere along the way, Jack had acquired a colourful suit of his own pirate garb; white smocked shirt and bright red vest with gold (or were they brass? Surely you wouldn’t waste good gold on a monkey!) buttons. Scratching his head the monkey contorted his mouth in a grimace and Evie checked to see if Barbossa were watching before poking her tongue out savagely at the little brute. The monkey danced upon the perch and chattered at Evie’s gesture and Barbossa glanced over with an irritated frown.
“Now, Jack, is that any way to speak to a guest then?” and the monkey fell silent.
Rolling her eyes yet again at the strange bond the two of them seemed to share, Evie let her eyes roam from the perch and about the cabin.
The Siren had been a colourful ship, brimming with the prizes of Barbossa’s long and successful career. It had reflected the hedonistic rouge as well as the shadowed glamour of the Pearl did now in his more solemn and severe state. The dark, carved furniture gleamed dully in the silvery light of the morning which glimmered through the thick panes of glass in the windows, without the candles lit there abounded a collage of shadowy corners which seemed to hang about the walls and shelves and chairs like cobwebs. It was a beautiful space, large and comfortably decked out, but to Evie it seemed heavy with sorrow and secrets. Barbossa watched her as she looked about, his hands moving as though independent of him, to locate a bottle of wine, heavy with dust, that he uncorked and poured out for her. She took the proffered glass with a nod of thanks, taking a deep draught. It was a rich vintage, and she choked over it a little - it was finer than anything she had tasted before and it occurred to her she was supposed to pause and savour it, but she had swallowed already. So instead she tipped a hip towards him, hand upon it.
“Been awhile.”
And that strange little smile passed over his lips again. “I’ve had much to do, wench.”
There was a sudden rap at the door and Evie started. Barbossa whipped his head to the door and grunted permission of entry and the door flew open to make way for three of the crew; one carrying a large tin tub and some linen, the one following him a coffer of steaming water and the fellow bringing up the rear a bucket of cool water. With a nod to their Captain, who eased himself slowly into a great burgundy arm chair, they set the things down, mixed the water in the tub, and departed. Evie hovered by the window, taking hold of the curtains and twitching them between her fingers, for she was somewhat confused and determined to ask no questions. When the door clicked shut behind them, Barbossa turned his gaze to hers, holding out a hand to her. Draining her wine she moved forward, took it, a warm shiver running through her at the familiarity of that rough and calloused palm, the strong long fingers that entwined around her wrist. His expression became softer, as though he were regarding her through the mist of many years.
“Evie… “ he whispered, and his thumb caressed her palm, his other hand floating up to rest first at her neck, then sliding down over the swell of her breasts, to her waist. “… Undress for me.”
And she smiled wide at him then, wide and happy, for this would seem to say then that in some form or another, the Barbossa she’d grown up with had returned, and happily she dropped his hand and unfastened her bodice while he poured her a fresh glass of wine, looking up at her with a strange and quiet expression, smiling a little.
Her dress was discarded, her stays and chemise followed and finally, she was naked and stretching before him and it felt like days of old before the burden of history separated them.
He did not reach out to touch her, but surveyed her body instead with grasping eyes and she was pleased the last five years had been so kind - it had been so long since she’d last been this way with him!
”Ye’ve more curve to ye,” he observed approvingly. “Ye were always a trifle thin.”
She smoothed her hands over her hips and shrugged. “’Ad a mite more of an appetite of late.”
He flickered his eyes up and down here body. ”Ye look well.” And despite the understated tone to it, she could see the quiet hunger in his eyes and preened.
“Glad you think so!”
His eyes were growing brighter by the moment, and she thought that his grip upon the arms of his chair was growing taunter. He gestured with a jerk of the head to the tub.
“Bathe yeself. No doubt tis the end of a long eve for ye.”
She felt a trifle bewildered, and wondered if he desired some strange reversal of their past encounters, but stepped over to the tub, her flesh goose-pimpling in the wave of steam that rose from it. That was tempting indeed. Let him have his fancies then, a hot bath was just what she needed most now!
One foot, then the other into the hot water and she gasped a little and shivered at the shock of it, balancing unsteadily while her feet and ankles grew accustomed to the new temperature. Barbossa marked her reactions keenly, following each one with luminous eyes as she steadied herself and slowly sank into the steaming liquid, starting again when her loins submerged and then easing back with a deeply satisfied sigh. Already her caramel flesh was steaming a rosy hue and the knots in her back were one by one coming undone and she drew in another great breath then let it all out in a sigh that loosened her even further, all beneath Barbossa’s watchful gaze.
She let her head drop back and her eyes flutter shut, feeling the last remnants of the cocoa leaf begin to drift from her system. It had been a long night and the intensity of emotion she’d felt upon its most recent events were just beginning to catch up with her.
Forcing her eyes open and her head upwards to face her Captain, whose gaze was yet fixed silently upon her, she struggled to keep her alertness.
“So, where ‘ave you been then?”
And he smiled and flexed his fingers, gripping the armchair tight. “Everywhere, wench, and then a bit further. There are unguents there. “
And he inclined his head to the chair beside the tub, where next to the linen a washcloth and bottles of soaps and perfumes stood. Shifting in the water she leaned across and retrieved one and with the cloth began to sluice herself with water, shutting her eyes and smiling with the restful pleasure of it.
“This is an odd request but one I’m damned ‘appy to fulfil.“ she murmured cheerily and he made an amused little noise.
“Do ye ache from the night’s business?” he queried and she thought that was a mighty strange question as well, but shrugged and continued to wash.
“I always ache, in one place or another, these days.” She retorted. “And ever since I was in that fix a year ago I ‘ave to go steady through the night, or pull a trick or two.” He raised his brows in question and she half-rolled her eyes.
“Managed to get into a spot of bother, forgot to douse a night or two. Went to Bessie to get it sorted out and there was a bit of a mess. Laid up for two weeks, I was. Can’t ‘ave kids no more, not that I ever wanted ‘em, and it means I don’t ‘ave to take no nights off work unless I fancy it, but it can be a bit troublesome at times. “
He half-turned his head to the side and peered at her. “Then small mercies ye still be among us, Missy.” And her cheeks pinkened and she lifted the washcloth to her face and rubbed it clean and raw.
“Not so much a Miss, no more, Cap’n.”
And the smile that creased his face was unexpectedly deep. “To me, always. Have ye done?”
She nodded and yawned, lifting a hand quickly to stifle it. “Sorry. Me leaf ran out.”
He pushed himself from the chair and lifted the linen, shaking it out and holding it up. “Not at all. Tis past your bedtime, to be sure.“ She moved to take the linen from his grasp, but he held it fast, gesturing that she should step into it. The water streamed from her body as she stood and stepped from the tub, the deliciousness of fresh, soft linen against her flesh a giddying luxury in her weariness and she felt herself sway as he wrapped her tight and dried her off.
“’Eavens.” She murmured. “So this is ‘ow those swells feel. No wonder they all get so fat.”
And he laughed a little and swept her up and off her feet. “The bath was a pleasure for ye?”
“Wasn’t it just!” Sleep was threatening to overcome her at any moment and she struggled hard to remain awake. “That was splendid, that was.” The dark panelling of the room tipped about her as he carried her through it, into another chamber where an enormous bed, heavily and finely draped, occupied most of the space. She half-swooned to see it, and then he was laying her upon it and she was sinking into the softness of its feathery depths, the difference to her hard straw mattress back in the Maison Rouge enough to urge a little groan of pleasure from her throat. The curtains were tight drawn shut in this room, the only light trickling through from the doorway that led from where they had just entered and Barbossa busied himself drawing shut the drapings around the bed, blotting the light out further and further until she could just make him out, a solid silhouette against the gloam, leaning over her where she lay, rubbing at her eyes.
“Is it to yer likin’? Is it comfortable?” he whispered and she wiggled further beneath the coverlets, deeper into a softness that wrapped around her like a cocoon.
“I’ve never been so comfortable.” Her mouth felt like cotton, she could not lift her head now even if she had wanted to. The very last thing she could want for, before she was lost to sleep, was for him to press upon her, for his kiss. She wanted to reach for him, but could not quite summon the effort.
His hand came forth, only an indistinguishable shape in the shadows, and she felt it play about her forehead and cheek, brushing back strands of her hair.
“Sleep, wench, and rest. There be nought that ye must fear.” His voice floated down through the dark, his breath caressing her eyelids and she blinked, slow and heavy and thought to ask him for a kiss but the words died in her throat as the final resistance of her consciousness gave way and she surrendered her body to slumber.
She awoke, not with a start despite her unfamiliar surroundings, but with a languid and delicious calm, deeply enveloped in a nest of soft cotton, wool and fur. The dim glow of candlelight half-lit the room from beyond the bed curtains and she sensed it was early evening by the subtle difference in depth to the darkness.
Barbossa’s arm chair had been moved to the bedside, and he sat in it, watching her. To see it gave her a moment of disquietude, but she was more glad to see him and her newly wakened gaze run over and over his face, delighting in the long angular shape of it, the curls of his forked beard and the aristocratic sweep of his nose. His eyes were inscrutable, and he did not react for a long moment to her greeting smile. Finally, his lips stretched upwards in return and he reached out a hand to her, in which he grasped an uncorked wine bottle. She took it, tipped it to him in thanks and had a swig. It was another fine wine, as different from the swill she drank on Tortuga as the sea is to land.
“Spoilin’ me a bit, aren’t you?” She croaked, licking her lips so as not to waste a drop before taking another drink and his smile widened to reveal his teeth.
“Ye slept well?”
“Like the dead.” She affirmed, and stretched her arms high above her head, the covers slipping down to reveal her breasts. He leaned forward and cupped one, holding it in his palm and looking upon it reverently.
“If you don’t mind my sayin’”, she piped up as her nipple came to attention. “You’re in somewhat better spirits than you was last time you was about.”
A laugh like a gust of breath escaped his mouth and her nipple tightened further to feel it. He withdrew his hand, fingernails scraping gently over her soft flesh and with a grin got to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. She was disappointed; and expectant. Better spirits, to be sure, but odd and out of sorts yet.
“Are ye hungry?” He enquired of her softly and she realised that she was - ravenous, in fact, as though the bliss of her deep sleep had flushed out all the congestion of cocoa and gin and made space for sustenance. Barbossa fetched from the back of his chair a brightly patterned wrap of silk which Evie hesitated a moment before accepting. It was very fine, slipping soft and cool about her shoulders, and she thought that perhaps it had not been worn before. It felt far too grand for the likes of her, but Barbossa hovered whilst she put it on and then fiddled with it a little, adjusting it so that it sat properly upon her shoulders. Then, enveloping one of her hands in his, he led her from the bed, through the still-dark chamber, and opened the door of the adjoining room, squeezing her hand tight and standing back, and Evie’s senses were suddenly assaulted with the most glorious tumult of scents and sights.
The large dark oak dining table that occupied the centre of the grand room was groaning beneath the weight of food that sat there, all of it freshly prepared and still steaming hot from the stove, and all of it the likes of which Evie had never before laid eyes upon and couldn’t hope to hazard a guess as to what it was called. Every candle and lantern in the room was set blazing, banishing the cobweb shadows that had made it so gloomy. The ruddy glow picked up reds and yellows in the gold and brass, the brocade fabrics, in the gleam of the wood and even in the glistening flesh of the suckling pig that squatted on the table, smothered in apples.
Evie could do nothing but stand and gape at the sight, the very stuff of fantasy and fancy. Such food - and in such abundance! Even as Evie’s mouth watered she felt queasiness in the pit of her belly. Barbossa stood behind her with hands upon her shoulders, weightless and yet unignorable.
“Well?” His voice drifted from somewhere above her and she started. “Are ye hungry, or not?”
“You… you want me to eat this?” she questioned nervously and he squeezed her shoulders.
“Aye wench. Or do ye think me to be mockin’ ye?”
She took a half-step forward, the strong, savoury smell of roast garlic and rosemary wafting from a plate of meat she thought might be lamb and filling her nostrils to the brim so that she swayed and paused again.
“Who else is joinin’ us?” She could think of no reason for the sheer excess of the spread other than that Barbossa expected more guests - perhaps his crew - perhaps traders - but surely…
And Barbossa laughed, a rasping little bark as he moved from behind her and limped over to the table, where he withdrew a chair for her and indicated with a curl of his fingers that she should come and be seated.
“No one but ye and I, Missy. Thought that ye would perhaps enjoy what must surely be a rare indulgence for ye. Intended only to serve ye my most favoured dishes, but when it came down to it, as it happens, I was loathe to select just one. “
Evie again felt faint as she surveyed the feast laid out before her. The longer she looked and smelled, the hungrier she grew and the more reluctant to take a seat. The smile on Barbossa’s face fell as she continued to hesitate until finally he scowled and demanded:
“What is it, whore? Not grand enough for yer tastes?”
And she picked up her heels and took the seat he held out, wanting a squabble least of all.
He moved around to sit beside her, drawing his chair very close so that their knees touched, and taking hold of her plate he began to pile it up with food - fresh crab and oysters, cheese and bread, olives and a large slice of chicken and mushroom pie, the pastry on it flaking delicately onto his fingertips. A bowl was filled to the brim with rabbit stew, deliciously aromatic in its rich gravy. There were two wine glasses before her and he filled one with white and the other with red, his movements becoming increasingly jerky, more eager until her plate and glasses would hold no more and then he sat back, a tremble upon his lips, brushing her hair back to twine it around his hand.
“Eat, eat.” He urged her. “Eat yer fill, and then beyond it. Don’t insult me generosity now, wench.”
There was no place set for him, no plate, dish or glass. She glanced at him and he nodded at her, his expression taunt with expectation, then picked up spoon - the only utensil she knew how to use, having never had need of knife or fork with the fare on Tortuga - and began on the stew. Its flavour was beyond compare, so subtle in its delicacy, so sumptuous in its texture, that she could not resist the appreciative moan which burbled in her throat, and Barbossa’s hand tightened in her hair, another hand reaching forward to thrust inside her wrap, stroking her breasts.
“Good lass.” He murmured. “Enjoy it as loudly as ye would our sport. Be not shy about it.”
She had almost finished the stew and the bread upon her plate before she dared ask: “Will you not be ‘avin’ any?” and he chuckled, a wild gleam to his eye.
“No pleasure in that for me, my treasure. No, ye will stay and enjoy this feast so that I may take pleasure in it. “
Evie chuckled a little and reached for her wine, Barbossa corrected her and gave her the white. “Compliments the flavour better.”
“Darlin’, I don’t think I can possibly eat all this.”
And Barbossa cupped her cheek in his hand and looked at her indulgently.
“Ye’ll stay until ye’ve eaten it all. “ And though he smiled gently, she rather felt he meant it.
Evie never ate a lot, being too far inebriated most of the time and too much intoxicated the rest to feel much hunger and her little belly refused another mouthful before she was even halfway through her first plate. She half-feared Barbossa would oblige her to keep at it until she burst at the very seams, but he was merciful and said she might return to it later, drawing her upon his knee and running his hands all over her. She was far gone on the richness of the food and the fineness of the wine (which was the one thing she managed to keep sipping at!) and relished the caress of his hands and closeness of his body with loud enjoyment.
“Awhile there I thought we’d never be at this again,” and allowed her head to swoon upon his shoulder. He swivelled his neck about and kissed her and her heart swelled madly with joy. Throwing her arms about his neck, she responded with fierce passion making delirious little noises. When they parted she gasped and he stared intent at her.
“Does it give ye pleasure to feel such things with me?” he whispered and she cupped his face in both hands, her turn now to brush back his hair, to savour the feel of his life-worn skin beneath her fingertips.
“Gives me fuckin’ bliss is what it does. Been five years too long since I felt like this. “
“Surely,” he murmured, drawing closer to her so that his lips brushed hers, their eyes locking. “there has been some pleasure for ye amongst all those sailors…”
The nod of her head was barely perceptible. “Some. Nothin’ ever like what I ‘ad with you…”
He took satisfaction in that, a smugness about his lips before he kissed her again. She grasped onto him and tried not to cling too desperately in case he should suddenly throw her from him and yet she couldn’t quite help herself - the intoxication of his embrace, the thought of which had consumed so many nights with an aching hollowness, was a pleasure she yearned to grab onto and swallow whole again and again; her appetite for it could not be satiated, only further piqued. And then she was once more lifted into his arms, stripped free from the wrap and assaulted by his hands and mouth, neither of which seemed to part company with her flesh on all their long explorations. He laid her back upon the bed and kissed her from the tips of her hair to the toes, taking each one into his mouth before moving back up to do the same with her fingers. When she moved to touch him, he arrested her hands and pushed her back down continuing his languorous journey of her body for the longest time, pausing only to mark the rise and fall of her breath or the gasps of pleasure she uttered. His calloused hands played softly upon the length of her torso, stroking and rubbing her, rolling her over onto her belly to do the same to her back and buttocks. He did not touch her sex, made no hint of it, but it grew swollen and wet from the pleasures he delivered to the rest of her and began to ache for a touch. But he kept on with his excruciating play, moving slowly and coolly to her breasts, where he spent a long while, kissing and nibbling, sucking, stroking, tenderly kneading them and her sighs grew louder and finally she could hold back no more and entreated him to get between her legs. He grinned, sly, and delayed her gratification yet further with a sweet and lingering kiss before finally moving backwards, pushing her thighs up and open, gazing upon her for a long agonising moment before beginning his administrations.
He teased her for a long while, with his hands, with his mouth, many times over bringing her to the brink of orgasm and that stopping so that she cursed him then begged him not to stop. He would half-laugh, a vehement need burning deep within his eyes, and then recommence. Finally, when his lips had been playing upon her pleasure-spot in the most torturous fashion only to once again depart on the brink of her ecstasy, her body could bear it no more and carried her into a delicious climax, though he was no longer touching her. He laughed outright to see it and finally slid his rigid cock from where it was confined, and slid it into her.
He did not rush or thrust, there was none of the old urgency or frenzy to his pace. Slow, steady, almost lazy in its complacent languidness, she arced beneath it and felt her insides cling to him. A part of her missed the old rapaciousness, but an equal part of her revelled in his purposeful and calm dedication. With this gentle fucking, with his hands and his mouth, he brought her to climax three or four more times, each time relentless in his pursuit of another burst of pleasure from her, no matter how she panted, giving her only moments to recover and setting about the task with a single-mindedness that refused to be disappointed. He remained erect throughout but evidently had no climax of his own, smiling only when she came, when she moaned or bucked, when she laughed or gasped, his eyes greedily, hungrily drinking every gesture, every twitch, down in ravenous gulps.
When finally his desire to see and hear her writhe about beneath him was sated, she fell into a warm, tingling sleep, still wet between her thighs, the marks of his lips still burning on her breasts and belly. She awoke to find him lying beside her, stroking her softly and looking down curiously into her face.
“Did ye dream?” he whispered in the dark stillness and she confessed that she could not remember; her sleep had been too deep and satisfying. He sighed a little and drew back the covers, silently pushing her thighs apart and she found herself once again ensconced in bliss.
And so it went on, for a day or more, for she lost all track of time and found herself not overmuch bothered by it. At regular intervals he stopped and bid her eat, and she found that she could manage more each time for their rutting enlivened her appetite and without her cocoa leaf (which he refused adamantly to have fetched for her) the food was also a comfort to her mind. Jack the Monkey leapt in to aid her at one point, for which Evie was grateful (though loathe to confess to) although the only items he took special interest in was the fruit and that caused a bit of a squabble between the two so that Barbossa was obliged to intervene with a roll of his eyes and a sigh. Growing quickly and constantly drunk on the fine wine (to think - all this time without her gin!) she grew more and more encouraged by the delight her took in her gluttony, giggling as he spooned great mouthfuls of succulent fish and onions into her mouth.
“I’m going to get fat from this!” she laughed, wiping at her mouth and he fetched an especially oversized slice of the pig, feeding it to her from his fingertips.
”Ye’ll be starving yerself on cocoa leaf again before ye know it.” He consoled her mockingly, and pinched one of her bare thighs so that she squealed.
The monkey was finally banished after he tried one too many time to interrupt their sport and Barbossa wearied of it. She felt truly free then, truly unfettered in her enjoyment and surrender, and that Barbossa was most wholly all hers for a time.
The crew did not disturb them at all and she could not help but wonder, on the odd occasion he let her rest, what they were doing with themselves.
“Are the lads about in the port then?” She queried of him from the bed, holding her swollen tummy in her hands, rubbing her moist thighs together and luxuriating in the ridiculous decadence of the whole affair.
Barbossa snorted and picked up one of her feet, stroking it gently and turning her ankle this way and that as though to admire it like a piece of sculpture.
“If they are, it be only to trade our wares for more gold.”
“I noticed they didn’t stop long enough to make sport when I was fetched.”
Barbossa looked at her sharply, his lip curling slightly at the edge. “Do ye think they wish to be over-minded about that which they can no more enjoy? Nay, wench. They have little pleasure these days, save but for the pleasures of piracy. And piracy has made of us rich men, though we have little use for our riches.“ His voice was equal in sorrow to bitterness and Evie sat up, leaning over to wrap her arms about him and drop kisses on his tattooed shoulder. “So we do nought but amass them, in greater and vaster piles, and it’s never enough. No, we must take more and more ships, storm port after port, strip them bare, sell what’s worthwhile - furniture, ornaments, stock, women - and sink to the bottom of the depths what isn’t - men, mostly.” And he laughed, a cruel sound, as his eyes glittered devilishly with his recollections. “And our swag and our profits we pile up until the day we may once again make good use of them.”
He whipped his head around to Evie, who started at the ferocity of his glare, and sat back on her heels. “And that day will come, wench. Mark my words well. That day will come. I will not be denied. I will not be cursed. No force on earth may hold from me that which I most desire.” A frenzied delirium had stricken his gaze and she felt her heart begin to pound within her breast and wonder if there would be some harshness in this for her, but after a moment of gritted teeth he eased once more and swept a hand through his hair, his head bowing down to rest upon his chest, now looking simply like a weary and much roughened sailor.
“I have somethin’ for ye.” He murmured and rose from the bed, squeezing her knee as he did so. The candles had burned down almost to their ends and he shifted across the room like a spirit to a great trunk that sat pushed up beneath one window. Kneeling down, he lifted open the lid and from within it withdrew a tumult of bright and colourful fabrics. Rising slowly to his feet, he shook them out one by one and she realised they were dresses, brilliant, bright and glorious new dresses with fine pleated tucks and brocade trimming, layers and layers of lace frothing along various edges, beaded ornamentation glittering in the bleary light. Evie gasped and pushed herself off the bed, moving forward as if spellbound to grasp hold of one that he held out to her, bright yellow and black with jet beads lavishly embroidered along the bodice.
“Many a young lass’s trousseau has been raided for these.” His smile was wry and slightly sneering. “But we did not know which would fit ye. So take yer pick, wench. A never-worn dress may light you quite a bit more brilliant than the younger tarts you stand amongst.”
Evie had never had a brand new dress before and never thought that she would. Every scrap of clothing that had ever been over her back was second-hand, whether from her mum, her mum’s friends, other whores or some pirate’s swag nabbed from a lucked out lady on the shores of Tortuga’s dawn markets. She could see at once the yellow and black one was too big for her, the plum one, though utterly splendid, too small. Pink had never suited her, and blue was somewhat too muted when it was that dark a shade… there was one, though, of emerald green and cream, with a very low cut bodice and a bow right upon it that would draw appropriate attention to her breasts. Its sleeves stopped at the elbow and showered lace downwards, trimming of seed pearls and crystal beads sparkling in such a way it would catch the eye as she moved her hands about. The overskirt was split right down the middle and she could always, easily in fact, leave out the cream underskirt to show off her legs in their garters…
He assisted her into it, pulling it in tight at the back as far as the laces would go. It was an inch or two too big, but that would be easily adjusted. Evie felt herself grow taller at the swish of silk against her calves, the caress of the lace down her forearm, and she threw back her shoulders and strutted about for Barbossa who laughed to see it and clapped his hands in mocking gentleness.
“Well, well, well. “ He seemed almost to enjoy her delight as much as she felt it, his eyes traversing her roughly and with no small degree of appreciation, up and down. “Ye could almost pass for a lady.” And coming forward, he took up her small hand in his great one and pressed cool, rough lips to it before flashing wicked eyes up to hers. “Almost.”
And she snatched her hand away in feigned outrage. “Well, it wouldn’t be no good to me if I did, now would it?” and then laughed and threw herself upon him, raining kisses upon his chest and collarbone, as high as she could reach on tiptoes without him stooping over. “There’s not a girl in town who would have a brand new dress for her own!”
“I’m glad it pleases ye.” And he tipped her head backwards and kissed her soundly and she pushed upwards into it. It did not last long enough and he had released her, pushing her back, a frown creasing his countenance. “But now, Evie, I grow weary and ye must go.”
Her joy fled, she felt her shoulders sink downwards and gazed at him in dismay. Oh, she’d known that this time would come, of course she had; still she had become all too easily enraptured in his cocooned world here, all too readily bedevilled by his conjurations of pleasure. He glowered to see her look and snapped: “Don’t be lookin’ at me like that wench, ye’ve had all that I can give, and more besides, these last few nights. “
She swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded, drawing her hands up behind her head and shaking out her hair. “My thanks to you, for all of it.” She managed. “I’ve ‘ad a - a swell time of it.” And cursed her inadequate tongue - she’d never had such a time in her life, not in all her short, simple yet cheery life had she known such an endless and abiding melody of pleasures, all piling one on top of the other, all entwining and spiralling inwards and, at their centre, why just her, little Evie the whore from Tortuga, she the reason and object of it all. And she felt such a crescendoing of emotion then, such a teeming force of desire and passion and longing amplify within her she rather thought it might come surging from her throat and eyes at any moment and she had to swallow again, breathing slowly and softly to quell the fire, to steady her heartbeat. Trembling, she raised round eyes to him, to the stern and fixed equanimity he regarded her with, and though he held the expression intractably, she caught a twitch on his lip, a quiver deep, so deep it were a mere flicker, in the sea-foam blue of his eye.
“Hector.” And at the way he looked at her, sudden and grave alarm lighting the depths of his eyes, she knew that he anticipated what she was about to say and she hesitated, pondering the words that now rose, quite unbidden, to her. They’d never been uttered from her lips before, there’d never been cause for it. Well, she’d always thought them foolish words, really, silliness for lads and lasses whose boots were still shiny on their bottoms. Now, as they bubbled within her, rising up through the pit of her stomach to tickle the back of her throat, she found they had a curious and pleasant magic, one that made her somewhat giddy and she understood why all those kids were so enthralled with it all, and why so many became sick with it. “Hector, I - “
“I have long owed ye a great debt,” he interrupted her abruptly, shifting so that he was turned from her, his gaze now fixed out the window, where the ocean stretched on endlessly. “A debt for the generosity of your favours over the years in spite of the cruelties I have oft showed ye. Ye may consider the debt now settled, Miss Evangeline. Now, leave me be. I am weary, I tell ye, and a ship is no place for a woman for too long.”
So stifled, Evie miserably choked back her disappointment, her elation turning swift to a soreness she could barely stand and turned, fine dress swishing a winsome tune as she fetched her shoes, her old dress, her pipe.
Barbossa coughed, moved to a desk and from its drawers drew a small leather sack. Opening a heavy brass chest that sat on the desk, he scooped handful after handful of gold and silver pieces into the sack, equal and perhaps in excess of what Evie had stashed away back in her room and her eyes grew saucer-like to see it.
He did not look directly at her as he handed the sack over to her and raised a brow, cocking his head sidewards. “Mind ye secure that beneath yer skirts before ye get back.”
She thought to make some remark, how the more distant he grew the more handsomely he paid her, but she felt she did not want to part with such words, being that she knew not when he would return, if return again he ever would. So instead she said nothing and allowed herself to be ushered to the door, every nerve in her body screaming in yearning at the feel of his hand on her elbow; from there it moved to the small of her back and pushed her outwards, back out onto the deck, where a high yellow sun broke the final strands of the spell she’d been under and across the glittering blue expanse of the sea, Tortuga and her life squatted and waited patiently for her return.
She turned back for one last look at him and he finally offered her a smile, small though it was and there was a shadow of the old Barbossa there within it. Then he widened his eyes emphatically at her.
“Spend it wisely, now.”
And with a gruff chuckle, he clapped shut the door to her.
But for those times, she had her cards, and she was never beaten - if she did not wish to be. Younger and younger girls arrived on ships seeking a better fortune than their prior port had offered, for everywhere was feeling the pinch of the East India Trading Company. Fresh, young faces - especially those that could claim virginity with some blood and pig’s gut - would reap the best of the pickings for a few months, then sail off again to some other port. By the time they returned again, in six months time, enough of the old pirates had been hung with enough new hopefuls risen to take their place to make them a bright new face again. A lot of Evie’s old companions - Mary Beth, Suzette, even Jasmine - had followed suit, but Evie had never been out of the port of Tortuga and too much feared the ocean, and what lay beyond it, to even contemplate the notion. She was bound to Tortuga, as much as if her ankles were rooted into the spurious black of its earth.
And, she wanted to be easily found, should Barbossa ever return, whole and laughing once more. Though this was not something to which she would easily admit, even to herself, even in the last blinking hours of the night, when she opened her music box and listened to the pretty, tinkling melody it played, wearing her ruby necklace and drinking mouthful after mouthful of gin until she could no longer keep her eyes open.
And there were benefits too, to being a familiar face. She could be relied upon for a quality of service the bright young things never much bothered with, being as transient as they were, and she still kept her comfortable lodgings with all the little extras that so differentiated her from them all, who were impatient and barely able to disguise their contempt for their clientele, deigning only to turn around, hoist up their skirts and bend over under the docks before moving quickly onto the next fellow.
There were enough young virgin lads still seeking glory on the seas who wanted the guidance and nurturing hand of an older woman (which, blast it all, they now saw her as!) to teach them the skills they finally dared pursue and enough older salt dogs, bow-legged and weary, who did not want the revolted disdain the prettiest and youngest whores could afford to treat them with, and they all cherished Evie’s cheery temper and gentle manner. Oh Evie still did well enough indeed, thank you.
But cards served her just as well, and she played the young travelling whores as hard as the men, though they hated her for it - more than once she would take a girl’s entire earnings of the evening, why she might as well have fucked the fellows herself! She’d not play her old pals - Scarlet, Giselle or any of the others - but had little scruple when it came to those opportunistic saucepots! Well, they had few scruples themselves, and all of them had to make a living and keep themselves in clean drawers, a bed and liquor! And, in Evie’s case, her cocoa leaf, which she had learned of late from a customer to grind up into a fine powder and smoke. It had a far more powerful effect in a far shorter expanse of time in this fashion, but she also went through far greater quantities of it - one leaf could last her a couple of hours, one pipe of the crushed mixture but a few minutes.
She was finishing off a nice fat pipeful one crisp and peach-grey morning, the sort that promised a glorious day ahead, sitting on the docks and looking out across the harbour. Every centimetre of her skin was tingling and her head felt pleasantly heavy, as though the smoke had not fully billowed from her nostrils, but had filled up all the empty nooks and crannies of her skull, providing cushions for her thoughts to bounce off against. It had been a good night for Evie, good by the standards of the day at any rate, starting off with a successful game and finishing it with a few quick ruts behind a couple of taverns. She had a lovely cold pork pie waiting at home for her, and her sheets had not even been soiled that evening - all in all, Evie was feeling rather marvellous and thought she might idle for awhile and watch the sun come up
So she was not altogether sure whether to cheer or shriek when the ship with black sails glided into the bay, its figurehead with the sorrowful eyes and outstretched hand clasping a dove on the brink of flight calling to mind a pale dawn some nine years earlier when another ship with another figurehead, scarlet and blazing in the early sunlight, had dropped anchor and delivered calamity into her contented life. She had waited - days into months and months into years and not a one of them with any particular expectation beyond a dull hope - to see this very sight and yet she could not know what it would mean for her. Indeed, if it weren’t for the cocoa leaf enlivening her blood she may have got up and dashed for the Maison Rouge, but instead she leant back on her elbows and watched to see what would happen next.
The men, from what she could make out of them (and her eyesight was just not what it was, constantly blurring at the edges, a stray tear sometimes inexplicably trickling down her cheek), were somewhat livelier this time about, but only a smattering of them clambered into the long boats to head for the Tortugan shore. They bore a few trunks and sacks, evidently for trade, but nowhere near so great a haul as Barbossa had so often brought in years long past. The long boats heaved up and over the waves, inching towards the shore. Behind them, the Black Pearl sat and swayed, just a little, not even the pretty pinkness of the early morning able to alleviate the gloom of its visage.
The longboats reached the docks, two of them and the men upon them went about the task of securing them in a businesslike fashion at the wharf two down from the one she occupied. The Bo’sun, the man who had sailed beneath Barbossa’s command for some fifteen years or more now, was amongst them, directing the men with little more than a grunt and a glare. Evie saw him glance up, survey the port about him and take note of her, his glower heavier than ever she supposed from the past years of whatever hardship Barbossa had led him to, his dark muscles gleaming in the sparkling sunlight. But he made no acknowledgement to her. He and the men, a filthy, bedraggled lot, even by piratical standards, hoisted their goods upon their shoulders and made for the town.
Evie let herself flop back onto the decking and stretched her arms high above her head, feeling a succession of quick pops in her back. It felt good and she stretched again, but could not achieve the same effect. The sky was almost entirely light now and the sun’s light was pleasantly warm. It was going to be a glorious day indeed. Evie withdrew her flask of gin and toasted the few clouds that scattered the skyline, changing their lavender hue for the most splendid yellows and pinks in a show that was most definitely flirtatious.
It did not take long for Barbossa’s men to return from the town, walking single file, as silent and solemn still as they had been upon arrival. Evie pushed herself back onto her hands so that she might observe them closer. They had evidently been successful as their loads had gone. Strange, though, they had made no effort to secure their purses or hide the jangling of the coins. True, they were cutthroats, but they were on an island of cutthroats, and opportunistic cutthroats at that. It seemed they had met with no trouble, however, and Evie attributed it to the early time of the day - just about everyone was abed by now. The long boats were untied; the oars delved into the water and steadily, serenely, the pirates rowed their way back to The Pearl. Seems they had not bothered even to stop and see if there were any working whore still about - and there must’ve been a couple. She could see them, just barely, climbing back up into the ship, disappearing below deck.
Evie could not say what prompted her to wait, but wait she continued to do.
And soon enough, there was activity aboard the Pearl once more, the merest flicker here and there of a body moving upon it and then another long boat set out toward the docks, and now she sat up straight and crossed her legs and watched it intently, squinting her unaccustomed eyes against the harsh glare of the morning sun. It made now for the wharf upon which she perched, and she found that she was not at all surprised by it, or to see the Bo’sun stood in this one too, presiding over the other gents with great hands on his great hips. One dark fellow with a head of straggly dreadlocks roped the boat up and they all clambered onto the wharf, stepping over Evie’s skirts and feet, for she did not bother herself to move. One or two of them glanced down at her, eyes darting and lips quivering, but just as quickly returned their gaze to the town beyond, the direction in which they moved. All except the Bo’sun, who remained in the boat, staring up at her from under his heavy eyelids, the keltoid scars which patterned his flesh less fearsome by daylight, seeming more like dull jewels that had been pressed into his flesh. Pressing her lips tight together, she lowered her eyes to his and returned his gaze calmly; at that he outstretched an arm to her and she took his hand and was lifted down into the boat.
And for only the second time in her life, Evie found herself travelling rapidly across moving water, watching the stern of the small boat tip up and down, the brilliant green waves parting willingly to make way for their passage to the dark and mighty Pearl.
This time it was not the rocking of the ship, the opaque mystery of the waves or the unsteady climb upwards that occupied Evie’s thoughts; it was what state she might find Barbossa in, what new strangeness she might find upon him. The Bo’sun delivered her safely to the deck and without another word, left her there; disappearing through a hatch he shut with a sharp click behind him.
She turned, slowly, in a great circle, looking about her at this strange new ship which was so very different from the jolly and grand Siren of Barbossa’s younger days. Oh, the Pearl was grand, there was no doubt of that, but a gloominess seemed to linger about her mast and sails, a tired and aching temper bowed her great shoulders and spine. Even in the crisp brightness of dawn a mist seemed to hover in the air and, involuntarily, Evie shivered a little.
“So how did such a flower come to be so far from earth?”
Evie whirled around to find Barbossa, sitting and stooped over, on the stairs that led up to the thingy deck, a little smile on his lips and his eyes hooded, Jack the Monkey perched on his shoulder and looking at her with wide, curious eyes.
She recovered quickly and made an effort at pertness. “Not exactly suave, sneakin’ up on a girl like that! If you’re goin’ for the element of surprise, a bottle of gin would’ve stood you better.”
Barbossa’s smile widened, and leaning forward he lifted himself to a standing position, straightening slowly all the way to his full height, the little monkey chattering and pattering his paws upon his master’s shoulder as some bloom of recognition came over his little brown features. He was Barbossa still, in many ways, but in many ways also he was so altered a man Evie may well have been persuaded to think him taken over with a doppleganger. He was unkempt, and ragged, the years showing themselves all the harder on this clothing and rusty hair. The grey coat was beautiful still, but it was worn and ragged as was the brilliant vest and she did not think he had bothered overmuch to have changed his shirt lately; not like he used to. He appeared not to have aged any further, not in the addition of new lines or mists of grey, at any rate, but there was a great weariness that seemed to bear his shoulders down, a cavernous ache in his pale blue eyes.
“Apologies.” He said, limping heavily around to the door of his quarters. ”I am quite sure I have somethin’ laid down that may make amends, if ye care to join me. “ Opening the door with a flourish he turned to her and made a small, mocking bow. “I’ll have ye as my guest, wench, if it pleases ye.”
She could not help the smile that leapt to her lips; there was very much something of the old Barbossa here in his manner and it gladdened her heart so that she practically skipped forward to take up his invitation, feeling her hair bounce around her face with the levity of her movement.
“You seem to limp most when it suits you.” She couldn’t help observing with a nod down to his knee as she passed him and he chuckled, shutting the door behind them.
“Ah. Some days it be stiff and causes me trouble. At least, I suppose it be such, for I cannot feel it, only know that it impedes me movement.”
“And I see that you’re still about, you little bugger!” she declared to the monkey who seemed to understand her and shrieked in return. Evie chucked her tongue and shook her head and Barbossa smiled wryly, lifting a hand to stroke the monkey’s brow.
“You ‘aven’t wanted to dump ‘im overboard yet then?” she queried and Barbossa allowed a short, sharp laugh to leap from his throat.
“Nay. Not yet. Indeed, he has proved to be most agreeable a companion, and a useful one too, though that may be to your disbelief.”
Leaping from Barbossa’s shoulder the monkey scampered across the floorboards and jumped upwards; onto a cushioned chair and from there onto a perch that dangled from the ceiling and had evidently been placed there for his express use. Somewhere along the way, Jack had acquired a colourful suit of his own pirate garb; white smocked shirt and bright red vest with gold (or were they brass? Surely you wouldn’t waste good gold on a monkey!) buttons. Scratching his head the monkey contorted his mouth in a grimace and Evie checked to see if Barbossa were watching before poking her tongue out savagely at the little brute. The monkey danced upon the perch and chattered at Evie’s gesture and Barbossa glanced over with an irritated frown.
“Now, Jack, is that any way to speak to a guest then?” and the monkey fell silent.
Rolling her eyes yet again at the strange bond the two of them seemed to share, Evie let her eyes roam from the perch and about the cabin.
The Siren had been a colourful ship, brimming with the prizes of Barbossa’s long and successful career. It had reflected the hedonistic rouge as well as the shadowed glamour of the Pearl did now in his more solemn and severe state. The dark, carved furniture gleamed dully in the silvery light of the morning which glimmered through the thick panes of glass in the windows, without the candles lit there abounded a collage of shadowy corners which seemed to hang about the walls and shelves and chairs like cobwebs. It was a beautiful space, large and comfortably decked out, but to Evie it seemed heavy with sorrow and secrets. Barbossa watched her as she looked about, his hands moving as though independent of him, to locate a bottle of wine, heavy with dust, that he uncorked and poured out for her. She took the proffered glass with a nod of thanks, taking a deep draught. It was a rich vintage, and she choked over it a little - it was finer than anything she had tasted before and it occurred to her she was supposed to pause and savour it, but she had swallowed already. So instead she tipped a hip towards him, hand upon it.
“Been awhile.”
And that strange little smile passed over his lips again. “I’ve had much to do, wench.”
There was a sudden rap at the door and Evie started. Barbossa whipped his head to the door and grunted permission of entry and the door flew open to make way for three of the crew; one carrying a large tin tub and some linen, the one following him a coffer of steaming water and the fellow bringing up the rear a bucket of cool water. With a nod to their Captain, who eased himself slowly into a great burgundy arm chair, they set the things down, mixed the water in the tub, and departed. Evie hovered by the window, taking hold of the curtains and twitching them between her fingers, for she was somewhat confused and determined to ask no questions. When the door clicked shut behind them, Barbossa turned his gaze to hers, holding out a hand to her. Draining her wine she moved forward, took it, a warm shiver running through her at the familiarity of that rough and calloused palm, the strong long fingers that entwined around her wrist. His expression became softer, as though he were regarding her through the mist of many years.
“Evie… “ he whispered, and his thumb caressed her palm, his other hand floating up to rest first at her neck, then sliding down over the swell of her breasts, to her waist. “… Undress for me.”
And she smiled wide at him then, wide and happy, for this would seem to say then that in some form or another, the Barbossa she’d grown up with had returned, and happily she dropped his hand and unfastened her bodice while he poured her a fresh glass of wine, looking up at her with a strange and quiet expression, smiling a little.
Her dress was discarded, her stays and chemise followed and finally, she was naked and stretching before him and it felt like days of old before the burden of history separated them.
He did not reach out to touch her, but surveyed her body instead with grasping eyes and she was pleased the last five years had been so kind - it had been so long since she’d last been this way with him!
”Ye’ve more curve to ye,” he observed approvingly. “Ye were always a trifle thin.”
She smoothed her hands over her hips and shrugged. “’Ad a mite more of an appetite of late.”
He flickered his eyes up and down here body. ”Ye look well.” And despite the understated tone to it, she could see the quiet hunger in his eyes and preened.
“Glad you think so!”
His eyes were growing brighter by the moment, and she thought that his grip upon the arms of his chair was growing taunter. He gestured with a jerk of the head to the tub.
“Bathe yeself. No doubt tis the end of a long eve for ye.”
She felt a trifle bewildered, and wondered if he desired some strange reversal of their past encounters, but stepped over to the tub, her flesh goose-pimpling in the wave of steam that rose from it. That was tempting indeed. Let him have his fancies then, a hot bath was just what she needed most now!
One foot, then the other into the hot water and she gasped a little and shivered at the shock of it, balancing unsteadily while her feet and ankles grew accustomed to the new temperature. Barbossa marked her reactions keenly, following each one with luminous eyes as she steadied herself and slowly sank into the steaming liquid, starting again when her loins submerged and then easing back with a deeply satisfied sigh. Already her caramel flesh was steaming a rosy hue and the knots in her back were one by one coming undone and she drew in another great breath then let it all out in a sigh that loosened her even further, all beneath Barbossa’s watchful gaze.
She let her head drop back and her eyes flutter shut, feeling the last remnants of the cocoa leaf begin to drift from her system. It had been a long night and the intensity of emotion she’d felt upon its most recent events were just beginning to catch up with her.
Forcing her eyes open and her head upwards to face her Captain, whose gaze was yet fixed silently upon her, she struggled to keep her alertness.
“So, where ‘ave you been then?”
And he smiled and flexed his fingers, gripping the armchair tight. “Everywhere, wench, and then a bit further. There are unguents there. “
And he inclined his head to the chair beside the tub, where next to the linen a washcloth and bottles of soaps and perfumes stood. Shifting in the water she leaned across and retrieved one and with the cloth began to sluice herself with water, shutting her eyes and smiling with the restful pleasure of it.
“This is an odd request but one I’m damned ‘appy to fulfil.“ she murmured cheerily and he made an amused little noise.
“Do ye ache from the night’s business?” he queried and she thought that was a mighty strange question as well, but shrugged and continued to wash.
“I always ache, in one place or another, these days.” She retorted. “And ever since I was in that fix a year ago I ‘ave to go steady through the night, or pull a trick or two.” He raised his brows in question and she half-rolled her eyes.
“Managed to get into a spot of bother, forgot to douse a night or two. Went to Bessie to get it sorted out and there was a bit of a mess. Laid up for two weeks, I was. Can’t ‘ave kids no more, not that I ever wanted ‘em, and it means I don’t ‘ave to take no nights off work unless I fancy it, but it can be a bit troublesome at times. “
He half-turned his head to the side and peered at her. “Then small mercies ye still be among us, Missy.” And her cheeks pinkened and she lifted the washcloth to her face and rubbed it clean and raw.
“Not so much a Miss, no more, Cap’n.”
And the smile that creased his face was unexpectedly deep. “To me, always. Have ye done?”
She nodded and yawned, lifting a hand quickly to stifle it. “Sorry. Me leaf ran out.”
He pushed himself from the chair and lifted the linen, shaking it out and holding it up. “Not at all. Tis past your bedtime, to be sure.“ She moved to take the linen from his grasp, but he held it fast, gesturing that she should step into it. The water streamed from her body as she stood and stepped from the tub, the deliciousness of fresh, soft linen against her flesh a giddying luxury in her weariness and she felt herself sway as he wrapped her tight and dried her off.
“’Eavens.” She murmured. “So this is ‘ow those swells feel. No wonder they all get so fat.”
And he laughed a little and swept her up and off her feet. “The bath was a pleasure for ye?”
“Wasn’t it just!” Sleep was threatening to overcome her at any moment and she struggled hard to remain awake. “That was splendid, that was.” The dark panelling of the room tipped about her as he carried her through it, into another chamber where an enormous bed, heavily and finely draped, occupied most of the space. She half-swooned to see it, and then he was laying her upon it and she was sinking into the softness of its feathery depths, the difference to her hard straw mattress back in the Maison Rouge enough to urge a little groan of pleasure from her throat. The curtains were tight drawn shut in this room, the only light trickling through from the doorway that led from where they had just entered and Barbossa busied himself drawing shut the drapings around the bed, blotting the light out further and further until she could just make him out, a solid silhouette against the gloam, leaning over her where she lay, rubbing at her eyes.
“Is it to yer likin’? Is it comfortable?” he whispered and she wiggled further beneath the coverlets, deeper into a softness that wrapped around her like a cocoon.
“I’ve never been so comfortable.” Her mouth felt like cotton, she could not lift her head now even if she had wanted to. The very last thing she could want for, before she was lost to sleep, was for him to press upon her, for his kiss. She wanted to reach for him, but could not quite summon the effort.
His hand came forth, only an indistinguishable shape in the shadows, and she felt it play about her forehead and cheek, brushing back strands of her hair.
“Sleep, wench, and rest. There be nought that ye must fear.” His voice floated down through the dark, his breath caressing her eyelids and she blinked, slow and heavy and thought to ask him for a kiss but the words died in her throat as the final resistance of her consciousness gave way and she surrendered her body to slumber.
She awoke, not with a start despite her unfamiliar surroundings, but with a languid and delicious calm, deeply enveloped in a nest of soft cotton, wool and fur. The dim glow of candlelight half-lit the room from beyond the bed curtains and she sensed it was early evening by the subtle difference in depth to the darkness.
Barbossa’s arm chair had been moved to the bedside, and he sat in it, watching her. To see it gave her a moment of disquietude, but she was more glad to see him and her newly wakened gaze run over and over his face, delighting in the long angular shape of it, the curls of his forked beard and the aristocratic sweep of his nose. His eyes were inscrutable, and he did not react for a long moment to her greeting smile. Finally, his lips stretched upwards in return and he reached out a hand to her, in which he grasped an uncorked wine bottle. She took it, tipped it to him in thanks and had a swig. It was another fine wine, as different from the swill she drank on Tortuga as the sea is to land.
“Spoilin’ me a bit, aren’t you?” She croaked, licking her lips so as not to waste a drop before taking another drink and his smile widened to reveal his teeth.
“Ye slept well?”
“Like the dead.” She affirmed, and stretched her arms high above her head, the covers slipping down to reveal her breasts. He leaned forward and cupped one, holding it in his palm and looking upon it reverently.
“If you don’t mind my sayin’”, she piped up as her nipple came to attention. “You’re in somewhat better spirits than you was last time you was about.”
A laugh like a gust of breath escaped his mouth and her nipple tightened further to feel it. He withdrew his hand, fingernails scraping gently over her soft flesh and with a grin got to his feet, keeping his eyes fixed upon her. She was disappointed; and expectant. Better spirits, to be sure, but odd and out of sorts yet.
“Are ye hungry?” He enquired of her softly and she realised that she was - ravenous, in fact, as though the bliss of her deep sleep had flushed out all the congestion of cocoa and gin and made space for sustenance. Barbossa fetched from the back of his chair a brightly patterned wrap of silk which Evie hesitated a moment before accepting. It was very fine, slipping soft and cool about her shoulders, and she thought that perhaps it had not been worn before. It felt far too grand for the likes of her, but Barbossa hovered whilst she put it on and then fiddled with it a little, adjusting it so that it sat properly upon her shoulders. Then, enveloping one of her hands in his, he led her from the bed, through the still-dark chamber, and opened the door of the adjoining room, squeezing her hand tight and standing back, and Evie’s senses were suddenly assaulted with the most glorious tumult of scents and sights.
The large dark oak dining table that occupied the centre of the grand room was groaning beneath the weight of food that sat there, all of it freshly prepared and still steaming hot from the stove, and all of it the likes of which Evie had never before laid eyes upon and couldn’t hope to hazard a guess as to what it was called. Every candle and lantern in the room was set blazing, banishing the cobweb shadows that had made it so gloomy. The ruddy glow picked up reds and yellows in the gold and brass, the brocade fabrics, in the gleam of the wood and even in the glistening flesh of the suckling pig that squatted on the table, smothered in apples.
Evie could do nothing but stand and gape at the sight, the very stuff of fantasy and fancy. Such food - and in such abundance! Even as Evie’s mouth watered she felt queasiness in the pit of her belly. Barbossa stood behind her with hands upon her shoulders, weightless and yet unignorable.
“Well?” His voice drifted from somewhere above her and she started. “Are ye hungry, or not?”
“You… you want me to eat this?” she questioned nervously and he squeezed her shoulders.
“Aye wench. Or do ye think me to be mockin’ ye?”
She took a half-step forward, the strong, savoury smell of roast garlic and rosemary wafting from a plate of meat she thought might be lamb and filling her nostrils to the brim so that she swayed and paused again.
“Who else is joinin’ us?” She could think of no reason for the sheer excess of the spread other than that Barbossa expected more guests - perhaps his crew - perhaps traders - but surely…
And Barbossa laughed, a rasping little bark as he moved from behind her and limped over to the table, where he withdrew a chair for her and indicated with a curl of his fingers that she should come and be seated.
“No one but ye and I, Missy. Thought that ye would perhaps enjoy what must surely be a rare indulgence for ye. Intended only to serve ye my most favoured dishes, but when it came down to it, as it happens, I was loathe to select just one. “
Evie again felt faint as she surveyed the feast laid out before her. The longer she looked and smelled, the hungrier she grew and the more reluctant to take a seat. The smile on Barbossa’s face fell as she continued to hesitate until finally he scowled and demanded:
“What is it, whore? Not grand enough for yer tastes?”
And she picked up her heels and took the seat he held out, wanting a squabble least of all.
He moved around to sit beside her, drawing his chair very close so that their knees touched, and taking hold of her plate he began to pile it up with food - fresh crab and oysters, cheese and bread, olives and a large slice of chicken and mushroom pie, the pastry on it flaking delicately onto his fingertips. A bowl was filled to the brim with rabbit stew, deliciously aromatic in its rich gravy. There were two wine glasses before her and he filled one with white and the other with red, his movements becoming increasingly jerky, more eager until her plate and glasses would hold no more and then he sat back, a tremble upon his lips, brushing her hair back to twine it around his hand.
“Eat, eat.” He urged her. “Eat yer fill, and then beyond it. Don’t insult me generosity now, wench.”
There was no place set for him, no plate, dish or glass. She glanced at him and he nodded at her, his expression taunt with expectation, then picked up spoon - the only utensil she knew how to use, having never had need of knife or fork with the fare on Tortuga - and began on the stew. Its flavour was beyond compare, so subtle in its delicacy, so sumptuous in its texture, that she could not resist the appreciative moan which burbled in her throat, and Barbossa’s hand tightened in her hair, another hand reaching forward to thrust inside her wrap, stroking her breasts.
“Good lass.” He murmured. “Enjoy it as loudly as ye would our sport. Be not shy about it.”
She had almost finished the stew and the bread upon her plate before she dared ask: “Will you not be ‘avin’ any?” and he chuckled, a wild gleam to his eye.
“No pleasure in that for me, my treasure. No, ye will stay and enjoy this feast so that I may take pleasure in it. “
Evie chuckled a little and reached for her wine, Barbossa corrected her and gave her the white. “Compliments the flavour better.”
“Darlin’, I don’t think I can possibly eat all this.”
And Barbossa cupped her cheek in his hand and looked at her indulgently.
“Ye’ll stay until ye’ve eaten it all. “ And though he smiled gently, she rather felt he meant it.
Evie never ate a lot, being too far inebriated most of the time and too much intoxicated the rest to feel much hunger and her little belly refused another mouthful before she was even halfway through her first plate. She half-feared Barbossa would oblige her to keep at it until she burst at the very seams, but he was merciful and said she might return to it later, drawing her upon his knee and running his hands all over her. She was far gone on the richness of the food and the fineness of the wine (which was the one thing she managed to keep sipping at!) and relished the caress of his hands and closeness of his body with loud enjoyment.
“Awhile there I thought we’d never be at this again,” and allowed her head to swoon upon his shoulder. He swivelled his neck about and kissed her and her heart swelled madly with joy. Throwing her arms about his neck, she responded with fierce passion making delirious little noises. When they parted she gasped and he stared intent at her.
“Does it give ye pleasure to feel such things with me?” he whispered and she cupped his face in both hands, her turn now to brush back his hair, to savour the feel of his life-worn skin beneath her fingertips.
“Gives me fuckin’ bliss is what it does. Been five years too long since I felt like this. “
“Surely,” he murmured, drawing closer to her so that his lips brushed hers, their eyes locking. “there has been some pleasure for ye amongst all those sailors…”
The nod of her head was barely perceptible. “Some. Nothin’ ever like what I ‘ad with you…”
He took satisfaction in that, a smugness about his lips before he kissed her again. She grasped onto him and tried not to cling too desperately in case he should suddenly throw her from him and yet she couldn’t quite help herself - the intoxication of his embrace, the thought of which had consumed so many nights with an aching hollowness, was a pleasure she yearned to grab onto and swallow whole again and again; her appetite for it could not be satiated, only further piqued. And then she was once more lifted into his arms, stripped free from the wrap and assaulted by his hands and mouth, neither of which seemed to part company with her flesh on all their long explorations. He laid her back upon the bed and kissed her from the tips of her hair to the toes, taking each one into his mouth before moving back up to do the same with her fingers. When she moved to touch him, he arrested her hands and pushed her back down continuing his languorous journey of her body for the longest time, pausing only to mark the rise and fall of her breath or the gasps of pleasure she uttered. His calloused hands played softly upon the length of her torso, stroking and rubbing her, rolling her over onto her belly to do the same to her back and buttocks. He did not touch her sex, made no hint of it, but it grew swollen and wet from the pleasures he delivered to the rest of her and began to ache for a touch. But he kept on with his excruciating play, moving slowly and coolly to her breasts, where he spent a long while, kissing and nibbling, sucking, stroking, tenderly kneading them and her sighs grew louder and finally she could hold back no more and entreated him to get between her legs. He grinned, sly, and delayed her gratification yet further with a sweet and lingering kiss before finally moving backwards, pushing her thighs up and open, gazing upon her for a long agonising moment before beginning his administrations.
He teased her for a long while, with his hands, with his mouth, many times over bringing her to the brink of orgasm and that stopping so that she cursed him then begged him not to stop. He would half-laugh, a vehement need burning deep within his eyes, and then recommence. Finally, when his lips had been playing upon her pleasure-spot in the most torturous fashion only to once again depart on the brink of her ecstasy, her body could bear it no more and carried her into a delicious climax, though he was no longer touching her. He laughed outright to see it and finally slid his rigid cock from where it was confined, and slid it into her.
He did not rush or thrust, there was none of the old urgency or frenzy to his pace. Slow, steady, almost lazy in its complacent languidness, she arced beneath it and felt her insides cling to him. A part of her missed the old rapaciousness, but an equal part of her revelled in his purposeful and calm dedication. With this gentle fucking, with his hands and his mouth, he brought her to climax three or four more times, each time relentless in his pursuit of another burst of pleasure from her, no matter how she panted, giving her only moments to recover and setting about the task with a single-mindedness that refused to be disappointed. He remained erect throughout but evidently had no climax of his own, smiling only when she came, when she moaned or bucked, when she laughed or gasped, his eyes greedily, hungrily drinking every gesture, every twitch, down in ravenous gulps.
When finally his desire to see and hear her writhe about beneath him was sated, she fell into a warm, tingling sleep, still wet between her thighs, the marks of his lips still burning on her breasts and belly. She awoke to find him lying beside her, stroking her softly and looking down curiously into her face.
“Did ye dream?” he whispered in the dark stillness and she confessed that she could not remember; her sleep had been too deep and satisfying. He sighed a little and drew back the covers, silently pushing her thighs apart and she found herself once again ensconced in bliss.
And so it went on, for a day or more, for she lost all track of time and found herself not overmuch bothered by it. At regular intervals he stopped and bid her eat, and she found that she could manage more each time for their rutting enlivened her appetite and without her cocoa leaf (which he refused adamantly to have fetched for her) the food was also a comfort to her mind. Jack the Monkey leapt in to aid her at one point, for which Evie was grateful (though loathe to confess to) although the only items he took special interest in was the fruit and that caused a bit of a squabble between the two so that Barbossa was obliged to intervene with a roll of his eyes and a sigh. Growing quickly and constantly drunk on the fine wine (to think - all this time without her gin!) she grew more and more encouraged by the delight her took in her gluttony, giggling as he spooned great mouthfuls of succulent fish and onions into her mouth.
“I’m going to get fat from this!” she laughed, wiping at her mouth and he fetched an especially oversized slice of the pig, feeding it to her from his fingertips.
”Ye’ll be starving yerself on cocoa leaf again before ye know it.” He consoled her mockingly, and pinched one of her bare thighs so that she squealed.
The monkey was finally banished after he tried one too many time to interrupt their sport and Barbossa wearied of it. She felt truly free then, truly unfettered in her enjoyment and surrender, and that Barbossa was most wholly all hers for a time.
The crew did not disturb them at all and she could not help but wonder, on the odd occasion he let her rest, what they were doing with themselves.
“Are the lads about in the port then?” She queried of him from the bed, holding her swollen tummy in her hands, rubbing her moist thighs together and luxuriating in the ridiculous decadence of the whole affair.
Barbossa snorted and picked up one of her feet, stroking it gently and turning her ankle this way and that as though to admire it like a piece of sculpture.
“If they are, it be only to trade our wares for more gold.”
“I noticed they didn’t stop long enough to make sport when I was fetched.”
Barbossa looked at her sharply, his lip curling slightly at the edge. “Do ye think they wish to be over-minded about that which they can no more enjoy? Nay, wench. They have little pleasure these days, save but for the pleasures of piracy. And piracy has made of us rich men, though we have little use for our riches.“ His voice was equal in sorrow to bitterness and Evie sat up, leaning over to wrap her arms about him and drop kisses on his tattooed shoulder. “So we do nought but amass them, in greater and vaster piles, and it’s never enough. No, we must take more and more ships, storm port after port, strip them bare, sell what’s worthwhile - furniture, ornaments, stock, women - and sink to the bottom of the depths what isn’t - men, mostly.” And he laughed, a cruel sound, as his eyes glittered devilishly with his recollections. “And our swag and our profits we pile up until the day we may once again make good use of them.”
He whipped his head around to Evie, who started at the ferocity of his glare, and sat back on her heels. “And that day will come, wench. Mark my words well. That day will come. I will not be denied. I will not be cursed. No force on earth may hold from me that which I most desire.” A frenzied delirium had stricken his gaze and she felt her heart begin to pound within her breast and wonder if there would be some harshness in this for her, but after a moment of gritted teeth he eased once more and swept a hand through his hair, his head bowing down to rest upon his chest, now looking simply like a weary and much roughened sailor.
“I have somethin’ for ye.” He murmured and rose from the bed, squeezing her knee as he did so. The candles had burned down almost to their ends and he shifted across the room like a spirit to a great trunk that sat pushed up beneath one window. Kneeling down, he lifted open the lid and from within it withdrew a tumult of bright and colourful fabrics. Rising slowly to his feet, he shook them out one by one and she realised they were dresses, brilliant, bright and glorious new dresses with fine pleated tucks and brocade trimming, layers and layers of lace frothing along various edges, beaded ornamentation glittering in the bleary light. Evie gasped and pushed herself off the bed, moving forward as if spellbound to grasp hold of one that he held out to her, bright yellow and black with jet beads lavishly embroidered along the bodice.
“Many a young lass’s trousseau has been raided for these.” His smile was wry and slightly sneering. “But we did not know which would fit ye. So take yer pick, wench. A never-worn dress may light you quite a bit more brilliant than the younger tarts you stand amongst.”
Evie had never had a brand new dress before and never thought that she would. Every scrap of clothing that had ever been over her back was second-hand, whether from her mum, her mum’s friends, other whores or some pirate’s swag nabbed from a lucked out lady on the shores of Tortuga’s dawn markets. She could see at once the yellow and black one was too big for her, the plum one, though utterly splendid, too small. Pink had never suited her, and blue was somewhat too muted when it was that dark a shade… there was one, though, of emerald green and cream, with a very low cut bodice and a bow right upon it that would draw appropriate attention to her breasts. Its sleeves stopped at the elbow and showered lace downwards, trimming of seed pearls and crystal beads sparkling in such a way it would catch the eye as she moved her hands about. The overskirt was split right down the middle and she could always, easily in fact, leave out the cream underskirt to show off her legs in their garters…
He assisted her into it, pulling it in tight at the back as far as the laces would go. It was an inch or two too big, but that would be easily adjusted. Evie felt herself grow taller at the swish of silk against her calves, the caress of the lace down her forearm, and she threw back her shoulders and strutted about for Barbossa who laughed to see it and clapped his hands in mocking gentleness.
“Well, well, well. “ He seemed almost to enjoy her delight as much as she felt it, his eyes traversing her roughly and with no small degree of appreciation, up and down. “Ye could almost pass for a lady.” And coming forward, he took up her small hand in his great one and pressed cool, rough lips to it before flashing wicked eyes up to hers. “Almost.”
And she snatched her hand away in feigned outrage. “Well, it wouldn’t be no good to me if I did, now would it?” and then laughed and threw herself upon him, raining kisses upon his chest and collarbone, as high as she could reach on tiptoes without him stooping over. “There’s not a girl in town who would have a brand new dress for her own!”
“I’m glad it pleases ye.” And he tipped her head backwards and kissed her soundly and she pushed upwards into it. It did not last long enough and he had released her, pushing her back, a frown creasing his countenance. “But now, Evie, I grow weary and ye must go.”
Her joy fled, she felt her shoulders sink downwards and gazed at him in dismay. Oh, she’d known that this time would come, of course she had; still she had become all too easily enraptured in his cocooned world here, all too readily bedevilled by his conjurations of pleasure. He glowered to see her look and snapped: “Don’t be lookin’ at me like that wench, ye’ve had all that I can give, and more besides, these last few nights. “
She swallowed around the lump in her throat and nodded, drawing her hands up behind her head and shaking out her hair. “My thanks to you, for all of it.” She managed. “I’ve ‘ad a - a swell time of it.” And cursed her inadequate tongue - she’d never had such a time in her life, not in all her short, simple yet cheery life had she known such an endless and abiding melody of pleasures, all piling one on top of the other, all entwining and spiralling inwards and, at their centre, why just her, little Evie the whore from Tortuga, she the reason and object of it all. And she felt such a crescendoing of emotion then, such a teeming force of desire and passion and longing amplify within her she rather thought it might come surging from her throat and eyes at any moment and she had to swallow again, breathing slowly and softly to quell the fire, to steady her heartbeat. Trembling, she raised round eyes to him, to the stern and fixed equanimity he regarded her with, and though he held the expression intractably, she caught a twitch on his lip, a quiver deep, so deep it were a mere flicker, in the sea-foam blue of his eye.
“Hector.” And at the way he looked at her, sudden and grave alarm lighting the depths of his eyes, she knew that he anticipated what she was about to say and she hesitated, pondering the words that now rose, quite unbidden, to her. They’d never been uttered from her lips before, there’d never been cause for it. Well, she’d always thought them foolish words, really, silliness for lads and lasses whose boots were still shiny on their bottoms. Now, as they bubbled within her, rising up through the pit of her stomach to tickle the back of her throat, she found they had a curious and pleasant magic, one that made her somewhat giddy and she understood why all those kids were so enthralled with it all, and why so many became sick with it. “Hector, I - “
“I have long owed ye a great debt,” he interrupted her abruptly, shifting so that he was turned from her, his gaze now fixed out the window, where the ocean stretched on endlessly. “A debt for the generosity of your favours over the years in spite of the cruelties I have oft showed ye. Ye may consider the debt now settled, Miss Evangeline. Now, leave me be. I am weary, I tell ye, and a ship is no place for a woman for too long.”
So stifled, Evie miserably choked back her disappointment, her elation turning swift to a soreness she could barely stand and turned, fine dress swishing a winsome tune as she fetched her shoes, her old dress, her pipe.
Barbossa coughed, moved to a desk and from its drawers drew a small leather sack. Opening a heavy brass chest that sat on the desk, he scooped handful after handful of gold and silver pieces into the sack, equal and perhaps in excess of what Evie had stashed away back in her room and her eyes grew saucer-like to see it.
He did not look directly at her as he handed the sack over to her and raised a brow, cocking his head sidewards. “Mind ye secure that beneath yer skirts before ye get back.”
She thought to make some remark, how the more distant he grew the more handsomely he paid her, but she felt she did not want to part with such words, being that she knew not when he would return, if return again he ever would. So instead she said nothing and allowed herself to be ushered to the door, every nerve in her body screaming in yearning at the feel of his hand on her elbow; from there it moved to the small of her back and pushed her outwards, back out onto the deck, where a high yellow sun broke the final strands of the spell she’d been under and across the glittering blue expanse of the sea, Tortuga and her life squatted and waited patiently for her return.
She turned back for one last look at him and he finally offered her a smile, small though it was and there was a shadow of the old Barbossa there within it. Then he widened his eyes emphatically at her.
“Spend it wisely, now.”
And with a gruff chuckle, he clapped shut the door to her.