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dwgmFirst of all, many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
celandineb for the virtual gift of a chocolate head! How cool is that?!
Second, there are sure a lot of birthdays at this time of year! Guess the old poem about frost on the pumpkin is based on fact. *g* In any case, dearpearlseed recently celebrated her natal day and I offered to gift her with fic made to order, and she chose some Harry & the Pirate.
~ Harry & the Pirate II: Reunion ~
A "deleted scene" from Chapter IV: Island Days
Captain Jack Sparrow stood leaning against the bulkhead of the Pearl's gun deck, watching with fond amusement as Harry – Henrietta Fanshawe, Dowager Duchess of Wyndham, sister to Governor Weatherby Swann, and Jack's lover – tried to bully and coerce the Pearl's cabin boy into disrobing in preparation for an oatmeal bath, necessitated by the lad's inconvenient but (praise God) not life-threatening malady, Chicken Pox. A couple of older Pearls were down with it, too, but neither of them were so full of spots as poor Michael Owens, and Jack shook his head without hesitation when the shirtless lad, clutching at his breeches, turned pleading eyes toward him.
Michael began to protest, "But sir—"
Harry cut him off, saying severely, "Michael Owens, you take those breeches off this instant, and your drawers, too! You have nothing new to show me, I assure you. Am I not a widow, and old enough to be your mother?"
Jack gave a snort, and Michael goggled at Harry as though she were mad. As well he might: the slim little dowager duchess had attained the ripe age of thirty, but she barely topped Jack's shoulder in height, and her youthful form was coupled with an absurdly pretty and girlish countenance. She had, perforce, cultivated an air of command, and could assume the hauteur of a queen when she chose, but Michael knew her too well now, after the adventure they'd all undergone two months ago.
Almost a grave misadventure. Adorable, yet willful and every bit as hot-at-hand as her brother had claimed she'd be, Harry had behaved very badly on that occasion. She'd put them all in danger and Jack within inches of torture and death in the effort to rescue her from the villain who'd murdered her nephew and taken charge of her property, St. Claire Island. She'd redeemed herself, somewhat, by recklessly saving Jack at the opportune moment; but later, in the privacy of the Pearl's Great Cabin, it had been a close-run thing choosing whether to simply make love to her or put her over his knee and thrash her pert backside first. On reflection (and in light of her contrite and persuasive entreaties), the former course had appealed far more strongly, and he considered it one of the best decisions he'd ever made.
Jack, straightening, said to her now, with a whirl of fingers, "Harry, turn your back 'til he's in the bath at least. He's a bit shy, and who can blame him, you being you, and him so spotty."
Michael flushed, and not with fever. Harry immediately saw that Jack was right and relented. "Oh, dear. Very well then." She turned away from the boy, and faced Jack.
Jack, after giving Owens a sharp nod to continue, came to Harry and took her hands in his, raising them to his lips, first one, then the other. She looked up at him, flushing a little herself. "Remember the wedding?" Jack asked, his voice low.
Elizabeth and Will's, a month ago, and Jack showing up unannounced, dressed as a fashionable exquisite. Sitting side by side with Harry as the bride and groom said their vows. Hobnobbing with the elite of Port Royal, including Swann and Norrington, forsooth. Repairing to the library, to be alone, to renew the intimacy they'd enjoyed for those two days in the Pearl's Great Cabin –fortunately behind the library's couch, for Swann and Will had walked in at precisely the wrong moment. Or right moment: there had been fewer more right than that one, in Jack's experience. Oh the agony of keeping silence! The wonder of it, how Harry had trembled, without, within, biting hard on the shoulder of his coat, leaving even little marks against the apricot satin. They'd stilled, breathing deep; then Harry's outraged squeak and Jack's stifled laughter as her brother complained of her to Will.
Harry… Harry… there were roses in her cheeks now, and she was nodding, remembering too.
"Tonight?" Jack asked.
"Yes," she said, simply.
Jack swallowed hard, wanting to take her in his arms. But Owens had disrobed and was settling now, down into milky water in the ornate bathtub, all white porcelain, cherubs, and roses, the heavy thing transported with tolerable difficulty to the Black Pearl from Island House, Harry's home on St. Claire, just that afternoon. So Jack said, "Good lad!" as he gave Harry's hands a squeeze and let them go. He said to Owens, "You soak for a half hour, and Lady Harry'll read to you. Then it'll be O'Brien's turn to bathe, savvy?"
"Aye, sir," said Owens. He looked very small and pitiful in the big tub.
Jack gave him a wink.
As Harry seated herself on the stool beside the tub and took up the book – a volume of Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream – Owens was moved to ask, "Can we stay, Captain? Here on St. Claire?"
The Pearl was anchored fore and aft in the secluded inlet on the west side of the island. Pearl's Rest. Harry had named it herself, the first time they'd seen it, at the start of that first dreadful, wonderful adventure. She'd wanted Jack and his Pearl for her own, almost from the first, and Jack had to admit he'd wanted Harry every bit as much, and that Pearl approved. They'd been through some difficult times, the three of them, and each of them knew treasure when they came across it.
"Almost like coming home, isn't it?" Jack mused, speaking to Owens, but gazing into Harry's eyes as she looked up at him and smiled.
"Aye, Captain. Please let's stay a while." Owens sounded drowsy, and relaxed into the warm, soothing bath with a yawn.
And Jack nodded. "The ladies seem willing—"
"We are," said Harry, firmly, glancing around at the dark wood of the Pearl's gun deck.
"—so I reckon we will," Jack concluded, and smiled in return.
~.~
celandineb for the virtual gift of a chocolate head! How cool is that?!Second, there are sure a lot of birthdays at this time of year! Guess the old poem about frost on the pumpkin is based on fact. *g* In any case, dear
pearlseed recently celebrated her natal day and I offered to gift her with fic made to order, and she chose some Harry & the Pirate. ~ Harry & the Pirate II: Reunion ~
A "deleted scene" from Chapter IV: Island Days
Captain Jack Sparrow stood leaning against the bulkhead of the Pearl's gun deck, watching with fond amusement as Harry – Henrietta Fanshawe, Dowager Duchess of Wyndham, sister to Governor Weatherby Swann, and Jack's lover – tried to bully and coerce the Pearl's cabin boy into disrobing in preparation for an oatmeal bath, necessitated by the lad's inconvenient but (praise God) not life-threatening malady, Chicken Pox. A couple of older Pearls were down with it, too, but neither of them were so full of spots as poor Michael Owens, and Jack shook his head without hesitation when the shirtless lad, clutching at his breeches, turned pleading eyes toward him.
Michael began to protest, "But sir—"
Harry cut him off, saying severely, "Michael Owens, you take those breeches off this instant, and your drawers, too! You have nothing new to show me, I assure you. Am I not a widow, and old enough to be your mother?"
Jack gave a snort, and Michael goggled at Harry as though she were mad. As well he might: the slim little dowager duchess had attained the ripe age of thirty, but she barely topped Jack's shoulder in height, and her youthful form was coupled with an absurdly pretty and girlish countenance. She had, perforce, cultivated an air of command, and could assume the hauteur of a queen when she chose, but Michael knew her too well now, after the adventure they'd all undergone two months ago.
Almost a grave misadventure. Adorable, yet willful and every bit as hot-at-hand as her brother had claimed she'd be, Harry had behaved very badly on that occasion. She'd put them all in danger and Jack within inches of torture and death in the effort to rescue her from the villain who'd murdered her nephew and taken charge of her property, St. Claire Island. She'd redeemed herself, somewhat, by recklessly saving Jack at the opportune moment; but later, in the privacy of the Pearl's Great Cabin, it had been a close-run thing choosing whether to simply make love to her or put her over his knee and thrash her pert backside first. On reflection (and in light of her contrite and persuasive entreaties), the former course had appealed far more strongly, and he considered it one of the best decisions he'd ever made.
Jack, straightening, said to her now, with a whirl of fingers, "Harry, turn your back 'til he's in the bath at least. He's a bit shy, and who can blame him, you being you, and him so spotty."
Michael flushed, and not with fever. Harry immediately saw that Jack was right and relented. "Oh, dear. Very well then." She turned away from the boy, and faced Jack.
Jack, after giving Owens a sharp nod to continue, came to Harry and took her hands in his, raising them to his lips, first one, then the other. She looked up at him, flushing a little herself. "Remember the wedding?" Jack asked, his voice low.
Elizabeth and Will's, a month ago, and Jack showing up unannounced, dressed as a fashionable exquisite. Sitting side by side with Harry as the bride and groom said their vows. Hobnobbing with the elite of Port Royal, including Swann and Norrington, forsooth. Repairing to the library, to be alone, to renew the intimacy they'd enjoyed for those two days in the Pearl's Great Cabin –fortunately behind the library's couch, for Swann and Will had walked in at precisely the wrong moment. Or right moment: there had been fewer more right than that one, in Jack's experience. Oh the agony of keeping silence! The wonder of it, how Harry had trembled, without, within, biting hard on the shoulder of his coat, leaving even little marks against the apricot satin. They'd stilled, breathing deep; then Harry's outraged squeak and Jack's stifled laughter as her brother complained of her to Will.
Harry… Harry… there were roses in her cheeks now, and she was nodding, remembering too.
"Tonight?" Jack asked.
"Yes," she said, simply.
Jack swallowed hard, wanting to take her in his arms. But Owens had disrobed and was settling now, down into milky water in the ornate bathtub, all white porcelain, cherubs, and roses, the heavy thing transported with tolerable difficulty to the Black Pearl from Island House, Harry's home on St. Claire, just that afternoon. So Jack said, "Good lad!" as he gave Harry's hands a squeeze and let them go. He said to Owens, "You soak for a half hour, and Lady Harry'll read to you. Then it'll be O'Brien's turn to bathe, savvy?"
"Aye, sir," said Owens. He looked very small and pitiful in the big tub.
Jack gave him a wink.
As Harry seated herself on the stool beside the tub and took up the book – a volume of Shakespeare, A Midsummer Night's Dream – Owens was moved to ask, "Can we stay, Captain? Here on St. Claire?"
The Pearl was anchored fore and aft in the secluded inlet on the west side of the island. Pearl's Rest. Harry had named it herself, the first time they'd seen it, at the start of that first dreadful, wonderful adventure. She'd wanted Jack and his Pearl for her own, almost from the first, and Jack had to admit he'd wanted Harry every bit as much, and that Pearl approved. They'd been through some difficult times, the three of them, and each of them knew treasure when they came across it.
"Almost like coming home, isn't it?" Jack mused, speaking to Owens, but gazing into Harry's eyes as she looked up at him and smiled.
"Aye, Captain. Please let's stay a while." Owens sounded drowsy, and relaxed into the warm, soothing bath with a yawn.
And Jack nodded. "The ladies seem willing—"
"We are," said Harry, firmly, glancing around at the dark wood of the Pearl's gun deck.
"—so I reckon we will," Jack concluded, and smiled in return.
~.~