Dark of the Moon (6/?)
Feb. 12th, 2006 07:05 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dwgmMore Dark of the Moon, in which tea is served. Many thanks to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hereswith for editing this.
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 -
The wind was coming up. She could hear it, faintly, whistling through the shrouds, intensifying the creak of wood and rope and the low booming sound of the water against the hull. Feel it, too, in the increased motion, and the tilt of the cabin. It was all so oddly familiar, all just as it had been aboard the Eliza Mae.
She clasped her hands together, huddled there on his cot. The ship must be moving quickly now, away from where her husband and the Eliza Mae rested beneath the waves; leaving behind the longboats and their burden of good, honest men. Her lip quivered and she sniffed; dabbed at her nose with the damp handkerchief, and took a shuddering breath. Though God seemed far away, she began to pray for them anyway. And for herself.
Some time later she roused with a jerk. There was a sound of booted steps approaching from without. She must have been asleep! How could she? Heart thumping, she scrambled off the cot and immediately fell to her hands and knees with a cry as the ship gave a sudden lurch.
The knock came – twice, then twice again. She staggered up, silently cursing her hampering skirts, and to the door, where she held back, afraid, just for a moment. But there was no choice. She jerked the bolt free.
“Open it, will you? M’hands’re full,” came his voice.
She did as he’d asked, then scuttled back into the corner of the cabin. He walked in and she gasped aloud. He was naked!
Well, shirtless, at least. But her breath caught in her throat even at that, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the smooth, muscular chest and arms, and the flat belly, all deeply and uniformly bronzed in the light of the little lantern. His long, dark hair, which had been tied back before, now hung loose, down past his sculpted shoulders, and there were bits of shine tied into it, coin, bead and bone. Swirls and patterns of ink adorned his skin, and some scars too. The whole effect was utterly barbaric and… and beautiful. Her cheeks flamed.
She forced her eyes upward, to meet his dark ones (which also shone disconcertingly amidst the eyeblack he affected), and blushed deeper at his expression: an arched brow and an imperfectly suppressed smile.
“Sorry, love,” he said (not sounding sorry at all). “Taylor offered to wash an’ mend the shirt for me. Couldn’t pass it up.”
“Oh,” she said. Love. She frowned. He sounded different, the edges of temper and voice smoothed, his speech slurred. And that look. She suspected he’d been imbibing strong drink. She watched him warily as he set his burdens down.
These consisted of two wooden buckets. “Brought you some fresh water, and look here: I found you a chamber pot!” He picked up the large pewter vessel, the bottom of which had formed a makeshift lid for the water bucket. He presented the homely object to her with something of a flourish.
She accepted it with a muttered, “Thank you.”
“Just shove it under the cot there, at the end,” he said with the wave of a hand. “You’ll be glad of it after you drink this.” From the other bucket he withdrew an etched silver flask, a bulky cloth-wrapped packet, and finally a covered tankard. “Your tea, ma’am.”
She felt a little glow of pleasure, in spite of her fears. “You did bring it!”
“Told you. There’s sugar, too, if y’like. An’ some biscuit an’ dried fruit to go with ‘em. But--” He gave her a teasing, sideways glance. “There’s a price!”
The glow faded. “A price?”
“Aye. Your name.”
“Oh,” she said. “It… it is Mrs. Granger.”
“Ah.”
He looked amused: as well he might be. It seemed absurd to insist on formality in such a situation, but she had no other defense against whatever wiles he chose to practice upon her.
Which he continued to practice, immediately. He bowed in a very courtly manner, saying, “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Granger. Jack Sparrow, First Mate of the Black Pearl, at your service.”
At her service! “Are you?” she said, her heart thudding at her boldness.
“What?” He straightened abruptly, hair swinging, and frowned.
“At my service?” She trembled as his good humor faded.
“I’d say so, considerin’. I may be wrong, but I’d wager a good bit on the chance Knacker’s attentions wouldn’t’ve been to your liking. I’ve made an enemy there, and am rewarded with the loss of my cot and half my cabin to a whey-faced chit who won’t give me leave to call her by her Christian name. Not to mention this.” He touched a hand briefly to the neat white bandage on his upper arm. “And,” he continued, pouting, “I’ve provided you with not only tea but a bloody chamber pot, in spite of the jibes and taunts of my fellows.”
His offended petulance seemed so unpiratical that her lips quivered against a smile. “Were you much hurt?” she asked, nodding at his bandaged arm.
He shrugged, as though hiding stoicism with nonchalance. “They say I’ll live.” He looked down his nose at her, again, the heavy-lidded eyes accusing.
She supposed it was time for a little plain speaking. “You’re… you’re not going to… ravish me?”
He sighed, much put upon. But then he fixed her with an appraising look and said, provocatively, “Depends on your definition of ‘ravish’, I suppose. But no, I’ve not yet been reduced to forcing the issue with females.”
She felt her cheeks burning again, and pursed her lips. Dreadful man! “You have not drugged the tea, then?”
“Drugged the tea?” His increased exasperation was everything she’d hoped for. “You, madame, are…”
“It’s Lettice, ” she interrupted.
He was thrown off his stride. “What is?”
“My name. It’s Lettice. You may call me Letty.”
“Ah. Letty.”
“And I am not whey-faced.”
He smirked, annoyingly. “Well, you are. But I daresay you’ll be better for some tea. Drink up, love, and I’ll swing a hammock. I’ve the watch at dawn so it’s lights out soon as you’re done.”
*
hereswith for editing this.1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 -
The wind was coming up. She could hear it, faintly, whistling through the shrouds, intensifying the creak of wood and rope and the low booming sound of the water against the hull. Feel it, too, in the increased motion, and the tilt of the cabin. It was all so oddly familiar, all just as it had been aboard the Eliza Mae.
She clasped her hands together, huddled there on his cot. The ship must be moving quickly now, away from where her husband and the Eliza Mae rested beneath the waves; leaving behind the longboats and their burden of good, honest men. Her lip quivered and she sniffed; dabbed at her nose with the damp handkerchief, and took a shuddering breath. Though God seemed far away, she began to pray for them anyway. And for herself.
Some time later she roused with a jerk. There was a sound of booted steps approaching from without. She must have been asleep! How could she? Heart thumping, she scrambled off the cot and immediately fell to her hands and knees with a cry as the ship gave a sudden lurch.
The knock came – twice, then twice again. She staggered up, silently cursing her hampering skirts, and to the door, where she held back, afraid, just for a moment. But there was no choice. She jerked the bolt free.
“Open it, will you? M’hands’re full,” came his voice.
She did as he’d asked, then scuttled back into the corner of the cabin. He walked in and she gasped aloud. He was naked!
Well, shirtless, at least. But her breath caught in her throat even at that, her eyes irresistibly drawn to the smooth, muscular chest and arms, and the flat belly, all deeply and uniformly bronzed in the light of the little lantern. His long, dark hair, which had been tied back before, now hung loose, down past his sculpted shoulders, and there were bits of shine tied into it, coin, bead and bone. Swirls and patterns of ink adorned his skin, and some scars too. The whole effect was utterly barbaric and… and beautiful. Her cheeks flamed.
She forced her eyes upward, to meet his dark ones (which also shone disconcertingly amidst the eyeblack he affected), and blushed deeper at his expression: an arched brow and an imperfectly suppressed smile.
“Sorry, love,” he said (not sounding sorry at all). “Taylor offered to wash an’ mend the shirt for me. Couldn’t pass it up.”
“Oh,” she said. Love. She frowned. He sounded different, the edges of temper and voice smoothed, his speech slurred. And that look. She suspected he’d been imbibing strong drink. She watched him warily as he set his burdens down.
These consisted of two wooden buckets. “Brought you some fresh water, and look here: I found you a chamber pot!” He picked up the large pewter vessel, the bottom of which had formed a makeshift lid for the water bucket. He presented the homely object to her with something of a flourish.
She accepted it with a muttered, “Thank you.”
“Just shove it under the cot there, at the end,” he said with the wave of a hand. “You’ll be glad of it after you drink this.” From the other bucket he withdrew an etched silver flask, a bulky cloth-wrapped packet, and finally a covered tankard. “Your tea, ma’am.”
She felt a little glow of pleasure, in spite of her fears. “You did bring it!”
“Told you. There’s sugar, too, if y’like. An’ some biscuit an’ dried fruit to go with ‘em. But--” He gave her a teasing, sideways glance. “There’s a price!”
The glow faded. “A price?”
“Aye. Your name.”
“Oh,” she said. “It… it is Mrs. Granger.”
“Ah.”
He looked amused: as well he might be. It seemed absurd to insist on formality in such a situation, but she had no other defense against whatever wiles he chose to practice upon her.
Which he continued to practice, immediately. He bowed in a very courtly manner, saying, “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Granger. Jack Sparrow, First Mate of the Black Pearl, at your service.”
At her service! “Are you?” she said, her heart thudding at her boldness.
“What?” He straightened abruptly, hair swinging, and frowned.
“At my service?” She trembled as his good humor faded.
“I’d say so, considerin’. I may be wrong, but I’d wager a good bit on the chance Knacker’s attentions wouldn’t’ve been to your liking. I’ve made an enemy there, and am rewarded with the loss of my cot and half my cabin to a whey-faced chit who won’t give me leave to call her by her Christian name. Not to mention this.” He touched a hand briefly to the neat white bandage on his upper arm. “And,” he continued, pouting, “I’ve provided you with not only tea but a bloody chamber pot, in spite of the jibes and taunts of my fellows.”
His offended petulance seemed so unpiratical that her lips quivered against a smile. “Were you much hurt?” she asked, nodding at his bandaged arm.
He shrugged, as though hiding stoicism with nonchalance. “They say I’ll live.” He looked down his nose at her, again, the heavy-lidded eyes accusing.
She supposed it was time for a little plain speaking. “You’re… you’re not going to… ravish me?”
He sighed, much put upon. But then he fixed her with an appraising look and said, provocatively, “Depends on your definition of ‘ravish’, I suppose. But no, I’ve not yet been reduced to forcing the issue with females.”
She felt her cheeks burning again, and pursed her lips. Dreadful man! “You have not drugged the tea, then?”
“Drugged the tea?” His increased exasperation was everything she’d hoped for. “You, madame, are…”
“It’s Lettice, ” she interrupted.
He was thrown off his stride. “What is?”
“My name. It’s Lettice. You may call me Letty.”
“Ah. Letty.”
“And I am not whey-faced.”
He smirked, annoyingly. “Well, you are. But I daresay you’ll be better for some tea. Drink up, love, and I’ll swing a hammock. I’ve the watch at dawn so it’s lights out soon as you’re done.”
*