Dark of the Moon (30-32/37)
May. 28th, 2006 06:40 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dwgmYes. 37 parts and an epilogue now. Many thanks, as always, to my dear ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
hereswith for judicious and eagle-eyed editing. Still PG-13. Or possibly bordering on soft R.
[30]
One more night. God’s teeth, but he’d be glad to be rid of her. To have his cabin to himself, uncompromised by the sounds, scents, and sights of winsome, helpless widow. One more night. If he didn’t go quite mad before it was over.
He was doing his best, really he was. To stay away. Avoid temptation. Refrain from simply grabbing her and having his way with her, letting his body and mind become reattuned while showing her the delights that were Jack Sparrow and Lettice Granger. She’d had a taste of the former, which would no doubt ease his way, but he wondered if she had any real inkling of the latter. Somehow, from things said and unsaid, he doubted it.
Shut up, Jack. That door’s closed.
He ground his teeth, and tightened his grip on her arm.
“Jack! Mr. Sparrow! Stop it!” She dug in her heels, wrenching to a halt.
He scowled at her. And she scowled right back. Adorable.
Shut up, Jack.
“You’re hurting me!” she hissed.
He had been, of course. “I’m sorry. Let’s just get you to the cabin, shall we? You don’t want to be topside tonight. The lads’re makin’ great inroads on the rum, already.”
“And you are, no doubt, eager to lend them aid,” she snapped, hurt and contemptuous.
“Precisely, Mrs. Granger. Now if you’ll be so good as to step this way. Or would you prefer I get Bootstrap for you?”
Her cheeks went rose pink, and her lips quivered, but she bit back whatever scathing words hovered upon them, turned on her heel and started off across the deck again. He followed along, a few steps behind, eyes sinking from the set shoulders down the straight back to linger on the sway of her skirted hips.
No harm in looking.
When they reached the cabin and he’d opened the door for her, she tried once more. “Jack…”
He cut her off. “I’ll be late, most likely. Get some sleep. We don’t want your uncle thinkin’ I’ve kept you from your rest.”
She hesitated, but then gave it up. “No. Of course not. Good night.”
She closed the door herself.
*
‘Twas wonderful how a half bottle of rum could take the edge off.
As the stars appeared, there was music again. A bit quieter than on Letty’s first evening on the Pearl, for the sound would carry on the water and they were drawing near to Barbados. The big drums were left below, but Murphy had his flute, and Jeffers his fiddle, and several of the lads were having a competition to see who could dance the maddest hornpipe. Most of them weren’t much at it (particularly when jug-bitten), and there was a great deal of laughter amid the shouts and applause. Finally, Darlin’ Robert stepped forward, whose well-known prowess was unimpaired even by excessive drink. Jack whistled and stomped and clapped by way of encouragement. The fiddle shrieked, the pipe squealed and Bob was off…and just then there was a hand laid on Jack’s shoulder.
“Ye’d best have a care for yer spoils, Jack,” came Barbossa’s gravelly purr, just audible above the racket.
“What? She’s… oh, bloody hell.” She was not below, where he’d stashed her. She’d come up on deck and was crossing toward him, bold as brass. Well, no. She looked both determined and frightened – as well she might be! He heard Barbossa’s chuckle, then general laughter as he strode to intercept her, cursing under his breath. She froze, watching him, almost gathering enough courage to face him down, but failing in the end. She turned and scurried back to the companionway. Raucous approval rang in Jack’s ears, and he grinned and bowed elaborately to the company before loping off to catch his errant charge.
But it wasn’t like that first night, after all. He went down one flight and there she was, waiting for him, half in shadow.
The voice of wisdom urged caution. This was a bad sign. Could negate his entire Sacrifice of the last several days.
But… devil take it! He shoved wisdom away with rum-induced impatience as he approached, and then the sight of her -- lips parted, breast heaving, and, when he drew close, eyes full of fear and, yes, longing – inspired him to kick it clean over the side.
“Damnation, Letty!” he growled, scolding for form’s sake. “What’d you think you were doing up there?” He caught her shoulders.
She’d put her hands up and now they plucked at his shirt. “I… Jack, I wanted you.”
“That right?” He bent his head to kiss her, releasing his grip to slip his left arm around her shoulders, intending to tip her chin up with his right hand.
But there was no need. To his surprise, she raised her face to his, arms sliding up about his neck, and spoke one word, breathless but sure: “Yes.”
If those other kisses he’d taken had been sweet, this one was far sweeter, for it was given and with her whole heart. In the midst of it, she made a little formless sound, and he started to draw back, but she’d have none of it. He let his right hand wander, and there were more sounds, but she did not pull away.
Finally, he made her stop. He said, soft against her lips, “Letty…”
“I shall never see you again, after tomorrow,” she whispered, rather fiercely, and she kissed him, at length, ending it by nipping gently at his lower lip.
He smiled his delight. He murmured, “Housing a vixen in my cabin!” and she smiled too. Once more: “You’re certain?”
She pulled on his hair. “Be quiet.”
He gave a small chuff of laughter, then did as he was told.
[31]
In later years, moments of that night would return to Letty…
The desperate longing, something so physical that she’d wondered at the time if she were falling ill, or perhaps going mad. Longing that had overwhelmed her anger and, finally, her fear too, driving her from the cabin to find him. Her agitation at her inability to express what she felt, even to herself, and then her utter relief when her unthinking, instinctive reply, I wanted you, was interpreted with such astonishing accuracy.
The rush back to the cabin, Jack’s hand gripping hers, pulling her along, the sounds of fiddle and pipe fading behind them. Her impatience at the delay as he lit the lamp. A brief awkwardness, then hands pulling at ties, at buckles, at fabric, trying not to tear in their haste, not always succeeding. Excitement. Embarrassment. Shock. Fascination. And pride. That he’d thought her beautiful, all of her, head to toe. That she had so obviously made this man want her, his desire equal in measure to her own.
The startling differences between Jack and her late husband. Skin, deep gold, not unmarked, yet lovely both in itself and in contrast to her own fairness; a lithe, strong body that begged to be touched everywhere, in every way. No voluminous nightclothes between them. No silent rucking up of her gown, or clumsy weight upon her, or wet kisses, or fumbling, gripping hands.
And no pain.
That had been a revelation. That she could be so caught in need that, in spite of their haste that first time, she was ready for him. More than ready. Slick heat and a strangled howl had met his touch, and, though his obvious intention was to gentle her, ease her into the way of it, it was she who wouldn’t have it, she who lost herself. A babbling stream of whispered praise and oaths. The feel of him, his trembling intensity combined with his failing efforts at restraint.
Restraint be damned!
And damned it was, most thoroughly, to the music of their combined cries.
Thank Heaven for the covering noise of fiddle, pipe, and pounding feet, far above them.
*
Satiation had been remarkably brief. But she’d given way to him after that, trusting him, letting him take the lead, slowly, surely.
How strange it was, she remembered thinking. How strange… and how perfect.
[32]
Predawn darkness. Post-rum muzziness. Sight was impaired, but scent and touch were not, and memory returned in startling, scattered fragments. The warmth lying all along his side was Letty’s. It was her nakedness moving sleepily against his own. Her hand that drifted over his chest, then lower, over his stomach, lingering shyly.
The voice of wisdom might raise another belated protest, but his body knew no such ambivalence. He turned toward her, caught the questing hand and moved it lower still, to its improper destination, and found her lips with his own. She murmured approval beneath his kiss.
He smiled. “Again?”
“Yes.”
*
TBC
hereswith for judicious and eagle-eyed editing. Still PG-13. Or possibly bordering on soft R.[30]
One more night. God’s teeth, but he’d be glad to be rid of her. To have his cabin to himself, uncompromised by the sounds, scents, and sights of winsome, helpless widow. One more night. If he didn’t go quite mad before it was over.
He was doing his best, really he was. To stay away. Avoid temptation. Refrain from simply grabbing her and having his way with her, letting his body and mind become reattuned while showing her the delights that were Jack Sparrow and Lettice Granger. She’d had a taste of the former, which would no doubt ease his way, but he wondered if she had any real inkling of the latter. Somehow, from things said and unsaid, he doubted it.
Shut up, Jack. That door’s closed.
He ground his teeth, and tightened his grip on her arm.
“Jack! Mr. Sparrow! Stop it!” She dug in her heels, wrenching to a halt.
He scowled at her. And she scowled right back. Adorable.
Shut up, Jack.
“You’re hurting me!” she hissed.
He had been, of course. “I’m sorry. Let’s just get you to the cabin, shall we? You don’t want to be topside tonight. The lads’re makin’ great inroads on the rum, already.”
“And you are, no doubt, eager to lend them aid,” she snapped, hurt and contemptuous.
“Precisely, Mrs. Granger. Now if you’ll be so good as to step this way. Or would you prefer I get Bootstrap for you?”
Her cheeks went rose pink, and her lips quivered, but she bit back whatever scathing words hovered upon them, turned on her heel and started off across the deck again. He followed along, a few steps behind, eyes sinking from the set shoulders down the straight back to linger on the sway of her skirted hips.
No harm in looking.
When they reached the cabin and he’d opened the door for her, she tried once more. “Jack…”
He cut her off. “I’ll be late, most likely. Get some sleep. We don’t want your uncle thinkin’ I’ve kept you from your rest.”
She hesitated, but then gave it up. “No. Of course not. Good night.”
She closed the door herself.
*
‘Twas wonderful how a half bottle of rum could take the edge off.
As the stars appeared, there was music again. A bit quieter than on Letty’s first evening on the Pearl, for the sound would carry on the water and they were drawing near to Barbados. The big drums were left below, but Murphy had his flute, and Jeffers his fiddle, and several of the lads were having a competition to see who could dance the maddest hornpipe. Most of them weren’t much at it (particularly when jug-bitten), and there was a great deal of laughter amid the shouts and applause. Finally, Darlin’ Robert stepped forward, whose well-known prowess was unimpaired even by excessive drink. Jack whistled and stomped and clapped by way of encouragement. The fiddle shrieked, the pipe squealed and Bob was off…and just then there was a hand laid on Jack’s shoulder.
“Ye’d best have a care for yer spoils, Jack,” came Barbossa’s gravelly purr, just audible above the racket.
“What? She’s… oh, bloody hell.” She was not below, where he’d stashed her. She’d come up on deck and was crossing toward him, bold as brass. Well, no. She looked both determined and frightened – as well she might be! He heard Barbossa’s chuckle, then general laughter as he strode to intercept her, cursing under his breath. She froze, watching him, almost gathering enough courage to face him down, but failing in the end. She turned and scurried back to the companionway. Raucous approval rang in Jack’s ears, and he grinned and bowed elaborately to the company before loping off to catch his errant charge.
But it wasn’t like that first night, after all. He went down one flight and there she was, waiting for him, half in shadow.
The voice of wisdom urged caution. This was a bad sign. Could negate his entire Sacrifice of the last several days.
But… devil take it! He shoved wisdom away with rum-induced impatience as he approached, and then the sight of her -- lips parted, breast heaving, and, when he drew close, eyes full of fear and, yes, longing – inspired him to kick it clean over the side.
“Damnation, Letty!” he growled, scolding for form’s sake. “What’d you think you were doing up there?” He caught her shoulders.
She’d put her hands up and now they plucked at his shirt. “I… Jack, I wanted you.”
“That right?” He bent his head to kiss her, releasing his grip to slip his left arm around her shoulders, intending to tip her chin up with his right hand.
But there was no need. To his surprise, she raised her face to his, arms sliding up about his neck, and spoke one word, breathless but sure: “Yes.”
If those other kisses he’d taken had been sweet, this one was far sweeter, for it was given and with her whole heart. In the midst of it, she made a little formless sound, and he started to draw back, but she’d have none of it. He let his right hand wander, and there were more sounds, but she did not pull away.
Finally, he made her stop. He said, soft against her lips, “Letty…”
“I shall never see you again, after tomorrow,” she whispered, rather fiercely, and she kissed him, at length, ending it by nipping gently at his lower lip.
He smiled his delight. He murmured, “Housing a vixen in my cabin!” and she smiled too. Once more: “You’re certain?”
She pulled on his hair. “Be quiet.”
He gave a small chuff of laughter, then did as he was told.
[31]
In later years, moments of that night would return to Letty…
The desperate longing, something so physical that she’d wondered at the time if she were falling ill, or perhaps going mad. Longing that had overwhelmed her anger and, finally, her fear too, driving her from the cabin to find him. Her agitation at her inability to express what she felt, even to herself, and then her utter relief when her unthinking, instinctive reply, I wanted you, was interpreted with such astonishing accuracy.
The rush back to the cabin, Jack’s hand gripping hers, pulling her along, the sounds of fiddle and pipe fading behind them. Her impatience at the delay as he lit the lamp. A brief awkwardness, then hands pulling at ties, at buckles, at fabric, trying not to tear in their haste, not always succeeding. Excitement. Embarrassment. Shock. Fascination. And pride. That he’d thought her beautiful, all of her, head to toe. That she had so obviously made this man want her, his desire equal in measure to her own.
The startling differences between Jack and her late husband. Skin, deep gold, not unmarked, yet lovely both in itself and in contrast to her own fairness; a lithe, strong body that begged to be touched everywhere, in every way. No voluminous nightclothes between them. No silent rucking up of her gown, or clumsy weight upon her, or wet kisses, or fumbling, gripping hands.
And no pain.
That had been a revelation. That she could be so caught in need that, in spite of their haste that first time, she was ready for him. More than ready. Slick heat and a strangled howl had met his touch, and, though his obvious intention was to gentle her, ease her into the way of it, it was she who wouldn’t have it, she who lost herself. A babbling stream of whispered praise and oaths. The feel of him, his trembling intensity combined with his failing efforts at restraint.
Restraint be damned!
And damned it was, most thoroughly, to the music of their combined cries.
Thank Heaven for the covering noise of fiddle, pipe, and pounding feet, far above them.
*
Satiation had been remarkably brief. But she’d given way to him after that, trusting him, letting him take the lead, slowly, surely.
How strange it was, she remembered thinking. How strange… and how perfect.
[32]
Predawn darkness. Post-rum muzziness. Sight was impaired, but scent and touch were not, and memory returned in startling, scattered fragments. The warmth lying all along his side was Letty’s. It was her nakedness moving sleepily against his own. Her hand that drifted over his chest, then lower, over his stomach, lingering shyly.
The voice of wisdom might raise another belated protest, but his body knew no such ambivalence. He turned toward her, caught the questing hand and moved it lower still, to its improper destination, and found her lips with his own. She murmured approval beneath his kiss.
He smiled. “Again?”
“Yes.”
*
TBC
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-06-08 01:06 pm (UTC)Was watching Don Juan Demarco again last night. Really, how could Letty, or anyone, resist?
Thank you so much for commenting in such detail, again. So good of you!
I'm trying to finish up editing CtB13 this morning. I hope to send it soon. Sorry it's taking so long. Minor disasters occuring here and there, impacting my time. I already told you it's great, of course. But you knew that.
no subject
Date: 2006-06-08 01:16 pm (UTC)How indeed?! He is just so beautiful in that it ought to be illegal. But it is so telling that she is surprised and delighted that he cannot resist her either. Lucky girl!
I'm sorry to hear about the minor disasters. I hope everything is becoming okay again. No worries about CtB13. I shall be out of town this weekend and won't be online much. Do you want CtB14 before I go? Do you think my action/adventure story can possibly survive 15 pages of J/A H/C/S with the S standing for EXTREME SNARK?
no subject
Date: 2006-06-08 01:22 pm (UTC)