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Fair Weather Morning
From a series of stories featuring Elizabeth Swann and Jack Sparrow

by Hereswith

The tale thus far...
1. A Matter of Trust
2. Steps of the Dance
3. Mirrored Movement
4. Reasons to Believe 1 - 2 - 3 - 4
5. Ladies Speaking in Confidence
6. In the Dark Watches of the Night
7. Fair Weather Morning
8. Marchland
9. White Squall (Rated 'R')
10. Halcyon
11. Turnabout 1 - 2 - 3 - Epilogue (Rated 'R')

Waking was this: light sifting through windows, slipping through cracks of eyes, and the Pearl, humming gently beneath him.

The soreness in his shoulder was familiar, the warm weight pressed against his side was not, and there was a moment of perplexed bewilderment, then realisation flooded him. Elizabeth. Pale, pinched and nigh see-through ghost of a girl, coming apart at the neatly stitched seams by the side of his bed. She must have slept, then, and that was a decided improvement.

Jack glanced down to find said wench curled up, pillowed on him, and indeed, still oblivious to the world. It had been a while since a woman had made use of him in this way, and he did not object to it, as such, but his whole arm had gone numb, and that was damnably uncomfortable.

He edged to the right and, when she did not rouse, attempted to wriggle out from under her. With nothing more than a
single layer of clothing between them, he would have had to be dead not to notice certain aspects of her figure, and he wasn’t, most assuredly not, nor so weak that he failed to appreciate it, but that was the only liberty he would take.

As the blood rushed back into his limb, bringing with it a painful tingling, Jack grimaced, cursing softly. “Trying to cripple me, are you, love?”

Elizabeth did not answer. Her breech-clad legs were sprawled in perfect repose and the tar-stained shirt, a mite too big for her, shivered with each breath. She had a smudge on her jaw, and the skin on the tip of her nose was beginning to peel.

In looks and in manners, she bore little resemblance to the other, the late Mrs. Turner—Bill’s sweet Sarah—but from what he had learned of both, they had one trait in common, at least: a rare strength of will. Fine Toledo steel. Tempered by far different fortunes and fates—but tempered nonetheless.

Gibbs had informed him how the rescue had come about, his account peppered with expletives and words like “mad” and “foolish” and “stubborn”, the reluctant fondness in his tone belying his grumpy demeanour. And to Jack, it was inescapably clear that, if not for the will of that mad, foolish, stubborn lass, he would not be here. The island would have spun its spider’s web around him, undisturbed, and stripped the flesh from his bones, even as it sucked out his soul.

Elizabeth turned over on her back, suddenly, and upon turning, tensed. Her eyelids fluttered, as if she was fighting the urge to open them.

“Good morning, love.”

“Oh, God,” she groaned and sat up, sun-streaked hair forming a heavy curtain that hid her face from view. “I didn’t intend to fall asleep.”

“No,” Jack agreed. “But you’re the better for it, I reckon, and there’s no sense in regretting it, now, is there?”

Elizabeth sighed. “Perhaps not,” she admitted, plucking anxiously at the bed linen. “Jack? I did not—impose upon you,
did I?”

He steepled his fingers and tapped the ends together. “I would’ve thought you’d remember it,” he said, “considering how thoroughly my honour was compromised.”

She swivelled round, caught sight of his expression and reined her shock in, scowling with angry irritation. “Why, you—pirate!”

Jack pushed himself up, so that they were on a level with each other, the motion rather more awkward and clumsy than he would have preferred, but her eyes widened, all the same.

“Not just any old pirate, darling,” he admonished, inclining his weight-laden head, since executing a flourished bow was an impossible feat. “Captain Jack Sparrow, quite at your service.”

Elizabeth stared at him, dismay fading into a brittle confusion that teetered on the brink of something else. “Jack—“

The sound of his name was not enough. Not near enough. The taste of it, on her lips, might be, and the thought of that waylaid him, he could not outrun it, the fastest ship in the Caribbean or not. Watching her reaction closely, Jack raised
his hand and twirled a honeyed lock around his forefinger. Her chest heaved, at that, and a frantic pulse beat at the base of her throat.

“Is it ‘aye’, then, Lizzie,” he asked, knuckles and rings grazing her collarbone, the thick, treacly heat of her slowly seeping into him, “or ‘nay’?”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Capt’n—ma’am,” said a voice from the doorway and Elizabeth, as quick as a sprite or a flash, dashed out of Jack’s reach, leaving him empty-fisted and uncharitable.

“What?” he snapped, very aware of the fact that she, steadfastly, refused to look at him.

“Gibbs said to see if ye were awake, Capt’n,” Jamie answered, fidgeting, as well the blasted whelp should. “’Tis close to noon, and there’s food, if ye’ll have it.”

“I’ll go,” stated Elizabeth, and off she went, straight-shouldered and erect, chin held high. Jamie hesitated, then, as Jack waved dismissal, the boy hurried to follow her, sliding the door shut behind him.

Bloody hell! If that had been the opportune moment, come at last, a right bloody mess had been made of it.

*

Elizabeth returned, ere long, carrying soup conjured by the cook, and some biscuits. Though Jack wasn’t overly surprised when he observed that she had Jamie in tow, he wondered, with wry amusement, which of them it was she did not trust to behave, him, or herself. She propped a pillow behind his back, briskly efficient, and hovered to make sure he ate, but she still would not look at him.

Jack mulled this over for a bit, then questioned around a piece of fish, “Care to tell me what you’ve done with me hat, love?”

A startled laugh escaped her. It was not, it seemed, what she had imagined he would say, and the slight, but unmistakable stiffness in her posture eased. “It’s in my belongings. I brought it with me on the Aurora.“ Peering at him through her lashes, she added, “I’m inclined to keep it, you know. It’s a nice hat, all it needs is a proper cleaning and, perhaps, a few choice decorations around the brim.”

The hitherto silent Jamie gave a strangled cough.

“You wouldn’t,” Jack growled.

He wasn’t worried. Not precisely. There was, however, no denying that tiny sting of apprehension.

“I might,” Elizabeth replied, and her mouth twitched.

“Bah!” he said, eyes narrowing. “I’d have you locked in the brig for disobeying the Captain’s orders.”

“I haven’t signed the Articles, Mr. Sparrow,” Elizabeth reminded him, pointedly. “You may be his Captain,” and she gestured in Jamie’s direction, “but you are certainly not mine.” Jack lifted a quizzical brow, in response, and she pinked, prettily, when she noticed, as if the double-entendre did not occur to her until then. “Well, you aren’t! Besides, you haven’t ordered me not to.”

Options were weighed, scales balanced, then tipped over. “And if I asked you to be so kind, Mrs. Turner?”

Her smile glinted like sunshine off the ocean’s surface. “Then I suppose I should have to consider your request.” She snatched the finished bowl from him and put it aside. “It’s a glorious morning, Jack. I thought—Jamie could help you, if you want to take some air.”

So, Jack mused, the boy did have a purpose, beyond that of acting as a guardian against what might, or might not, come to be. “I wasn’t shot in the leg, love. I can walk.”

And walk he could, as he had boasted and claimed, but only so far. He stumbled, for no apparent reason, flailed and would have fallen, had Jamie not supported him.

“Ye’d best lean on me, Capt’n,” Jamie urged.

Jack glared at him, that big, lumbering figure of a would-be man. Too young. Tom had scarce been a year older, and he had bled out in some rickety bed in Tortuga. And Cotton—but he would not think of Cotton, full fathom five, with no parrot to speak for him. “Very well,” he grumbled, “but I’ll not have you cosseting me on deck. Savvy?”

“Aye, Capt’n!” said the boy.

Humouring him, no doubt.

*

It was, in truth, a glorious morning. The skies were clear, the sun had burned them so, and they had a leading wind; his light-footed lass fairly danced across the waves. Jack stroked his palms over the smooth wood, to reassure himself as
much as the Pearl.

Jamie had withdrawn, but Elizabeth remained and her presence tugged at Jack’s attention. He inhaled, savouring the scent of sea and ship and breeze. “I owe you my life.”

She made a smallish sound, most likely a protest, and Jack tilted his head in a suitable angle, waiting with quiet patience for her gaze to seek his. When it did, skittish and seal-dark with an emotion he could not quite identify, he offered her the rest of it: “Thank you.”

A crease appeared between her brows, as if she meant to argue the matter further, but she searched his face instead, carefully, and he knew not what she read in it, or what winding paths her mind was taking, only that, in the end, she nodded.

“I expect that makes us just about square, Captain Sparrow,” she said, with the faintest trace of a quiver in that otherwise resolute voice. “After all, I’ve owed you mine since the day I fell from the battlements—shielding you from the Marines was hardly payment enough.”

“As I remember,” he replied, “you weren’t too impressed, at the time.”

“As I remember,” Elizabeth countered, “you were filthy, horribly rude and you manhandled me. I thought you despicable.”

“Ah, yes!” Jack exclaimed, and then, because he couldn’t resist, “And now?”

“Now?” The Pearl’s bow dipped down, spray from a breaking swell spattering the deck and Elizabeth grabbed hold of the rail to steady herself, briefly looking up as the blue and yellow bird, which was ducking in and out of the rigging, screeched. “I daresay I’ve grown accustomed to you.”

“Accustomed, is it?” He chuckled. “I should hope so, love. You’ve known me long enough.”

She was silent; finding something of interest in the pattern of the shrouds and the waters that stretched out, gilded and endless, beyond.

“I dreamt of you, before we even met,” she said, at length, somewhat tentatively. “Pretended I was Captain Jack Sparrow, fabled pirate of the Spanish Main, or, when Father and I had quarrelled, that I would run away some dark and moonlit night and join his crew. Your crew,” she amended, with a crooked, rueful smile, and turned fully towards him again. “Reality, of course, was nothing like my dreams.”

Jack grinned as he tried to picture her, the Elizabeth that must have been, reading of his exploits by candlelight, perhaps, while the good Governor believed she was tucked up in bed and fast asleep.

“Less than what you expected, eh?” he teased.

Her eyes met his, unflinching. Fine Toledo steel.

“Much less,” she answered. “And so much more.”

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