Continued from Part 1

It isn't the best of awakenings—the sound of violent, heaving vomiting, far too close to me for comfort, and I jerk up and see Cook not four feet back from me in the scrub, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

I suppose that's what you deserve when you're foolish enough to indulge in a pirate bacchanalia. And I quite understand his sentiments, in fact share them to a large degree. He glares balefully at me as I sit up, and shambles off, further into the forest.

The beach before me is a sad sight. The blackened remains of the bonfire still smoke, and the sand is littered with inert bodies, most of them still clutching bottles or bones. Really, what am I doing here?

Oh, there's no point in being all self-righteous about it. I was as bad as any of them, last night. That terrible drink, the gunpowder one—I think I had two, and then it was on to ordinary rum (how strange that that should be considered a step in the right direction) but I well remember singing along as loud as I could, and joining in some mad jig of Jack's, and laughing with all the rest as Jack managed to persuade Muswell to try the tricks of the firewalkers of Borneo. In fact my lips twist up into a smirk again as I recall it, which isn't kind, for I'm sure the man will be suffering today. So all in all, it was almost worth the way I feel this morning.

I scout the beach for Jack, but can't see him anywhere. But I can see, under that bush, the box that Jack got last night. And I'm far, far too curious not to creep over for a look.

I crawl round behind the bush, so I can't be seen from the beach, and pull it out from under. It's a beautiful piece of joinery, and the metalwork is beyond reproach—it's certainly worth a bit, whatever Duval wanted the rest of them to believe. And inside?

At first, it's a complete mystery to me. There are lumps of strangely coloured putty, and stones, and bottles, and pieces of charcoal, and it makes no sense to me. Then, I notice the brushes pocketed inside the lid, and finally realise what it is—a painter's tools and supplies.

Which still doesn't make much sense to me, what would Jack want with it?

But then I lift out the tray, and see the papers beneath.

On top, there is a drawing of the Pearl, as she sat at berth last night. And it is a wonderful drawing. Her lines are exaggerated everso slightly, so she looks even more like herself than in real life, and the moonlight dapples her decks, and the sea. I can feel myself start to grin, and shake my head. I can't believe that Jack could do this, but he obviously can, he truly can. And the picture he's produced is not just of a ship, but his ship, his love. It's a beautiful thing to see. I stare a few moments more, then lift it—and see what's below.

It's a face. A sleeping face. I know it sounds absurd, but it takes me a moment to realise who it is. It's me. He drew me.

I'm frozen for a moment, and then I check underneath, and realise that he has not drawn just one picture of me, but half a dozen, and no-one else. But that's not what really sets my heart to hammering; it's more the feeling that... well...

Oh, this is ridiculous. You cannot possibly tell the contents of someone's heart from a picture.

Can you?

Suddenly, I hear footfalls approaching through the scrub. I close up the box, and scuttle back to my sleeping position, and pretend not to have woken. Which is a challenge, when I'm this close to Cook's unsavoury wake-up message.

I open my eyes just a crack, a tiny crack, and I see Jack's boots emerge from the forest, and head straight for his box. He takes it up, lovingly, and checks to see that no-one else is stirring. His gaze sweeps over towards me, and I close my eyes hurriedly, and don't open them until I hear his footsteps retreating again.

I look back into the forest, and I can see waving branches marking his passage. I determine to follow him.

I creep through the trees, some way behind him, but he's not hard to track, for he crashes through the undergrowth and is singing happily to himself. There appears even to be an old, overgrown path leading the way, so we must be going somewhere. The sun is getting up now, and it's hot, and the path wends for almost half an hour, deep into the heart of the island. I'm beginning to sweat, and am terribly thirsty, which must be another vile effect of that drink I suspect.

Up ahead, the trees end, and I can hear a roaring noise, as of a river or falls. I creep carefully round a corner in the path, making sure that I do not get too close to my quarry.

And there he is. Standing on a large, flat outcrop which hangs over a pool, he's silhouetted against a loud white wall of water, hands on hips, staring out at it. The cliffs are sharp, tall and impressive. I can see why he wants to draw them.

He looks for a long minute, then sighs. Suddenly, and to my complete consternation, he reaches behind him, beckoning fiercely. "Oh, come on, William," he cries, "do let's get on with it."

Typical. I was the quarry after all.

*

Wicked of me, weren't it? But he deserved it, you may lay on't! Sneaking and peeking when I'd already told him I would share it with him. 'Nough to bring a smile to your face and make you think there's hope for him after all, ain't it!

But now I've got meself in a spot of bother, must admit. For now he knows something he ain't supposed to know, don't he? I s'pose you could say he knew it already, after my little indiscretion the other day, but I doubt he knew it in the same way he knows it now. And he's probably got plenty of questions lined up for yours truly.

But when he creeps out of the forest, with a suitably shamefaced grin, he don't launch into it straight away. Comes and stands beside me, looking over at the falls, fidgeting. Finally he says, "How are you this morning, Jack?"

"Prob'ly better than you, darling."

And he half smiles, and admits, "I have felt better. Still, at least I got some sleep." He glances over at me, coy, waiting for me to contradict this statement. He don't know I know he looked in the box. Fabulous. I stare him straight in the eye.

"No," I say, "Can't say as I slept much. But I did note that you slept beautifully."

It's like there's a whole new sunrise coming up his lovely throat, till his face is glowing with it. Which tells me that he's seen the drawings for everything that's in them. And yet he's followed me out here into the middle of nothing. So he ain't exactly scared off, is he?

That's dead interesting, that is.

"Anyway," I says, "since I didn't get enough beauty sleep, it's true, I'm in need of refreshment. Fancy a swim?" And before he's got time to start arguing with me, I pull off me boots, and chuck off me clothes, and dive on in.

Christ in Heaven, it's cold! A little too late, I start to rethink me plan, 'cause this kind of temperature ain't going to do me any favours on the display front, if you know what I'm on about. I swim across to the falls, and climb out and creep round behind 'em, in a bit of a cave. It's darker here, apart from the wall of silver in front of me, but I can see out, and I'd bet my ship that he can't see in. So I sit and watch, to see what he's going to do.

He's peering across the pool, calling. "Jack? Jack, where are you?" I think for a minute he's not going to follow me, what a wasted effort! But no, here he comes. Off comes his shirt. Oh, dear Lord, there's a lovely sight for a blind man. My fingers are itching to draw it, itching. Come on sweetheart, show me the goods.

But he turns away from me, like he can feel my eyes on him, and drops his trousers, and then turns and jumps in quick as a flash. Damnation, so fast!

But not fast enough for me to miss seeing what I knew I would see, the most perfectly beautiful form God could have imagined. I shudder from it. I have to put it onto paper, have to. And I have to touch it. Have to.

What's the chances that he'll let me? Oh, either one? Not the best, I'd lay. He's swimming 'cross the pool. Swims like... like a blacksmith. I creep back out round the edge of the fall and dive back in, swim towards him, meet him half way.

We tread water, close enough so that every now and then there's a touch of a leg, or a hand. His hair is all plastered to his skull, his face covered in silvery droplets.

"It's cold, Jack!" he says, loudly, over the noise of the falls.

"Aye," I agree. "Good, when you didn't get much sleep."

"I imagine so."

"So, was it worth it, then, d'ye reckon?"

"Was what worth it?" he says, frowning delightfully.

"My sleepless night," I reply, cocking an eyebrow at him, and his mouth opens, but nothing comes out, and I simply can't resist reaching out and tracing round the line of his bottom lip. "Good line," I mutter, and strike back for shore. Half way I turn, and he's still where I left him, staring after me. "Come on," I tell him, "it's cold in here, y'know." And he follows.

I climb out, and lie out on the sun-warmed rock. Takes every inch of my resolve not to stare at him, coming out the water, but I fear I'll scare him off. Better to set an example, eh? Besides which, I might get him interested. So I sprawl on me back, with one arm over me eyes, shading them from the sun.

I hear him come out, hear wet footprints approaching slowly, then feel cold drops on my skin, and the sunlight blocked out. He's just standing over me, silent. I bear it for half a minute, beyond which point I don't think St Peter himself could have resisted looking up.

And oh, what a delicious sight. He's silhouetted against the sun, more outline than detail, but what an outline it is. Hands on his hips, staring down at me. Hope I meet with his approval, for he's surely met with mine, and formed a fast friendship with it almost instantly. His wet hair is forming into ringlets around his lovely face, and those broad shoulders lead down to the most delightful, strong, lithe chest and torso, hairless, but for a sweet fine line leading down beneath his navel to... oh, Jack, don't stare, now! I'm dumbstruck, but luckily he speaks.

"Jack," he says accusingly, "you knew I looked at the drawings, didn't you?"

"You've got me, darling, it's all true."

"So why on earth didn't you... oh, never mind." He sits down beside me, knees up, elbows resting on them. Remarkably relaxed with his nakedness, considering. "Just tell me, Jack, why you did them?"

Well, that's a bit rich, ain't it? One, it must be fuckin' obvious, and two, does he really expect me to spell it out to him? Spill it all, when he's already slapped me down once already? Don't think so, sweetheart, I'm not that much enamoured of punishment. But surely there's a deal—let's call it a compromise, eh?—to be made here. How badly does he want to know?

"Tell you what," I says, "Firstly, you let me draw you properly, and secondly, we'll discuss our motivations, how does that sound?"

"...Properly?"

"Properly, love. All-in-all and in the altogether, just as you are."

He starts to splutter, half with laughter. "What? Are you serious, Jack? You want to draw me, without any...?"

"Yes please, William."

"But... why?"

"The study of the human form," I tell him with great (alright, mock) seriousness, "is the most classic and challenging expression of an artist's... um... art. Besides which, we agreed that we'd cover motivations after we did the deed."

"I didn't agree to anything, actually, Jack."

"Aye, true enough," I tell him with my best smile, "but you're going to, ain't you?"

He stares at me in disbelief, then sighs, and covers his face with his hands, as if he's thinking secret thoughts, determining his course. I'm patient.

"Alright," comes the muffled agreement. "You can draw me. But then you have to answer my questions."

Oh, I cannot fucking wait to draw him. The second part of the deal... oh, we'll worry 'bout that when it happens. I scramble for my lovely box of tricks.

It was madness, I know. But such... flattering madness. To find out that Jack—who is already so wonderful, so clever and cunning and flamboyant and lovely—has this entire other gift that I had never realised, that in itself is enough to pique my imagination. As if my regard for him were not already entirely inappropriate. But then, to find out that all he wants to do with this gift is draw me?

And of course, that was only half of it. The other half of it was... he wanted to draw me... naked.

When he first suggested swimming, and threw off his clothing, I was momentarily speechless. In spite of my slowly acknowledged feelings, I had not—really—thought that much on the actuality of him. Of his body. I was taken enough by his clothed self, his lively face, his constant capacity to surprise me. But, now that I saw him?

Now, I began to understand the depth of my problem.

Still, I had an advantage. I had seen his drawings. I knew how he saw me, that he thought me... beautiful. And that stopped my shyness, and allowed me to join him in the cold clear water.

By the time he had emerged, to sun himself shamelessly on the rock, I was undone. It was all I could do to stop my body betraying my thoughts, but I did—for which small mercy I had the cold water to thank. Despite the chill on my skin, a roiling warmth was building inside me. It was seeming... possible, that Jack might harbour some of these strange feelings toward me also. That gave me courage, and further determination. As did the sight of him when I emerged, and stood over him, the two of us naked as the days we were born.

I had never looked at a body in this way before. It filled me with a heated weight that threatened to burst me, and I had to fold my arms to stop them reaching out and touching him. He was the most magnetically tactile thing I had ever seen. Not perfect, no—there are scars, tattoos, a brand even, the story of a life lived fully, carved into flesh. But such a frame for this art! He's finely built, wiry, but there are muscles in every right place and he looks strong and quick and...

His arm moves and suddenly he's staring up into the sun, staring at me. I catch my breath. Please, let him look at me with the same regard as I feel for him.

I think he must. For his fingers twitch as he speaks to me, and he wants to draw me.

I finally say yes, partly because it will give me time to think. But also partly because I want to remain naked in front of him. I want him to see me. I want to give him the chance to... to want me.

He makes me stand, leaning against a boulder. Takes my left foot in his hand, and moves it across the other, flexes it, places it with great care so that my toes are angled towards the outside of my right foot, and my right leg takes all my weight. His fingers are warm, gentle, firm, and I think for one lovely moment that he is stroking my ankle bone with his thumb, but then he mutters, "Dirt, William, don't want that," which is... well, disappointing. I've crossed my hands in front of me, one hand holding the wrist of the other, which makes me feel a little less exposed.

Jack stands back, consideringly. He's being very professional about this. He has even pulled his breeches back on, which is another terrible disappointment.

"Lean your head back, on the rock," he instructs me.

"The sun's too bright," I object.

"Close your eyes," he says, and reaches out, and with thumb and forefinger, traces a line down over each eyelid, forcing me to close them. "And stay that way, savvy? No moving."

I can hear him padding away from me, pulling paper from his box. "How long for?" I ask.

"Half an hour, maybe more, can you do that? Are you comfortable enough?"

"Yes, I think so, but not much more than that, you'll have to be fast."

"Don't worry, mate," he says, and I can almost hear the grin in his voice. "You'll be gettin' all my attention."

So, here I am, and I have half an hour at least, to think calmly, and decide what to do. Although some might say I appear to have already determined the answer to that—why else would I be standing, naked and stock still, in front of him?

Still, I must be sure. So, I must consider all the options open to me. And the first, and most obvious choice, is—do nothing. Let him do this, then smile, and walk away, and let go of this madness, and go home. If not to Elizabeth, then at least to my craft. And live a normal life, that none will despise me for. Or, indeed, want to hang me for.

Can I do that? Yes, I think I can. For I miss the forge, the ring of hammered steel, the hot hiss of metal plunging into water. I miss creating something deadly and beautiful out of a hunk of metal and my own sweat. I miss feeling... well, feeling that I have a skill that few can emulate.

And my other choices?

Well, there are others. I could let him do this, then smile, and walk away, and go—not home—but back to the Pearl. Where I could continue to sail as part of her crew. I could be close by Jack, and be his friend, and be free. I'm sure there would be adventure aplenty, and excitement, and soon I should become a true pirate, like my father. And I could ignore all those other ignoble thoughts that have taken root, without my leave, in my mind.

Oh, I don't like that choice at all.

Which only leaves... the choice that I am most afraid of, and most drawn to. The one in which I make my feelings known to Jack; the one in which I reach out and touch him.

And if he recoils, I can go back home, and be a smith again.

And if he does not recoil, but wants only what he wanted two short nights ago, just to take his pleasure with me, and nothing more... well, it will probably break my heart, but at least I will know.

And if he does not recoil, and wants what I want? (And I do not know what that is, beyond... proximity, and honesty, and him.) Then, what? Then, I fear, my life will have taken seven different turns in one moment. I will be bound to him. I will be outlaw. And that's only the piracy. What about... the other? Am I ready to be a man who... seeks to be with other men, and not with women? I don't even know if that's what I am. I don't want other men. I just want Jack.

So there's my last question. What does Jack want? Jack seems to like women. Women certainly appreciate Jack. Just because he thinks I'm beautiful, doesn't mean that he wants—oh, but yes, it does, because he kissed me, didn't he? He wants something. But what? What does Jack want?

*

Oh, hellfire and damnation! Here I am, and there he is, naked as a jaybird, with his eyes closed and his lovely face turned up to the sun, and I've got paper, and charcoal, but unfortunately, I'm temporarily entirely useless. Never could perform under pressure. Well, that ain't true, actually, but it might as well be today.

One arm's all I get down. One lovely, long, strong and shapely arm, and the hand that's wrapped round its wrist, and then I'm done. Just sitting there, staring at him, like the world's stopped turning round. Occasionally his glistening tongue comes out an' wets his lips, and I'm hard put not to shove a hand down my trousers and put meself out of my misery.

No favouritism, my arse, Mr Gibbs. That boy ain't just my favourite crew member. He's my favourite soul on this earth so far.

And I'm starting to suspect I might just have the reason he's on my ship. For I'm damn sure that he wouldn't be standing around naked for just anyone.

In which case, what in hell went wrong the other night? He ran away like I'd just tried to shove a red hot poker up his arse. Still, I s'pose it was a little unexpected, like, since I'd been so busy showing no favouritism. And I was several sheets to the wind. And I did basically suggest that he come to my cabin and... well.

On reflection, I'm surprised he isn't still slapping me every time he sees me. It's happened for less.

Is there a chance that he's thinking... ? I stare at him as though staring hard enough'll show me the truth of it. Which it won't, but on the other hand, it does show me a shining trickle of sweat, running down his torso, and curving in at his hip, into the sweet pale flesh where his leg begins, and that's lovely enough to be a good substitute for truth in my book. It shows me a damp curl that wends its way down across his neck, crooking into the hollow above his collarbone. It shows me the painful loveliness of his long black eyelashes, the perfect straight simplicity of his eyebrows, the tiny curves at the corner of his mouth that seem to be just aching for a reason to smile at me. It shows me a curving muscle on the back of his bent calf that, I swear, would fit my hand exactly, and a narrow sharp ankle whose bone, I know already, feels like satin against the ball of my thumb.

"Jack," my beautiful apparition says, without opening its eyes, "are you nearly finished?"

"Truth be told, yes," I admit, although I'm not talking about the picture. "I'm nearly finished off entirely."

"Only, I'm terribly thirsty."

Well, what sort of pirate would I be if I let an opportunity like that one pass me by? "Wait, don't move," I tell him, and I go down to the water's edge, and cup some in my palm.

I walk over to him, careful not to spill, and stand close, close. He still don't move. "Here," I say, and bring my cold cupped hand up to his mouth. I touch the side of my palm to his bottom lip, and he opens his mouth just a little, and I tip it in. He don't move, or open his eyes. But I can see the gorgeous movement of his throat as he swallows, and his chest rising and falling a little quicker than before, and I'm even close enough to see a pulse beating in his neck. And did I mention he's completely naked?

And just as I start to right my hand, just as the water's gone, I feel his tongue, hot on my cold palm. Licking. Holy Mary Mother of God. Licking the last of the water... but really, licking me.

I don't move my hand. He does it again. Slowly and deliberately, but I can see that pulsepoint going wild, matching my heart, which is doing its damnedest to escape the confines of my ribcage.

There are those in far east parts who believe that you come to this earth not once, but many times, and that each life you lead is dictated by how you carried on in the previous one. I used to suspect I'd been, at the very least, a murderous madman last time. Now? Right now, I think I may've been the Pope. 'Cause surely only someone who's been in God's serious good books could be getting this lucky.

Slowly, and silently, I tilt my palm, until the point of his tongue feels strong and sharp against my perpendicular flesh. My fingers curve in, trembling, and oh, so lightly stroke a curve across his cheekbone, and down the side of his face, and along his jawline, eventually severing the contact of tongue and hand.

Finally, he opens his eyes to me. Looks at me in a way that no-one has for a long, long time. Utterly open. Showing me all that he's feeling.

Oh, yes, this is definitely why he's on my ship.

He says, throatily and unexpectedly, "Why did you draw me, Jack?"

"Do you even have to ask?"

A slight twitch at the corners of that fabulous mouth. How I'm holding myself back I'll never know. "Yes," he says, simply. And it turns out it ain't such a hard question to answer.

"'Cause once you're on paper, you're mine, and no-one can take you from me."

"Does that mean that you... that you want me for yours, Jack?"

I lean close to him, so that my lips are almost brushing his ear, and mutter, low, "In every way that God invented, luv, and seventeen more that He's never even heard of."

I feel, as much as see, the shudder that runs through him, and I draw back to see his face the better, fearing that I've gone too far, and scared the boy off before he's even begun. But no. That was the good sort of shudder, and his face is, oh lord, so far beyond gorgeous, that if I don't kiss him now I may not live to take another breath. So I do. And for about a second it's the most delicate, tremulous, heartbreakingly lovely kiss there ever was, that goes straight as an arrow to my cock (not, in fact, an area that was requiring any encouragement)—but then, oh then, his tongue comes searching for mine, and who am I to discourage that sort of initiative, eh? Should be rewarded. So I do.

*

I can't quite believe that I did it. But, honestly? Standing there in front of him as he drew me, feeling his eyes upon me, in the warm sun and the silence, was the most untouchably erotic experience I had ever had. At first, I could, concentrating hard, hear him drawing—hear the sweep of his arm across the sheet of paper, hear the tiny soft scratchings of his charcoal, and the rub of his thumb as he smoothed and blended it. But that lasted a few short minutes only, and then I heard no more.

I was patient for a while, but not long, it's just not in my nature. So I cracked open my eyelids. Such a tiny bit, so I had a long, horizontal, rather blurry view of Jack. Who was doing—absolutely nothing. His drawing hand still rested on his page, but it did not move. He did not move. He was just... looking. His head slightly to one side, hair falling over his bare shoulder, with an expression halfway between joy and melancholy on his face.

That was when I knew that I was not alone in my inclinations, but that he felt it too. So it was not so hard, when he came to me with his gift of water, to do what I had longed to do, and take a step towards what I wanted, and what I now believed he wanted.

And now, as he kisses me, as he fills me with dark heat, so that it seems I can only breathe in, and in, and never out, till I'm dizzy with him... now, I'm sure of how right I was. He wants me, just as I want him. His tongue, seeking inside my mouth, wants the oddest things. It lingers over my teeth, caresses the inside of my cheek. It wants to know me from the inside out. I have never, ever in my life felt anything to compare with this. Beneath my posed hands, I can feel twitching growth as I come to life, and I don't care if he sees, if he knows. I want him to know. He smells warm and wonderful, salty-sweet, and I kiss him harder, harder, as though I could climb inside, and I don't know which of us it is that is making that sound, a keening groan, but it could well be me, because it's certainly how I feel...

And then his wonderful tongue withdraws, and his lips leave mine, coming back only for a gentle caress. I open my eyes, and he's right there, closer than ever, so that every harsh breath I take just arouses me further, because it's full of nothing but the air that he's exhaled, the sweet smell that he exudes. Oh, god. How could I ever have believed that the affection I felt for Elizabeth was desire? I truly had no idea.

"Is this why you're on the Pearl?" he demands, in his low growl of a voice, that sends quivers all up my spine. I knew he would have to ask. But it's a good time to ask, for there's really no point in dissembling now. So I simply nod, and take his face in my hands, and kiss him again. His mouth is like a new country that I'm desperate to explore; all this time, my eyes have mapped out the contours of his face, the shades of his skin and beard, the detail of his ornaments, but now, I've landed, and I can walk this earth for myself, and feel its warmth, and seek out its hidden elements. Jack's hands slide down my sides as he kisses me back, hard, and pushes me against the smooth rock face, so that, wonderfully, our bare chests meet, hot and slick with sweat, and it's all I can do to contain the savage sounds that well up in me.

And then, sinuous, he rolls his hips forward also, and...

Even as I speak of it now, a rush of heat comes over me, and I feel my throat constrict. To feel him, in all his demanding maleness, pushing against me with only the thin separation of a single layer of fabric, was a point of... of joy, and of no return. I had been so unsure, till then, of whether I could truly bring myself to act on these feelings for another man. I knew that, in my head, there was an element of deep, carnal desire for him, but I did not know whether my body would respond the same way, for it had only found pleasure in the female form till then. But now I knew, with no shadow of doubt, and it was the strongest, harshest yearning that had ever overtaken me. I pushed back against him, and pulled his face even closer, feeling a wild savagery running through me; his fingers dug hard into the flesh above my hips, and our joined mouths opened wide, wide; and a sound came up from deep in my belly, a groaning purr, and was muffled in the cavern of our mouths.

In short, I had lost all control, and was entirely in the grip of my lust. I do not know what I would have done, though I can imagine no boundaries upon it. But Jack... Jack stopped me. He pulled suddenly away, putting his hands up to my shoulders to hold me from him. His eyes were the blackest I had ever seen them, and his face and lips were flushed, so that he had never looked more beautiful to me. He was silent for a moment, breathing deep, and then he licked his lips (eyes fluttering briefly closed as he did so) and spoke to me.

"Will, are you certain?"

I did not understand why he was even asking such a thing, surely he could tell from my behaviour that I was under no duress? Later, it would become plainer to me, how he needed to know that this was my clear choice. As it was, I frowned at him, as though he were a child who was not attending to its lessons, and hissed, "Yes, Jack, for God's sake, yes," and pulled him back to me, wanting only the sanctuary of his lips on mine, suddenly feeling that I would only ever be whole while his skin was against me.

But through the fog of my desire, I heard a crashing approach, and as I opened my eyes, and Jack's face turned from me, I heard a sharp, angry tone, and saw the huge form of Mick Shadwell, standing at the edge of the forest, staring at us with a look of the most utter disgust.

I felt a flaming blush come over me, and dropped my hands from Jack. Jack, however, had the presence of mind not to move, or he would have uncovered my nakedness entirely. He merely turned his head and flashed a smile and said, "Ain't it just the most superb morning, Michael?"

Shadwell said nothing. He merely spat, once and with complete clarity of meaning, and turned and disappeared into the forest.

How could I have gone from such elation to such misery in only a minute, and at the hands of a man that I neither liked nor admired? Yet I had. For in his reaction, I saw all the likely responses that I would receive from my fellow men, were I to pursue this course.

Jack, of course, was oblivious. "Man's an idiot," he muttered, "can't wait till he jumps ship." And he smiled at me, and went to kiss me again. But Shadwell had soured it for me, so vilely that I could not bear it, and Jack's kiss felt like an empty travesty of the joy that had soared through me only moments earlier.

"No, Jack," I told him, and gently pushed him from me. "Not now." I went quickly to my discarded clothes, covering my nakedness. Jack followed me.

"Will, you mustn't mind him, he's a fool, and only a jealous one at that. Believe me when I say he's the only one aboard who'd treat it so, truly."

"How can you know?"

"I know them, Will, trust me."

But my heart was wounded, and I was cruel in return. "Do you know because they've not reacted to other boys that you've... had? Because they're used to it? Which means that I'm merely the latest in a line of nave fools."

I saw his jaw set hard as he bit back a sharp retort, and he took a slow breath. "That ain't true either, William. 'Pon my word, there's never been many, and not a one for a long while now. And none of 'em," and he gripped my shoulders, turning me to face him, "was ever half of what you are."

His stare was fierce and intent, and with all my heart, I wanted to believe him.

"Don't run from this, Will. Don't let that fool sway you."

"Maybe, Jack," was all I said, and in silence, we gathered our belongings, and turned back for the beach.

Read Part 3