6. Dance With Me

Pairing: J/N
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters of Pirates of the Caribbean. They are, as always, under indenture to the Mouse. I just borrow them from time to time to amuse my friends.
Archive: Ask first, please
Originally Posted: 5/2004
Acknowledgements and thanks : First and foremost, commodorified, for beta-reading, encouragement, hand-holding, and dragging my reluctant self into this fandom in the first place. Secondly, to fairestcat, dsudis, drunixbrat, ase and mamadeb, for beta reading and help over the tight spots.
Note: This is one of a series of stories in the Sparrington universe I share with commodorified. It takes place approximately two years after the end of the movie.
Summary: wigfic: flagitiousness.

The Endeavor was dismasted and much of her rigging was still to be replaced, but she was a vast improvement on the ship which had limped home a fortnight ago, sailing under a jury-rig and kept afloat by continuous pumping. She would sail again.

The corsair she'd been sent to find, which had been wreaking havoc on Barbados' plantations, would not.

The master of the boatyard waited, turning his cap in his hands, as the Commodore finished his circuit of the ship near her rudder.

"Well done, Mr. Blaise." He clapped the man on the shoulder. "There's not another boatyard this side of Portsmouth could have done as well. Have you the masts to fit her?"

Blaise beamed. "Oh, yes, Commodore. Georgia pine, they are. They'll be stepped tomorrow, first thing."

The Commodore left the repair yard and strolled up the street from the docks savouring the rare pleasure of knowing where and in what condition all the ships under his command were.

The Endeavour would finish her refit and be ready to sail within the week. The Dauntless rode at anchor in her usual berth, being resupplied for her next cruise. Captain Osborne's Lacuna had left port yesterday, and even that eager young officer was unlikely to have encountered significant trouble as yet.

Which left only one ship for him to worry about. Unfortunately for his peace of mind, the captain of the Black Pearl was more than capable of finding trouble in even the most peaceful-appearing circumstances.

"I was just about to send word to you, sir. It's here! Arrived just this morning."

A large round box sat on the counter. Mr. Walsh lifted its contents into view, placing it on the ebony stand he had ready.

The elegant white wig, custom-ordered from London's most fashionable maker, seemed to glow in the shop's dim light. It was everything he'd hoped it would be. It was magnificent.

His hands twitched upwards, but Norrington restrained the impulse. "I think not. You may deliver it as usual."

"If you would be so good, Mr. Walsh." Powdering was a nuisance, but no doubt he'd grow used to it in time.

A few paces up the street, the Hogshead was already doing a brisk business. Norrington had perforce become familiar with the tavern, as it was favoured by a certain pirate-turned-privateer and his crew when they were in port.

As if summoned by the thought, a slight figure in a well-worn greatcoat and leather tricorne appeared in the tavern's door, stuffing a handful of envelopes into one pocket. "Captain Sparrow?" The tricorne turned, revealing a familiar pair of dark eyes above the white crescent of a smile. "Well, this is splendid." Norrington seized the privateer's hand in both his own, grinning. "I didn't realize the Pearl was in port."

"Oh, we only arrived on the afternoon tide." The privateer grinned back at him. "I just stopped in to drop off a few things. We sail again in the morning."

"I see. Then perhaps you'll do me the honour of dining with me this evening?" Raising an eyebrow a fraction, he added, "I could offer you a bed for the night, as well."

One fine-boned brown hand crept upward to stroke a bead-bedecked lock of hair. "Now that's as handsome an offer as I've had all day. I accept with pleasure, Commodore."

They strolled on together, exchanging greetings with chance-met friends. Sparrow repeated the line about needing to "drop off a few things" several times. Fortunately the ex-pirate's fondness for prevarication was well-established, and his friends humoured this latest fancy.

When they arrived at the Commodore's residence, Norrington handed his hat to the footman. "Kindly inform the cook that Captain Sparrow will be staying to dinner, and have a room made up for him."

"Yes, sir." The man knew better, by now, than to attempt to take Sparrow's hat. "Shall I send to the Pearl for your things, Captain? And would you be wanting me to assist you after dinner?"

Sparrow seemed nonplussed by the question; Norrington couldn't imagine why. "The Pearl, yes, but I really don't think a footman will be necessary."

As they climbed the stairs, Norrington said, "You just saved Isaac fom having to explain why he was late to his young lady. I'd already given the staff leave of absence for the evening."

The Commodore ushered his guest into his study, closed the door, and turned the key in the lock.

Sparrow was rummaging in the cupboard where he kept the rum when the snick of the lock caught his attention. "Locking me in?" He swung around, the bottle grasped in one hand.

"A precaution only." James' hand captured a swaying braid by its pendant coin. As their eyes met, he added, "It would be unfortunate if we were to be interrupted by an eager midshipman with a dispatch, don't you think?"

"Oh, yes." Jack removed his tricorne and sent it spinning to one side. "Most unfortunate." His hand slipped under James' coat, tracing a slow, wandering path upward from the hip as the privateer raised the rum and drank, deliberately tilting the bottle a fraction too soon. The rum splashed over, as well as into, his mouth and ran down his chin, glistening in the late-afternoon light.

James' breath quickened at the touch of Jack's calloused hand and the heady scent of sweat mixed with rich dark rum. He began gently, slowly, to wind the soft black braid around his first two fingers. Yielding to the tension, Jack tilted his head, watching him sidelong out of half-closed eyes.

Jack's hand found James' cravat, pulled the knot loose with a quick, practiced tug, and slipped inside his shirt, caressing the hollow above the collarbone, the lines of his throat.

James' breath grew ragged as he wound the last bight around his fingers and twined his hand in the locks behind. He pulled the bottle from Jack's loosening grip, took two gulps, and flung it aside to crashed to splinters in the fireplace. His hair-tangled hand dragged downward and after the briefest hesitation Jack gave in to the pull, baring the soft, vulnerable skin of his throat for his lover's hungry mouth.

He retrieved his and Jack's waistcoats from the study floor, slipping into his and dropping the privateer's over the foot of the bed in the adjoining bedroom. Jack lay as James had left him a half-hour ago, sprawled face-down on the bed, bedizened hair covering his shoulders like a ragged cloak.

Let him sleep a few minutes more. They'd both get little enough rest tonight, that was certain.

James set a chair in front of the tall wardrobe and retrieved his wig. It was getting rather shabby, due in no small part to Jack's far-from-tender treatment of it. It was just as well he wouldn't be needing it much longer.

He set the wig on its stand. The mirror above the washbasin reflected his face dimly in the fading light: a pale oval framed by two smooth dark wings that swung well below his jawline.

His hair hadn't been this long since the year he'd been promoted to commander, when the regulations on uniforms had changed to require all officers to wear wigs. Frowning slightly in concentration, he dragged the hair back from his face with both hands, gathering it achingly tight at the nape of his neck.

This time no stray locks escaped to dangle in his eyes. He smiled at the image the mirror threw back, and at the sleek black box waiting on his dressing table.

Returning to the study, he lit a spill from the lamp kept burning there. He lit the candles on the bedroom mantle first. There was a new silver cylinder on the mantlepiece, and an open packet of white powder next to it.

James smiled at the cylinder and turned to light the candles that flanked the washbasin.

"You've just time to dress before dinner." James splashed water over his head, slicking the hair flat to his skull. "If you don't dawdle, that is." He settled his wig into place and pulled a fresh cravat from a drawer.

"Right." Further noises indicated Jack was gathering up his scattered garments. "Where's my shirt?"

"What?" James turned and saw Jack grinning as he scooped a heaping fingerful of powder out of the packet from the mantlepiece. "Don't!" he cried, but he was too late.

Jack's lips closed over the powder, and his smile vanished. He gagged, choked, and spit the mouthful into the fireplace. When he turned back, James was there with the water pitcher. Jack upended it over his mouth, choked again, and spit a milky stream back into the vessel. "Sweet sodomizing saints!" he spluttered. "What was that?"

"Hair powder." James handed him the claret he kept by the bed, fighting back a grin.

"Hair powder?" Jack knocked back a mouthful of wine, sent it after the water, and upended the bottle, drinking deep. "Why the devil d'you need hair powder? Yer always wearing that bloody wig anyway."

"Bloody hell." Jack drained the last of the wine from the bottle. James wisely refrained from further comment and retreated to the study to put on his coat.

By the time the servant tapped on the door they were seated at the Commodore's desk, calmly discussing the shares due the Crown from Captain Sparrow's latest voyage.

Jack moved from the far end of the table to collect his glass. "Well," he said, dropping into the seat to James' left, boots on the table and chair atilt, "we've all the evening before us." He swallowed a generous mouthful of port and smiled lazily as he spread his arms wide. "What shall we do with it, eh?"

James leaned back and raised an eyebrow. "Oh, come, Jack," he chided gently, lifting his glass, "isn't that jest wearing a bit thin?"

Jack let his chair drop to the floor with a thud. "Out of inspiration, are we? I'm shocked." He leaned forward and propped both elbows on the table. "Well, very fortunately, I've a few ideas of me own." He smiled that utterly charming, devil-may-care grin. "Would you fancy the table 'ere? The desk? Up against the wardrobe, p'raps? Or, o' course," he tilted the glass, drank, "there's always the bed."

James' breath caught. He looked away, the better to bite back temptation, and washed it down with a mouthful of port. "We might just have time for the wardrobe but, I fear," he turned back, smiling apologetically, "not time to do proper justice to you."

Jack's lecherous grin faded; his eyes grew puzzled. "Time enough and more, surely?"

"It's half-past eight, Jack. We're expected at the palace at nine, you know." Irritation mixed with regret roughened his voice.

James closed his eyes briefly and swallowed. "Forgive me. I... appear to have been acting under a false assumption." His voice was level, too level, and the corners of his mouth tightened fractionally. "It's nothing of import, really."

Yer a truly terrible liar, James, Jack thought fondly. "And 'it' is, exactly?"

James lifted the port to his lips, sipped, set the glass on the table, each move precisely controlled. "Tonight is the anniversary of the King's ascension to the throne. The governor is holding a ball to mark the occasion." His eyes stayed on the port but his left hand, lying oh-so-casually on the arm of his chair, tightened into a fist. "The invitations went out when last the Pearl was in port. So naturally, when you appeared in town today, I thought—I assumed that was why you were here."

"Ah." A handful of half-heard comments on their walk from the Hogshead suddenly made sense. Jack didn't give a damn about the ball, but he knew all too well his Commodore's reaction to such—as he perceived them—slights on the ex-pirate's behalf.

His hand closed about the bowl of the wineglass and a brief, bloody fantasy about Governor Swan flashed through Jack Sparrow's mind. He tamped down rage, as he'd tamp powder into a pistol, and knocked back the rest of the port, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand to hide a snarl. As his hand dropped, his expression became one of devil-may-care insouciance. "Not my sort of thing, balls, really." He sprawled backwards. "I think I'll give it a pass this time, if that's all right with you." He let his chin fall to his chest, studying his lover's reaction from behind half-closed eyes.

"Of course, just as you like." James smiled, but his mouth still had that tightness at the corners. He turned the glass in his hand, rolling its stem between fingers and thumb. "I have to attend, I'm afraid. As the ranking naval officer—"

"Oh, yes," Jack interrupted him, unable to bear that under-note of pain. He waved a hand, airily dismissing further discussion, and swung to his feet. "I quite understand. Duty before pleasure, an' all that." He yawned extravagantly, stretching his arms to their fullest extent. "Y'know, I'm dead on me feet. Think I'll make an early night of it."

The privateer's hand fell on his shoulder. "It's all right, Jamie." Jack smiled ruefully down at the green eyes raised to meet his own. "No harm, no foul, eh?"

The endearment, so rarely used, had the desired effect. Some of the tension drained from the blue-coated shoulder and a small smile, a real one this time, curved the well-beloved mouth. "Well, then." James' hand covered his own, pressed. "I'd best be getting ready, I suppose."

James rose, picked up the candelabra, and gestured for his guest to precede him out the door.

They walked in companionable silence to the study. James set the candelabra on the desk and reached for the new taper waiting beside the silver pounce box.

The round silver box triggered a memory, and Jack felt a twinge of apprehension. As James lit the candle the privateer moved to stand at his shoulder. "Fancy a bit of help gettin' togged out?" He slid one hand lightly up a blue-clad arm, leaned in a bit, and whispered, "I know where all the buttons are."

He started towards the bedroom, but Jack dodged to block him, placing one palm on each side of the doorframe. "What say I just watch, then?"

So Jack wasn't as resigned to his absence tonight as he'd pretended. James caught Jack's chin, tilting it upward. Measured his self-control against the promise of that sensual mouth. Slid his fingers downward, along the length of the two thin beard-braids. Lifted the small end-beads, pressed them to his lips. Released them reluctantly.

The regret in Jack's eyes mirrored his own. "I'll leave as soon as may be without causing comment," James promised.

Jack's head drooped, and his lips curved in a small, wry smile. "Can't blame a man for tryin', eh?" He moved aside, into the study.

"Whatever you like." James ran his hand through the hair that had dried flat to his skull, ruffling it into fullness. "Keel-haul it. Hang it from the yard-arm. Burn it at the stake, if you feel so inclined." As he turned to enter the bedroom he added, "Although I wouldn't recommend the latter. Horsehair makes a ghastly stench."

"No," James called over his shoulder. "I've a new one. It arrived this morning."

He draped the baize powdering-cape about his shoulders and picked up the silver powder-box from the mantle. Tilting his head, he closed his eyes and applied the powder liberally. The stuff felt grittier than he remembered, but he rubbed it in well until he was sure every strand was coated. Next, he grasped the brush laid ready and dragged it through his hair, pulling it back from his face and distributing the powder evenly.

He let the powdering-cloak drop to the floor, turning to check for missed spots in the washbasin mirror—and stared, appalled.

The hair was powdered, true enough. But—he peered into the mirror, disbelieving—scattered through the strands were small dark specks. Specks that caught the candles' light and flashed... green.

"Sparrow!" He stormed into the study, catching himself with one hand on the doorjamb. "What have you done?"

Sparrow was sitting in the window-seat. He lifted his hands, seeming to offer up the wig he held there. He started to speak—and stared, mouth agape. "Your hair..."

Sparrow couldn't meet his eyes. He shifted in his seat and stared at the wig still clutched in both hands. "Emerald dust," he mumbled. "There was a tub of it aboard the merchantman."

Sparrow nodded without looking up. "I... didn't think you'd use it... 'fore I left." He bit his lip, eyes still fixed on the wig.

Norrington's acid reply died unspoken on his lips. Sparrow's hunch-shouldered posture, his expression of mingled contrition and embarrassment, reminded the Commodore forcefully of a junior midshipman caught mid-prank and knowing full well he deserved to be caned for it. And over him, reflected in the darkened window, loomed an imposing white-haired figure in gold braid with a hairbrush clutched threateningly in one upraised hand. A figure that... glittered.

He choked it back. Jack would never forgive him for laughing. He mustn't laugh. He mustn't.

It was too much. James threw back his head and howled. Jack's head snapped up, and his surprise seemed even more absurd than the contrition had been. James bent double, laughing so hard he could barely breathe.

Jack stood, the wig falling unnoticed from his hands. "James?" His surprise turned to an uneasy bafflement. "Are ye well, mate?"

Still half-choking with laughter, James stumbled to the desk. Leaned on it, gasping for breath. Managed to half-straighten and turn to face the privateer. "You..." he gasped between gusts of laughter, "b-boy... caught... p-prank... Oh, Lord!" and was set off again by the indignant expression on Jack's face.

That bout was briefer than the first, but so intense that James was feeling light-headed when it ended. He glanced over at Jack, fully expecting the man to be furious with him—and saw, instead, an expression of mortified delight.

It was a combination the man had often inspired in him, but one James had never anticipated seeing on Jack's face.

Their eyes met, and Jack shifted uneasily. "You'll not be 'olding a grudge, then?"

James gulped air in great, ragged breaths and raked emerald-dusted hair out of his eyes with a none-too-steady hand. He stumbled forward, grinning, to catch Jack by the shoulders. "Your face," he gasped. "Worth it... just to see... that look."

Jack brushed the hair back from James' cheek, tucking it behind one ear. "I'll help you wash it out, eh?"

"Water would... only make it worse." He straightened. "No, a good stiff brushing should get most of it out, and then I can... You didn't tamper with the packet as well, did you?"

"Ah, good." He retrieved the brush from the desk. "Then perhaps you could deal with that whilst I see what this can do?"

Jack's face appeared in the mirror, behind his right shoulder. "Allow me." Those lean, beringed fingers slid either side of his throat and up, to gather the powdered locks back smoothly from his face. The hair tightened. Jack tied the ribbon with a flourish—and stepped back, spreading his hands.

James checked quickly for loose strands, then lifted the wig from its stand. It slipped easily into place, needing only a little adjustment for the side-curls to ride evenly.

The Commodore buckled his sword-belt snugly about his waist. Sparrow had his dress-coat ready and he shrugged into it. Settling the lapels with a practiced tug, Norrington turned to his guest. "Will you join me in a drink, Captain?"

Norrington extracted the bottle of French brandy—memento of a privateer he'd captured nine months ago—from the drawer of his desk and poured a small splash for himself before handing a more generous measure to Sparrow.

He swirled the brandy in his glass, letting the heat of his hand release its complex perfume. "Your health, Captain."

Norrington tipped the brandy into his mouth, enjoying the aroma and the warmth it spread on its path down his throat. As he lowered the glass the clock struck nine.

Time to go. Past time, rather. The Commodore set his glass on the desk. "I expect to be out until the small hours," he said with a resigned sigh. "May I... hope for your company at breakfast, Captain?"

"You could wake me when you get in." The privateer's expression was unnaturally solemn as he added, "So's I don't miss the morning tide."

"As you wish, Captain." He nodded to Sparrow with equal solemnity and started down the stairs.

"I haven't seen Captain Groves for several days," Norrington said. "How is his wound?"

"I met Gibbs on the docks this afternoon," said Gillette as they turned a corner. "He said Captain Sparrow was dining with you."

"I was hoping to talk to him about the prize his people brought into harbour this morning. Will he be arriving at the ball later?"

Norrington's smile disappeared. "No," he said. "I don't expect to see Captain Sparrow at the palace this evening."

"The Captain was in excellent health when I left him five minutes ago." Norrington checked to see there was no-one else within hearing. "Between ourselves, Lieutenant, I have been given to understand that Captain Sparrow's invitation, ah, failed to arrive."

"I think it must have been," agreed Norrington, "so it behooves us not to embarrass the governor by pointing out Captain Sparrow's absence. Agreed, Lieutenant?"

They arrived at the Governor's Palace as the clock was striking the quarter-hour and joined the receiving line.

"Isn't Captain Sparrow with you?" Elizabeth's voice held a note of mischief. "I heard he was dining with you."

Norrington had his expression under control by the time he straightened from his bow. "I'm afraid he had other business to attend to. No doubt he'll be along directly." He'd not have thought the Governor clever enough to deceive his daughter. Apparently he'd been mistaken. But Elizabeth would not hear of her father's insult to Sparrow from him. Let her think the Captain had stayed away of his own accord.

Elizabeth turned to greet Lieutenant Gillette, and the Commodore moved into the ballroom.

The dancing had not yet started; the musicians were only now taking their places in the gallery. Norrington circled the hall slowly, nodding to acquaintances, until he noticed a dark-haired lady beckoning him from a sofa near one of the balcony doors.

"Commodore Norrington." Captain Osborne's wife smiled up at him. "I don't believe you've had the opportunity to meet my sister-in-law?" Norrington turned towards the figure at the lady's side, his expression blandly polite. She was a slim, fair-haired chit of a girl, sixteen or seventeen at most. "Lydia, this is Commodore James Norrington. Commodore, my husband's sister, Lydia Osborne."

"Commodore Norrington." The girl unfurled her fan and smiled at him over its edge. "Is it true that's you're an intimate acquaintance of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow?"

"Is he to attend the ball? And might I impose on you for an introduction?" She lifted one shoulder in what she doubtless thought a coy gesture and fluttered her fan. "I've heard so many stories about him since my arrival in Port Royal. I swear, if only half of them are true he must be quite wicked." She tittered and wielded her fan vigorously.

Norrington considered Sparrow's probable reaction to the girl and smiled down at the would-be coquette. "I do not know whether the Captain intends to put in an appearance tonight, Miss Osbourne," he said, "but if he does it would of course be my pleasure to introduce you."

"Not at all, Miss Osborne. Mrs. Osborne." That lady returned his nod and allowed him to depart.

Norrington had almost finished his round of the room before he encountered Lieutenant Gillette again. He and Captain Groves were lounging by one of the ballroom's six mantlepieces and straightened as their commander approached.

"As you were, gentlemen." Norrington marked the black silk sling on Grove's right wrist and raised an interrogative eyebrow. "I had been given to understand that your shoulder was all but healed, Captain."

Gillette seemed to become suddenly fascinated by his own fingernails. Groves swallowed and didn't quite meet his commander's eyes. "To own the truth, I could do without it, sir," he admitted, "but, um, it makes an unarguable excuse to, ah, avoid dancing."

"I see." Norrington rubbed his mouth to hide a smile. "Well, that's fortunate. A blow for Gillette, of course, but I dare say he'll cope."

"Well," Norrington said, "as your arm is all but healed, you'll be able to return to command of the Endeavour when she sails again a sennight hence. And thus I am afraid, Lieutenant," he turned to Gillette, "that any hope you might have had of being made acting-Captain of the Endeavour will come to naught. I fear you'll have to content yourself with serving under Captain Groves for the forseeable future."

Gillette's eyes met Groves', and the lieutenant smiled. "I, ah, think I can face the prospect with equanimity, Commodore."

Five hours, at least, before Norrington could be expected back. He'd had plans for those five hours, plans that required the presence of a certain green-eyed Commodore.

He scowled and shifted forward, resting elbows on thighs and cradling the delicate brandy-snifter in both hands.

He stood, walked to the bookcase in the corner, and ran a finger along the fine calf bindings. Finding nothing he hadn't read before, he pulled Robinson Crusoe from the shelf and returned to the window.

I had terrible Reflections upon my Mind for many Months, as I have already observ'd, on the Account of my wicked and hardned Life past; and when I look'd about me and considered what particular Providences had attended me since my coming into this Place, and how God had dealt bountifully with me...

He slammed the book shut with a snarl, started to fling it away—and stopped, remembering in time that the Commodore wouldn't appreciate having his book damaged.

"Bloody lot of good repentin' ever did a man marooned," Sparrow grumbled, crossing again to the bookcase. Crusoe'd had it easy; a whole ship to plunder, and a servant to cater to his every whim. He'd not have prosed on about Providence if he'd been left on a godforsaken spit of sand with nothing but one bullet and a raging thirst.

There was a marker near the back of this book, a sliver of palm-leaf. Sparrow opened it there.

A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;
A woman's gentle heart, but not acquainted
With shifting change, as is false women's fashion:
An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,
Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;
A man in hue all hues in his controlling,
Which steals men's eyes and women's souls amazeth.

Sparrow hastily thumbed a dozen pages forward. The room was growing damnably warm.

If the dull substance of my flesh were thought,
Injurious distance should not stop my way;
For then despite of space I would be brought,
From limits far remote, where thou dost stay.
No matter then although my foot did stand
Upon the farthest earth remov'd from thee;
For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
As soon as think the place where he would be.
But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,
To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,
But that so much of earth and water wrought,
I must attend time's leisure with my moan;
Receiving nought by elements so slow
But heavy tears, badges of either's woe.

Sparrow closed the book and left it on the seat, staring with unseeing eyes out the window at the now-lighted town below.

He could go out, of course. Join his crew at the Hogshead. They were probably having a fine time, running up their tabs in anticipation of the prize-money from the Spanish merchantman. But they weren't expecting him, and his appearance would raise questions. Questions he didn't want to raise, let alone answer.

Well, then, there was bound to be something else doing in Port Royal tonight. Something besides the damned Governor's bloody ball.

Snatching up the brandy bottle, he tilted it over his glass—and jerked it upright before more than a few drops had escaped.

"Think I 'adn't bloody noticed how you were hoardin' the stuff?" He kicked the wig again. "Dolin' it out by the thimbleful like it was the last bloody cask o' water and yer ship three weeks from land?" Kick. "But not tonight. Oh, no. Tonight y' pour it out like cheap rum, y' soddin' fool!" Poured it for Jack, but not for himself; he'd taken barely enough to taste.

Sparrow gave the wig a particularly vicious kick. It bounced high enough to ricochet off a corner and tumbled back, coming to rest under the desk. He growled and stalked after it, crouched to reach for it.

Something crackled in his pocket. Sparrow thrust a hand inside and pulled out a half-dozen envelopes. His mail, picked up from the Hogshead as usual when he'd come ashore, and subsequently forgotten.

He snarled and threw them down to scatter on the desk, then captured the wig in one quick swipe.

"I am not a bloody gentleman!" he bellowed at it. "I'm a bloody goddamn pirate, you fucking bastardo querido estúpido!" and flung it away as hard as he could.

The wig tumbled into the cold fireplace, to lie amid broken fragments of brown glass.

He snatched the brandy bottle from the table, drew his arm back to send it after the wig—and stopped.

Growled as he set it down on the desk. Retrieved the stopper. Rammed it home. Stalked around the desk, yanked the drawer open, and thrust the bottle inside, slamming the drawer with enough force to rattle the inkwell on top.

Snarling, he raised his head and saw his correspondence on the desktop. He swung his arm, sweeping them off the blotter to scatter over the floor, then rose to his feet and stomped towards the cupboard where Norrington kept the rum.

He stopped, eyes widening, and dropped to hands and knees to scrabble the letters up from the carpet, sparing each a quick glance before moving on to the next. Retrieved the last one from its hiding-place, half-way under the bureau; a heavy, cream-coloured envelope with the Governor's seal in the corner.

Sparrow scrambled to his feet, still clutching the envelope. It was opened in a trice, and the privateer laughed aloud as he realized he'd been walking about all day with an invitation to the Anniversary Ball in his pocket.

"Well, me lovely," he said to the elegant little piece of paper, "it seems we've somewhere to go after all." He snatched up his hat and ran towards the stairs.

A moment later the Commodore's front door swung closed with a bang as Captain Jack Sparrow hot-footed it to the harbour.

"Mr. Warren, there is an old naval custom which I try to encourage among my officers." The Commodore turned and walked along the room, so that the boy would perforce follow. "That being, when one of our brother-officers is at sea, we take it upon ourselves to see that his dependents want for nothing. Including," he glanced in the direction of the Mrs. and Miss Osbournes, "partners at a ball."

The boy, who was only fifteen, followed his glance and brightened visibly. "I, ah, haven't been introduced to Miss Osbourne yet, sir."

Miss Osbourne greeted the Commodore's approach with a brilliant smile. Her enthusiasm wavered for an instant when Mr Warren asked her to dance, but she accepted his offer with apparent pleasure.

Norrington smiled blandly and led Mrs. Osbourne into an adjoining set just as Elizabeth and her father opened the ball.

As Norrington had anticipated, young Warren's good fortune had been noticed by the other midshipmen. As he led Mrs. Osbourne back to her seat he was besieged by four of them, all begging for an introduction.

He watched with perfect composure as the most senior of them led the young lady off and graciously allowed himself to be captured by the young, pretty wife of the Dauntless's Captain of Marines for the next two dances.

Two figures stood framed in the opening. The woman wore a brilliant peacock-blue gown. The tight bodice displayed her fine, womanly figure to perfection, and the gold-set sapphires shining at her throat and in her upswept hair accentuated her dark beauty splendidly. The man—

The man was Captain Jack Sparrow, but a Sparrow transformed, as if by magic, into a brilliant-plumed bird of paradise.

His usual motley collection of garments had been replaced by a full-cut dress-coat of clear crimson, which swung open over a silver-brocade waistcoat and dark pantaloons. An elegant black tricorn covered his chaotic tangle of locks and everywhere, from throat to shoes, emeralds caught the light, flashing green fire to dazzle and draw the eye.

He recovered just in time and kept his mind resolutely on the measure until the movements were complete and the next, final couple had begun working their way down the set.

Only then did he permit his gaze to wander to the door again. Sparrow had apparently surrendered his hat to a footman, for his head was bare save for a bright purple silk scarf. Its long fringes dangled almost to his waist, swaying gently as he tucked his lady's arm under his own and led her away down the hall.

The Commodore turned his attention back to the dance, resisting the urge to track the pair's movement. When the last measure was completed and the young Marine Captain's wife had been returned to her seat he strolled towards the jewel-bright figures.

They were standing beside the first of the balcony doors, which were wide-flung to the warm night breezes. As Norrington drew nearer the suspicion he'd formed while waiting for the dance's last measures to play themselves out were confirmed.

He had seen that coat before. In a small, dark room on a distant island, worn by a man who had stopped needing it—or indeed, anything else—some time since.

Norrington's mouth curved as he recalled how that had ended. "Captain Sparrow. This is a most pleasant surprise." He raked the length of the coat with his eyes. "That is an exceptionally fine coat. Most unusual. And yet," his right hand rose, as if by accident, to brush the second button of his waistcoat, under which two gold rings hung suspended from a fine chain, "I almost think I have seen one very like it, somewhere."

Sparrow caught the gesture and his smile grew momentarily sharper. "Do you now?"

"Of course." Norrington extended his hand towards Anamaria, who responded with her own a fraction too late. As he took the hemp-scarred fingers in his own, he realized he'd never heard her surname. "Always a pleasure, Miss...?" he prompted, raising an interrogatory eyebrow.

Anamaria's eyes widened. She opened her mouth, closed it, and turned her head slightly towards her captain.

Norrington glanced that way as well, but Sparrow seemed as nonplussed as himself.

The silence was stretching too long; people would notice. Norrington glanced back at Anamaria, seeing panic in her eyes.

Sparrow had opened his mouth to speak when Anamaria blurted, "Ogoun," and her captain winced.

The Commodore's smile froze as he bowed over her hand, his mind working frantically. He daren't introduce her by that name, in this company. "Of course, Miss—O'Gunn. Forgive me, I've forgotten. Was it your father or your grandfather who was Irish?"

Anamaria's panic turned to confusion, but Sparrow leapt into the breach. "Great-grandfather, wasn't it, luv?"

"Of course." He released her hand and glanced towards the center of the room. "They appear to be forming the sets for the next dance. Captain Sparrow has, of course, engaged you for this round, but I hope you'll honor me with your hand at some point in the evening?"

"It would be my pleasure, Commodore." She smiled at him and let Sparrow lead her away, head held high.

Norrington collected a young Naval widow and they formed the next pair in the same set.

The opening movements ended with the two couples forming a ring and circling 'round. Sparrow's beringed hand pressed his own rather more firmly than the dance required, and the Commodore was decidedly short of breath by the time the four dancers separated to resume their positions.

As they waited for the top couple to move down the set, Sparrow asked quietly, "Will ye be pairin' with Anamaria for the next dance, then?"

"I've two duty dances yet," Norrington murmured, barely moving his lips. He'd learned the trick of that as a midshipman, in the Assembly Rooms at Gibraltar.

The top couple reached them. When they'd passed, Norrington felt Sparrow's sleeve brush his own, claiming his attention.

He glanced sidelong at Sparrow. It was a fine coat. Nearly as fine as the man who wore it.

Sparrow's hand traced slowly down one silver-corded lapel. "Duty dances?" he prompted in a matching sidelong mutter.

The Commodore cleared his throat. "Another Naval widow and my first lieutenant's wife." He smiled politely at his current dancing partner. "Then I can dance with anyone I like."

The music signaled the beginning of the first repeat, and Sparrow's muttered "Not quite anyone" reached Norrington's ears just as they began the first movement.

The Commodore's partner suggested that the ballroom floor was really almost too well polished. She'd nearly slipped several times this evening herself. He agreed and resisted the urge to crushed Sparrow's hand when they circled 'round again a few minutes later.

When that pair of dances ended Gillette was waiting to claim Anamaria. Sparrow captured a buxom planter's daughter and joined the same set, flirting outrageously with both women.

Norrington led his new partner, another naval widow, into a different set. Where he just happened to have an excellent view of that crimson coat.

Two of the older midshipmen were hovering over the bowl, their flushed faces hinting that they'd imbibed more than was wise. When the Commodore approached they greeted him respectfully. "Good evening, sir."

"Sir?" Crofts, a handsome boy of sixteen years, straightened and licked his lips nervously.

"Will you do me the courtesy of taking this to Miss Osborne with my compliments?"

"Commodore Norrington?" Crawford, a strapping blond boy of seventeen, sounded nervous.

The Commodore raised an eyebrow at the boy, who flushed scarlet under the appraisal. "I will consider it, Mr. Crawford."

The Commodore nodded and turned away. The next dance had begun—a pease branle, if he was not mistaken. Elizabeth had managed to intercept Sparrow before he could acquire a different partner and dragged him into the central circle. Sparrow's braids bounced even more energetically than the lady's bosom as they jumped in time to the music, and Norrington spent a few minutes enjoying the combined effect before surveying of the rest of the room.

None of the circles contained a figure in a peacock-blue gown; he searched for it among the people clustered around the edges of the ballroom. He found her near the second balcony. Anamaria stood between two chairs, fingering the saint's medallion she wore on a long gold chain. Norrington's eyes followed the line of the slender chain upwards from her strong fingers, lingering appreciatively on the column of her throat, flame-gilt by the candles behind her.

A pair of older women walked down that side of the hall. As they passed her Anamaria smiled, nodded, and said something Norrington couldn't catch.

The women turned their heads, stared at her in silence for a long moment—and then deliberately turned their backs, staring out onto the ballroom floor.

He deposited his punch-cup and walked—paced, hands clasped behind his back, knuckles slowly whitening—towards the women.

As he drew level with the trio, the matron on his left murmured a greeting. He turned a cold stare on them both before meeting Anamaria's eyes over their heads. "Miss O'Gunn." He smiled. "I am here to claim the dance you promised me earlier this evening."

When the music ended there was a brief pause for the dancers to catch their breath. Anamaria moved closer to Norrington and spoke just loudly enough for him to hear. "That's the second time you've rescued me tonight. I'm in your debt." She didn't meet his eyes, and her hand had crept to the medallion again.

"Dear lady," he murmured, "I am already so deeply indebted to you that a lifetime of such trifling assistances would be inadequate recompense."

"When I was first Captain Sparrow's guest aboard the Black Pearl, I realized almost at once that you and Mr. Gibbs had your captain's complete trust." Her puzzlement faded as he continued. "To have an utterly trustworthy second in command—especially a second who will speak unpleasant truths if necessary—is a gift to any commander. Such a second is, I imagine, especially valuable to one of Captain Sparrow's temperament. And your captain's—service to the Crown—is of great value to me." That made her smile, and he permitted himself a brief glance at the crimson-coated figure in the center of the room. "Please believe me, dear lady, when I say that no one has a keener appreciation of your contribution to Captain Sparrow's continued success than myself."

"It is inexcusably rude for a gentleman to contradict a lady, Miss O'Gunn," Norrington replied, "but if it were not, I would say that you underestimate yourself."

When the dance ended they strolled slowly towards the crimson coat. "Do I presume correctly," Norrington asked, "that Captain Sparrow begged the favor of escorting you to supper before your arrival at the ball?"

"How very careless of him." As her hand relaxed again, the Commodore asked, "Might I claim that privilege for myself?"

Sparrow parted from the group gathered around him with a comment that made them laugh and swaggered towards them.

"Ah, there y' are, luv." His face was turned towards Anamaria, but his eyes swept the length of Norrington's form. "I hear they'll be feedin' us soon. D' ye suppose there'll be any rum about?"

There was a high-pitched giggle behind them. "Oh, there he is! Do excuse me, Mr. Crofts!"

The Commodore closed his eyes, murmuring, "When will I learn to hold my tongue?" When he opened them both privateers were staring at him. Another giggle warned him that time was short. He lowered his voice and spoke rapidly. "Captain Sparrow, I foolishly pledged my word to a matter earlier in the evening on the assumption that I would not be called upon to redeem it. Please accept my apologies in advance for what I am about to inflict upon you."

Miss Osbourne arrived before Sparrow could speak. "Commodore Norrington!" she exclaimed. "There you are at last! I've been looking for you ever so long."

Norrington slipped his arm free of Anamaria's and turned to the girl with a bland expression. "Miss Osbourne?"

"I've come to hold you to your promise," she declared, with a kittenish look he might have found appealing when he was a callow midshipman. "You haven't forgotten, have you?"

"Certainly not." Norrington turned back to his two companions. "Miss O'Gunn, may I present Miss Lydia Osbourne, sister to Captain Osbourne of the Lacuna? Miss Osbourne, Miss Anamaria O'Gunn, first mate of the Black Pearl."

The chit giggled and offered her hand to Sparrow. "Captain Sparrow, I've heard so much about you!"

"My pleasure, milady." Sparrow bowed flamboyantly, leering in a way that would have earned any other man in the room a slapped face.

"Oh, dear," Miss Osbourne said, "is that the supper bell?" Before anyone could answer she turned to Norrington, clasping both hands in front of her bosom. "Commodore Norrington, do advise me. I'm quite at a loss as to what to do."

"You see," she dropped her chin and looked up at him through her lashes, "no one has offered to take me in to supper."

"That speaks rather poorly of Mr. Croft's initiative," said Norrington, carefully bland.

"I am quite at my wit's end, I assure you!" She placed her hand on his arm and stared up at him with what she undoubtably considered a soulful look. "Whatever shall I do?"

"We must find you an escort, of course, Miss Osbourne," he said. "I would offer myself in that capacity, but I have already pledged my services to Miss O'Gunn."

Anamaria moved to Norrington's side and tucked her arm into his in a decidedly proprietorial fashion. "Perhaps Captain Sparrow would oblige the lady," she suggested.

Sparrow sorrowfully sympathetic expression had turned to a look of mingled surprise and alarm at Anamaria's departure. He recovered quickly, flashing a bright, saucy smile at the young lady, but Norrington swore there was a hint of unease in those kohl-smudged eyes.

"Oh, would you, Captain?" Miss Osbourne clasped her hands in front of her bosom again and favored Sparrow with the same wide-eyed look she'd so recently tried on Norrington. "I would be ever so pleased!"

Sparrow's smile grew slightly more strained. "I'd be delighted." He offered Miss Osborne his arm.

The two couples had just started towards the supper room when Captain Groves and Lieutenant Gillette appeared.

"Captain Sparrow!" Groves said. "I wanted to congratulate you on that merchantman your crew brought into port today." He added rather absently, "Oh, good evening, Miss Osbourne."

"Your servant, Miss Osbourne," Gillette murmured, adding with considerably more enthusiasm, "Yes, you must tell us how you managed to capture her with so little damage!"

As they entered the supper-room they were intercepted by Will Turner. "We haven't spoken to you all night," he said. "Elizabeth assures me she will never forgive me if I let you get away now; I am to bring you to sit with us."

Norrington held a chair for Anamaria, who settled herself in a rustle of silken petticoats. He'd scarcely laid hand on his own chair when Captain Sparrow and Miss Osbourne entered the room.

The privateer had apparently just said something flattering, for the young lady tossed her head and exclaimed, "La, Captain! You'll put me to the blush if you go on so!"

"I'm lookin' forward to it." Sparrow steered her firmly toward them. "We'll just join you, shall we?"

"I'm afraid there's no room," Will apologized, rising from his seat. Seeing Sparrow's glance at the single unclaimed chair, he added, "Elizabeth should be here at any moment."

"There's a free table over there." Miss Osbourne pointed to a small one on the far side of the doorway, beside a potted palm.

"So there is." There was a note of resignation in Sparrow's voice as he led the girl away.

"I'm rather surprised to see Jack escorting Miss Osbourne," Will said. "She's not his sort at all."

Norrington rubbed his lips to hide his smile. "May I bring you something from the buffet, Miss O'Gunn?"

"O'Gunn?" Turner stared at the first mate. "Oh, forgive me, Anamaria, but do you know I don't think I ever heard your family name before?"

Norrington made his way through the crowd to the tables along the back wall. He had half-filled two plates and was trying to decide whether Anamaria would prefer chicken or ham when a crimson-and-silver sleeve appeared to his right.

"I'll get y' both fer this, mate," Sparrow muttered in his ear as he stabbed a piece of ham.

Anamaria probably enjoyed salted meat on shore as little as he did, Norrington decided, adding several slices of chicken to both plates. His eye was caught by a speck on his shirt-cuff.

The Commodore smiled. "My dear fellow," he said, plucking the speck from his cuff, "if you fail to insure yourself a congenial partner before the supper-bell is rung," he tilted his finger so that the fragment flashed green fire, "it's no one's fault but your own," and flicked it away.

Their eyes met. Sparrow chuckled and added another slice to his plate. "Right, we're square then."

"Perhaps," Norrington murmured, "we could return to the subject later in the evening?"

Norrington turned from the buffet in time to see Gillette and Groves enter the room, two pleasant naval widows in tow.

Elizabeth was close behind them. As Norrington placed Anamaria's plate in front of her, Mrs. Turner dropped into the chair at her husband's side with a sigh. "Honestly," she said, "sometimes I wish Father would find a nice, comfortable widow to marry, so I won't have to do this anymore." She grimaced and poked a satin dancing-slipper out from under her gown, wiggling the toes. "My feet hurt."

She smiled gratefully up at him as a servant placed four glasses of wine on the table.

Norrington glanced up to see Captain Sparrow returning from the buffet, a plate in each hand. He said something as he set the girl's plate down, and she answered with a coy look and fluttering eyelashes.

Elizabeth had followed his gaze. "Good lord," she exclaimed, "whatever is Jack doing with Miss Osbourne?"

"Less, I think." Norrington took a bit of cheese. "Excellent gouda, by the way."

He picked up his wineglass. "Even the Miss Osbournes of the world need someone to take them in to supper," he reminded her blandly.

"And Jack didn't bother to ask anyone else," Anamaria added, "so he's no one to blame but himself."

Elizabeth's eyes darted from Sparrow to Anamaria and back to the Commodore. "You're enjoying this!"

They watched a servant approached Sparrow's table with a tray of wineglasses, and traded small grins when he snatched a glass and drained it before Miss Osbourne's had touched the cloth. The startled servant traded it for a fresh one before leaving slightly faster than he's arrived.

Will returned to their table and set a plate of fruit and lemon ice before his wife. Settling into his chair, he looked across the room and smiled mischievously. "This should be entertaining."

Sparrow was, in fact, in excellent form. He smiled, waved his hands about, flirted outrageously, and generally carried on as though he were having the time of his life. Miss Osbourne simpered, flirted back at him, blushed, giggled a great deal, and seemed to be enjoying herself immensely.

The four friends watched their performance and traded low-voiced commentary among themselves.

"That's the sea-turtle story," Norrington murmured, watching Jack's hands flickered back and forth as if braiding something.

"Not the mermaid again," Anamaria groaned as Sparrow's hands sketched extravagant curves in the air.

"I don't know how Jack puts up with her," Elizabeth declared when Miss Osbourne said, "Oh, Captain Sparrow!" for the second time in five minutes.

Elizabeth started to reply, then stopped with a horrified expression. "Good god, I was never like that, was I?"

Norrington tore open a roll. "You had your faults, as all young ladies do, but," he smiled, "you were never boring, Elizabeth. I don't think you could be if you tried."

She looked down at her plate, cheeks flushing. Will laid his hand on top of hers, and she turned her hand so that their fingers intertwined.

Norrington's gaze returned to the other table. Sparrow was still babbling away, but his gestures has become less fluid and his smile seemed more than a little forced. And was that panic in those dark eyes? "He is rather showing the strain."

"The dancing can't resume until your wife returns to the ballroom," Norrington reminded him.

"Right," Elizabeth said. "Come on, Will." They rose; other couples began following almost at once.

As Norrington watched them leave the room, his attention was drawn by a discreet cough. He turned to find a figure in navy blue at his shoulder. "Mr. Crawford."

He couldn't fault the boy's timing. "Miss O'Gunn," Norrington said, "may I present Midshipman David Crawford, of the Dauntless?" Anamaria nodded to the boy. "Mr. Crawford, Miss Anamaria O'Gunn, first mate of the Black Pearl." He laid slight emphasis on the lady's rank and saw by the expression on the midshipman's face that he'd taken the hint.

"May I have the honor of this dance, Miss O'Gunn?" Crawford asked, and led her off with all due deference.

"Captain Sparrow." Norrington's tone was as bland as his expression. "May I have the honor of this dance, Miss Osbourne?"

She started to rise to her feet, reaching for her fan. Sparrow laid his hand over hers, purring "Allow me." He rose and drew back her chair, shooting Norrington a look of mingled irritation and gratitude over her head.

Norrington dropped his head a fraction and the ghost of a smile curved his mouth.

Sparrow silently mouthed a curse that caused the ghost-smile to deepen fractionally just as Miss Osbourne's rising form eclipsed his view of the Commodore. She attached herself to Norrington like a remora onto a shark and they started toward the ballroom.

"Are you enjoying your visit to Port Royal, Miss Osbourne?" the Commodore asked.

"Oh, yes." She tossed her head and batted her eyelashes. "I positively adore it."

Sparrow turned; Groves stood at his shoulder. "That empty-headed piece of fluff?"

"Join us on the balcony, Captain Sparrow?" Groves pulled out a silver cigar-case. "Can't smoke in front of the ladies."

They passed through the ballroom to the balcony. Sparrow helped himself to a cigar, bit the end off, and lit it from one of the small lanterns that hung between the doors.

When it was drawing well, Sparrow sat on the wide stone balustrade, his back against the wall and one knee propped high. He took a slow pull on the cheroot. Tilting his head back, he expelled the smoke in a thin stream just as the music resumed inside. "Now, gentlemen," he said, "I am waiting, quite patiently as you've no doubt noticed, for the explanation you promised me."

Groves was busy coaxing his own cigar alight, but Gillette favored him with a smug little smirk as he cut the end off his own cigar. "Isn't it obvious?"

Groves turned to face them, sending up his own stream of smoke. "You know, Lieutenant," he said, rolling the cigar lightly between his fingers, "it's not all that surprising he wouldn't recognize the type." Another pull; another slow exhale. "He's not her line of country at all."

Gillette straightened, puffing his cigar alight. "Miss Osbourne is a type every naval officer with any sense of self-preservation learns to recognize before he makes lieutenant." He looked at Sparrow, all trace of levity gone from his round face. "She's on the hunt."

"What the lieutenant means," Groves said, propping one hip on the outer balustrade, "is that whenever a young lady of moderate prettiness, respectable breeding, and small dowry suddenly appears in a remote naval outpost, the safe betting is that she's been shipped there by her family in hopes that she can catch a husband and save them the expense of a London season."

"Well, a bit younger than most, yes," Groves agreed, "but she wouldn't be the first to marry at sixteen, you know."

"She's less competition here," Gillette said acidly, "and consequently ranks her value higher than she'd ever dare in Portsmouth, let alone London." He sucked in a mouthful of smoke, blew it out hard and quick. "I dare say she's set her sights on a post-captain; they usually do. Ideally one with a nice fat fortune in prize-money."

Sparrow swung around to face them, gesturing with his forgotten cheroot. "Are ye tellin' me," he protested, "that that empty-headed bit o' fluff is trying to come aboard th' Commodore?"

Gillette snorted. "Of course not!" The relief Sparrow felt at this reassurance disappeared when he added, "She'll allow no such thing until he's proposed. Though I wouldn't put it past that one to be three months gone on her wedding day."

"If I read her sister-in-law aright," Groves opined, "she hasn't even told the girl about that part of the bargain. Probably won't risk it until she's safely engaged."

"Stop, stop, stop," Sparrow protested, waving both hands as he dropped with a thump to the balcony. "You can't be thinkin' the girl's got a chance with 'im? 'Cause there's just no bloody way, mate. He's not daft, Norrington isn't."

Well, you see," Groves said slowly, "there's the problem of raising—expectations."

"No," Groves said, half-laughing. "What I means was that a gentleman has to be very careful, especially in a place as small as Port Royal, not to give the impression of being interested in a lady when he's not." He inhaled cigar-smoke again. "That's why the Commodore's, um, cutting out Miss Osbourne from under your lee, so to speak, was a rather risky manoeuver on his part."

"She'll think he's wanting to get spliced just because he asked her to dance?" Sparrow frowned. "You havin' me on, mate?"

"No, I'm quite serious," Groves said. "It's the way he did it, you see. And there's the midshipmen to consider."

"Hadn't you noticed?" Gillette had recovered his breath. "He's been chucking them at her all evening." He puffed on his cheroot before adding, "The boys are safe enough, because she won't have them, and they can't afford to marry if she would."

"Oh, no," Gillette assured him. "I'm quite safe. Osbourne's undoubtedly told her my career's dead in the water. She'll not waste her charms on me. But Theodore Groves, Master and Commander, is probably next on her list."

"And what," Sparrow asked, "does that have to do with the young missy thinking the Commodore wants to splice cables with her?"

"It's like this, Jack." Groves gestured with his cigar. "This is Miss Osbourne's first ball since her arrival, and the Commodore made very certain that she danced with nothing but midshipmen—who are, as Andrew said, quite ineligible—the entire first half of the ball. And when you, as it seemed, cut her out from his escort at supper, he took her away from you the first minute he decently could. That's rather likely to cause some speculation that he's, ah," he glanced down at his cigar, then up, "trying to keep her for himself, you see?"

"It's not really that great a danger," Gillette said. "There'll be gossip, but as long as he doesn't dance with her a second time or show her any other mark of particular attention, the rumours should fade fairly quickly."

"No, no! He can't dance with her a second time at the ball. Or more than once on any other occasion."

"Oh, yes. The Commodore's an old hand at this game," Groves said. "I've sometimes wondered if that wasn't half of Mrs Turner's—Miss Swann, she was then—appeal to him." Seeing Sparrow's blank look, he added, "She never chased him. It must've been a nice change from fending off the Miss Osbournes of the world."

He replied to her sallies with disinterested courtesy during the brief interval and smothered a sigh of relief when dancing resumed again.

They had taken their turn as top couple and were slowly working their way back up the set when the Commodore spied Sparrow's crimson coat crossing the top of the room.

He would definitely have to find some way to compensate the Captain for his ordeal. Later tonight, after the ball.

Norrington smiled and, the dance ending at that moment, bowed to his partner. Smiled, perhaps, a bit too warmly, for Miss Osbourne's eyes seemed to brighten, and she clung to his arm rather more closely than propriety required as he led her back to her seat.

Mrs. Osbourne was waiting for them. "Mrs. Osbourne," the Commodore said, "might I have a word with you in private?"

The lady looked startled, as well she might. Miss Osbourne, showing herself an even greater fool than he'd thought, looked positively triumphant.

"Of course, Commodore." Mrs. Osbourne followed him onto a quiet corner of the balcony, empty save for a faint lingering scent of tobacco.

"Forgive me, madam," Norrington began, clasping his hands behind his back and staring out over the gardens, "if I seem to intrude upon matters which are none of my concern. But as your husband is at sea, I feel myself under a certain responsibility to see that his dependents are not," he bowed his head, "taken advantage of."

"Forgive me," he repeated. "It is a delicate subject and I would not wish to give offence. May I speak frankly, Mrs. Osbourne?"

"I fear," he said, not meeting her eyes, "that your sister-in-law's conduct this evening may lead to, ah, undesirable consequences."

"Oh, no," he said quickly. "That is not my concern. As I told Mrs. Turner over supper, Miss Osbourne's rather exuberant manner is clearly due to a combination of youthful high spirits and inexperience in society. I feel certain," he added blandly, "that with you to advise and guide her, the young lady will soon learn to moderate her enthusiasm."

Mrs. Osbourne's look of polite concern was replaced by a slightly strained smile. "I think I can assure you, Commodore," she said, "that Mrs. Turner will find Lydia much less... excitable... when next they meet."

"But," Mrs. Osbourne unfurled her fan, "if it is not my sister-in-law's high spirits that concern you, why have you asked to speak to me?"

"As I said, it is a delicate matter." He cleared his throat and looked away. "To be quite frank, Mrs. Osbourne, I felt it my duty to suggest that your sister-in-law, ah, avoid being seen quite so much in Captain Sparrow's company in future?"

She looked thoroughly confused now. "Forgive me, Commodore, but I was under the impression Captain Sparrow was your friend."

"Oh, he is," Norrington assured her. "I value his friendship highly, and have the greatest respect for the Captain's skill as both a seaman and a commander. However," he met her eyes squarely, "if I had a daughter of my own, I would not want her to marry Captain Sparrow."

Mrs. Osbourne's confusion vanished. "And you feel towards Lydia as you might toward your own daughter?"

"Indeed I do." He smiled politely. "I should hate to see Miss Osbourne disappointed in a matter of the heart."

"I think we understand one another, Commodore," Mrs. Osbourne said. "I will certainly pass on your—advice—to Lydia at the first opportunity." She bestowed an equally polite smile upon him. "Shall we returned to the ball?"

The supper-room had been stripped bare, and the only drink available seemed to be the wine-punch in the ballroom. He dipped the ridiculously small silver cup into the punch-bowl—taking some amusement from the scandalized expression on the hovering servant's face—drained it in a single gulp, and scooped up a second cupful. The stuff didn't taste half bad, really, but he'd wager his next prize the entire bowlful wouldn't be enough to get a man tipsy, never mind drunk.

As he dipped a third helping of the punch, Sparrow remembered Norrington's offer at supper. Getting drunk did sound tempting—but not quite as tempting as convincing the Commodore he'd done his proper Naval duty, and should spend what was left of the night in manoeuvres of a very different sort.

He drained the cup, tossed it to the servant, and sauntered away to wait for the opportune moment.

When the dance ended Sparrow trailed his quarry through the crowd. He stopped now and again to exchange a word with someone he recognized so as not to overtake the Commodore too soon. He was therefore more than a little annoyed when Norrington, having rid himself of the chit, promptly claimed her chaperone and led her onto the balcony.

Sparrow paused well clear of the girl, insinuating himself into a group consisting of Lt. Alcout, his wife, and several of the Dauntless's midshipmen. As the minutes ticked by and Norrington didn't reappear he grew impatient. He sauntered over to slouch against the wall by the balcony door, tilting his head towards the voices outside.

"...if I had a daughter of my own, I would not want her to marry Captain Sparrow." Norrington's voice, no question of that. Sparrow frowned, puzzled—but the lady's reply soon made all clear.

Still, it wasn't very nice of the Commodore to say that about him. Gentlemen had been known to take offense at far less.

Sparrow stroked his mustache thoughtfully. The Commodore wanted other folk to treat him like a gentleman, didn't he? So it only stood to reason he should expect Sparrow to react like a gentleman, didn't it?

As the Commodore and Mrs. Osbourne re-entered the room, Sparrow moved forward. Norrington looked surprised to see him there, which suited Sparrow's plans very well. "Commodore," he purred, "Might I have a word?"

Norrington's eyebrow twitched. "Or course." He parted from the lady with a nod and favored him with a mildly inquisitive expression.

Sparrow rocked back on one heel and raised his chin and eyebrows simultaneously. "I could not help but overhear," he drawled, lifting his right hand, fingers spread, to rest lightly against the breast of his coat, "what you said to the lady about meself, and I feel compelled to request an explanation of your remark."

The laugh lines that had begun to crinkle the corners of Norrington's eyes disappeared. "That was a private conversation, Captain."

"Nevertheless," Sparrow tapped Norrington's gold braid and raised his voice slightly, "I must insist upon an explanation. Commodore." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Alcout and the midshipmen turn towards them.

Both Norrington's eyebrows rose this time. "Oh, come, Captain Sparrow." He glanced toward the other officers. "You cannot seriously expect me to comply with such a request." His tone was light, his lips curved slightly upward, but there was a tension in his face that hadn't been there before.

There was no trace of amusement on Norrington's face now. "I repeat, Captain, it was a private conversation. You cannot possibly be serious." Then, very quickly, in that near-motionless mutter he'd used before, "Back down, for God's sake. You don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, but I can," Sparrow assured him. "I do." He dropped one lid in the hint of a wink. Norrington's eyes widened slightly, narrowed, then relaxed. "Now," the privateer repeated, "will you explain yourself, or will you not?"

He was the very image of offended naval dignity—shoulders squared, hands clasped behind his back, head up, nostrils flaring—and Sparrow took a moment to appreciate the picture before folding his arms and leaning back onto his heel again. "Then," he let his voice drop to a low growl, "I must demand an apology, Commodore." He put a sneer into the title and was rewarded with a shocked gasp from one of the midshipmen.

"Much as it pains me to disappoint you, sir," Norrington raised his chin slightly, the better to look down his nose at the ex-pirate, "I fear I cannot oblige you, for I have said nothing that warrants an apology."

The privateer raised his right hand, fingers spread, folded them down in a flutter. "I will have an apology," he growled.

"Then you leave me no choice," Sparrow looked squarely into those cool green eyes, "but to demand satisfaction."

In the silence that followed his pronouncement, Sparrow heard Gillette's voice, half-whispering. "What's going on?"

"Most extraordinary thing!" another man hissed. "Sparrow's just challenged Norrington to a duel!"

The expression in those green eyes changed abruptly from mild amusement to cold rage.

"Will you act for me?" Norrington made no attempt to conceal his anger, which was not improved by the sudden tension in Sparrow's stance.

"I—" Gillette looked from one man to the other, uncertainty clear on his face. ''Of course, sir—if you wish it."

"Commodore!" Groves at his other side, laying a hand on his arm. "Sir, you can't do this." He shot an anxious glance at Sparrow, half-pleading. "The man has clearly had too much wine."

Norrington raised an eyebrow. "If the gentleman wishes to use that as an excuse for his behavior, I will not contest it."

"Of the two of us," Sparrow growled, "I think it is not my behavior that needs excusing."

"Indeed?" Time to end this charade. "Then I suggest, Captain, that your seconds call upon Lieutenant Gillette in the morning, so that they may make the necessary arrangements." And where did Sparrow expect to spend the night? He couldn't possibly return to Norrington's house now; a most frustrating thought.

"It appears," Sparrow said, "to 'ave slipped your mind that me Pearl sails on the mornin' tide. So it seems to me 'twould be best if we settled this matter at once."

He might have known Sparrow would have an escape ready-planned. "Just as you like," he said. "And your Second?"

Anamaria pushed forward, to stand at his shoulder with an expression so fierce that more than one man in the crowd moved back a pace.

The crowd parted suddenly and Elizabeth appeared, with Will a pace behind. "What's happening?" she demanded.

The two principals exchanged a lightning glance, and Norrington turned towards her.

"I fear, Mrs. Turner," he said smoothly, "that Captain Sparrow and I have some rather urgent business to attend to." He extended his hand and Elizabeth, responding to a lifetime of training, placed hers in it. "I do hope you will forgive us our early departure?" He bowed over her hand and, when Groves' body shielded him from everyone but the two of them, winked at her.

She favored him with a gracious smile. "Of course I shall. Provided," she said, "you visit me tomorrow and explain what this 'urgent business' of yours was?"

"I shall certainly do so. Good night, Mrs. Turner, and my thanks for a most pleasant evening." He turned, gathering Sparrow, Anamaria, and Gillette with his eyes. "Shall we go?"

"I'll accompany you, if I may, sir," Groves said. "I feel that my earlier point stands, and would beg the opportunity to put it to you again."

"You may certainly attempt it, Captain, but I fear you'll find it a waste of breath."

Norrington kept silent until they had passed the gates. When they were well into the deserted street beyond, he turned to confront his erstwhile opponent.

"Captain Sparrow," he said, keeping his voice level with an effort, "if you would be so kind as to enlighten us as to the purpose of this charade?"

"Don't be absurd!" Norrington snapped. "You know perfectly well why I said what I did, and equally well that I've no intention whatsoever of fighting you."

"Ah." Sparrow cocked his head to one side. "But I didn't say I wanted to fight you, mate."

"No, I didn't," Sparrow repeated. "What I said," he closed the distance between himself and Norrington, walking with the slow, swaggering sway he knew always set the man's blood pounding, "was that I wanted the Commodore," he dropped his voice to a whisper, "to satisfy me."

As his words sunk home Norrington gasped, eyes widening. A second later Gillette's half-choked snigger reached their ears, and the Commodore turned a most attractive shade of red.

Norrington swallowed hard, cleared his throat, and drew himself up into the same arrogant officer-on-the-quarterdeck pose he'd used in the ballroom. This time, however, the effect was rather spoiled by the imperfectly-suppressed smirk on his face. "I fear I am unable to oblige you, Captain."

"My dear sir," Norrington arched one eyebrow, "there are some things a gentleman does not do on a public thoroughfare."

Strangled laughter erupted from Anamaria's direction, counterpoint to a snort from Groves and an even louder snigger from Gillette.

"However," Norrington let the smirk have free reign, "if you would agree to adjourn to some more private location," his eyes drifted slowly down Sparrow's body, "I am prepared to place myself entirely at your disposal."

"Seems a fair condition to me, Captain." Sparrow could hear the grin in Anamaria's voice.

"As the Commodore's Second, I must concur," Gillette chimed in. "Quite generous of him to," he snickered, "concede the point so readily. Don't you agree, Captain Groves?"

Sparrow turned to survey the trio in the road behind him. They were all grinning like maniacs. "I happen t' agree with you." He turned back to Norrington, raising his right forefinger and looking up at him out of half-closed eyes. "There's just one small thing remains to be done, first."

"Indeed?" Norrington's eyes had also strayed to the trio, but now returned to Sparrow's face. "And that is?"

"My apology." As the green eyes widened, Sparrow added, "The one you promised me over supper."

"Then as we have resolved our earlier disagreement," he looked over the Captain's shoulder at the hovering trio, "I think we can assume, Lieutenant, that your services, and those of the lady, will no longer be required."

"Delighted to hear it, sir." Gillette gave him an ironic half-bow and turned to Anamaria. "May I offer you my escort back to your lodgings, milady?"

As she placed her hand on his arm, Gillette glanced over at Groves, a wicked gleam in his eyes. "Would you care to join us, Captain?"

Groves hesitated, then took a half-step forward. "Commodore? I'm—curious. What did you say to Jack to start this nonsense in the first place?"

"He said" Jack scowled up at James with great affection, "I wasn't fit to marry 'is daughter."

"I most certainly did not!" James protested, half-laughing. "I said that if I had a daughter, I wouldn't want her to marry you. It's not the same thing at all."

"All right, then." Jack rounded on him, eyes dancing. "Suppose y' explain to all of us why exactly ye wouldn't want a daughter of yours marrying meself, eh?"

James raised his chin slightly and intoned, "Well, after all, one must draw the line somewhere, you know," which set the trio behind Jack sniggering again.

Jack was grinning now. "An' you draw it at your daughter marryin' a pirate, is that it?"

He arched an eyebrow. "I draw it at committing adultery with my own son-in-law."

Jack's eyes widened, then he threw his head back and roared his mirth to the skies. The others joined him, James not excluded.

They laughed until they were staggering, breathless, drunk on laughter in the warm Caribbean night.

"I must say," Theo wiped tears from his eyes with the arm that wasn't draped around Andrew, "that it's not—an unreasonable—objection, Jack."

"No," Jack grinned at him over the head of his first mate, who had collapsed against a convenient mounting-block and was hiccupping between giggles. "Not unreasonable at all." The hand that was gripping James' shoulder slipped free, sliding slowly across his back as Jack tilting his head to grin up at him. "Forgive me, luv?"

"With all my heart." James caressed the small of his pirate's back. "Shall we go home now, Jack?"

Footnote 1: a 'bob wig' is an abbreviated version of a full wig, consisting of the center-parting and side curls only. It is worn over the wearer's own hair, which is powdered and drawn back into a queue.)
Footnote 2: Ogoun is one of the names of the warrior-loa of Voudoun. Samedi is another.
Footnote 3: The word branle is pronounced "brawl". The pease branle, in particular, consists of two movements—one in which the dancers join hands and side-step around the circle, and one in which the men and women take turns literally jumping in place, supposedly imitating the motion of peas on a hot skillet. The effects of this motion on a woman's tightly-corseted bosom was probably one reason for its popularity.

Men Must Work

Jack/James Series, Chapt. 6

Dance With Me