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The Evil Lady E	By : EvilE Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (All) > Het - Male/Female > Jack/Elizabeth Views: 5995 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own the Pirates of the Caribbean movie series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 9
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Chapter 10: The Hour Before the Dawn

Captain Jack Sparrow waited, his stomach tying itself in knots. He had stood proudly at the helm - at first - but then, unable to stand still, had tied it off and moved to the deck rail and watched the waves, fleeting and mysterious, destroying themselves against the black hull. He stared into the darkness, a dry taste in his mouth, as though it were full of ash.

Under any other circumstances, he'd have drunk enough rum to set him to rights again, but he solemnly acknowledged that any impediment in the upcoming fight might well mean the end of his life. Before his ill-fated dip in the sea depths, he might not have cared, might have been cavalier and all bluster and yo-ho-ho. But not now. Not anymore.

He had painstakingly prepared the deck as though setting a stage. He had sent everyone below without brooking any argument. Lanterns were lit, casting a warm glow that Jack could not feel. The moonlight bathed the deck as well, and shimmered on the water, cool and peaceful and bright. He closed his eyes and listened to the sounds of the ship: the gentle splashing of the water and occasional groaning of the boards. The noise sounded sad, almost like a cry of despair. He was reminded of the eerily beautiful sound of whalesong.

The sounds of the night were mere instruments accompanying the peaks and valleys of his thoughts and the swelling and cresting waves of his emotions as they crashed over him. The music in Jack's mind was magnificent and sad as a funeral dirge played on a pipe organ, like the music of Davey Jones as he poured out his unrequited love and eternal anguish. It rose and fell gracefully, growing sadder and more mournful with each thought, each memory and desire.

Any moment, Elizabeth would appear, and they would finish this. He sighed, casting his mind out on the water, where it skipped like a stone over memories of her. The feel of her soft, warm body when he'd rescued her in Port Royal, being allowed - for a moment - to cradle her against him. Her laugh, not bitter or prim, but full and hearty, yet feminine, as they'd sung pirate songs at the top of their lungs on that island where Barbossa had left them, and the look in her eyes when they'd collapsed together on the sand. A spark of desire, a hint of true affection. And finally - one last skip before the stone of his thought sank into the miry depths - her lips and warm, wet mouth as she'd kissed him on the Pearl... he didn't want to think about that, told himself not to, but he remembered it better than his own name, almost. Other memories invaded, forcing their way into his consciousness... the vision of Lady E plunging her dagger into a man's neck, the hateful look in her eyes that day on the Pearl, the hard set of her pretty mouth in the brig after she'd demanded another chance to kill him.

He heard soft footfalls on the deck. He turned to see her emerging from his cabin, where he'd left her alone to prepare.

He raised himself away from the rail, evaluating her from top to toe. She wore a black three-cornered hat over her golden brown hair, which reflected the lamplight in long, shimmering strands. A man's white shirt over a man's breeches, which clung to her hips but then fell in loose folds down to brown, oversized man's boots. It seemed she hadn't taken anything from the women's clothes she'd been offered.

But then she turned toward him, and Jack's mouth twisted into an appreciative grin. She had exchange her tunic vest for a woman's bodice, maroon, laced tightly but not totally closed, as it was not her size. The result was the creamy swell of her breasts emerging from the center of the slightly unbuttoned shirt. He raised his eyes - with some effort - to her face, and observed the light dusting of freckles on her nose and cheeks - an effect of the recent exposure to much sun. It would have made her seem tender and child-like, were it not for the dark brows that shot out boldly from the center of her high, smooth forehead, and the lush, plump, pink lower lip which she had drawn under her top teeth as she scanned the deck for him. She had descended the steps to the deck and did not even hear him approach behind her.

“'ello, poppet,” he drawled ominously, in a deliberate imitation of Pintel. She whirled to face him, sword at the ready. He let her watch him move his eyes over her torso, before meeting her eyes. “Lizzy, I'm flattered. Wearing that for me?”

“As a matter of fact, my tunic was quite dirty, and a loose shirt impedes my movements.” She met his gaze boldly, raising her chin. “Besides, any distraction on your part only works in my favor.”

“True enough, although I wouldn't count on the kissing ploy again - I've already learned that one.”

“Have you?” she said with a small, unfriendly smile. Then her tone became brusque and businesslike. “What are the rules of engagement?”

“Already? Thought you'd like to warm up first, have a sip o' rum, talk a bit.” At her the cold look on her face, he pouted in mock sadness. “Fine. No foreplay. Fight to the cry of 'mercy,' such mercy to be dispensed at the discretion of the winner, loser not being guaranteed aforesaid mercy, just as the winner is not bound to give it.”

“Fine,” Elizabeth said, the word too calmly, too simply uttered for such dire circumstances. “Weapons?”

“Swords. Although, I can't promise you my pistol won't come into play.” A small wiggle of his chest and shoulders as he spoke was the only indication he was joking. Although Jack was almost always joking.

“Hardly matters, since you won't get a chance to use it.” She smiled at the double entendre, almost proudly, and her eyes seemed to warm as she reached across her body for her sword, drawing it slowly, deliberately, out of her leather holster, removing the large belt that had been suspended from her right shoulder across her body and tossing it away.

He also had, although he didn't wish her to know it, the tiny knife Tia Dalma had given him, tucked into his boot. A last resort.

And though the promise of the fight to the death did hang over them, heavy and foreboding as a granite storm cloud, Jack felt also the wind on his cheeks, the salt spray in the air, and the familiar warmth in his hands and fingers whenever Elizabeth was near him. All of his senses were sharply attuned to his surroundings, more so than usual. He realized, after a moment of regarding her in front of him, that even though he half expected to die within the hour, he had never felt more alive.

“En garde, Captain Sparrow.” She stepped a foot back, lifting her sword and chin at the same moment.

“Call me Jack, won't you, love? Since we're so well-acquainted.” He drew his sword in a quick, flashing movement. He smiled at her. This might actually be fun.

She lunged forward and swung high. He stepped back and dodged low, raising his sword to block, and the clang of metal on metal echoed in the dark night. His sword slid up and off of hers and he brought it around for a low, right thrust. She wheeled and blocked.

He advanced, and she jumped back. With a swift motion that rotated his sword about his head, he struck at her neck. She ducked quickly, but not quickly enough and he caught her black hat with the blow, sending it flying across the deck. She instinctively put a hand to her head, and he seized the opportunity to advance again. This time she barely blocked his lunge by holding her sword straight up and down in front of her face. The blow would have sliced her face clean open. Her eyes widened, and flew to his face as he untangled and withdrew, resetting his stance.

“If you've not the stomach for it, call it off now. We still have an hour before the sun rises - I'm sure I can think of how to spend it.” He looked at her down his face, his head tilted back.

Her answer was a whirling, complex advance, with high and low thrusts and one lunge for his midsection. She grunted each time she swung, her hair flying behind her, channeling all her energy into each blow.

“All those nice noises, love... I always wondered what you'd sound like.”

She lunged straight for his throat, and he ducked, anticipating a deathblow after his last comment. She caught only his hat on the tip of her sword, and it stuck there when she pulled back her arm.

“I'll have that back,” he said, leaping for her with his body. He tackled her and they both tumbled to the deck, landing hard on the wood floor. Her sword fell beside her, with Jack's hat still stuck on it, and he pinned her with his body as he reached for his hat with his left hand. The effort tipped him sideways and she rolled with him, landing on top of his hips in a straddle, her chest pressed against his, her sword still pinned under Jack's body. He reached over his neck with his left arm and plucked his hat off, returning it to his head with a lopsided grin. “Imagined you'd like bein' on top.”

She pulled with all her might on the handle of her sword, but the weight of Jack's body on the sword was too great, and she was forced to either remain sealed to him, the heat of his chest nearly searing her skin, or release her grip on the sword. She slid her right knee along the floor and straightened her leg, the close, sliding contact with his leg unnerving her.

“I'm enjoying this more than you know, Lizzy.”

“Allow me to cure you of that,” she said, punctuating her last word with a well-placed knee to his groin, and he arched his back upward with a howl, freeing her sword. She vaulted to her feet and pointed it at him, even as he struggled to stand up, a dark expression molding his features as he spoke.

“That bloody hurt. A dirty trick - though I suppose I should expect that from you. After all, you're a pirate.” She nicked his neck with her tip as he dove sideways in a roll and faced her again, from a different angle. He touched his fingers to his neck and saw bright red blood on them, the first frisson of fear shooting down into his belly. Elizabeth saw it, too, and her eyes seemed to fixate on the scratch on his neck, the sight inspiring several changes of emotions in her eyes. Jack read them expertly. Surprise. Horror. Fascination.

He lunged with an upward swing for her torso, but she jumped back at the last moment and his sword snagged the bottom few cords of her bodice, slicing them through. The garment spread open a few inches to reveal the white shirt underneath.

“Now why can't it have been the top,” Jack wondered aloud, even as he took more steps to pursue her. She retreated, still blocking high and low, left and right, her steps shuffling lightly along the deck.

The sky was beginning to lighten, Jack saw, the gray eastern sky framing Elizabeth's face. She looked quite beautiful, he noted as they fought. Almost... angelic.

Their swordplay became like a dance, as he moved right and she left, he forward and she back, he low and she high. Each motion perfectly balanced and answered by the other, each move anticipated perfectly. It continued for several minutes, the speed of their attacks growing, the pace of their feet increasing.

“Elizabeth, can't you say 'mercy' and let's be friendly, shall we? Think of't: you... me... moonlight on the ocean - “

She seemed to anger more at this, and made a sloppy block, resulting in Jack's sword sticking right up her middle, and she threw her torso backward and to the side. There was a ripping noise. He'd cut the remaining cords of her bodice.

“Lovely,” he said with a grin, her loose shirt billowing to reveal her shapely curves, the crimson bodice falling to the deck. “See, we can barely keep our clothes on. What say you, let's go back to my cabin and settle this diplomatically.”

With a forceful blow she struck at the hand that held his sword, and to his surprise, it flew from his hand and clattered across the deck. With one wild-eyed glance at Elizabeth, who stood poised to strike, he somersaulted for it, scrambling to grab it before she reached him. His hat flew off his head as he rolled head over heels.

He scuttled across the deck like a crab, and just when he had closed his fingers around the hilt, he felt her weight slam into him, as she tackled him from behind. His sword was knocked an inch farther. He heaved with all his might and grabbed for it. He heard a snick and realized Elizabeth had struck near his ear, a blow which he'd narrowly avoided by leaning toward his sword at the last moment. He closed his fingers around it, yanking it back to his chest, and then his eyes fell upon the deck.

Five long, black locks of his hair lay together, like dead soldiers, upon the deck. His eyebrows lifted, and a sad pout shaped his lips. “That's my hair. You've chopped off my hair. I can't believe it.”

He rolled about a foot to the side, alarmed, clutching his sword for dear life. She was above him, breathing more heavily, her mouth open. She had both arms on either side of him, her sword still in her hand, lying on the deck. Her cheeks were flushed, and she looked vibrant, even happy. She held her face over his, bending down to whisper almost against his lips, “That's not all I'll chop off.” Her breath stroked his lips and beard, and he saw an opportunity to take back the upper hand.

He moved up and kissed her, suddenly, completely and without holding back. He plunged his tongue between her lips, which had parted in either shock or desire, he wasn't sure which, and tasted every recess of her soft mouth, his left hand snaking around her waist to pull her against him, and he was extremely gratified to hear a soft moan escape her throat. She was kissing him back in earnest now, moving that smooth little tongue all over and brushing her soft lips against his moustache.

In what seemed like an instant, he was hard. He knew she could feel it, because she instinctively ground her hips against him, seeking him urgently. He rolled back to his left, pulling her with him, landing on top of her with a satisfied grunt. Her knees came up to squeeze his sides, and he shoved his hand roughly beneath her shirt, his palm sliding over her smooth stomach.

A soft whimper from Elizabeth. As he continued to kiss the life out of her, Jack felt the pounding of his pulse in his ears, and he obeyed its clamoring, sliding his palm higher until his hand closed over a firm, round breast. He was immensely gratified to feel her nipple pressing into his palm. A more pleading whimper reached his ears. He pinched her nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, and obtained the response he wanted: she cried aloud.

But this sound seemed to break her from her reverie. Her eyes shot open and she tore her mouth away from his. He tightened the grip on his sword in his other hand.

With a mighty one-handed shove she pushed him off of her, and he leapt quickly his feet. Her movements seemed drowsy, sluggish, and he barely had time to register this before moving to take action. So she wasn't just playing, he thought, smiling to himself. That's interesting.

She was using her left hand to balance as she swung her ankles together to try to get to her feet. But Jack was faster, bending over to grab her ankles and trip her up. She fell on her knees, and he wasted no time in grabbing for her. She tried to throw her body away from his grasp, but she could not move far enough and he caught her by the hair, yanking her painfully against him.

She was on her knees in front of him, facing away, his hand wrapped in her hair. Where he was pressing her head against his body was no accident, as she felt the steel outline of his erection inside his trousers, digging roughly into her cheek. She moved to raise her sword but he yanked her hair again, and she cried out.

“Now, what was that you were going to cut off? Perhaps you ought to get to know it better, and then you'll come to like it,” he said, lifting his sword up to the back of her neck, right under the hand that held her long, silky hair. “I think I'll cut off all this - “ another sharp tug “ - and make myself something pretty.”

“Don't,” Elizabeth cried, before she could stop herself.

“Why not? No rule against it, far as I know. But if you want to cede, all you've got to do is say the word.”

“Please, don't.”

“Nope, that's not the one,” he chided, and began to saw at the hair at the base of her neck with his sword.

“Stop it!” she begged, the pitch of her voice an anxious cry.

“Say, 'mercy,' and we're all done.” He continued to saw. Several strands broke and came loose in his fist. “Come on, 'mercy'. Let me hear it.”

What he heard was a scream of rage, as she drove her elbow up and back, narrowly missing his groin, but striking his thigh hard enough to cause him to relax his grip for a moment, and she shot out of his grasp and scrambled to raise her sword, facing him with wild, tear-filled eyes.

She's afraid now, Jack noted, as he rubbed his painfully throbbing thigh. Good.
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The Evil Lady E