Dark of the Moon (7/?)
More Dark of the Moon, in which our heroine suffers tragically from mal de mer and Jack. Many thanks to hereswith for editing this, repeatedly. I've commandeered the Black Pearl Sails drabble theme of the week for this one.
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Jack roused just before dawn with an inward groan. What a night.
In wary silence he eased himself from the hammock and stood on the cold sole, staring daggers at the curled, curving, blanket-wrapped bundle of trouble on his cot. Sleeping the sleep of the innocent, she was. Hah!
That she could hardly be blamed for a propensity to seasickness he refused to acknowledge. Thank God she’d only drunk half the tea last night, and had declined his offering of food out of hand.
“Oh! I couldn’t!”
He’d shrugged, impatient at such dramatics. “Shall I help you with your things? Your corset an’ all. You can sleep in your shift.” He’d mostly kept his leer at bay as he’d made this magnanimous offer -- wasn’t as though he’d really take advantage of the situation -- but she acted as if he’d made some lewd suggestion.
“No,” she said, bluntly. “I shall sleep in my clothes.”
“You’re going to wear those all day an’ all night?”
She seemed daunted for a moment, then defiant. “Yes.”
Exasperated, he’d sworn under his breath and said aloud, “Suit yourself.”
Which was all well and good until a couple of hours later, when the Pearl was rocking more vigorously and he woke to the sound of frenzied bumping and scraping, followed by moans, and then a horrid retching. Damnation! He rose, groggily, and fumbled with the lantern, getting it lit by the time she was finished and reduced to tearful whimpering.
“Bloody hell! What the devil?” She was sitting on the sole, face dead white, hair all ends, and a good bit of the sleeve of her wrinkled gray gown damp and stained where she’d missed the chamber pot.
“I’m s-sorry!” she gasped, in great distress. “I… the tea. And… and the waves!”
And the corset! He set his teeth, quite furious with God and the wretched girl, both. He went to her. “Get up!” he growled, compelling her with a firm grip on her arm.
“Ow! Oh! Oh! What are you d-doing? L-let me g-go!”
“You’re getting out of those clothes -- that corset --- now!”
“No!” she sobbed as he turned her about and undid the ribbon lacing of her dress, but, whether from weakness or fear, she made no other objection.
When the dress was untied he pulled it from her shoulders. “Take it off while I do the corset,” he commanded. Quivering with misery, she slowly obeyed while he unlaced the constricting undergarment. He placed no faith in her continued cooperation and launched into a muttered scold designed to badger her into compliance. It worked like a charm. She shoved the dress down her arms and over her hips; he removed the tortuous corset himself, grimly noting her evident relief; and finally he even got her shift off (the rejected tea having soaked through that as well), leaving her in naught but her lace-trimmed drawers and gartered stockings.
She’d wept throughout, of course, but hadn’t resisted much, and now stood gulping and shuddering, trying to shield her slight breasts from his gaze. A truly pitiful sight, she was. Though his intentions were of the purest (or nearly), he felt ashamed, and it made him angry. “Stay there,” he snapped. She nodded, snuffling dejectedly as he fetched a shirt and handkerchief from his chest, and soaked a rag in fresh water.
She did not meet his eyes as he cleaned her up. “Right. Put this on.” He pressed the shirt into her hands, and she took it and turned away, trembling as she struggled with it. He freshened the rag, then helped her with the shirt and pulled her ‘round to face him again. “Look at me.”
She raised swimming eyes to his, her mouth skewed, tragic. But there was a little color in her cheeks at least. He wiped the tears from them with the damp, cool rag, eyeing her narrowly. “Going to be sick again?”
“N-no. I don’t think so.” She pressed her lips together, and her gaze fell away. She sniffed, wetly.
He gave her the handkerchief and while she blew her nose he tidied up, tossing the soiled clothing into a corner and shoving the chamber pot back under his cot. Then he straightened again. “All right. No more of this. We’re going to get some shut-eye, you an’ me.”
She nodded.
“Good. Off to bed, then. Move!”
She scurried, as though afraid he’d smack her (which, he had to admit, was a tempting thought: she’d a nicely rounded arse in spite of being on the thin side). There was a bit more subdued weeping as she squirmed about, struggling to bury herself under the tatty blanket. But she had the handkerchief, still, and was quieting even as he snuffed the lamp and settled himself in the hammock again.
“Good night, Mrs. Granger,” he said, with pointed formality.
“G-good night, Mr. S-sparrow.”
Three hours ago, maybe. Jack grimaced, looking at her now, face all flushed and peaceful with sleep. Silly chit.
He dressed, half hoping she’d wake while he was doing so, just for the fun of shocking her. Got out his little mirror and touched up his eye blacking. Then stood, and with a last, almost disbelieving glance at his exceedingly inconvenient guest, went out to greet the new day.
*
TBC
1 - 2 - 3 - 4 - 5 - 6 -
Jack roused just before dawn with an inward groan. What a night.
In wary silence he eased himself from the hammock and stood on the cold sole, staring daggers at the curled, curving, blanket-wrapped bundle of trouble on his cot. Sleeping the sleep of the innocent, she was. Hah!
That she could hardly be blamed for a propensity to seasickness he refused to acknowledge. Thank God she’d only drunk half the tea last night, and had declined his offering of food out of hand.
“Oh! I couldn’t!”
He’d shrugged, impatient at such dramatics. “Shall I help you with your things? Your corset an’ all. You can sleep in your shift.” He’d mostly kept his leer at bay as he’d made this magnanimous offer -- wasn’t as though he’d really take advantage of the situation -- but she acted as if he’d made some lewd suggestion.
“No,” she said, bluntly. “I shall sleep in my clothes.”
“You’re going to wear those all day an’ all night?”
She seemed daunted for a moment, then defiant. “Yes.”
Exasperated, he’d sworn under his breath and said aloud, “Suit yourself.”
Which was all well and good until a couple of hours later, when the Pearl was rocking more vigorously and he woke to the sound of frenzied bumping and scraping, followed by moans, and then a horrid retching. Damnation! He rose, groggily, and fumbled with the lantern, getting it lit by the time she was finished and reduced to tearful whimpering.
“Bloody hell! What the devil?” She was sitting on the sole, face dead white, hair all ends, and a good bit of the sleeve of her wrinkled gray gown damp and stained where she’d missed the chamber pot.
“I’m s-sorry!” she gasped, in great distress. “I… the tea. And… and the waves!”
And the corset! He set his teeth, quite furious with God and the wretched girl, both. He went to her. “Get up!” he growled, compelling her with a firm grip on her arm.
“Ow! Oh! Oh! What are you d-doing? L-let me g-go!”
“You’re getting out of those clothes -- that corset --- now!”
“No!” she sobbed as he turned her about and undid the ribbon lacing of her dress, but, whether from weakness or fear, she made no other objection.
When the dress was untied he pulled it from her shoulders. “Take it off while I do the corset,” he commanded. Quivering with misery, she slowly obeyed while he unlaced the constricting undergarment. He placed no faith in her continued cooperation and launched into a muttered scold designed to badger her into compliance. It worked like a charm. She shoved the dress down her arms and over her hips; he removed the tortuous corset himself, grimly noting her evident relief; and finally he even got her shift off (the rejected tea having soaked through that as well), leaving her in naught but her lace-trimmed drawers and gartered stockings.
She’d wept throughout, of course, but hadn’t resisted much, and now stood gulping and shuddering, trying to shield her slight breasts from his gaze. A truly pitiful sight, she was. Though his intentions were of the purest (or nearly), he felt ashamed, and it made him angry. “Stay there,” he snapped. She nodded, snuffling dejectedly as he fetched a shirt and handkerchief from his chest, and soaked a rag in fresh water.
She did not meet his eyes as he cleaned her up. “Right. Put this on.” He pressed the shirt into her hands, and she took it and turned away, trembling as she struggled with it. He freshened the rag, then helped her with the shirt and pulled her ‘round to face him again. “Look at me.”
She raised swimming eyes to his, her mouth skewed, tragic. But there was a little color in her cheeks at least. He wiped the tears from them with the damp, cool rag, eyeing her narrowly. “Going to be sick again?”
“N-no. I don’t think so.” She pressed her lips together, and her gaze fell away. She sniffed, wetly.
He gave her the handkerchief and while she blew her nose he tidied up, tossing the soiled clothing into a corner and shoving the chamber pot back under his cot. Then he straightened again. “All right. No more of this. We’re going to get some shut-eye, you an’ me.”
She nodded.
“Good. Off to bed, then. Move!”
She scurried, as though afraid he’d smack her (which, he had to admit, was a tempting thought: she’d a nicely rounded arse in spite of being on the thin side). There was a bit more subdued weeping as she squirmed about, struggling to bury herself under the tatty blanket. But she had the handkerchief, still, and was quieting even as he snuffed the lamp and settled himself in the hammock again.
“Good night, Mrs. Granger,” he said, with pointed formality.
“G-good night, Mr. S-sparrow.”
Three hours ago, maybe. Jack grimaced, looking at her now, face all flushed and peaceful with sleep. Silly chit.
He dressed, half hoping she’d wake while he was doing so, just for the fun of shocking her. Got out his little mirror and touched up his eye blacking. Then stood, and with a last, almost disbelieving glance at his exceedingly inconvenient guest, went out to greet the new day.
*
TBC