The Last Rose of Summer: Parts IV - VI
IV
It was not long after that Messrs Murtogg and Mullroy, newly of the Black Pearl, wandered into the Lamb and Flag. Ragetti had offered Giselle his arm and she had taken it, leaving the two to their own devices. Certainly, the pretty blonde whore had made some sort of insinuation that they were welcome to join them, but that was not yet something to which the two formerly upright navy men were quite ready for.
Indeed, Tortuga was not something they were entirely prepared for either. The chaos of sights and sounds sent their heads reeling, much aided by generous quantities of very strong rum and aqua vitae, and though they had seen many attractive whores, they had yet to muster courage to approach one. Even the whores of Tortuga seemed different to those of other ports - wilder somehow, brighter, their accentuated curves, scarlet lips and coiling hair seeming to spring straight from an oil canvas depicting some sort of mythological sirens.
Of course there was also the fact that selecting a companion for the evening might mean they would have to part ways until they boarded again, and what with all the recent disruptions, upheavals and adjustments to their lives, they weren’t quite ready to do that either.
But looking was another thing entirely, and the two friends indulged in the most slavish ogling, staring quite agog at the orgy of revealed flesh and painted faces that dotted the crowd occupying the tavern.
“Oy!” Murtogg nudged his friend and gestured before them. “Look!”
Thinking he must be indicating some particularly lovely strumpet, Mullroy eagerly followed his friend’s gaze, then grimaced and turned to Murtogg with some alarm. Murtogg nodded with a daft grin.
“Is the Capt’n. Well - one of ‘em.”
“I can see that!” Mullroy responded tersely, then gave his head a brief shake. Murtogg looked merely confused.
It seemed Barbossa had not found the woman he wanted in the Duck and Swan. He searched the crowds with a look of peculiar concentration upon his features, brows knitting together slightly. His gaze fell upon the two fresh pirates and they both snapped to attention, Murtogg offering him a grin with his salute. Barbossa regarded them with a cocked brow for a half a moment before extending a hand and gesturing that they should approach him with a flick of his fingers.
They hastened to comply, still used to the regiment of the navy in which one’s superiors were never off-duty and certainly unused to the rules of piracy, in which all men were ultimately free.
“Gents,” He addressed them. “I have a need to find a particular woman, a bawdy wench whose company I much enjoy. It occurs to me this would be accomplished far quicker - “
A woman’s laugh burbled up above the din and the crowd, arresting Barbossa mid-sentence, his expression registering startlement. He whirled about in the direction of the sound and for a moment the close-packed bodies of the crowd parted, giving them a clear line of sight to the bar and she who had emitted the laughter, not ten feet from them.
The whore was no bigger than a child, though she had the face and body of a woman. She sat perched upon the bar, one leg crossed over the other with her skirt hitched all the way up to her thigh, a garter embroidered with red beads displayed there. Coppery red hair tumbled all the way down to her waist in unruly curls, coiling over her shoulders to tickle the cleavage exposed by her much adjusted purple dress. She grasped a near empty bottle in one hand and the other was pressed upon her belly for she was convulsed with laughter by something her companion, a young well-muscled fellow, was saying to her. Though she had obviously seen younger days, she was still a beautiful woman with a gentle good nature in her eye and an air of spiritedness about her.
But it seemed that she was not what Barbossa sought either for though he looked upon her with savage intent for a long moment, he turned quickly to the bar and rapped upon it for the publican’s attention.
The whore slugged back the last of her gin greedily, swallowing around the last of her giggles, then gave her companion a friendly shove.
“You right bloody devil!” she accused him cheerfully, to which he threw up his hands as though acceding and then grasped her about the hips. The whore brandished her bottle to the fellow and smiled at him in a charming fashion.
“Fetch us another drink, won’t you darlin’?” she cooed, but before the fellow could respond, a bottle was slammed down upon the bar by her elbow so that she jumped and turned to stare at it, and the hand that grasped its neck. It was a hand that had clearly seen many rough years, its knuckles blistered red by the elements, its flesh patched and worn over and the nails long and cracked. Despite its roughness it was a large, fine hand with long, tapering fingers that curled almost delicately around the bottle neck, one adorned by a large ring bearing the snarling face of a lion. The whore seemed transfixed by the sight of it, her face paling beneath its dusting of powder, her reddened bottom lip dropping open a little as her eyes ran from the hand up its arm, where the frills of a linen shirt fell about the wrist; up the beaten leather jacket to the shoulder where a small, mischievous looking monkey perched; to the face, which was fixed with a strange and smug little smile upon her though his eyes were carefully masked. The bottle she held slipped from her fingertips to thunk loudly upon the bar, where it bounced and fell to the ground below, shattering and spraying glass upon the boots of the whore’s companion. It wasn’t until the great exhalation escape from her throat that it became clear she had been holding her breath and her eyes were suddenly very bright in the smoky din of that tavern.
Barbossa’s smile grew a little wider as the whore’s companion drew back a little, staring at the two curiously. Her eyes flickered frantically over Barbossa’s face as though she scarcely dared believe he was there, her lip trembling.
Then suddenly, she snapped her expression into one of pert insouciance and she grabbed hold of the fresh bottle of gin and tipped her neck back to drink of it in great, thirsty gulps. Barbossa stood still and watched her, one eyebrow edging up a little, lips still twisted in that calm little smirk.
When she was finished, the whore wiped her mouth with the back of one trembling hand and sniffed.
“’Eard you was dead.” Her tone was indifferent, but her eyes were still bright and Barbossa’s smile widened again, showing teeth now, and he clucked his tongue at her.
“Oh now, it ain’t so easy to be rid of me as all that.” He purred and the monkey upon his shoulder sat up and let out a chattering. The whore lifted the gin bottle as though to toast him.
“Leastways you ‘aven’t forgotten your manners at any rate.” And took another hard swig.
When she withdrew the bottle from her lips, it could be seen that the tremble had taken her over completely and she lifted fearful eyes to the pirate captain, who stood by and waited patiently.
“You ain’t - you ain’t a dream - are you?” She whispered and Barbossa chuckled and stepped forward, lifting an arm to run a long finger down her cheek so that her breath caught and she shivered.
“Nay, wench.” He rumbled. “I be flesh and blood, the very same which warmed ye so many nights for so many years.”
And he let his hand drop from her cheek to her wrist, steadying it before she could let another bottle fall, his fingers closing around hers.
“Thank ‘eavens for that!” The whore murmured, swaying where she sat. “You can catch me.” And quite abruptly she keeled over in a faint, crumpling forward towards the pirate who caught her up in his arms.
V
When Evie came around, the first thing she became aware of was the din and clamour of the tavern about her and she suppositioned she had drunk overmuch and was fixed by a fainting spell. Hoping she had not been robbed whilst unconscious, she sat up abruptly with a strangled gasp and found herself arrested by two strong arms.
She shook her head to clear it. She was no longer at the bar, but in a corner of the tavern lit only by two dull tallow candles and almost certainly upon the knee of he who held her. Some rum bastard trying for a free poke! Furious, she gave a shout and tried again to wrest free, twisting around to face the scoundrel.
Then it all came back to her as she saw his face. Barbossa - Barbossa, breathing, smiling, speaking, standing before her at the bar with a bottle of gin. Stroking her cheek, grasping her hand. And it was he who held her now, firm in his grasp, his expression still but gentle.
A hundred confused thoughts jumbled their way through her head - he was alive, but how? Was he a spirit? Was she dead, knocked over by some cutthroat? Was this some strangely awful dream she was trapped within?
So tangled did her thoughts become that they caught in her throat and she could not speak, could not say even a word, just moaned in a low, aching sound as she lifted a hand to the pirate’s cheek, feeling the beaten skin rough beneath her finger tips, the curls of his beard scratching her palm.
He cradled her in his arms, a smile slowly forming on his mouth as he looked down at her with a calm and thoughtful gaze, until finally, all the questions quieted themselves and she merely succumbed to it. Let it be a dream then, or a torture, or even her death - if it meant that her Captain held her up with an arm about her shoulders, that the briny, musky smell of him filled the air about her, that her head rested upon his chest - then she would take it.
He lifted his free hand to touch her face, his eyes flickering gently over her, then snapped his fingers suddenly to the two men Evie only then became aware of, standing by one with a bottle in his hands and the other with a glass and both of them rather resembling stunned mullets. Hastily, a drink as poured for her and Barbossa delivered it to her trembling hands and she drank of it gratefully.
“It would seem time has worked a cruel trick on yer nerves, Missy.” He murmured to her and she coughed and sat up a little straighter.
“Well, it’s not every day I get the fright of me life.” She said defensively and he chuckled, taking the glass from her and placing it upon the nearby table.
“P’raps t’would be best for ye if I escorted ye to a place where ye might be able to more properly rest them.” And he ran a finger down her throat and dipped down where her breasts met.
Evie had not blushed for many a year, but she flushed hot then.
VI
They walked in silence through the streets to the Maison Rouge Though his arm was about her and the feel of him solid and tall beside her was as it had ever been; though he had not, so far as she could see, changed in any real way - his manner and speech, his regal bearing, sharp humour and cunning eyes - even the infernal monkey! - were all as before - yet she felt strangely as though she walked beside a stranger and it made her shy.
She let them into her room, dark and cool and his hand on the back of her neck was heavy, causing a strange twist in her belly. The monkey leapt from his shoulder and disappeared - silently, for once - to a corner of the room. Barbossa strode forward, looking about him with a strange smile as she hastened to light candles.
“Has so many years passed?” He ruminated softly and she understood how he felt. She moved to the sideboard to pour them both a drink, not quite daring to look at him, wondering with sudden panic if he might disappear if she did not.
He came over to where she stood, running one hand into her hair, the other pushing her dress from her shoulders so that the swell of her bosom was exposed to the candlelight. She shivered at his touch, shutting her eyes for a moment. How well she knew these hands - how she had not expected to feel them caress her again! She thought for a moment she might faint again.
“Beautiful Evangeline, how you have blossomed.” He smiled and there was strong feeling in his voice. Evie felt herself blush, a warmth that spread down her neck and she ducked her head, for she knew she was a woman of thirty-three, and looked it.
“Showin’ my age a bit.” She managed to reply and Barbossa shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“It suits you.”
Evie cocked her head to the side and gazed up at him. “So you think I’m beautiful then?”
Barbossa half-shrugged and queried her with a chuckle: “What purpose would I have had in visitin’ a docks whore were she otherwise?”
Evie’s gaze softened and her voice dropped low. “You never said it. Thirteen years and you never once said it.” And they both knew she was not speaking of flattery.
“Aye,” Barbossa agreed, “but I kept comin’ back. Why so pressin’ a need to hear it now?”
It was Evie’s turn to shrug and she turned her face away from his.
“I turned thirty-three this year.”
Barbossa lifted the hand from her shoulder to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking a line down the curve of it. “They have been kind to ye.” And he spoke with gentle reassurance.
Evie’s eyes grew brighter in the candle-glow and the merest twinge touched her lips as she returned her gaze upwards into the Captain’s composed face.
“I missed you.” She confessed and Barbossa dropped both hands to her shoulders, squeezing them tight.
“Don’t be growin’ sentimental on me wench, now.”
And Evie sniffed and tossed her hair back over her shoulder, recovering herself with a greater effort than she let on.
“I’m not. Spare a thought for all the shrivelled pricks I’ve ‘ad to deal with these last years. It’s only natural I’d miss you.”
A smile spread up Barbossa’s face then, gentle and shadowed with secrets long kept. His grip on Evie’s shoulders tightened and his eyes held hers firm as he spoke his next words with quiet deliberation:
“I have felt yer absence.”
Evie’s smile was beautiful in its openness, perfect joy represented there for one bright moment, but then it wavered and her eyes filled with tears once more and this time they spilled down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms about Barbossa’s waist and wept into his chest.
“Are you a dream? Are you ‘ere? Truly?”
Barbossa sighed and lifted his hands to stroke her hair, shushing her with a noise that seemed to want to be soothing but caught itself on the way out and so rasped: “Shh, shh.”
“If you knew,” Evie continued to sob. “’Ow it felt to ‘ear you was gone… after all those lost years.“ And she clung tighter to him.
“Now, now, to what purpose ye be sheddin’ such tears, quiet them wench.” And though his words were harsh, his manner was tender, one hand dropping to push back her hair, caress her face, the other falling to the small of her back to press her firmer against him. “If such long bein’ denied my touch has brought so much woe to ye, why do ye not rejoice now and confirm for yeself that I be truly here, in flesh and blood, and all too willin’ to enjoy yer affections?”
Evie blinked through her tears and gazed up at him, wondering. And as she looked into his face, aged and yet no older than it had been twelve years before, she saw it. Saw it in the spark that enlivened his eye, and in the brightness of his countenance - he was truly returned, restored and whole, as he had been the first time he had come to her. And a little gasp choked her throat and she raised her hands to his face, feeling a swell of elation sweep through her as his head lowered and their lips met.
To feel the warmth of his mouth, the probe of his tongue, was heaven. She slumped against him, fingers smoothing the stubble that roughened his cheek, pushing back into his loose hair, running over his ears to the back of his neck where the muscles were taut, delighting in each sensation. She shivered as his mouth opened wider against hers, his beard scratching her chin, feeling such a delicious intoxication from the kiss that she thought she might swoon.
All the restraint he had been showing to that point was abandoned. The intensity of his kiss now stole her breath away as he grasped her hard in his arms, lifting her so that her toes dangled against the floorboards. She struggled to match his savagery, which seemed only to spur him further on. He tore at her clothing, fingertips fumbling with the fastenings of her bodice, finally wrenching it apart so that she heard the rip of the fabric and felt it give. Hs mouth savaged a path across her jaw, down her neck and over onto her bared breasts, bending her so far over backwards that she had to grasp tight to his shoulders to keep herself steady. But he would have no resistance and tipped her feet out from under her, sweeping her up and into his arms and throwing her upon the bed where she rocked dizzyingly, pausing long enough only to tear off his vest and loose his belt before bearing down upon her once more.
She realised quickly she could not possibly hope to keep pace with his fervour and so surrendered herself to him wholly, allowing him to do with her as he willed. He stripped her bare of every shred of clothing, hands ravishing her body fervently. To feel him take such control of her after so long absent of him was to feel her soul bloom with pleasure and a sense that all was now right with the world. She could not bear to shut her eyes and so lose sight of him, but kept them open, feasting hungrily on every twinge of emotion that sparked upon his features. And his face was alive and ever in motion with them. Beneath the tempest of his desire she could but lay back and be swept away, feeling herself crash back against the mattress and pillows like debris on the rocks. Within she swelled with delight, with sheer ecstatic contentment. She became aware that she was weeping again, tears of joy that streaked her cheeks with kohl, and Hector’s thumbs swept her cheeks violently to wipe them away as his cock found her warm entrance and pushed within, his lip quivering as she stretched then tightened around him.
It was as days of old, and yet entirely new. He was rough and forceful and she responded favourably to it, mewling against his neck and chin with pleasure, relishing the way he grasped her hips the harder to drive into them and bruised her mouth with his. She gripped his shoulders, dragged her nails down his back, dug them into his buttocks. She felt herself slick and accommodating within as she had not been for many years, felt her scarred insides become malleable to his cock, the old vibrations of pleasure thunder through her. His weight was crushing against her breast and he drove against her relentlessly, yet devoid of the cruelty and fury that had so defined his cursed years.
She had thought that this first time of their rejoining would be over with quite quickly, but he steadied himself valiantly, scooping one arm beneath one of her legs and pushing it up high so that the curls of his nether hair might scrape deliciously against the spot of her greatest pleasure, his mouth moving from her lips, which he kissed tenderly, to her nipples, which he nipped and dogged so that it was not long at all before she felt the final ecstasy rise within her, gathering in strength and force until finally it erupted it molten waves, bidding her quim to bite down hard on his cock again and again.
It was not long after that his own pleasure ascended, then ebbed, with a furious groan that seemed to tear from his throat like a dog’s howl.
They lay together, still joined, for many long and quiet moments afterwards in the still semi-darkness of her room. Even the monkey seemed to respect this moment and remained quiet in whatever corner he had sequestered himself in, for which Evie was grateful, as she stroked Barbossa’s shoulders and back, feeling the warmth of his breath against her neck. So still, and so quiet, that she became aware of the thud of his heart hard against her breast, and wanted to weep and scream.
Instead she turned her face inwards, into the spot where his ear met his neck, and nuzzled there, breathing deep of the brine and sweat that was his cologne.
After a time, he rolled off her and she sighed with a loss of it and out of habit checked to see if the great wetness she felt below was blood. Bessie had cautioned her that so long as she took care not to overwork her cunny too much and to keep it moist and wet when she did, bleeding would become less and less. But she always needed money and did not always remember to rub a biter’s prick with grease before they went about the business. She had almost grown used to the wretched cramps in her loins and the reddish smear on her thighs.
But there was no blood there, not this time. She had been slick with her own juices when he entered her and his spendings were now all that added to that wetness. She felt a giddying relief and a joy that she functioned still as a woman should, for the only thing that could equal his dying was for him to return and find her dried up and sour as a lemon.
But a woman she was still, as fragrant and luscious as a ripe peach, he told her soon, lifting his head from between her thighs. Indeed, richer even than in the bloom of her youth, he claimed and she had laughed and slapped at his shoulders, but revelled in the flattery. It was indeed a balm to the sting of her advancing years, made all the sharper when he noted the jar of henna on her dresser when he moved to retrieve his pipe. Her hair had recently acquired several grey streaks amongst its rich ochre hue, but she told him that she occasionally dyed her hands and feet with it, or marked patterns upon her face and breasts, to improve her exoticism and draw attention away from the lines of age that had begun to crease their unrelenting path upon her features.
He enjoyed the dips and curves of her body more languidly as the evening unfolded, though she sensed in him still a keen hunger, though not so savage as she might’ve expected for one so long denied.
“I take it Tortuga was not your first port o’call upon your recovery, then?” she said with studied nonchalance, after he had filled her in briefly upon the details of his resurrection as they languished together on the bed in a looping arrangement, his face level with her rounded belly, his hand upon her hip and her feet twining about his knees.
He glanced up at her sharply, understanding her meaning immediately.
“Nay,” he surrendered and kissed the round of her hip. “Ye were not.” His answer was far more direct than her question had been and she could but shrug and roll over onto her back, stretching against the worn fabric of her coverlet. Well, she could hardly have expected to be his first - not when he had so long been waiting for satisfaction!
So it was that his next words thundered through her with the force of a cannon, leaving her limp and breathless on the old lumpy mattress.
“But it was of ye my first such thoughts turned to.”
Above her the dark red velvet curtains of her canopy blurred and she reminded herself she was a woman of three and thirty now and too old for sentiment. So instead she pushed herself into a sitting position, feeling the hairs that curled about her ears wet, and offered to fetch him his supper.
It was not long after that Messrs Murtogg and Mullroy, newly of the Black Pearl, wandered into the Lamb and Flag. Ragetti had offered Giselle his arm and she had taken it, leaving the two to their own devices. Certainly, the pretty blonde whore had made some sort of insinuation that they were welcome to join them, but that was not yet something to which the two formerly upright navy men were quite ready for.
Indeed, Tortuga was not something they were entirely prepared for either. The chaos of sights and sounds sent their heads reeling, much aided by generous quantities of very strong rum and aqua vitae, and though they had seen many attractive whores, they had yet to muster courage to approach one. Even the whores of Tortuga seemed different to those of other ports - wilder somehow, brighter, their accentuated curves, scarlet lips and coiling hair seeming to spring straight from an oil canvas depicting some sort of mythological sirens.
Of course there was also the fact that selecting a companion for the evening might mean they would have to part ways until they boarded again, and what with all the recent disruptions, upheavals and adjustments to their lives, they weren’t quite ready to do that either.
But looking was another thing entirely, and the two friends indulged in the most slavish ogling, staring quite agog at the orgy of revealed flesh and painted faces that dotted the crowd occupying the tavern.
“Oy!” Murtogg nudged his friend and gestured before them. “Look!”
Thinking he must be indicating some particularly lovely strumpet, Mullroy eagerly followed his friend’s gaze, then grimaced and turned to Murtogg with some alarm. Murtogg nodded with a daft grin.
“Is the Capt’n. Well - one of ‘em.”
“I can see that!” Mullroy responded tersely, then gave his head a brief shake. Murtogg looked merely confused.
It seemed Barbossa had not found the woman he wanted in the Duck and Swan. He searched the crowds with a look of peculiar concentration upon his features, brows knitting together slightly. His gaze fell upon the two fresh pirates and they both snapped to attention, Murtogg offering him a grin with his salute. Barbossa regarded them with a cocked brow for a half a moment before extending a hand and gesturing that they should approach him with a flick of his fingers.
They hastened to comply, still used to the regiment of the navy in which one’s superiors were never off-duty and certainly unused to the rules of piracy, in which all men were ultimately free.
“Gents,” He addressed them. “I have a need to find a particular woman, a bawdy wench whose company I much enjoy. It occurs to me this would be accomplished far quicker - “
A woman’s laugh burbled up above the din and the crowd, arresting Barbossa mid-sentence, his expression registering startlement. He whirled about in the direction of the sound and for a moment the close-packed bodies of the crowd parted, giving them a clear line of sight to the bar and she who had emitted the laughter, not ten feet from them.
The whore was no bigger than a child, though she had the face and body of a woman. She sat perched upon the bar, one leg crossed over the other with her skirt hitched all the way up to her thigh, a garter embroidered with red beads displayed there. Coppery red hair tumbled all the way down to her waist in unruly curls, coiling over her shoulders to tickle the cleavage exposed by her much adjusted purple dress. She grasped a near empty bottle in one hand and the other was pressed upon her belly for she was convulsed with laughter by something her companion, a young well-muscled fellow, was saying to her. Though she had obviously seen younger days, she was still a beautiful woman with a gentle good nature in her eye and an air of spiritedness about her.
But it seemed that she was not what Barbossa sought either for though he looked upon her with savage intent for a long moment, he turned quickly to the bar and rapped upon it for the publican’s attention.
The whore slugged back the last of her gin greedily, swallowing around the last of her giggles, then gave her companion a friendly shove.
“You right bloody devil!” she accused him cheerfully, to which he threw up his hands as though acceding and then grasped her about the hips. The whore brandished her bottle to the fellow and smiled at him in a charming fashion.
“Fetch us another drink, won’t you darlin’?” she cooed, but before the fellow could respond, a bottle was slammed down upon the bar by her elbow so that she jumped and turned to stare at it, and the hand that grasped its neck. It was a hand that had clearly seen many rough years, its knuckles blistered red by the elements, its flesh patched and worn over and the nails long and cracked. Despite its roughness it was a large, fine hand with long, tapering fingers that curled almost delicately around the bottle neck, one adorned by a large ring bearing the snarling face of a lion. The whore seemed transfixed by the sight of it, her face paling beneath its dusting of powder, her reddened bottom lip dropping open a little as her eyes ran from the hand up its arm, where the frills of a linen shirt fell about the wrist; up the beaten leather jacket to the shoulder where a small, mischievous looking monkey perched; to the face, which was fixed with a strange and smug little smile upon her though his eyes were carefully masked. The bottle she held slipped from her fingertips to thunk loudly upon the bar, where it bounced and fell to the ground below, shattering and spraying glass upon the boots of the whore’s companion. It wasn’t until the great exhalation escape from her throat that it became clear she had been holding her breath and her eyes were suddenly very bright in the smoky din of that tavern.
Barbossa’s smile grew a little wider as the whore’s companion drew back a little, staring at the two curiously. Her eyes flickered frantically over Barbossa’s face as though she scarcely dared believe he was there, her lip trembling.
Then suddenly, she snapped her expression into one of pert insouciance and she grabbed hold of the fresh bottle of gin and tipped her neck back to drink of it in great, thirsty gulps. Barbossa stood still and watched her, one eyebrow edging up a little, lips still twisted in that calm little smirk.
When she was finished, the whore wiped her mouth with the back of one trembling hand and sniffed.
“’Eard you was dead.” Her tone was indifferent, but her eyes were still bright and Barbossa’s smile widened again, showing teeth now, and he clucked his tongue at her.
“Oh now, it ain’t so easy to be rid of me as all that.” He purred and the monkey upon his shoulder sat up and let out a chattering. The whore lifted the gin bottle as though to toast him.
“Leastways you ‘aven’t forgotten your manners at any rate.” And took another hard swig.
When she withdrew the bottle from her lips, it could be seen that the tremble had taken her over completely and she lifted fearful eyes to the pirate captain, who stood by and waited patiently.
“You ain’t - you ain’t a dream - are you?” She whispered and Barbossa chuckled and stepped forward, lifting an arm to run a long finger down her cheek so that her breath caught and she shivered.
“Nay, wench.” He rumbled. “I be flesh and blood, the very same which warmed ye so many nights for so many years.”
And he let his hand drop from her cheek to her wrist, steadying it before she could let another bottle fall, his fingers closing around hers.
“Thank ‘eavens for that!” The whore murmured, swaying where she sat. “You can catch me.” And quite abruptly she keeled over in a faint, crumpling forward towards the pirate who caught her up in his arms.
V
When Evie came around, the first thing she became aware of was the din and clamour of the tavern about her and she suppositioned she had drunk overmuch and was fixed by a fainting spell. Hoping she had not been robbed whilst unconscious, she sat up abruptly with a strangled gasp and found herself arrested by two strong arms.
She shook her head to clear it. She was no longer at the bar, but in a corner of the tavern lit only by two dull tallow candles and almost certainly upon the knee of he who held her. Some rum bastard trying for a free poke! Furious, she gave a shout and tried again to wrest free, twisting around to face the scoundrel.
Then it all came back to her as she saw his face. Barbossa - Barbossa, breathing, smiling, speaking, standing before her at the bar with a bottle of gin. Stroking her cheek, grasping her hand. And it was he who held her now, firm in his grasp, his expression still but gentle.
A hundred confused thoughts jumbled their way through her head - he was alive, but how? Was he a spirit? Was she dead, knocked over by some cutthroat? Was this some strangely awful dream she was trapped within?
So tangled did her thoughts become that they caught in her throat and she could not speak, could not say even a word, just moaned in a low, aching sound as she lifted a hand to the pirate’s cheek, feeling the beaten skin rough beneath her finger tips, the curls of his beard scratching her palm.
He cradled her in his arms, a smile slowly forming on his mouth as he looked down at her with a calm and thoughtful gaze, until finally, all the questions quieted themselves and she merely succumbed to it. Let it be a dream then, or a torture, or even her death - if it meant that her Captain held her up with an arm about her shoulders, that the briny, musky smell of him filled the air about her, that her head rested upon his chest - then she would take it.
He lifted his free hand to touch her face, his eyes flickering gently over her, then snapped his fingers suddenly to the two men Evie only then became aware of, standing by one with a bottle in his hands and the other with a glass and both of them rather resembling stunned mullets. Hastily, a drink as poured for her and Barbossa delivered it to her trembling hands and she drank of it gratefully.
“It would seem time has worked a cruel trick on yer nerves, Missy.” He murmured to her and she coughed and sat up a little straighter.
“Well, it’s not every day I get the fright of me life.” She said defensively and he chuckled, taking the glass from her and placing it upon the nearby table.
“P’raps t’would be best for ye if I escorted ye to a place where ye might be able to more properly rest them.” And he ran a finger down her throat and dipped down where her breasts met.
Evie had not blushed for many a year, but she flushed hot then.
VI
They walked in silence through the streets to the Maison Rouge Though his arm was about her and the feel of him solid and tall beside her was as it had ever been; though he had not, so far as she could see, changed in any real way - his manner and speech, his regal bearing, sharp humour and cunning eyes - even the infernal monkey! - were all as before - yet she felt strangely as though she walked beside a stranger and it made her shy.
She let them into her room, dark and cool and his hand on the back of her neck was heavy, causing a strange twist in her belly. The monkey leapt from his shoulder and disappeared - silently, for once - to a corner of the room. Barbossa strode forward, looking about him with a strange smile as she hastened to light candles.
“Has so many years passed?” He ruminated softly and she understood how he felt. She moved to the sideboard to pour them both a drink, not quite daring to look at him, wondering with sudden panic if he might disappear if she did not.
He came over to where she stood, running one hand into her hair, the other pushing her dress from her shoulders so that the swell of her bosom was exposed to the candlelight. She shivered at his touch, shutting her eyes for a moment. How well she knew these hands - how she had not expected to feel them caress her again! She thought for a moment she might faint again.
“Beautiful Evangeline, how you have blossomed.” He smiled and there was strong feeling in his voice. Evie felt herself blush, a warmth that spread down her neck and she ducked her head, for she knew she was a woman of thirty-three, and looked it.
“Showin’ my age a bit.” She managed to reply and Barbossa shook his head and clicked his tongue.
“It suits you.”
Evie cocked her head to the side and gazed up at him. “So you think I’m beautiful then?”
Barbossa half-shrugged and queried her with a chuckle: “What purpose would I have had in visitin’ a docks whore were she otherwise?”
Evie’s gaze softened and her voice dropped low. “You never said it. Thirteen years and you never once said it.” And they both knew she was not speaking of flattery.
“Aye,” Barbossa agreed, “but I kept comin’ back. Why so pressin’ a need to hear it now?”
It was Evie’s turn to shrug and she turned her face away from his.
“I turned thirty-three this year.”
Barbossa lifted the hand from her shoulder to cup her cheek, his thumb stroking a line down the curve of it. “They have been kind to ye.” And he spoke with gentle reassurance.
Evie’s eyes grew brighter in the candle-glow and the merest twinge touched her lips as she returned her gaze upwards into the Captain’s composed face.
“I missed you.” She confessed and Barbossa dropped both hands to her shoulders, squeezing them tight.
“Don’t be growin’ sentimental on me wench, now.”
And Evie sniffed and tossed her hair back over her shoulder, recovering herself with a greater effort than she let on.
“I’m not. Spare a thought for all the shrivelled pricks I’ve ‘ad to deal with these last years. It’s only natural I’d miss you.”
A smile spread up Barbossa’s face then, gentle and shadowed with secrets long kept. His grip on Evie’s shoulders tightened and his eyes held hers firm as he spoke his next words with quiet deliberation:
“I have felt yer absence.”
Evie’s smile was beautiful in its openness, perfect joy represented there for one bright moment, but then it wavered and her eyes filled with tears once more and this time they spilled down her cheeks as she wrapped her arms about Barbossa’s waist and wept into his chest.
“Are you a dream? Are you ‘ere? Truly?”
Barbossa sighed and lifted his hands to stroke her hair, shushing her with a noise that seemed to want to be soothing but caught itself on the way out and so rasped: “Shh, shh.”
“If you knew,” Evie continued to sob. “’Ow it felt to ‘ear you was gone… after all those lost years.“ And she clung tighter to him.
“Now, now, to what purpose ye be sheddin’ such tears, quiet them wench.” And though his words were harsh, his manner was tender, one hand dropping to push back her hair, caress her face, the other falling to the small of her back to press her firmer against him. “If such long bein’ denied my touch has brought so much woe to ye, why do ye not rejoice now and confirm for yeself that I be truly here, in flesh and blood, and all too willin’ to enjoy yer affections?”
Evie blinked through her tears and gazed up at him, wondering. And as she looked into his face, aged and yet no older than it had been twelve years before, she saw it. Saw it in the spark that enlivened his eye, and in the brightness of his countenance - he was truly returned, restored and whole, as he had been the first time he had come to her. And a little gasp choked her throat and she raised her hands to his face, feeling a swell of elation sweep through her as his head lowered and their lips met.
To feel the warmth of his mouth, the probe of his tongue, was heaven. She slumped against him, fingers smoothing the stubble that roughened his cheek, pushing back into his loose hair, running over his ears to the back of his neck where the muscles were taut, delighting in each sensation. She shivered as his mouth opened wider against hers, his beard scratching her chin, feeling such a delicious intoxication from the kiss that she thought she might swoon.
All the restraint he had been showing to that point was abandoned. The intensity of his kiss now stole her breath away as he grasped her hard in his arms, lifting her so that her toes dangled against the floorboards. She struggled to match his savagery, which seemed only to spur him further on. He tore at her clothing, fingertips fumbling with the fastenings of her bodice, finally wrenching it apart so that she heard the rip of the fabric and felt it give. Hs mouth savaged a path across her jaw, down her neck and over onto her bared breasts, bending her so far over backwards that she had to grasp tight to his shoulders to keep herself steady. But he would have no resistance and tipped her feet out from under her, sweeping her up and into his arms and throwing her upon the bed where she rocked dizzyingly, pausing long enough only to tear off his vest and loose his belt before bearing down upon her once more.
She realised quickly she could not possibly hope to keep pace with his fervour and so surrendered herself to him wholly, allowing him to do with her as he willed. He stripped her bare of every shred of clothing, hands ravishing her body fervently. To feel him take such control of her after so long absent of him was to feel her soul bloom with pleasure and a sense that all was now right with the world. She could not bear to shut her eyes and so lose sight of him, but kept them open, feasting hungrily on every twinge of emotion that sparked upon his features. And his face was alive and ever in motion with them. Beneath the tempest of his desire she could but lay back and be swept away, feeling herself crash back against the mattress and pillows like debris on the rocks. Within she swelled with delight, with sheer ecstatic contentment. She became aware that she was weeping again, tears of joy that streaked her cheeks with kohl, and Hector’s thumbs swept her cheeks violently to wipe them away as his cock found her warm entrance and pushed within, his lip quivering as she stretched then tightened around him.
It was as days of old, and yet entirely new. He was rough and forceful and she responded favourably to it, mewling against his neck and chin with pleasure, relishing the way he grasped her hips the harder to drive into them and bruised her mouth with his. She gripped his shoulders, dragged her nails down his back, dug them into his buttocks. She felt herself slick and accommodating within as she had not been for many years, felt her scarred insides become malleable to his cock, the old vibrations of pleasure thunder through her. His weight was crushing against her breast and he drove against her relentlessly, yet devoid of the cruelty and fury that had so defined his cursed years.
She had thought that this first time of their rejoining would be over with quite quickly, but he steadied himself valiantly, scooping one arm beneath one of her legs and pushing it up high so that the curls of his nether hair might scrape deliciously against the spot of her greatest pleasure, his mouth moving from her lips, which he kissed tenderly, to her nipples, which he nipped and dogged so that it was not long at all before she felt the final ecstasy rise within her, gathering in strength and force until finally it erupted it molten waves, bidding her quim to bite down hard on his cock again and again.
It was not long after that his own pleasure ascended, then ebbed, with a furious groan that seemed to tear from his throat like a dog’s howl.
They lay together, still joined, for many long and quiet moments afterwards in the still semi-darkness of her room. Even the monkey seemed to respect this moment and remained quiet in whatever corner he had sequestered himself in, for which Evie was grateful, as she stroked Barbossa’s shoulders and back, feeling the warmth of his breath against her neck. So still, and so quiet, that she became aware of the thud of his heart hard against her breast, and wanted to weep and scream.
Instead she turned her face inwards, into the spot where his ear met his neck, and nuzzled there, breathing deep of the brine and sweat that was his cologne.
After a time, he rolled off her and she sighed with a loss of it and out of habit checked to see if the great wetness she felt below was blood. Bessie had cautioned her that so long as she took care not to overwork her cunny too much and to keep it moist and wet when she did, bleeding would become less and less. But she always needed money and did not always remember to rub a biter’s prick with grease before they went about the business. She had almost grown used to the wretched cramps in her loins and the reddish smear on her thighs.
But there was no blood there, not this time. She had been slick with her own juices when he entered her and his spendings were now all that added to that wetness. She felt a giddying relief and a joy that she functioned still as a woman should, for the only thing that could equal his dying was for him to return and find her dried up and sour as a lemon.
But a woman she was still, as fragrant and luscious as a ripe peach, he told her soon, lifting his head from between her thighs. Indeed, richer even than in the bloom of her youth, he claimed and she had laughed and slapped at his shoulders, but revelled in the flattery. It was indeed a balm to the sting of her advancing years, made all the sharper when he noted the jar of henna on her dresser when he moved to retrieve his pipe. Her hair had recently acquired several grey streaks amongst its rich ochre hue, but she told him that she occasionally dyed her hands and feet with it, or marked patterns upon her face and breasts, to improve her exoticism and draw attention away from the lines of age that had begun to crease their unrelenting path upon her features.
He enjoyed the dips and curves of her body more languidly as the evening unfolded, though she sensed in him still a keen hunger, though not so savage as she might’ve expected for one so long denied.
“I take it Tortuga was not your first port o’call upon your recovery, then?” she said with studied nonchalance, after he had filled her in briefly upon the details of his resurrection as they languished together on the bed in a looping arrangement, his face level with her rounded belly, his hand upon her hip and her feet twining about his knees.
He glanced up at her sharply, understanding her meaning immediately.
“Nay,” he surrendered and kissed the round of her hip. “Ye were not.” His answer was far more direct than her question had been and she could but shrug and roll over onto her back, stretching against the worn fabric of her coverlet. Well, she could hardly have expected to be his first - not when he had so long been waiting for satisfaction!
So it was that his next words thundered through her with the force of a cannon, leaving her limp and breathless on the old lumpy mattress.
“But it was of ye my first such thoughts turned to.”
Above her the dark red velvet curtains of her canopy blurred and she reminded herself she was a woman of three and thirty now and too old for sentiment. So instead she pushed herself into a sitting position, feeling the hairs that curled about her ears wet, and offered to fetch him his supper.