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Title: Infinitely Better
Author: heartofslash
Fandom/Pairing: POTC, The Pirate Way, (Elizabeth/Alex)
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: Makes no profit, commits no foul. I’m not the owner of some characters.
Infinitely Better
Elizabeth Norrington, nee Swann, peered cautiously around the corner of the courthouse. She had overslept, which meant she was not among the first customers at market. Elizabeth always tried to arrive in the square as early as possible, when there would be a smattering of diligent cooks and assorted servants, perhaps the odd fishwife, but no ‘ladies’.
It was a matter of pride for Port Royal’s better-off citizens to take part in the daily chores. Not that these women actually handled the fish or carried their purchases or, heaven forbid, peeled the potatoes once the goods were delivered to the kitchen. Few of them had much to do with the actual work that went on in preparation of their food and care of their homes, but they oversaw all operations, and it was important to be seen doing so.
Elizabeth grimaced. There was Lacey Pettigrew. What on earth was she doing here so early? Normally she didn’t rise until afternoon tea. She flounced along between two rows of sturdy tables piled with fruits and root vegetables, followed by her meek little maid, who was balancing a basket full of food and a roll of cotton on one arm and a half-dozen parcels on the other. It must have been much later in the morning than Elizabeth had previously assumed, for that sort of purchasing to have gone on already.
It was no small wonder that Elizabeth had slept so late. Last night had been horrific. James had come home late, stumbling and grumbling up the stairs, scowling at phantoms as he tended to do when he was in his cups.
Elizabeth had pretended to be asleep, as she tended to do when James was in his cups.
James had not bought the act.
Elizabeth’s face grew bright red as she remembered her husband fumbling at her dressing gown, the roughness of his hands on her skin, kisses punctuated by scornful bites, the harshness of his cursing when they both discovered, after several futile attempts at penetration, that the rum had won out this evening.
Trouble was, Elizabeth hadn’t wanted the rum to win out. She wanted to feel him against her, feel him naked and hard, feel him inside her. She didn’t really enjoy it when he did it. It wasn’t tender or loving or delightful, the way she’d hoped it might be when she was young and unmarried and foolish. But rough and perfunctory and predictable was better than nothing, and there had been precious little now that she was a little older, and married, and wiser.
What she wouldn’t give to be kissed as if she were worth kissing. Just once.
Now Mary Spencer and Alice Moody were talking with Lacey, pampered white hands flying in the air while stoic servants stood behind them holding parasols aloft. So very proper, they were. There was no way she would get any shopping done now. Not until the sun baked the market square to a crisp, and all but the merchants took refuge. The vegetables would be wilted, the milk less than fresh, the goods covered in the dust of the day, but that was better than facing Port Royal’s elite out in the open.
Elizabeth started when something nudged her shoulder. She reeled around to see who had snuck up on her from behind. She found her breath caught in her throat, along, it felt, with her heart.
The woman was tall, slender, and most striking. Hair black as jet, skin pale as milk, eyes glimmering dark as onyx. Ruby lips set in a full, rich pout were licked by a dainty pink tongue. “Oh, I’m so sorry, love. I didn’t mean to bump into you like that.”
“On the contrary,” Elizabeth replied coolly. “My apologies. I was just looking to see how crowded the market is.”
“Ah. Yes. Well, I’m not fond of crowds either,” the woman said as she smoothed her hair.
“I never said…” But Elizabeth didn’t finish the sentence. She was stunned by the long white fingers brushing over ebony hair, so sleek in the morning sun. They were as perfect as fingers could be, and the hair was a thick and rich and lustrous as hair could be, and the woman did not seem to notice that she was possibly better than perfect.
“No, but I can spot someone trying to avoid a crowd from a mile away.” The woman smiled warmly. “Now, I have been in this town for almost two weeks. With all the social occasions and teas and whatnot, how could it be that, in all that time, I’ve failed to meet such a fine young woman as yourself?”
“I am not entirely welcome at social functions, lately,” Elizabeth found herself saying. She wasn’t sure why she would say something like that to a total stranger.
“Surely not!”
“Most assuredly so. I feel it only fair to warn you that being seen with me will do your social reputation no good at all.” Elizabeth was certain she hadn’t intended that to come out of her mouth. But it had. Oh, dear.
“That’s seems a bit harsh,” the woman tut-tutted, tongue clicking delightfully against her teeth.
“Unfortunately, not.” Elizabeth made a face. Somewhat childishly, but there was nothing for it. She felt gawky and childish next to the posed perfection next to her, and her face seemed determined to make her seem even more so. She crossed her arms over her chest, a gesture of defiance that did nothing to help her feel more grown up.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to come up with something much more serious than that to frighten me off, my dear. You see, were some of those “ladies” out there to learn a bit more of my personal history, I might not be welcome in their parlours either.” The woman graced Elizabeth with the most lady-like conspiratorial wink imaginable. So graceful and self-confident, she made it seem as if social misfortune and a questionable past were the latest fashion accessories from Europe.
Elizabeth could not stop herself from grinning. “Perhaps we’re destined to be friends, then. I am Elizabeth Swann Norrington.”
The answering smile was demure. “Ah, wife of the recently demoted Captain Norrington. I understand your unfortunate position, and assure you that your marriage to a man who has seen a reduction in his circumstances does not prejudice me against you. On the contrary, I feel we are, indeed, destined to be… close. I am Lady Barrowdowns, but you may call me Alex.”
Elizabeth was mildly shocked. This was Lady Barrowdowns? Her father had told her about the Lady’s arrival two weeks past. She was reputed to be fabulously wealthy and extremely fashionable, recently widowed and searching the Caribbean for a mysterious, long-lost relative. (Governor Swann had offered, of course, to help find the missing person, but the Lady had politely refused the offer, saying she had her own contacts.) She had since her arrival, been to all the best parlours and soirees and. Elizabeth could not reconcile the reputation of the gregarious, well-to-do widow with this beautiful but sedate woman, dressed quite straightforwardly and simply, and accompanied by no servants.
Yet, as Elizabeth examined the unadorned, dark purple dress, she saw that it fit her a little too well to actually be called ‘plain’. The simple strand of jet at her neck was exquisite in its austerity, as befitted a fabulously wealthy widow. Elizabeth realised she was staring.
“I should very much like to have you over for tea,” Lady Barrowdowns continued. “This afternoon, perhaps?”
Elizabeth blinked. She tried to look as if she was going over her very busy social schedule in her head. In reality, she had not been anywhere, for tea or anything else, since the day her husband was towed into the harbour with his half-clad crew, minus the Dauntless, The Interceptor II, a slave trader, the cargo of the slave trader, his uniform, his dignity and his commodore-ship.
“Four o’clock, then. I’m staying at the Forington Manor. Mrs. Forington kindly leased the property to me while she visits with her sister in Nassau Port. Don’t dress too formally, I’m not much for fancy tea, dear. And Elizabeth - may I call you Elizabeth? -Elizabeth, do not let those silly women insult you with their gossip. The only reason their husbands haven’t had anything similar happen to them is that their husbands don’t actually go out to do anything.”
Elizabeth laughed harshly. “You mean, their husbands haven’t tangled with Jack Sparrow.”
Lady Barrowdowns raised an elegant black eyebrow. “Captain Jack Sparrow… yes, I suppose so. Now, do your shopping and ignore those scandalmongers.”
Elizabeth nodded. “I think I’ll do that. And I’ll see you at four o’clock. Thank-you, Lady Barrowdowns.”
“Alex, my dear. Please, call me Alex.”
So Elizabeth did her shopping, ignoring the whispers of Lacey Pettigrew and her friends. Something about her meeting with Lady Barrowdowns… she meant Alex… had given her a good deal of confidence.
She wondered what sort of a questionable past the Lady had, and what could have happened to her missing relative. The second question was less of a mystery. Elizabeth was sure pirates had something to do with it. The waters were positively infested with them. Elizabeth never travelled anywhere anymore. She’d seen more than enough pirates to last a lifetime.
She returned to the little cottage on the grounds of her father’s estate, where she and James made their humble home. Her father wanted them to move into the mansion with him when they had to give up James’ house in town, but James wouldn’t hear of it. They took the gamekeeper’s cottage instead. It was smaller than any home in which she’d ever lived, save the ship on the journey over from England, but she couldn’t stand the idea of living like a beggar in her father’s home. She was a married woman, no matter what her husband’s position had been reduced to.
Elizabeth put her purchases away in the little root cellar, where everything would stay cool, and went up to the main house. She found her father in his study.
“Elizabeth, good to see you. How are you today?”
“Quite well, father. I’ve been invited to tea, by Lady Barrowdowns.”
Governor Swann looked impressed. “A most fascinating lady. Extraordinary in many ways. When talking with her one feels as if…” He trailed off, looking almost wistful.
“Yes,” Elizabeth agreed. “As if one is the most important person in the world.”
“Hmm,” her father concurred.
“Can you tell me anything about her?”
Governor Swann started, brought back to earth suddenly by his daughter’s question. “Anything? Nothing the gossips couldn’t tell you. Her husband was very wealthy, and I believe a good deal older than her. Her family is, evidently, quite well-off also. She’s looking for her brother, Jonathon, Earl of Duncroft, she said. Although she told me he doesn’t know he’s the Earl of Duncroft yet. That’s if he’s still alive. He’s been missing for years. I told her not to hold out too much hope. But then, you never know. I thought I’d lost you, and you were delivered back to me.”
Elizabeth thought on that as she changed to go out for tea. Yes, her father had feared her lost forever when she’d been taken aboard the Black Pearl, so long ago. She shuddered when she thought of the cursed pirates. The only thing worse than them was Captain Jack Sparrow. Awful man. She couldn’t imagine why she’d assisted him at his hanging. Everyone would be better off if he had been hung. James wouldn’t be disgraced. And she wouldn’t be married to James. She would be married to Will Turner. She would be a blacksmith’s wife, and probably living in this same cottage, but maybe she would be happier.
But no. Not as long as Will was thinking of Jack. And judging by the foul talk that came from James whenever the subject of Jack Sparrow or Will Turner came up, it would have taken more than a hanging to make Will forget about Jack.
Will and Jack. Who could imagine such a thing? She tried. Will, with his honest face, warm eyes and gentle voice, so proper and decent he couldn’t even call her by her first name. And Jack Sparrow. Deceitful, leering, filthy, indecent, pirate. His dirty hands on Will’s strong limbs, his sneering mouth touching Will’s soft lips.
And she knew Will’s lips were soft. She’d kissed him enough to know that his lips were soft and his hands, large and rough as they were, would be gentle on her. Even too gentle. He had a lovely smell, comforting and pleasing. It had been wonderful, for a while. Will would visit her in the evenings and take her for walks on Sunday afternoons. He was always the perfect gentleman. She would have to take his hand, when she wanted to hold hands. She would have to press up against him, when she wanted to be touching him. She would have to lean over and touch her lips to his, when she wanted to kiss. But when they did kiss, it was sweet and made her want much more.
Elizabeth scowled when she found herself, half-dressed, arms wrapped around herself, thinking about Will Turner. Despicable. After what he’d done, calling out Jack’s name when her hand was on his… James said horrid things about Jack and Will. Said they were lovers. Said they kissed each other in full view of everyone, and no one cared. Bloody pirates. What would you expect?
She hastily pulled on a fresh, clean dress, no corsets or fancy bows. A plain, sky blue gown that complimented her fair skin. She left her hair tied with a simple ribbon. She somehow knew Alex would approve of it.
Alex. She had no idea why she wanted so much for Lady Barrowdowns to approve of her, but since Alex would approve of Elizabeth calling her Alex, that’s what Elizabeth would call her.
Elizabeth arrived at Forington Manor on time and only slightly out of breath. She’d spent, she discovered, far too long thinking of her past, and it had made her slightly behind schedule in the present. The rushing had, she hoped, made her look fresh and young, instead of tired.
Alex answered the door herself, explaining that she’d given the servants the day off. She was more than capable of managing tea by herself. They went not to the parlour but to the kitchen, which surprised Elizabeth. No one ever entertained in the kitchen.
Alex was oblivious to her astonishment. She sat at the kitchen table as elegantly as if she were settling herself on a chair in the salon. “I do so love the kitchen, don’t you?” Alex asked. “I love to make my food myself. It’s not expected, in fact, I dare say, it’s frowned upon in this town. A lady here, it seems, should pretend she is in control of everything, yet should in actuality leave it all up to someone else to do the work. I can’t abide by that attitude. What about you, Elizabeth?”
Elizabeth found herself staring at slim white arms protruding from rolled up sleeves. Something familiar about the shape of them. She looked up into Alex’s eyes, and found something familiar in them as well. And in the shape of the mouth. She couldn’t place it.
“You seem … could I have met you before, do you suppose?”
Alex smiled. “I think not. I did live in here, briefly, long ago. But that was before you came to Port Royal. Yes, I know when you arrived. I made a few, discreet inquiries. I like to know something about my guests before they arrive for tea.”
“You lived in Port Royal? I hadn’t heard that.”
“And, if you don’t mind, I’d appreciate no one else hearing it. I had a different name then.”
“Oh, you had a different husband?”
“Something like that. It was before I became, in fact, a ‘lady’. And people do put such stock in titles, don’t they? Take my brother, for instance. He’s wandering around somewhere, unaware that he’s now the Earl of Duncroft. I think that title will make quite a difference in his life, if only I can find him.”
“Has he been missing long?” Elizabeth watched Alex use a thick pad to protect her hand as she lifted the kettle from the fire and placed it on a wooden block on the table. Alex retrieved a tray containing the tea set from a shelf beside the fireplace. This was another surprise, as Elizabeth had never seen a tea set out in the open quite like that before. Tea was so expensive, most ladies kept it locked up their boudoir, away from the servants. Alex poured a bit of water into the teapot.
“Years and years, since before I ever came to the Caribbean,” Alex said. She swished the hot water around the pot and dumped it out into a saucer. She opened the tea canister and poured a measure of the aromatic leaves into the lid. “He sailed when he was quite young.” Alex dumped the loose tea into the pot and covered it with steaming water. “I miss him dearly. He was a very sensitive soul. An artist. Talented, he was, and charming.”
“Sounds lovely,” Elizabeth said.
“Yes, I loved him dearly. He was… he had a difficult time of it, being so sensitive. He loved beauty and pleasure. Our father did not understand the artistic temperament. He referred to it as ‘idleness’ and ‘sloth’. But Jonathon wasn’t lazy. He wanted to take the time to appreciate the world around him.”
Elizabeth watched the emotion fill Alex’s dark eyes. She could feel the pain of loss from across the table. She wished she could reach out, somehow, and stem the ache. Then she realised she could. Well, she might not be able to stem the pain, but she could reach out. She placed her hand on top of Alex’s. “You miss him still.”
“Aye. I miss…” Alex flexed her fingers under Elizabeth’s hand. “I used to fear the worst, but now I somehow… I just know he’s alive, somewhere. I’m sure he’s not the same young man I knew. So much time has passed. I’m sure he’s rougher than he used to be, not so sensitive. I hope he’s found someone with whom to share his life, someone worthy of him. I imagine that he would make his lover very happy.”
Elizabeth was shocked by the statement. She wasn’t sure where Alex was from, but that was not the sort of thing people came out and said, aloud, in a town such as Port Royal. Alex seemed oblivious to the impropriety of it. She had a faraway, dreamy look on her face. Somewhat akin to the look Elizabeth was sure she’d worn earlier, when she was remembering what it was like to share kisses with Will Turner.
It couldn’t be. A sister would never have such a look when thinking about her brother. She must have been thinking about happy couples in general. Perhaps she envied happy couples, much the way Elizabeth did. After all, Alex said she’d had a different husband when she lived in Port Royal a long time ago, and she seemed reluctant to speak of him. Perhaps it had ended badly. And Elizabeth’s father had said that Lord Barrowdowns was much older than her. That might not have been a happy marriage either.
She watched Alex pour a bit of milk into each china cup. Such long fingers she had. Nimble and elegant. Elizabeth looked up into almost black eyes. So familiar.
“Put the milk in the cups first, and then the hot teas is less likely to break the china,” Alex said. Her hands were steady. Her eyes looked into Elizabeth’s easily. They crinkled at the edges. They seemed just a tad off balance, as if Elizabeth had seen them before, but darker on the bottom.
“Are you sure I haven’t met you before?” Elizabeth blurted out, immediately feeling foolish. Of course, they’d never met. And yet…
“Perhaps you’ve met my brother. Many people say we look alike.”
I was remarkable that she could so easily refer to her brother that way, in the present tense. As if she was wilfully ignoring, discounting, pooh-poohing the possibility that anything untoward could have happened to him. It was touching, the depth of her conviction.
“I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said carefully. She had to be careful, because she was sure Alex’s brother would be as stunning and beautiful and graceful and alluring as Alex, and she was sure she would have remembered him very well, and it would be improper to be so attracted to another man when she was married, but not nearly as improper as it would be to admit that she found another woman stunning and beautiful and graceful and alluring, whether she was married or not. “I’m sure I would remember him.”
Alex laughed lightly and poured the tea carefully into the little cups. “You can’t be too sure. Why, even I might not recognise him if the outward trappings have overly changed. Would you recognise me if I were dressed entirely differently?”
“I don’t see why not.”
“What if I were dressed in disguise? What if I were dressed like a man, like in a play?”
Elizabeth giggled nervously. She wasn’t entirely sure why the idea of Alex dressed like a man made her so nervous, but her hand shook as lifted the cup to her lips. Her fingers smarted from the heat. She wished someone would invent a way to lift a teacup without burning one’s fingers. Perhaps a handle of some sort. Anything to keep her mind off Alex dressed like a man.
“Honestly, Elizabeth. What if I were to wear something utterly unlike what I’m wearing now? Perhaps a frock coat and some big boots,” Alex continued gleefully. Her eyes flashed with delight, as if she relished the idea of changing her identity. “Loose shirt and a sash at my waist, trousers and a false beard - like a pirate! Would you recognise me then?”
Elizabeth scowled. “I don’t like to think of anyone dressed as a pirate.”
Alex pursed her lips. “Don’t like pirates, do you?”
“No. I’ve had my fill of them. And if you’d been listening to all that gossip, you would know it was pirates who caused my husband’s disgrace.”
Alex clicked her tongue against her teeth. “Mm, Elizabeth, I hate to disenchant you, but I think you’ll find that the cause of most disgrace tends to be the disgraced person him or herself. Other people are merely a means to the end. But,” she said brightly, “that is neither here nor there. You have a profound dislike for pirates. I’m sure you have your reasons.”
“As is only proper! Have you never feared that pirates may have been responsible for your brother’s disappeara…” Elizabeth clamped a hand over her own mouth.
Alex looked down and swivelled her teacup so the little blue flower painted daintily on the cup aligned with a matching flower on the saucer.
“Oh, Alex, I’m so sorry…”
Alex smiled. A secret smile. It made Elizabeth shiver. “I don’t doubt that my brother is tangled up with pirates somehow.”
Elizabeth could not imagine why that would make Alex smile.
“Not unlike your old friend, Will Turner.”
“Will Turner! How would you…?”
But Alex had already said she’d made inquiries. So Alex must know she’d been engaged to be married to Will, and that she’d chosen James instead, and she knew what a disgrace that had turned out to be. Elizabeth squeezed her eyes shut. She would not cry. She would not allow her afternoon to be spoiled. Alex probably had no idea how painful the subject was for Elizabeth.
Alex’s voice was soft. “I think you could use a little comfort right now. I’ve had years to get used to the idea of my brother being missing, but you haven’t had nearly as long to cope with your problems.”
Elizabeth looked up sharply. She did not want to be coddled.
“When my brother was upset, I used to cook for him. From when I was a little girl, I used to make him his favourite dessert. And I make it when I am feeling sad or lost. It never fails to cheer me. Can we do that together? I just know it will make you feel better.”
So soothing, so gentle. Elizabeth nodded. And found herself sitting at the table, hands washed and a strange, long, dark brown pod in her hand.
“You’ve got to split the pod open. Do you know how? Here, let me help you.”
Elizabeth could feel the warmth of Alex’s body pressed against her back. Alex positioned a handle in Elizabeth’s palm and pressed a metal knife against the long edge of the vanilla pod.
“Cut carefully, just open the pod. That’s it. Now, use the spoon to scoop out the seeds. They go in that pot, there. Perfect. Next, clarify the eggs. Do you know how to separate the yolks?”
Elizabeth shook her head automatically. Because not knowing meant Alex would position herself behind Elizabeth and reach around her, and it was the closest thing to a hug Elizabeth had enjoyed in a long time. Gentle, friendly, tender arms. Hands on top of hers, urging her to crack the eggshell on the edge of a bowl. Nimble fingers opening the egg, pouring the yolk into one half of the shell. The slippery egg white flowing over Elizabeth’s fingers. Dumping the yolk to the other half-shell. Overflow of egg white. The second egg and the third.
“You can do it without the shell, too,” Alex almost whispered in her ear. And for the fourth egg, Alex positioned Elizabeth’s fingers like a cup and dumped the contents of the egg into them. “Spread your fingers, just a touch.”
Elizabeth did, and felt the slick egg white flow. She transferred the egg yolk from one hand to the next, watched it jiggle.
Alex put on hand under Elizabeth’s, to catch any overspill. “Watch this. My brother taught me to do this. He painted with egg tempera, sometimes. You must blend the pigment with the purest yolk, no whites at all.” Alex carefully pinched one side of the egg yolk and lifted. The yellow mass hung suspended by its thin skin, and the last remnants of the white slipped off. She placed it in the bowl with the other yolks. “You try the next one.”
Elizabeth did. The texture under her fingers, the slide of the white, the weight of the yolk, it was wonderful. She felt like little girl, playing in the kitchen. The cook used to let her knead a bit of bread or chop an onion or stir the broth. But she’d never been allow to play with the precious eggs.
The eggs were separated too soon. Alex gave Elizabeth a damp cloth to wipe her hands. She gave her a bowl of sugar, finely ground. “Sprinkle that on top of the eggs and beat them together with that spoon, and I’ll heat the milk.” Alex poured milk into the pot with the vanilla seeds.
The vanilla scent rose warm and inviting from the heating milk. Elizabeth sniffed it and beat the egg yolks with the sugar. Bright yellow faded to pale as the yolks thickened. The vanilla scent grew stronger. Familiar. Comforting. Elizabeth wondered why she found it so delightful. Her cheeks grew warm, and she realised she was finding this experience, cooking with Alex… stimulating.
“Almost forgot,” Alex murmured. She reached around Elizabeth, and her breast brushed over Elizabeth’s forearm. Elizabeth pulled away, but stopped when she saw the gentle smile on Alex’s face. There was nothing to be concerned about. Alex was just reaching for something. A small rasp and a hard brown ball. A nut. Nutmeg.
Alex grated the nutmeg over the milk. “Ah, yes. The nutmeg is what makes it special.”
Elizabeth’s nose twitched. Nutmeg. And vanilla.
Will Turner.
Now, why would nutmeg and vanilla remind her of Will? That was absurd. He is a blacksmith. Was a blacksmith. Now he was surely a pirate, not a blacksmith, and he probably smelled of rum and sea air and whatever it was Jack Sparrow had smelled of, something overripe and decadent, she was sure.
Alex brought the boiling milk over to the table. “Quickly, now. I’ll pour it in, you whisk it as fast as you can, that’s it, don’t let any lumps form, don’t give them a chance.”
Elizabeth stirred the custard and tried to force all thoughts of Will Turner and Jack Sparrow out of her mind. They were both a couple of bloody pirates, and as far as she was concerned, they deserved each other.
“Back in the pot now, and we’ll cook it over the fire. Gently, yes, keep stirring…”
Stirring. Round and round with the wooden spoon. The mixture thickened and Alex raised the pot, moving it further from the flames. “Keep stirring. I’ll get a cloth.” Elizabeth stared down at the custard. The smell was sweet, thick, rich. Tempting. When Elizabeth lifted the spoon, the custard coated the wood perfectly, without dripping down.
Alex placed a large bowl on the table and held a thin cheesecloth over the rim. “Pour it through here,” she said.
Elizabeth did as she was told, and watched the creamy custard flow over and through the cloth.
“Excellent,” Alex said. She put the soiled cloth in the bowl Elizabeth had used to beat the eggs. Alex dipped a finger delicately into the warm custard. “Would you like a taste?” She raised her fingertip to Elizabeth’s mouth.
Elizabeth licked, delicately.
“How does it taste?”
“Hmm, delicious.” It did. Taste delicious. Creamy, rich, vanilla and nutmeg.
Alex leaned forward. “Just a taste,” she whispered. Her lips brushed across Elizabeth’s, teasing, faint, ghost of a kiss.
“Delicious.”
Elizabeth sighed. Yes, she was. Delicious. She leaned forward, and lips met hers, a little more forcefully this time. No less delicious.
“Give it a while to cool, then we can enjoy it. Not that I haven’t enjoyed making it.” Alex smiled.
Something about the curve of her lip…
“Would you like a little drink, perhaps a spot of rum, to celebrate our successful custard?”
Elizabeth was taken aback. She had not tasted rum since…
Alex tossed her hair back over her shoulder. She then took a bottle of rum from the shelf and poured a bit into each empty teacup. “To the custard!” she said brightly.
“Is the custard that difficult to make?” Elizabeth asked, jokingly, as she raised the cup to her lips.
“No, not when one has help. I had the cook help me the last time I made it, but this time the company is infinitely better…” Alex tossed back the rum as if it were nothing more than water.
Elizabeth stared into deep, dark eyes. Familiar sparkle. “I do enjoy good company,” she said.
“I know exactly what you mean, luv.” Familiar bravado.
Elizabeth choked on her rum.
“What? What is it luv?” Familiar everything.
“Nothing, you just reminded me of someone. Someone I used to know.”
“An old friend, I hope.”
Alex was close, and her scent, citrus and spice, mingled with the scent of the custard.
Elizabeth felt faint. Overwhelmed. The hot kitchen. The unfamiliar rum. The slender arms around her. The soft lips pressing against hers.
“Better, luv?”
Elizabeth licked her own lips, which were so close to Alex’s lips she ended up licking them too. “I… uh…”
“I imagine you don’t get kissed very often.”
Elizabeth tried to respond, but her tongue didn’t seem to be working. It seemed very thick and useless and out of place.
Alex closed the gap and kissed again. Elizabeth’s tongue came to life. It suddenly knew exactly what it should be used for, and where it wanted to be. Inside Alex’s mouth, twining around Alex’s tongue, tasting rum and nutmeg and feeling the softness of Alex’s upper lip when Elizabeth dragged her tongue out, up, across. Alex’s hands were not rough or large, but they were strong, and they skimmed down the sides of Elizabeth’s dress and settled on her slender waist.
The familiar curve of a breast, but unfamiliar press of it against her own. Alex’s waist curved in, like Elizabeth’s did. And flared out to soft hips. Flat belly pressed against hers, with no bulge poking into her, nothing demanding entry but a slick tongue and sweet breath. Heavenly.
Elizabeth almost didn’t hear the back door slam. She almost didn’t hear the footsteps. She almost didn’t register in time that the footsteps were headed for the kitchen. She pulled away, dropped her hands, which had somehow risen to twine in the thick black tresses flowing over Alex’s back.
Alex rolled her eyes. Comical, it was. The gesture. She winked at Elizabeth and turned to face the intruder.
He was a wiry lad of about thirteen, with delicate, striking features. With his smooth, high cheekbones and sharp black eyes, he looked remarkably like his mother, but for the darkness of his skin and the long, thick clumps of black hair that fell in thick, twined dreadlocks, rather than smooth, tamed strands. His eyes widened. His lips pursed. He swayed a little on his feet.
“Sorry, mum. Didn’t know you had company.”
Elizabeth’s head reeled. The lad was the spitting image, absolute spitting image….
“Jonathon, this is Mrs. Elizabeth Norrington. She used to be Miss Elizabeth Swann.”
“Swann? The one Marina told me about? Nice to meet you, Miss Swann. I understand you know my father.”
Elizabeth looked from Alex to the boy and back again.
“Well, I’m going to go back out to the garden for a bit.” And he was gone.
Alex shrugged. “He’s not, in fact, my son. He’s my nephew.”
Elizabeth felt faint. She’d known that. She’d known it the instant she looked at the boy’s face. His hair. His eyes. The curve of his lips. The way he swayed.
“Jonathon… Jack… he doesn’t know he has a son. I came here to find him. To tell him. Jonathon’s mother, Marina, she tells me that Jack is on an island. With Will. An island no one can find unless they’ve been there.”
“And I’ve been there.”
“You’ve been there.”
“You knew who I was,” she said, dully. “You knew. About Will and James and Jack and everything…”
Alex leaned closer to her. “Yes,” she whispered. “I knew who you were before I spoke to you this morning. But that doesn’t matter. It’s what I didn’t know that matters. I didn’t know you’re so charming. I had not idea you’d be so beautiful. And I didn’t know you would taste nearly so sweet.”
Elizabeth turned to look at Jack’s sister. She was so beautiful. She looked so much like Jack. How could she be so beautiful and look so much like Jack? Devious, like Jack. Cunning, like Jack.
Playful, like Jack.
Sensual, like Jack.
Sinful, like Jack.
Elizabeth smiled. “My dear Lady Barrowdowns, you barely know me and here you are making pronouncements about the sweetness of my taste. It’s shocking! One would think you would have to kiss me at least a dozen times more before coming to a conclusion such as that!”
Alex grinned. Just the way Jack did, now that Elizabeth thought of it. But better. Infinitely better.
The End (Or rather, the beginning of a beautiful friendship…)
There is more to this, in Caramel Kisses
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