It should have been tamarisks and roses. Exotic blooms, heavy with the myriad drowsy scents of the tropic night; the murmur of sleepy birds, the chirping insect-lullaby, soft breezes wafting from the ocean.
Captain Jack Sparrow disentangled his fingers from the embrace of a particularly noxious piece of scrub in what passed for the grounds of Count Orgonez’ residence, paused to suck at the prickles, and cursed under his breath — comprehensively and colourfully — all those who span yarns of romantic island paradise. Rescuing fair ladies (even if in proxy and with certain private reservations) was not supposed to involve plodding through a prosaic half-mile of ankle-wrenching sand-dunes, enduring the attentions of assorted biting pests, and stumbling into spiny bushes on a regular basis. If it wouldn’t have aroused so many questions, he’d have insisted on taking a lantern, and let secrecy go hang.
As it was, he’d duly taken the better of the Florrie’s two longboats, set sail a little way along the bay by the meagre sliver of the waning moon, made his landing as agreed to the north of the stockade, and proceeded to blunder his way across the island in virtual darkness. To do him justice, young Johnny had been willing — eager — to go. But that, as Jack pointed out patiently, would have been an all too predictable development. Jack, on the other hand, had the inside knowledge... and a very good reason, from Orgonez’ point of view, not to make the trip.
He sighted the dark bulk of the outbuildings up ahead, and grinned for the first time that night. There was, after all, nothing like not being expected. You might say it had always been his stock in trade.
A quick scout along the back of the main block revealed the promised unshuttered window. Under the circumstances, this naturally did not prevent him from checking it very thoroughly first.
But all seemed clear — no trip-wires, no dogs, no sound of breathing from inside — and he swung himself up, grunting a little with the effort, rolled across the roughly-hewn sill and dropped down onto his feet inside. So far, so good.
Absolute blackness. He felt around for a strategically-positioned candlestick; but that would, of course, have been much too convenient to be convincing. Fumbling for flint and tinderbox, Jack struck a light, and in the momentary flare before the tinder died caught a glimpse of the corridor.
No fine panelling here. Some kind of back passageway, at a guess. Trailing one hand along the timbers of the wall, Jack padded on silent feet towards the region he had marked out that afternoon as the likely location of the Count’s strongroom.
A wrong turn took him into the kitchen, where the fire’s dying embers alerted him to his surroundings, and to the woolly head of a girl asleep in her rags under the table. Something moved in the far corner, and he caught the glint of a dog’s eye.
Backing away with exaggerated care — “Good doggy, good doggy” — Jack felt a sudden sheen of sweat on his brow. He kept an ingratiating smile on his face on the off-chance that the animal could see it. One bark, and the slave-girl would undoubtedly give the alarm. And — no matter what arrangements might have been made — his goose would be very thoroughly and publicly cooked.
But the girl made no move, and Jack let the door drift silently closed between them, breathing again for the first time. One thing in confirmation, at least: there had been an empty place beside the other girl in the rags. Wherever Lily was tonight, she was not where one might have expected to find her if nothing were amiss.
He retraced his steps, straining for a glimpse of light. Ten tense minutes and a flight of stairs later, he found it: a chink of candlelight through a door where there should have been none. Not exactly subtle, but effective.
There was a bolt, of course. Anything else would have been highly suspicious. Jack worked it expertly loose with a loop of twine, and slid through the crack of the door like a snake. His eyes widened, appreciatively.
Well, well, well — and did the dear Count really keep all this on hand, or had he laid it on for his nocturnal guest’s especial benefit? On the whole, Jack reckoned him for the gloating type; would wager nine to seven that Orgonez came down here at nights, ran his fingers through the rubies, let the pearls drip from his palms, savoured the sweet golden clink of coin on coin...
The candle, however, was undoubtedly intended for the intruder. Strategically positioned to cast a fair rounded light on the girl, breast thrown out, arms strained back, who stood with her wrists pinioned over her head against the great wooden pillar at the centre of the room. Their host had put a fine gown on her back into the bargain. For a shrewd trader, he certainly knew how to display his merchandise. Jack’s gaze admired the picture presented by her profile; travelled further down.
Caught up in the spectacle, he omitted to pay attention to his feet. The top of one boot brushed against the leg of a fragile table and set it rocking, threatening to send the contents to the floor. Bound as she was, the girl could not turn far enough to see him face-on; but the sound and the movement in the shadows was more than enough to draw her gaze.
“Jack! Jack, is that you? Get out quick, I tell you — it’s a trap —”
Captain Jack Sparrow raised an interested eyebrow. “All these years, love, an’ I never knew you cared.”
A moment’s dead silence.
“You.” Her tone could not have held a more venomous bite if its forked blade had been dipped in vitriol.
Jack hadn’t been expecting a warm welcome, but even he had to admit to a certain degree of puzzlement. Only for an instant.
“Ah. So it was young Jack Fortescue ye had in mind? I’d a notion those names might lead to a mix-up before all was out...” He came closer, enjoying her from all angles. “‘Jack’ and ‘Lily’, was it? Seems to me ye’ve left it a might late to start showing a conscience in that direction, love — after all that’s been and done.”
“You talk of conscience?” She spat full in his face.
Jack — no gentleman — promptly returned the compliment with interest. Producing a crumpled kerchief from the depths of one sleeve, he cleared the spittle from his eyes; then, after a moment to impress upon her the favour he was offering, he slid an arm around her waist — just for the fun of it — and, very delicately, began to wipe hers clean.
She jerked violently in his hold. Given a hand free, she would undoubtedly have slapped him. As it was, one knee came up reflexively. Jack dodged, and looked reproachful.
The girl’s eyes were blazing with a degree of ardour he considered quite un-called-for. “You talk of conscience? I heard every word that passed between you and that man, and don’t you tell me otherwise... you lying, back-stabbing slime, gutter-spawned from a drayman’s filthy pizzle! You sold the boy out. You set this whole thing up”—she tugged furiously against the metal hoops that secured her wrists—“just for the chance at a little extra profit on your own account. You’d take money from both sides, and play me for a pawn in the middle—”
“Just the same as you would, love.”
Jack finished drying off her face with a final flourish, and tucked the kerchief into his capacious pocket. He tightened his other arm around her waist as she struggled to turn her back, running fingers across the curves of the silken fabric. Pretty. Very pretty. Must have cost a mint, that...
“See, there’s a thing or two you don’t know, nor Señor High-an’-Mighty neither.” Two fingers forced her averted chin around again to face him, so close that her breath set the braids stirring in his hair. “One being, young Johnny Fortescue — Jack to you — is in on the whole affair.” Well, almost. “Two, in case it slipped your glance, it’s my humble self as walked into this ‘trap’, and not your young man...”
Momentarily distracted, she scowled. “That flash cull? He’s no young man of mine!”
“Seems to me you were mighty glad when you took me for him, a while back,” Jack pointed out innocently. “Wishing ye hadn’t served him such a scurvy turn, maybe. Or wishing you’d cottoned on to a good thing when ye had it?”
“‘Lilias Paige’?” The girl made a most unladylike noise. “And how long d’you think that’d have lasted? The nosy harpy of an aunt was onto me from the start— as well I scarpered when I did —”
“None o’ my business, of course,” Jack conceded. “But I’ve taken a liking to the boy, savvy? Could be there’s more to him than those righteous kin-folk of his can heed; could be he knows his own heart and’ll make his own way. High birth don’t matter so much out here, see, nor history either. Not his — nor yours.”
He released her and stepped back, scratching meditatively at his jaw where an old scar itched. “If he can run in harness with the likes o’ me — an’ shape up to do it well — could be he’d do the same by you. If so be you were of the same mind.”
Another glare, all defensive suspicion. “And just where d’you come by that notion, Sparrow?”
Jack sighed. “Now, love, we’ve known each other longer’n that.” If she remembered, which he was beginning to doubt. “‘Jack’ to me friends... that would be ‘Captain Jack Sparrow’ to you.”
He forestalled her retort with a wide gesture.
“An’ as for the rest... Very hot you were against this wicked trap of mine. Ready without a thought to warn the boy off and get him at all costs away.” Jack coughed. “All very meritable and such, and no more’n any well-brought-up lady should do, to be sure. Only seeing as the set-up was to be your liberty in trade for his... and seeing, love, as you an’ I know you’re no lady...”
He grinned at her expression. “Deptford Lil, they called you when last we met. A little slip of a thing you were, maybe twelve years old and quick as a flash. One of old Pegotty’s girls, born of a dead mother in Newgate Jail. But you’d not have stayed with her long. You’d an eye to the main chance even then, plain to see.” Wistful memory. “Aye, I can hear her voice now, shrieking across that tavern: Lil — Lil? Stir yer stumps, ye useless spalpeen! Where’s me porter?”
He shrugged expansively. “Well, she’s gone to rest now, poor soul. Receiving stolen goods, or so I heard. And I reckon that was the same Assizes that sent you here?” Silence. “It’s a long way, lass, from London Town...”
The gentle tone touched her as his raillery had not. For a moment, hanging there in the candle’s flicker, she was a waif again; a pinch-faced pickpocket child sent to servitude in the far Caribbees out of hypocritical pity, “by reason of your sex and of your tender years” — the first counting more than the last, with so many menfolk in the King’s service, and so few females of their own colour and creed. If she had known no Hell until then, she had known it after.
“You’ll not tell?” It was almost a child’s plea. “You’ll not tell — him?”
“If he’s half the lad I think him, love, he’ll not care,” Jack said softly to the girl she had once been.
Then he shook himself back into the present, and brisk enjoyment.
“Now, I wager you can lay your hands on a certain ring in amongst this show — aye?” Out of habit, he marked the direction of her gaze as she nodded. “So. We’ll have you and it out of here, and safe on the path down to the ship with young Johnny waiting. Ye’ll trust me that far?”
A second, rather dubious, nod. “What of your bargain with the Count — and the Fortescue family ransom?”
“Ah, that. Strange how often a clever man can fool himself with his own greed.” Jack bestowed on her a beatific smile. “Now, they do say it’s easy to walk into the spider’s trap and just a mite harder to leave... and I’d my doubts how easily we’d leave the cay with that big ship of the Count’s in the offing. Us being uninvited guests and the boy his father’s son and heir, a rich prize old Fortescue might pay dearly to retrieve. So”—the smile tilted broadly, flashing gold—“I laid Orgonez a proposition all neat and tied up, before he could think up one of his own. No need to lift a finger, says I, with Miss Lily as bait, an’ those clever cuffs of your honour’s sainted Spanish forefathers —saving the mark— the conquistadores...”
He leaned forward, neatly, and stretched up to tap the wrought bronze that held the girl’s wrists pinioned above her head. “Now what could any young gallant — all primed to the lady’s plight and ripened for the trap by yours truly — do but set his arms around the damsel to loose the catch and let her free?”
He suited words to the action, enfolding her person in a somewhat noisome embrace that cradled her close against his breast with every sign of enthusiasm, as he slid exploratory fingers up towards the imprisoned wrists. Lily, despite his assurances to the Count on her behalf, showed no signs whatever of melting into her rescuer’s arms. On the contrary, he had every reason to suspect — from certain telltale movements in the body encircled so closely in his — that she was about to knee him again.
“And there,” he took up hastily with an admonitory glare, “would be his young lordship trussed and dangling in the morning. Apprehended red-handed, as it were, in the act of robbing dear Felipe’s strongroom — with a tale too far-fetched for any to believe, the girl having skedaddled, love, as part of the bargain. The Count not counting on your touching devotion...”
The look on the features a few inches from his own was very far from devotion.
“And since you claim your ‘Johnny’ was in on the scheme all the time, I take it that instead of trapping him here for ransom you had some alternative means in mind for getting me out of here?” Her voice held its most ladylike chill. “Or were you just planning to stand here pressed up against me all night?”
The idea had its distinct compensations. But he had reasons of his own for wanting her safely on her road, and he doubted the Count’s confidence in himself, Captain Jack Sparrow, was such as could be entirely relied on to keep him out of the way.
He coughed. “Now there’s a slight problem in that regard...”
“I knew it!” The girl tried to wrench herself violently out of his grasp, almost braining him in the process, and he had to use his full weight to pin her back against the pillar and allow him to reach the catches at her wrists. And if the wriggling armful that resulted proved sufficiently distracting to prolong the process beyond the strictly necessary... well, to Jack’s way of thinking, it was entirely her own fault.
A click. Lily found herself abruptly on the floor, rubbing aching arms with what was almost a sob of relief. And Jack — Jack, for his part, felt the countersprung hoops on the back of the cuffs lock neatly and inexorably into place around the hands that had reached inside to release her.
“Like I said”—he gave her a hurt look—“a man can get himself caught up in his own cleverness, see...”
Oh, she was all regrets and apologies and oh-how-could-I-ever-have-doubted-you entreaties after that — but however enjoyable the balm to his wounded feelings, the fact remained, as he pointed out, that she was in no position to release him without once again entrapping herself.
“Clever devils, those conquistadores.” Jack twisted around in an effort to admire their handiwork. “Devils, mind, but clever. They called these remores — used to use them on the Aztecs, down in Yucatan. Gets a laugh, see...”
Lily cried out, shuddering, and Jack caught himself in an impulse to pat her on the back. He was feeling quite paternal now. Almost.
“No need to pipe your eye, love — I’ve no turn for noble sacrifice.” In fact, suspended as he was, he was already regretting the original idea. He shifted a little in a vain attempt to find a more comfortable position. “Now, my hide’s no manner o’ value to the Count, if ye catch my drift. An’ no-one can say me bargain wasn’t kept — and to the letter.” He seriously doubted Orgonez’ sense of humour would extend quite that far, but this was scarcely the moment to mention it. “But the best thing you two youngsters can do is show a clean pair o’ heels — savvy? Up anchors and clear out”—a suggestive eyebrow—“while I... hang around a while, as you might say. Smooth matters down...”
Lily bit her lip, caught between suspicion and distress. “But Captain Sparrow, you’ve a ship in the offing. Let me once get word to Jack—”
“Bartholomew’s bawdy breeches, girl — you want him caught out in some half-cocked rescue?” And after all the trouble he, Jack Sparrow, had gone through to impress upon the reluctant boy on no account to interfere... He took a deep breath, conscious of the increasing ache in his wrists. “Save your hide and his, love. Take the Florence out as quick as may be. And leave Captain Jack Sparrow to what he does best... looking after his own skin. Savvy?”
On young Fortescue’s sense of honour and obligation it might not have worked; but the girl, like himself, was opportunist enough to take the offered escape. She nodded. “I’ll take him that ring he sets such store by.”
“You do that,” Jack agreed, hiding relief. “An’ maybe ye’ll get it back, by my guess; but that’s up to you...”
“I don’t need the likes of Fortescue to make my way”—it was a reflexive jibe—“nor you either!”
But she unbent enough to avail herself of his dagger to slash the clinging skirts of the Count’s impractical gown about her legs before attempting the route of Jack’s exit; and even to press her cheek, in parting, willingly a moment against his own. It was a pity, Jack reflected philosophically afterwards —but probably not coincidental— that he was tethered at the time with his hands above his head.