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Pirate!England x Reader
Vehemently
Part Eleven

When you had returned to Francis’s cabin with a ragged cloth to clean the ink, you had thought that that was the last you’d heard of it. You hadn’t let Francis know about your meeting Gilbert, so you’d lain low for a couple of days to let it simmer over before trying to go to the galley again.

You didn’t know your endeavours to keep it secret had failed until two days afterwards, when you were in the side-room, sitting on the floor in the corner. You had four different books open in front of you, trying desperately to learn French. You had to understand what Francis was saying and writing, and, to be frank, you were not getting anywhere.

Not understanding him or his crew proved to be more problematic than usual yesterday, since the same crewmember—the quartermaster, you decided—kept barging in and furiously muttering to Francis in French, and each time they both grew more and more frustrated until they rushed outside, looked through a spyglass, and argued some more. This happened thrice yesterday and twice today, and you knew Francis would never tell you what was happening. You had to find out for yourself.

And thus the books. The conjugations and tenses bamboozled you, and the words made exactly no sense. You couldn’t even tell how the vowels were pronounced; sure, you had a vague idea from hearing Francis speak, but you were still unsure of it all.

From within your whirling state of mind, you heard Francis clear his throat. You closed the books, looking up to see him resting against the doorframe. He stepped towards you, one of his hands in his hair. You swallowed—you knew something was coming.

Francis was determinedly phlegmatic. “Sooooo, chaton.” He put his hands behind his back, rather like Arthur had done often. “I presume you enjoyed yourself?”

Again with the foggy words. “Pardon?”

“I heard about your visit to the galley.”

“Ah.” You stood with a book still in hand, bracing yourself for an argument. “About that—”

“I suggest,” Francis said, not breaking eye contact, “that you do not try to go there again.” He stopped directly in front of you, clicking his heels together.

You had no need for his suggestions; you’d had enough of him. You didn’t want to even try to attack him. You just wanted it to be over already, so you could go back to not existing in your own little corner. “I cannot promise that I will not.”

“Then, in that case,” he said, tugging the book out of your hands and setting it on the bed, “I will have to revoke it as a suggestion and reiterate it as a command. Do not return to the galley. You will stay here.”

Pompous little… “Oh, will I?”

“Yes. Please.” Francis took your hands. “Please. I worry about you. I want you to be safe.”

You want me to be something you can completely control, you thought, your fingers curling in his. “I understand.” You understood what he wasn’t saying, what he didn’t say audibly, and you closed your eyes.

Arthur had been better than this. He had been absurdly crass and gallinaceous at times, yes, but the fact remained that he had been truthful in his emotions. You couldn’t bear the layers of emotional falsehood that Francis had laid upon you, and you wanted nothing more than to shake them off of yourself.

Francis smiled, his eyes half-lidded. “Good. Here,” he said, shuffling about in his pockets, “I want you to wear this.” He brought out a stringed sachet and began to tie it around your neck. “It’s got the usual stuff in it, lavender and the like.”

You took it between your fingers and examined it. Lavender? You held it to you nose, and you could definitely detect other scents. This is a bit suspicious, you thought, and then it struck you that it smelled like Francis. You glanced up at him, and he was biting his lip.

“I don’t want to hear of another escapade to the galley, all right? I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

“Nothing is going to happen to me,” you said, growing tired of this dreadful conversation, “In case you haven’t noticed, I can take care of myself.”

Francis grinned. “Chaton, were you unaware of where you were before I rescued you?”

You raised an eyebrow. “Well aware, thank you,” you told him, crossing your arms. “I was doing quite well without your so-called protection.”

There was a moment when nothing happened, and that moment let a hint of unease creep inside the room. “Oh,” he finally said through a narrow smile, lifting his chin, “I have to confess, I didn’t see this coming.”

You brought your hand in a fist to your mouth, your lips touching your index finger. “Excuse me?”

He twiddled some of his hair between his fingers. “You’re—”

The quartermaster burst through the door in Francis’s room and then yours, and he barked something in French desperately at Francis, who spun around on the spot and spat right back at him with a panicked edge in his voice. The quartermaster said what appeared to be a confirmation, as he was nodding as he said it. Francis made to follow him, but he stopped and turned to you.

He put his hands on your shoulders. “Just a minor issue. Nothing to worry you.” The narrow grin returned to his face. “And you shouldn’t worry; you’ll be my colony—” Francis kissed your forehead. “—and only my colony soon enough.” He gave you one last twisted smile before turning to dash on deck.

You scowled and turned back to your books, disgusted. Despite your wanting Francis to think not of you, you despised that he saw you as nothing but another piece of land, another girl to add to his list. At least with Arthur, you had been a person.

You had to stop and think that thought over. It seemed strange that you now saw it in this light—but that was how it had been. You could recall Arthur’s telling you that you weren’t a person—it had been something about your name verses your title—but you had been acknowledged more there than you had been lately, more than Court, even, where only Naomi had really been your friend. You hated to admit it, but maybe you had been better off on the English ship.

But what had made being there better; what had made you a person? Perhaps it was the privacy. The common language surely was nice, and you adored having something to do all of the time—that was certainly a contributing factor. However, you had to say that it was the benevolence of the people there. Although it had taken a while, they had grown to like you, and you had grown to like them. The crew here hadn’t been given the chance; they kept to themselves and were always relatively quiet—unlike they were currently.

You looked at the sachet around your neck, and you grimaced before tucking it back under your shirt. You missed Alfred, Allistor, and Matthew something terrible, but you felt like you missed more than them—the pure essence of the ship and the way it felt when you climbed the ratlines to have the salty spray blustered past your face, perhaps—you couldn’t put your finger on it. If only Arthur hadn’t—Arthur.

He had been obtuse and difficult for ages and cordial only sporadically, but was that not expected of someone who lived to intimidate and acquire new land? It was no excuse, but you accepted his spectrum of sentiments and realised that that was just the way he was able to express his thoughts. Arthur may not have the ability to convey his opinions in a typical, genial manner. Maybe he just wasn’t used to it, because he hadn’t been exposed to convivial proceedings; that would certainly explain his lack of gentlemanlike behaviour and his reactions to your mentioning it. But it didn’t deflect the detail that Arthur was such an impeccably daft moron, and you found that you actually missed him, despite your finding it hard to believe.

You decided that you were mad, if you had come to this conclusion. You sighed and brought the sachet out from under your shirt again. You didn’t fancy having it seem like Francis was hanging around your neck all of the time. You crossed to his room and started rummaging through the cabinets for Francis’s own sachets and, upon finding it, put the materials back from which they came. You glanced over your shoulder periodically, as you were fairly jumpy, and then, when finished, you searched for something to kill the current scent.

It was all rather strange, that you missed Arthur. For one, if you really did miss him, it would mean you had actually grown fond of him at some point. You smiled at the thought; it seemed impossible. Surely, surely, you were mad.

You managed to find some tealeaves, and they were better than nothing. Perhaps it was just isolation getting to you—isolation with which you had been tolerating for far too long. You were exhausted of living like this, and you craved a way out—anything, everything.

As you stowed away extra tealeaves in your corset, you thought you heard something outside—shouting or the like. You approached the window and pressed your nose against it, now acutely aware of the dilemma about which Francis and the quartermaster had been frantically speaking: the ship was under attack.

Through the incipient fracas, you looked through the tinted glass to try to find Francis; you hoped he was a poor swordsman. You fixed your focus on the mast, blurring everything else around it, and wondered why you didn’t hear it before now. But then you shook yourself and began to see the individual faces.

Is that, you thought, squishing your nose on the window even farther, That is Allistor. And so it was. There was no doubting the brambly movements and the scruffy ginger hair, and you bit your lip, trying to keep from smiling. You scanned the mêlée for other familiar faces, and you recognised many. It was Arthur who was attacking Francis.

You considered speaking to one of the crew, to let them know you were all right, but you decided against it. You would see them later; what was important right now was that you got onto the English ship. Your chance to escape had arisen, and you were going to take it.

You cracked open the door and, upon hearing the skirmish, quickly shut it again. You couldn’t leave just yet. You approached Francis’s desk and fumbled through the top drawers until you found it: the logbook. You looked down at your dress; there was room for tiny bundles of tealeaves, yes, but not a book. There wasn’t a place to hide it, so you just tucked it under your arm in hopes that no one would notice it.

You slipped through the door and lurked in the shadow of the quarterdeck, formulating the best method of boarding the other ship. It was close enough that you could get across with the aid of one of the slashed ratlines, but you had not exactly been the best at that sort of thing. One crossing board was set, but it was clear out in the open; Francis would no doubt see you if you tried that, but it was unquestionably the safest option. Yes, you wanted to make it unscathed, but you wanted to evade Francis more. You were scanning the air for a loose line when your eyes were drawn elsewhere.

With the sound of splitting wood, Arthur swung by his own rope onto Francis’s ship, slightly off-balance. Francis sprinted over to him, pulling his sword out of its scabbard. Before the time he was close enough to do any harm, Arthur had whipped his flintlock out of his belt and, grabbing part of the ratlines to steady himself, pointed it in Francis’s face.

“I’ve changed my mind,” you heard Arthur roar above the clamour, “She’s still mine. I’m taking her back.”

Your heart soared. You were vaguely touched, but you were uncertain of how to handle it. You tilted your head, smiling a smidge, as you watched Arthur draw his own sword to prepare against Francis. Arthur… he couldn’t—no, you couldn’t, no time, not right now. Focus.

You edged into the sunlight enough that you could try one of the nearby ropes, fiddling with them pathetically. You couldn’t tie them at the proper angles without being seen. When you heard the initial clash of swords, you looked up.

Arthur had climbed down from the handrail and was moving with such agile panache that you hadn’t seen on him before, and, as you observed the swordfight, you had to admit that he was incredibly gifted with a blade. How had you not seen it before now?

By a shred of luck, Arthur spotted you over Francis’s shoulder, his eyes alighting. You swallowed and jerked your head in the direction of the crossing board, desperately hoping he would take the hint that you were scared to death of using a rope. His eyebrows flashed upwards as he nodded curtly, and he began to lead Francis in the opposite direction. Oh, thank the Lord for Arthur’s intuition.

When he and Francis were clattering near the far side from the crossing board, you bolted towards it, tripping over the first notch in the board and almost letting the logbook slip over the edge. You caught it and stood, steadying yourself. Okay, you thought, be careful. Just don’t look down. You’ll be fine. You held your breath, clutching the book to your chest, and started traversing across for the first time without an escort. The sharp winds and undulant jostlings of the ships made you want to retreat, and you pushed some of your hair out of your face, biting your lip. Bugger. You glimpsed down at the water, which was strangely stationary, considering what was happening, and it somehow calmed you. You regained your composure enough to glance back over your shoulder to see Arthur still stalling Francis, and you pushed yourself to cross completely, running the last stretch of the way.

You ducked into the shadows of the staircase to the quarterdeck, breathing heavily with a smile on your face. You had made it. You slid against the wall to sit down, dropping the logbook and biting one of your knuckles in a state of euphoric disbelief.

You soaked in the sight of the deck, stained with smatterings of spilt gunpowder and broken barrels. Seamus was frantically reattaching loose sail ropes, and other crewmen were firing muskets over the sides at the helmsman. None of the Frenchmen, you noticed, had boarded Arthur’s ship. You hoped the attack would be over soon, so you could get out of Francis’s life forever—and back into this one. You didn’t think you had ever seen anything so beautiful.

It looked like Seamus was having a bit of trouble, though. You moved to help him, but before you could stand, a pair of boots materialised in front of you. You looked over the shoddily dressed form to the stupidly green eyes that you had missed.

Arthur crouched next to you with a crookedly foolish grin, the fraying edges of his coat spreading around him. “Couldn’t stay away, eh?”

You beamed, shaking your head. “Oh, shut up.”

He ruffled your hair, and somehow, you were okay with that. “Brilliant. Hold on,” he said, standing and beginning to call over his shoulder to a few of the crewmen on the side-lines. “Start firing from the main cannon. Aim for one spot near the lower part of the deck. You,” Arthur said, jabbing the chest of a smaller crewman, “tell Allistor to set fire to their mast once they’ve shot the ship a few times, then call back the crew.” He handed him a whistle. “The rest of you,” he said to the others, narrowing his eyes at the struggling boatswain, “and Seamus! Prepare to sail.”

As he did this, the sunlight seemed to hit Arthur perfectly, illuminating the brighter strands of his blond hair, and he was trying to keep from smiling, his nose crinkling in the process.

He nodded deeply to the crew and strode over to help the floundering Seamus. Arthur stood before him, bouncing on the balls of his feet with his hands behind his back. You couldn’t hear what they were saying, but it must’ve been reasonably jocund, as Seamus let out a snort. He finished tying a rope as the captain took the others.

As Seamus ran off and Arthur dealt with the sail ropes, you didn’t know what to think. You tilted your head. You could see it: you were sitting in a beam of sunlight coming through a window, and Arthur was seated across from you. Both of you had a cup of tea in hand, and you were laughing at something he had said; he used over exaggerated hand gestures when he spoke. And right now, you wanted that more than anything. Just to talk.

The shrill sound of the whistle cut through the air, and you were brought out of your reverie. You picked up the logbook and stood to get a better view of the beginnings of flames on the other ship, and you saw several familiar faces boarding Arthur’s. Let’s see, you thought, There’s Allistor still directing crewmen on our ship… Dylan’s not even—

“Kitts!” Alfred said, as he attacked you with a hug, then corrected himself and called you by your name, “Hey, you’re back! You’re okay? What happened over there?” You tried to speak but got a mouthful of his cravat. “Oh, who cares; we’ll find out later. You’re back. Let me tell you, you wouldn’t believe what’s been going on here; I’ll tell you over supper. And hey! Oh, cripes, I can’t believe—I’m so glad you’re here, because somebody wouldn’t shut up about y—”

“That’s quite enough, Alfred,” Arthur said, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Don’t you think she must be tired by now? Perhaps you had ought to speak to her later.”

Alfred stepped away from you and nodded. “Of—of course. I apologise. See you later, then?”

“Yes,” you said, jumping slightly as Arthur slid his arm around your waist.

“Why don’t you go ‘round to make sure that everyone in the crew is back?” Arthur said, in such a way that was more of an order than a suggestion.

“Erm, yeah…” Alfred said, pointing behind him and eyeing Arthur’s hand that gripped the fabric of your dress, “I’ll just…go tell everyone to…” He started backing away from the two of you. “…get ready to…yeah.” Alfred turned and dashed up the staircase to speak to Dylan.

Arthur smiled softly. “Come, now,” he said, looking you in the eyes at last, “What’ve you got there?” He gestured towards the logbook. “No, hold on. Not here. Let’s go somewhere quieter, yes?”

You glanced back across the deck, where the crew was rushing the sailing away from Francis’s now slightly blackened ship. “Shouldn’t we—”

“They’ll take care of it; I assure you. They can take care of themselves.” He pulled you past the staircase, your shoes slipping on the deck, partly from your watching his amaranthine expression. “Come on.”

You were only half-aware Arthur’s hand on your lower back as you stepped into the darkness of his cabin.