Commodore James Norrington strode along the deck of his ship, heading aft to the wheel. It was truly not his ship, the latest addition to his fleet, but for one voyage, he could feel like a proper captain again, put the Rose through her paces and finally gain some blessed relief from the endless sheaves of paperwork that running the Jamaican fleet entailed. He thanked his good fortune for the bloody flux that had sent the captain of the H.M.S. Rose to the hospital in Port Royal along with about a quarter of her crew. He bore them no ill-will, indeed, even hoped that they would be well before his return, but damn, it felt good to be at sea again and free as it was possible to be considering his duties.

In assessing the Rose personally, he was, in fact, doing his duty to an extent. He did need to know what this ship was capable of in order to integrate her into his fleet effectively. That was his excuse for this jaunt and the Governor and the lieutenants of the Dauntless had accepted it without comment. That was the good part of his position. People generally did what he told them and abided his decisions unquestioningly.

But the Rose, how was he going to make use of her? She was small, a sixth rate, with a broadside of ten six-pounders on her single deck, two long four pound stern chasers, and two more in the bow. She was fast, however, and that almost made up for the tiny armament. She was a French corvette captured early in the war and now sent to him. Rose. What a ridiculous name for a ship of war. Warships should be named after generals or proper inspiring sentiments like Dauntless and Indefatigable, not flowers. Probably named by a woman.

He continued his circuit, nodding at the gaggle of mids taking their noon sight from the waist. He noticed that one was having rather more difficulty with the sextant than the others. Probably new, and with the sickness on the voyage over, likely no one had spent the time to show him properly. Rather thin looking, he was wearing a voluminous boat cloak despite the stifling heat of the midday sun. Norrington hoped that he was not ill with the flux as he made his way over to the hapless fellow.

Just then, a cry of "Sail, ho!" from the lookout redirected his attention completely. In moments, he was high in the rigging, his spyglass out. The navigation lesson would have to wait for another day.

"Where away?"

"Two points off the larboard bow."

He stared at the dark smudge on the horizon, concentrating as it resolved itself into a ship, of a like size to their own, two masted, wearing French colors. She had the look of a ship of war but something about her seemed to be wrong somehow. He couldn't determine exactly what, but something made him believe this was a privateer, rather than a part of the regular navy. Of course, with the French you could never be sure. He descended to the deck again.

"It appears that we may have some action on our hands before long," he commented to the first lieutenant as they walked aft together.

"Aye, sir." Not quite eagerness in the voice, but a certain steely determination that matched the young man's short stature and wiry build.

"Do you think the crew can handle something like this, Mr. Sutter?"

He heard the pride bubble up in the lieutenant's voice when he replied, "Sir, the Rose's crew can hold their own, even being down so many men. We'll do all right."

"Good, then set a course for the French ship and start clearing the decks and preparing for action." The lieutenant was young, but he knew these men well and Norrington wanted to see his mettle. He circuited the decks again as Lieutenant Sutter bellowed out order after order. He nodded approval at the workmanlike way the crew went about their preparations. He inspected the cannons and their crews, speaking briefly with the captain of each gun crew.

As they drew steadily nearer their target and the preparations were finished, he realized that the cloaked midshipman was following him around, and had been for some time. He turned quickly and strode to the boy.

"Don't you have something you should be doing at a time like this, Mr.-" Before he was near enough to see the boy's face, the youth apparently remembered what he was about and sped off without even a look at Norrington. He passed completely from Norrington's thoughts in the considerations of the coming battle. He caught his steward just before he went below to secure his cabin.

"Crowe, lay out my wig and my second-best blue coat. I shall be needing them shortly." He gazed at the other ship through the spyglass again and watched the extremely neat job she made of wearing ship and the businesslike netting being slung above decks. The open gunports along her side gaped blackly at him. "On second thought, better lay out my best coat." Privateer or no, her captain was clearly a first order sailor with a crack crew and deserving of his respect.

The battle was short and fierce. The Rose had the weather gage from the start and although her first broadsides did little damage to the other vessel, it did give him some tactical advantage and great mental advantage to have achieved the first strike. He stood on the quarterdeck, directing the action with his sword in his hand, much as a conductor leads an orchestra. The crew was well rehearsed and each man did his job valiantly. Lieutenant Sutter split his time between directing the forward gun crews and returning to Norrington's side, his keen eyes observing every decision he made through the heat of the battle.

When the French ship's mizzen was shot away and her wheel smashed to bits, he maneuvered the Rose close enough for grapnels to be thrown across and led the boarding party aft while Sutter took charge of the Rose. As he swung over, he noticed the awkward midshipman swarming into the maintop with a cadre of marines. Their musket fire gave his party enough cover to achieve the enemy's deck and fight their way forward. Soon enough, he was sheathing his bloody sword and accepting that of the French captain. He swung back to the Rose and gave Sutter the honor of taking the prize back to Port Royal.

With thirty-seven prisoners in his hold and tangled skeins of rigging dangling above the decks, Norrington took a moment to go below and shed his blue coat. He started in surprise when he saw another occupying the small space. It was the midshipman in the boat cloak. The one who had no idea how to take a noon sight and who had fought so well with the marines in the fighting top. He turned to face Norrington, and let the cloak slide from his shoulders to puddle at his feet. Somehow, he wasn’t entirely surprised when he saw the lithe figure and delicate features now revealed.

"Elizabeth," he breathed. Her hands were stained dark from the tarry rigging and reeked of gunpowder. A bruise was forming on her right cheek from the recoil of the musket she had been firing during the last chaotic moments of the fight. There was blood on her sleeve, whose he did not know, and her hair was in wild disarray about her face. He thought he had never seen such a beautiful woman before. "What are you doing here?" he asked as an afterthought.

"I ... James...I'm not entirely sure. I thought I wanted an adventure." He stared at her when she said this, the blood still singing in his veins, the fierce joy of battle not yet yielding to the calm reasoning of his nature. When he looked into her face, he saw that her eyes were bright and her cheeks flushed with excitement. She looked at him and laughed a short laugh, the sound echoing resoundingly through his body. In an instant, the heat of battle changed to an entirely different heat. He shuddered with the intensity of it and reached a hand to her. It trembled for a moment, inches from her cheek and with an effort he dropped it back down to his side.

"Elizabeth! Go. Now. Get out of my cabin."

"But James, I want to stay and share a victory drink with you. What a marvelous battle. Do you know how lucky you are to have all this?" With a sweep of her arm, she encompassed the acrid smells, the din, the heat, and the fury. He wanted to tell her that he did know, that having her here to share it fulfilled a longing he didn't even know he'd had until this instant. He could not.

"Please, Elizabeth, if you ever loved me even a small amount, you will leave now. Seeing you like this, here, is a cruel temptation. Do not taunt me now, I beg you." His voice was hoarse from shouting and cracked at the end.

"James, I had no idea that you were so…so….dangerous." She stepped over the boat cloak that had hidden her and smiled, a feral grin, and launched herself at him.

He was propelled back, hard against the bulkhead, Elizabeth pressed commandingly against him, her hands twined in his hair, her tongue eagerly invading his mouth. He smelled the gunpowder again, stronger this time, and a faint scent of roses. He wrapped one hand around her slim neck, the other spanning her tiny waist and abandoned all restraint. He took control of the kiss, deepening it, crushing her to him in a bruising grip. She responded in kind, pulling hard on his hair and biting at his lips and tongue. He pulled away when he tasted the iron tang of blood. He licked his lips and felt the swollen mark there.

They stared at one another for a long moment as the flames slowly died away. With a sigh that was part regret and a larger part relief he turned away from her and fetched the claret from the cupboard.

"To our victory, Miss Swann," he offered and swallowed. She lifted her glass with him and drank.

When she put the glass down, she looked smaller, somehow. Less real. "I think it's time for you to take me home now, James. I've had enough adventure for one day."

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