Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter six of “The Prickly Bush”. I apologize for the delay in posting. This chapter was quite difficult to write and I actually rewrote it several times. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and those who reviewed, Bizzy125, MageofRoses, DemonicSymphony, Random Authoress, una hija de las estrellas, Jester Kit, Menerothiel, HecateTriformis, CC and Xewioso Thank you all so much, your feedback means the world to me. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread many times) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Disclaimer: I clam no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. Lieutenant Peter Trimble alone is mine.

Chapter Seven A Distinctly Feminine Bearing

A good measure of excitement hummed in Peggy’s veins as she followed Norrington and Groves aboard the Interceptor. The sails unfurled like great banners, a knight’s standard and bulged as the wind rushed into them. Sailors dashed about, some slipping, some stumbling as they hurried to ready the ship and push her out into the cerulean waters of the harbor. Norrington was barking orders, only a few of which Peggy heard. The rest were lost in the pleasant blurriness that settled over her. She leaned against the railing.

“Are you half silly, lad?” Groves called over his shoulder as he rushed past her. “Come to, by God!”

“Aye, aye.” Peggy straightened and hastened along the deck after him. Through the forest of rope and tall wooden masts she saw the smooth hull of Dauntless slicing through the waves. Sparrow and Turner had worked quickly, damn it all.

“I wonder why old Gillette gave her up in the first place?” she asked, placing herself by Groves’ side on the quarter deck.

“Never mind that now.” He shoved beckoned furiously at an idling sailor. “Come, lads! Come! Bring her about.”

“No worries,” Peggy said. The Dauntless was already slowing, her sails falling lax. “We’ll be alongside them in no time.”

“Aye, but a worthless trifle this is,” Groves growled, the wind threatening to sweep his hat from his head.

“Turner is a whelp,” Peggy replied. “Remember, I said it from the first!”

“That you did.”

And to her utter amazement, Norrington joined them, his hands knotted behind his back.

“Prepare a boarding party, they won’t scurry away this time.”

“Yes, sir.” And Groves dashed away with one hand pressed atop his head.

Peggy straightened her own hat and looked out over the waters to where the Dauntless had come to a stop.

“It’s not much a chase,” she said with a frown. “Pity, I much prefer running them down.”

Norrington glanced at her. “You are a remarkably strange lad, Trimble,” he said, exhaling sharply. The sun hit his face and chased away the dark shadows under his eyes. “And not half as soft as you look.”

“A compliment, sir.” Peggy bowed, regretting it when her head swam, the blood rushing straight to knot on her brow.

“We’re nearly on them now, sir!” Groves bellowed from somewhere on the lower deck.

Norrington paced. “Grapnels ready! Prepare to board!” He beckoned Peggy with a flick of his wrist. “Trimble, you stay with me and perhaps you might demonstrate some of that valor Groves is always spouting speeches about.”

Peggy flushed, biting back a smile. “An honor, sir.” This time she made sure not to bow.

Norrington rushed down the stairs onto the main deck with Peggy close on his heels. She found that she had difficulty walking in a straight line and her feet felt more like lead than anything else. Annoyed, she scrubbed her forehead with the heel of palm. The pain lessened some, but not quite enough.

The Interceptor pulled even with the Dauntless, wooden planks stretching across the distance between the two ships as sailors scrambled from one deck to another. Peggy stayed just behind Norrington and she strained her neck to see over his great, broad shoulders.

The main deck seemed empty and marines flooded every inch of it. Peggy caught sight of the steely glint of fixed bayonets and drawn swords. Turner and Sparrow certainly had no place to run now.

“Trimble, search the aft cabins,” Norrington shot over his shoulder at her. “Mind you, I want them alive.”

“Aye, sir,” Peggy replied dryly. She would make him no further promises. Five marines were marshaled together and she ordered them to the very stern of the ship into the officer’s quarters.

It was a sacred place or so Peggy had always fancied and not to be sullied by pirate hands. With some reverence, she opened the main door leading to the cabin and chart room.

There was some matter of stillness about the place and it sat tucked away from the chaos on deck. Peggy squinted, her eyes adjusting to the grayness of the cabin. A fine carpet cushioned and muted her footfalls. Maps decorated the walls, yellowed and old like tapestries found in decaying castles.

Peggy beckoned the rest of men in and rounded the formidable table that sat in the center. Her hand skirted the very top of it, brushing away a fine layer of dust. The silence unnerved her.

Out of habit, she unsheathed her sword. A single beam of sunlight fell through the grimy windows and touched the wooden floor, coloring it bronze.

“Sir,” a hushed whisper made all the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. A milk-faced marine stepped close to her side. “I heard a noise, sir.” And he gestured to a wide weathered chest that had been pushed up against the wall.

Peggy raised a brow. Oh, how she would love to deliver the whelps unto Norrington and enjoy his praises. She smirked, taking a tentative step toward the chest. The lock had been undone, she noticed and the lid seemed to be lifted up slightly.

“I’ll kill that Turner whelp,” Peggy muttered. And she would have. There was little room in her prickly heart for fools and giddy romantics. In her mind, Turner had the worst of both traits and he had vexed Norrington. That was quite enough for her.

With the flat of her sword, she banged on the lid of the old chest. That ought to give the fellow quite a scare. Yes, quite a scare indeed.

The marines were standing about, muskets pressed to their shoulders and aimed just at the chest. Peggy glared at them.

“Don’t shoot my bloody hand off now, lads,” she said. A moment of breathless silence past and her heart slammed against her ribcage. And then, with a snarl, she threw back the lid, ready to run the thieves through.

Instead, her sword sliced through a stack of old maps. Peggy cursed and kicked the trunk.

“Where are they now, by God? Where are they?”

The pop of musketry sounded on deck. Peggy jumped. The marines started and stared at her.

“On deck!” she bellowed. “Don’t stand there now! On deck!”

There was a general rush for the door and Peggy only succeeded in making it out first by driving her elbow into the nose of a particularly pushy private. Gun smoke flew into her face, smelling of rotten eggs and other putrid things. Peggy sputtered and waded through the gray haze.

Standing along the railing were a dozen or so marines, firing an uneven volley in the direction of the Interceptor. Peggy forced her way through the gawking crowd of sailors and officers, just in time to see Sparrow bid them adieu from his place at the helm.

“Thank you, commodore, for getting us ready it make way. We’d had a hard time of it by ourselves.”

Peggy groped for her pistol, disappointment dropping into her gut like a large stone when she realized the pirate was out of range. Damn it all.

Norrington, however, seemed more determined.

“Set top sails and clear up this mess,” he barked.

Peggy scrambled up to the quarter deck and exchanged a curious look with Groves.

“With the wind at a quarter astern, we won’t catch them,” he said.

Peggy shook her head. “Sparrow’s having himself a fine laugh now.”

Norrington whirled on them both, his face livid. “I don’t need to catch them, just get them in range of the long nines.”

“Sir!” Peggy gasped and her stomach turned over. “Sir, you can’t mean to do such a thing.” She trotted after him, her shoes skidding on the damp deck. “We can’t fire on our own ship.”

“I’d rather see her at the bottom of the ocean than in the hands of a pirate,” Norrington said. Peggy noticed his clenched hands and the tense line of his back and she recognized the determined stance. No plea would move his iron heart.

She glanced at the Interceptor cutting gallantly through the waves, her sails caught high and pulled taut by an eager wind. Peggy’s heart sank as she heard the rumble and groan of the guns as they were rolled out and made ready. Oh, how she would weep to see that fine hull punctured by murderous cannon shot.

And then they heard a cry, ringing from the throat of some young jack tar.

“Commodore, they’ve disabled the rudder chain, sir!”

Norrington staggered, leaning against the railing, his head bowed. He said nothing.

Groves, however, looked like a man saved from the gallows. “That has got to be the best pirate I’ve ever seen.”

“So it would seem,” Norrington muttered.

The sound of smashing wood rent the air and Peggy leaned over the railing, just in time to see the remnants of a longboat and Lieutenant Gillette go floating by.

---

Gillette looked somewhat like a drowned rat when he was pulled aboard the Dauntless. Streaming red hair stuck to his cheeks and he felt for his wig.

“You’ve lost it, laddie,” an all too cheerful voice crowed. “Probably tangled about some seaweed by now, I’d wager.”

Gillette panted, falling against the railing of the ship with his hands braced on his thighs. “Oh shut it, Trimble.” He looked up at the giggling boy through his drenched bangs.

“Lucky you have your life,” Trimble said.

“I’d rather have the Interceptor.” Gillette dropped his sopping blue coat onto the deck, shivering as a breeze swept over the ship and made his skin prickle. “By God, why didn’t you come after us?”

Trimble shrugged, his face shining with sweat and ill-concealed mirth. “Sparrow disabled the rudder chain.”

“Damn it,” Gillette spat, ignoring Trimble’s shocked expression. He was never one to resort to cursing. “How’s the commodore?”

Trimble flinched. “Brooding. Theo’s with him, I think, and as for myself, I shan’t trouble him now. He was vexed enough with me this morning.”

Gillette straightened and rubbed his chilled arms briskly. The sun had dipped behind thick clouds, leaving the sky bleak and black.

“Hand me your coat, my pet,” he said, clenching his teeth together to keep them from chattering.

“Why?” Trimble hugged himself protectively, shying away from Gillette’s outstretched hand.

“I’ll catch my death otherwise,” Gillette sighed, in no mood for any sort of game. Trimble’s voice, however, was no longer playful.

“We’ll be onshore soon enough.”

Gillette raised a brow. “Peter?”

The boy seemed to hesitate, gnawing his lower lip. “All right then, but keep it clean! I’ve no money for a laundress.”

“I do,” Gillette assured him, gratefully taking the coat in hand and slipping it over his shoulders. Slowly, the warmth returned to his body. Trimble stood before him, arms folded over his chest.

“I don’t know what you’re so very sour about,” Gillette sniffed. Trimble pouted and ambled over to his side, perching by the railing. He had a distinctly ruffled look about him, with his thin arms drawn close about his frame, his narrow shoulders slumped. Gillette studied his friend. He was a boy still, with a strange sort of figure and form, a distinctly feminine bearing.

Gillette shook his head. Oh, what a silly thought that was. A foolish, foolish thought. He clapped Trimble lightly on the shoulder.

“Well,” the boy said at length and he smiled saucily once more, “did I not say that Turner was a whelp from the very first?”

“You did, Peter.”

“Hmm, I fancy I’m wiser than you lot.” Trimble shrugged and Gillette’s hand fell from his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t go that far, my pet,” Gillette laughed, straining to annoy the desperate worry that had settled over him. He had lost the Interceptor, that bonny ship and a price would certainly be paid.

Trimble stepped way from the railing. “Groves.”

Gillette looked up.

The man was indeed approaching, his pace more suited for a march to a graveyard than anything else. His bronzed face had sobered some and Gillette could find no mirth in his usually jolly eyes.

Dear God.

“The commodore,” Groves said quietly when he drew near, his hands shoved in his pockets, “he wants to see you both, now.”