When she says it all, she means the disaster of what happened to the Ranger. Watched the way that one minute they had power and prestige and value, and the next minute Jack Rackham lost a bag of pearls more valuable than he should have even had on his person, watched Charles dissolve into distilled emotion and opium. Watched him fuck his whores and watched him fuck Eleanor, too.
They could have been something, Charles and Eleanor. Daphne knows it. She’s still the strange savage woman that the Ranger brought back from a ship almost six months ago, who came dripping in jewels, who almost killed a man who tried to take her by force, and certainly bit a chunk of his dick off.
But she would like to think that she’s Charles’ friend, too. Maybe. She likes him, his savageness. She learned English next to him, his patience in translating to her in his sleek Spanish. He helped her establish herself - a woman who is not a whore and not a merchant, but who does valuable odd things. Her skills in determining the value of items, a proper appraisal of luxury, he helped her leverage it.
So when the Ranger goes belly up - well, no. When the crew does what crews do and abandon Charles for Eleanor’s threats, she watches, dark eyed and considering. She watches as Jack takes over the whorehouse, and then one day Charles is gone and Daphne can’t help but wonder-
-well.
She’s at the whorehouse when he comes back, not to peruse but to appraise a very badly forged gold bracelet some enterprising criminal gave one of the girls, and watches him withdraw his blessing from Jack Rackham.
There he is.
That’s the man she knew, the one who had lain eyes on her when she was a feral, raving thing. The one who she wants, even though she can hear her grandmother’s voice in her head. That man is not for you. That man belongs to another woman.
Eleanor doesn’t want him.
He still want Eleanor, she thinks. Still.
She slips out of the brothel; it’s been weeks since she saw him, but around here that doesn’t always mean much. She’s taken to dressing like the local women, which is infuriating - there are too many layers. She misses her cool choli and gaghra.
She’s stopped by one of his new men as she comes by.]
Nassau;
When she says it all, she means the disaster of what happened to the Ranger. Watched the way that one minute they had power and prestige and value, and the next minute Jack Rackham lost a bag of pearls more valuable than he should have even had on his person, watched Charles dissolve into distilled emotion and opium. Watched him fuck his whores and watched him fuck Eleanor, too.
They could have been something, Charles and Eleanor. Daphne knows it. She’s still the strange savage woman that the Ranger brought back from a ship almost six months ago, who came dripping in jewels, who almost killed a man who tried to take her by force, and certainly bit a chunk of his dick off.
But she would like to think that she’s Charles’ friend, too. Maybe. She likes him, his savageness. She learned English next to him, his patience in translating to her in his sleek Spanish. He helped her establish herself - a woman who is not a whore and not a merchant, but who does valuable odd things. Her skills in determining the value of items, a proper appraisal of luxury, he helped her leverage it.
So when the Ranger goes belly up - well, no. When the crew does what crews do and abandon Charles for Eleanor’s threats, she watches, dark eyed and considering. She watches as Jack takes over the whorehouse, and then one day Charles is gone and Daphne can’t help but wonder-
-well.
She’s at the whorehouse when he comes back, not to peruse but to appraise a very badly forged gold bracelet some enterprising criminal gave one of the girls, and watches him withdraw his blessing from Jack Rackham.
There he is.
That’s the man she knew, the one who had lain eyes on her when she was a feral, raving thing. The one who she wants, even though she can hear her grandmother’s voice in her head. That man is not for you. That man belongs to another woman.
Eleanor doesn’t want him.
He still want Eleanor, she thinks. Still.
She slips out of the brothel; it’s been weeks since she saw him, but around here that doesn’t always mean much. She’s taken to dressing like the local women, which is infuriating - there are too many layers. She misses her cool choli and gaghra.
She’s stopped by one of his new men as she comes by.]
Do I look like an assassin?
[She rolls her eyes.]
Charles!