celticbard76

How I Leave My Country Cover

2008-05-28T19:18:59Z

A beautiful 'cover' for my Patriot fic "How I Leave My Country" by the amazingly talented Quibbler at The Dark Arts.

How I Leave My Country Pictures (Pt. 2)

2008-03-05T18:30:51Z

A second series of pictures from "How I Leave my Country" featuring the characters as they appear in real life.

Amelia Percy, Julia Percy's daughter
(Natalie Dormer as 'Victoria' in "Casanova")

Major Beatrice Covenly, a member of Percy's military family.
(Mary Nighy as the 'Princess de Lamballe' in "Marie Antoinette")

Colonel Margaret Havens-Percy's rival.
(Romola Garai as 'Barbara Spooner' in "Amazing Grace")

Major General Sir Henry Clinton, Percy's longtime friend.
(As portrayed by Nick Dunning in "Benedict Arnold: A Question of Honor")

Captain John Andre, Percy's aide-de-camp and lover.
(Rupert Graves as 'Captain Robert Fulke Greville' in "The Madness of King George")

Doctor Harriet Benton, army surgeon and a longtime friend of Percy's.
(Elizabeth Mitchell as 'Dr. Juliet Burke' in "Lost". Note: I couldn't find suitable 18th century pics for every character and Ms. Mitchell seemed perfect for Benton.)

Major General Julia Claudia Percy.
(Melora Creager, frontwoman to the band 'Rasputina'. Again, I couldn't find an 18th century pic for Percy, but Ms. Creager looks exactly as a picture her.)

How I Leave My Country Pictures

2008-03-05T18:15:36Z

From my Patriot fanfic "How I Leave My Country" posted on fanfiction.net, a set of 18th century portraits of historical figures and fictional characters.

Major General Julia Claudia Percy shortly after the Seven Years War in 1764
(Lady Worsley as painted by Reynolds)

Major General Julia Claudia Percy and her daughter, Amelia Percy in 1771
(Hester Maria and mother, Hester Lynch Thrale by Reynolds)

Major Beatrice Covenly, friend and staff officer to Percy in 1773
(By Reynolds)

Captain John Andre, Percy's aide-de-camp

John Andre self portrait sketched the day before his execution in 1781

Major General Sir Henry Clinton, Percy's colleague and confident.

Another view of Sir Henry

Lieutenant General Sir William Howe, commander-in-chief of the British forces in the American colonies.
(By C. Corbett)

Major General Lord Charles Earl Cornwallis, Percy's colleague.
(By Daniel Gardner, painted in 1782)

Asylum Part Two

2008-03-01T21:05:23Z

Title: Asylum (Part Two)
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 1,639
Rating: PG-13
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it’s characters.

Mrs. Lovett threw her wash tub water out into the street, nearly missing a toothless urchin who tossed a few choice words her way.

“Oi, that’s right, dearie,” she replied, tucking the tub under her arm and heading back inside. Her hands were chafed, raw and she hadn’t even started with the bleaching yet. Humph, laundress work certainly wasn’t worth the few poor pennies she was paid.

Dusty, dank light fell through the window panes and she sighed, oh, they were in need of washing too. Why the whole house stank, the floor slippery as clothes dried on hastily strung up strings that lined the hall. And her parlor was crowded with laundry baskets. Grey, rumpled shirts spilled out of bags. Stockings were piled on her Albert’s chair.

So this was a widow’s fate.

Mrs. Lovett turned back to her washing, propped the soapy, greasy board up inside the basin and reached for a stained petticoat.

Well, at least the barber was doing well for himself. Just the other day he had brought his wife a whole bouquet of flowers, pretty things and Mrs. Lovett had watched as he walked through the hall with them. They were bright, colorful, a spot of light in her otherwise dreary house. And he had been bright too, colorful, smiling as he walked up the stairs to her.

“Lucy, my sweetheart!” His voice called to her, sweet, honey sweet and Mrs. Lovett had kicked her footstool across her parlor. Why, she didn’t know. But she had always had a fondness for that Mr. Barker, she did.

But she hated them both now. The wife and fool. Happy, cheery, lucky. And she was standing in her own parlor pouring piss into pans for bleaching.

Mrs. Lovett leaned against the old tub, her hands working furiously, kneading the cloth. Hmm, it reminded her of the rare times when Albert had some left over scrapes of meat and she would bake up a few pies for him. Always loved them, he did and he would sop up the last of the gravy with the light, fluffy crust.

Mrs. Lovett paused. She’d rather be doing that now, baking pies. And if she had the money, yes, maybe she could change the old butcher’s shop into a bake house….

A sharp knock on the door ruptured her reverie. Mrs. Lovett cursed under her breath and dried her hands on her apron.

“I’m coming, I am,” she called, taking her time as she walked out into the hall. God, what if it was another woman come to hand over her laundry? She simply hadn’t the time, hadn’t the energy to-

“Widow Lovett?” The lisping, licentious voice made her stop.

Mrs. Lovett raised a brow. Damn it all.

She opened the door and forced a toothy smile.

“Beadle Bamford, good afternoon, sir.”

The portly man bowed, doffed his hat and revealed a mop of stringy, tawny hair. “Widow Lovett, you’re looking especially lovely today.”

“Oh, psh, I must smell of piss, sir. All the bleaching, you now.” She stepped aside to let him in.

“Ah, so you’ve taken up laundress work?” He passed by, his round hip brushing against the bottom of her boned corset.

She flushed furiously.

The Beadle was wearing his rough leather topcoat as usual, the one that looked like alligator’s skin and barely buttoned over his large stomach. He showed himself into her parlor and Mrs. Lovett had to clear Albert’s chair of stockings so that he could sit properly, much as she hated to seem him plant his buttocks there.

“Yes, sir, laundress work, as you can see. Got to pay me creditors, of course, like any respectable person.”

The Beadle waved a thick finger in her face. “You’re a clever one, you are, Widow Lovett.” And without warning, he pinched her cheek.

“It’s Mrs. Lovett, if you please, sir,” she said, taking a quick step back and upsetting the washing tub. Dirty water bled into her carpet.

“And a clumsy one as well,” he said as she got onto her hands and knees to tidy up the mess. His eyes focused on her rump and she swallowed away an outraged scream.

“Eh, what was it you were wanting then?” she asked, panting a little as she finally straightened.

“Funny you should ask, madam,” he chuckled, eyes suddenly narrowing, tongue flicking along his yellow lips. “It’s about you creditors, in fact, Judge Turpin to be specific. He made you that loan sometime ago.”

“Ah.” Mrs. Lovett clenched her hands together and felt her knuckles crack. “That he did, sir, that he did.”

“And he was wondering, madam, when it’s to be paid back.” The Beadle shifted and stuck his stubby legs out.

Mrs. Lovett felt panic rise within her and her heartbeat quickened, pumping hot blood into her already warm face. “Well, I’ve been sending him some money, sir, just a little, more than I can afford, actually-”

“Pennies, Widow Lovett. You’ve been sending him pennies.” The Beadle flicked his fingers along the brim of his hat. “As it is, His Honor has been wondering if you might send along something more substantial this time.”

Mrs. Lovett tried to think fast, but her mind labored under lost memories, memories of the days when Albert had taken care of such business and she had been free, a careless, silly bride herself. And dear God, she had no money in the house, save for a single shilling she was hoping to buy some supper with.

“Sir,” she began, but upstairs the floorboards creaked and flighty Lucy Barker started to sing, walking about with her babe in her arms no doubt.

As I was a-walking along Radcliffe highway
A recruiting party came a-beating my way
They enlisted me and treated me till I did not know
And to the Queen's barracks they forced me to go

The Beadle was briefly distracted and he glanced at the ceiling, a crooked smiling lifting his lips. “Humph,” he mumbled and slapped his thigh. “Now, Widow Lovett, about that money. If you haven’t anything in the house, well, I’m sure we could arrange something else to please His Honor.”

He reached for her and Mrs. Lovett fell backwards, tripped over the now empty wash basin and caught herself on a heavy drape.

“No, sir,” she said, eyes wild with anger, “that won’t do, sir.”

The Beadle’s face turned a horrid shade of purple and he emitted a hearty choking noise as he tried to lift himself out of the chair. But then Lucy Barker began to sing again, her voice high, childish.

When next I deserted, I thought myself free
Until my cruel sweetheart informed against me
I was quickly followed after and brought back with speed
I was handcuffed and guarded, heavy irons put on me

The Beadle paused once more. “Who would that be now, Widow Lovett?”

“What, sir?” She was breathless, her eyes combing the room and finding the poker resting by the fireplace. Furtively, she snuck over and took it in hand, resigned to defend what little honor she had left. If she had wanted to turn to whoring, she would have done so in the first place and joined the girls down in Whitechapel.

“The singing, woman.” He was impatient now, had risen from the chair and walked to the open door, peeking into the hallway. “Who is that?”

Mrs. Lovett raised a brow, happy to have his back to her. She could hit him straight over the head if he tried something, yes, do it quick like. And she was surprised, actually, that the temptation to be rid of him was so strong. Course it would do no good in the end. She still had debts to pay and Turpin would be after her, no doubt and see her hanging or shipped off to Bedlam if it pleased him. Mrs. Lovett shivered. Lord knew what pleased Judge Turpin. She had been foolish to go to him for money, more foolish than that…

“Mrs. Barker, sir,” she answered. “Lucy Barker, the barber’s wife. You know Benjamin Barker, don’t you?”

The Beadle whipped around suddenly and Mrs. Lovett tightened her grip on the poker, raising it a little.

“Lucy Barker, eh?” His bleary eyes were wide. “The one with the yellow hair?”

“The same one, sir.”

“Your tenant?”

“Yes, sir. For some years now.”

The Beadle laughed. Mrs. Lovett stiffened, thought about calling for help, though who would come to her aid? Certainly no knight in armor.

“You should have told me that from the first, Mrs. Lovett,” he said and wriggled his fat fingers. “Should have told me from the start. I think, yes, I think we might be able to make a deal.”

“A deal, sir?” Mrs. Lovett’s breathing become shallow.

“With Judge Turpin, that is.” The Beadle was businesslike now, adjusting his jacket. “Your debt would be erased, in exchange for a little, hmm, help.”

Mrs. Lovett sucked in her breath. “I think I’ve made myself clear, sir. I ain’t no whore, ain’t no whore at all.”

“Oh, I never said you were.” And the Beadle winked, the motion naught but a garish twitch of the eye. “This is quite another matter, Mrs. Lovett. Quite another thing. Good day, then.”

He was gone. The door slammed behind him. Mrs. Lovett watched him from out the window and with a sob-laced sigh, let the poker fall from her hand.

The song Lucy sings in this chapter is actually a Victorian broadside titled “The Deserter” though supposedly it’s an older ditty that was updated to suit the times. Either way, I would highly recommend Fairport Convention’s version of it, with the late Sandy Denny’s wonderful vocals.

Asylum Part One

2008-02-23T21:19:26Z

Title: Asylum (Part 1)
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 1,282
Rating: PG for now, rating will go up later
Summary: A series of interconnected one-shots detailing the life of Mrs. Lovett, the sometimes penniless, rarely proper but always murderous pie baker of Fleet Street. Todd/Lovett obviously ;)
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Sweeney Todd or it’s characters.
Author’s Note: I am brand new to this community and I mean it, brand new. But since I’m hopelessly in love with the Todd/Lovett pairing, I’d thought I’d join up. This fic is the first part of a series set fifteen years before the events of the movie. I have about five installments up on fanfiction.net as it is, so updates will be prompt. Feedback of any kind would be absolutely wonderful. I hope you enjoy!

Asylum

London, 1873

Mrs. Lovett sat in her Albert’s chair on Thursday evening. It wasn’t a comfortable chair really, a bit creaky, a bit stiff and still smelling of the slop that slathered his clothes. Her late husband had been a butcher, he had. A fair one. And every night he came home stinking of slippery entrails and blood. Mrs. Lovett didn’t mind so much, having a poor sense of smell herself.

But she could hear well enough.

Tiny shoes tapped on the floor above her. Rat-tat, rat-tat. Smart little boots for pretty little feet. The barber’s wife was walking about, rushing about, fetching a fancy ribbon for her yellow hair, bouncing the baby on her hip.

Mrs. Lovett glanced at the low ceiling above. The chipped paint looked like ghastly scabs, catching the light of the gas lamps outside and casting crooked shadows over the walls. A frown folded her lips.

They were always making noise, they were, the barber singing, whistling, the wife laughing. The baby crying. God, she had never heard a baby cry so loud and the sound grated on her nerves, mocked her.

She had always wanted children, though Albert had never been keen on the idea. And now, and now the grave had him, the clay cold ground.

Her frown deepened.

Neat bottles of gin lined the sideboard, glistening in the fogged moonlight. Fetid air seeped in from the rotting streets.

Oh and she was rotting inside. Well, not rotting, but weeping, crying, crying like that baby upstairs.

Poor woman, all alone.

Albert’s butcher shop sat silently and ghosts waltzed past the dusty counter, fingered his old, dull knives. And she had no means now. Her pockets were empty, her house threadbare. She had even thought of selling her hair. But the wigmaker said only gold hair was worth a pin, not brown, not her ratty nest.

Ah, poor thing.

Mrs. Lovett touched her brow, kneading the flesh, chasing away the first sharp pangs of a headache. A hansom cab pulled up the street and rolled to a stop in the gutter. The sprightly driver hopped down and brushed his black hat free of soot.

She stood, sidled over to the window and leaned against the chilly panes. The horse was handsome, standing there in his fine leathers, the traces polished. A sigh slipped past her pursed lips.

Albert had kept a pony to pull his butcher’s cart. Up and down the alleys he would ride, delivering steaks to the rich and fatty chops to those who thought themselves grand enough to afford meat.

But even she couldn’t afford meat now.

The cab driver hitched his horse to a post and walked up to her door. The bell rang. The bustle upstairs ceased.

“Is that the cab already?” Mr. Barker was coming down the stairs, his feet skipping a step, jogging along the hall.

Mrs. Lovett turned from the window and peered through the crack in the door.

Ah, he was dressed all nice-like tonight. Like a fop. But the man wasn’t a fop, perhaps a little foolish, but not a fop.

She watched as he opened the door, spoke to the driver in a polite, jolly voice.

“It’s the wife, you know,” he laughed. “She has to look smart. But we’ll be down in a minute if you’ll wait. And here’s something for your trouble.”

Coins jangled, fell from Mr. Barker’s smooth hand into the leather glove of the driver.

“Oi, anything you say, sir.”

A hat was tipped, the door shut. Mr. Barker turned around, palms pressed to his hips. He was wearing a red waistcoat and lovely, laundered trousers-

A sudden knock drove Mrs. Lovett away from the door. She stumbled, tripped on the black hem of her gown and gathered herself.

“Mrs. Lovett?”

He was calling to her, the warmth of his voice a living thing, a charmed entity that left her throat dry.

“Yes?” she replied stiffly and settled herself back into old Albert’s chair. The edge of her gown was indecently lifted when he entered, but the man was blind and he had eyes only for her face.

“Mrs. Lovett, I’m sorry to intrude-”

“S’alright, dearie.”

“But I was wondering, if you’d be so kind-”

“I can’t wait for the rent any longer. Me pockets are empty this month and I have at least one stomach to feed.”

“Of course.” Mr. Barker smiled, his strong shoulder leaning against the open door, the knob twisting beneath his hands. Pretty hands, such gentle, pretty hands. “I’ll have it for you in the morning if you like. Have Lucy put the purse on the stairs when she goes out. But I wondered if I could ask a favor.”

Mrs. Lovett drummed her fingers on her thighs. “What is it then?”

He chuckled under his breath, eyes down, on the tops of his polished shoes. “I’m taking Lucy to the theater tonight, maybe to a music hall after. Would you watch Johanna for us? She’s asleep now, probably won’t wake till morn unless she’s fussy. If you’d only just sit with her, Mrs. Lovett. Lucy hates leaving her alone through the night and we never-”

“This isn’t a nursery, Mr. Barker,” Mrs. Lovett snapped.

The barber’s smile faded. “Oh, oh of course, Mrs. Lovett. I had only thought-”

“But if you bring the cradle down here, I’ll look after her. I’ve no one else to see to now anyway.”

“Certainly.” Mr. Barker looked relieved. “It’ll just be a moment, just a moment.” And then he turned on his heel, left the door ajar and rushed up the stairs. Mrs. Lovett heard him shuffling about overhead.

The cradle was lifted down, placed in the middle of her parlor on the old green rug and Mrs. Lovett stared at the thing. Lace. Lace and linen lined the little bed. Mrs. Barker carried the sleeping baby down in her arms.

“My thanks,” she hummed, settling the infant gently within and placing a feather kiss atop the pink forehead. And then she danced out of the room, awash in a soft blue dress, crinoline petticoats sounding like fallen leaves as they swished about her dainty legs.

Mrs. Lovett folded her arms over her chest. She was painfully aware of her dreary widow’s garb. Mourning, she was still in mourning while the barber’s flighty wife was free to wear her finery.

Mr. Barker was at the door last, closing it behind him, still smiling.

“Good night, Mrs. Lovett. And I’ll have the rent in the morning, no worries.”

A jerk of her chin suggested her agreement or derision as it might be. The hansom cab pulled away, harness ringing merrily all the way down the street.

Mrs. Lovett was alone. Well, not quite.

Little Johanna wriggled about in her cradle, a shrill cry ripping her from sleep.

And inside, Mrs. Lovett wept as well.

Delicacy Part Eighteen

2008-02-05T19:08:19Z

Title: Delicacy Part Eighteen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,179
Rating: PG-13
Characters: James Norrington, Elizabeth Swann and Mrs. Prior (OC)
Pairing: Norrington/Mrs. Prior
Chapter Summary: Norrington makes an alliance, Elizabeth arrives in Port Royal and Mrs. Prior says good-bye.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean although I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Yes, I’m alive! It’s been a month since I’ve updated and I do apologize. My spring semester started and the workload has been a bit more intense than I anticipated. This chapter is more of a series of three interconnected one-shots that cover the Tortuga scene in DMC. I thought it would be rather repetitive for me to rewrite the whole scene, so I tried to dance around it as best I could. Also, I am happy to say that Beckett will be back for the next chapter and he’ll resume his active role in the story until the end. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those of you that commented. This chapter is especially dedicated to aliceworld, a talented artist who has been illustrating this story for me. Please drop my journal and check out her wonderful work. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

The shadow was gone. And even though James Norrington was sitting in the tavern, swallowing a stiff pint of rum, he could not escape her chill. His tarnished eyes trailed the rickety banister and reached the staircase that ran along the yellowed wall. The second floor of the inn was all joyous noise now. Raucous. Whores perched on balconies, rum poured in golden streams like ambrosia down on the heads of the unsuspecting. But she was gone, had left the room after him and not returned.

Norrington missed Mrs. Prior.

He had never been one for wenching and despite his indulgence of nearly every sense, despite his debauchery, he had treated the ‘ladies’ of Tortuga with respect. But Mrs. Prior wasn’t a whore, no, she was widow. A weeping, wounded, wretched widow.

He had promised her things too, made vows in-between gasps and groans. She wanted Sparrow’s compass. And she wanted more.

An alliance.

Norrington called it such, resorted to the proper military term that reminded him of his navy days. Mrs. Prior wanted them to be friends, partners, she wanted his help.

And he would gladly give it.

They would be a match for Beckett, she convinced him, if they stuck together. She wouldn’t mind going back to Port Royal if he swore to follow. Things would be better then and she wouldn’t be kicked around, abused by a man who had laid claim to her and created a murderer.

Something of his archaic notion of chivalry stirred within him. He could save her, he could, if they only stayed together.

And they would.

Norrington lowered his aching head and pressed it to his open palm, his pulse beating warmly against his skin. The barkeep haphazardly filled his tankard.

“Thirsty tonight?” he asked in a reedy voice.

“Not particularly.”

“And where did you friend run off to?” The barkeep glanced up the stairs with a chuckle.

“I have no idea.”

“Didn’t have enough money to keep her long, eh?”

Norrington didn’t answer.

The whirl of wickedness continued about him. Norrington half-heartedly sipped the rum and then asked for a bottle of something stronger. He was given sailor’s grog, plain, unadorned, quite different from the dainty wines he had sipped out of elegant snifters.

He missed her. By God, he missed her.

Why?

She certainly wasn’t Elizabeth Swann. No, Mrs. Prior was villain, unlike him, unlike any man or woman he had met. Worse than a pirate, perhaps.

But she needed him and perhaps right now, that was enough.

The barkeep kept a keen eye on him and Norrington frowned as if the man was a physical manifestation of his troubles.

And then he heard it, high, chuckling, a voice chirping above the crowd.

“All right lads! Who wants to join me crew?”

*****

Dressed as a cabin boy and just as inconspicuous as one, Elizabeth Swann gladly accepted the port of Tortuga as her new-if not permanent-home. She left the relative comfort of the Edinburgh Trader, embracing instead the teeming streets and catcalls and drunken stragglers that tumbled against her shoulders. And yet her heart was light, a wide-winged bird that hummed in her breast.

She didn’t even mind the smell.

Strange, she thought. Change was indeed a swift, elusive thing. Elizabeth never would have imagined she would feel more comfortable amongst pirates as opposed to her peers. There was an earthiness to these people, a sense of honesty. Of course they lied, of course they cheated and stole and conjured all sorts of mischief. But they did not pretend, did not present themselves with an air of gentility only to…

No.

Elizabeth stopped and dropped out of the street, leaning against a sticky alley wall. She would never think of him again, would chase him from her nightmares and scattered daydreams that only served to remind her of just how far she had fallen.

But how could she forget? Her sins would torment her, gnaw at her heart every time she looked into Will’s eyes…if she ever saw him again.

Without thinking, Elizabeth gathered a mouthful of spit and discharged it to the muddy pool by her feet. The rather crude, plebian act made her feel surprisingly strong again, freed her from a cage she had been trapped in for nearly twenty years.

Scruples did a woman little good and she shed them now like snake’s skin. She needn’t be kept chained, locked in a man’s world where she was indeed treated like chattel. No this world, this Tortuga was different.

She could be free. She could forget.

And yet something bothered her, something indefinite that made her pause and blink in the yellow moonlight.

Mrs. Prior had no scruples. What did that make her then?

Inhuman, she decided. Mrs. Prior was inhuman and Elizabeth was not.

Or so she hoped.

Elizabeth returned to the street. The crowd thickened, coming in like the tide and bringing with it a gangly throng of motley men. Elizabeth blinked. Hmm, she fancied she recognized a few of the faces but her harried mind must be playing tricks, deceiving her like so many men, like him.

She followed the general flow debarking mass up the street and into the square, which comprised mostly of taverns and what she guessed was a whorehouse. Most of the men, especially those with coin in their pockets, gravitated towards that particular building. Elizabeth paused and inspected the line of waiting johns with an odd sense of curiosity. She could have sworn she knew them, had seen them aboard the Interceptor with Jack Sparrow.

It was possible, of course. Pirates were nomads and they probably hopped from one ship to another as they pleased. Elizabeth wondered if she should approach them, ask if they had any news of Jack or better, Will.

But the crowd poured against her, a stream of bodies that stank and stumbled and staggered by. She turned to step away and collided with a dark figure, a cold shadow amongst the moldy pirates.

“My apologies,” she mumbled.

The figure grunted, head bent and darted away.

Elizabeth glanced once more at the whorehouse and was disappointed when she couldn’t find the familiar faces again.

Ah well, she had time.

Her parched tongue reminded her of her thirst and it stuck to the roof of her mouth. Hmm, she wasn’t partial to rum but her days of elegant wine and brandy were over. Elizabeth entered one of the shabby taverns.

A fiddle twittered merrily in the corner of the ratty room, an old, wax weeping chandelier swinging from the rotting ceiling. The air was hot, flushing her cheeks at once. She wove her way through a sea of elbows and ankles and otherwise greasy bodies. And then there was silence, dreadful silence and the constant ebb and flow of people stopped.

Elizabeth craned her neck. What was this?

“You’re hired!” an unmistakable voice chirruped.

Elizabeth swallowed hard.

“Sorry,” a second voice, this one a mere ghost of it’s former glory, rose like a thunder cloud over the packed tavern room. “Old habits and all that.”

*****

Mrs. Prior was standing in an alcove, shoulder to a wall, hands jammed into her pockets, giving every appearance of a disturbed shade that would flit away once the night fled. But for now she was queen when the stars reigned and a gloomy moon frowned over Tortuga like a murderous mother.

She flinched. Murderous mothers were more common than men liked to think.

Her fingers were stiff and she wriggled them. She sniffed, stared at the street crowded with drunken sailors and weaving prostitutes and the utter filth of the earth.

It was done.

But strangely, she didn’t feel particularly accomplished. She had James, had him for a pet like Beckett had once possessed her. And she had worked hard at it, had sweated to gain his grudging trust and acceptance. Yet everything could be a waste if he swallowed another bottle of rum and forgot her. Mrs. Prior would have to make him promise. She would have to make him swear. He had remember her when the time came.

Smoke rose from sooty chimneys, circled the sky, pale against the black. Torches flickered like demon tongues. Mrs. Prior blinked. She didn’t feel right, no, felt weak, wobbly, asleep atop her feet. Where was he?

He came an hour late. She saw him down by the docks, sneaking up the streets to her, eyes over his shoulders, cautious. But he was drunk again, bloody hell and covered by mud.

She frowned.

Disgusting fool.

James did not see her at first and she was forced to step out of the alcove and extend a beckoning finger.

“Here,” she whispered.

His head jerked, like a dog’s, hackles raised for an instant until he saw her.

“Mrs. Prior,” he panted and fell into her.

She embraced him, ignoring the smell. “Is it done?”

“It is.”

“So soon?”

“Yes. Luck is indeed your bedmate.”

“Surely you exaggerate.” Mrs. Prior removed her spotted, stained handkerchief from her pocket and mopped his face free of mud.

He smiled crookedly at her. “I found Sparrow.”

She raised a brow.

James took her hand in his, drew the handkerchief away. “I’ll try to wrangle my way onto his ship. Should be easy enough. Why…why are you so pale?”

“It’s no matter.” She stuffed the handkerchief away and wiped her own sweaty brow with the back of her hand.

“You look ill.”

“I said it is no matter.”

He leaned against the wall beside her and they stood shoulder to shoulder. Mrs. Prior could hear him breathe, his sides rising, falling, rising against hers. She shivered, skin prickling.

“What else have you?” she asked, a cough clearing her throat.

“I’ve met an old friend,” he replied and she thought his voice sounded strangled.

“Oh? How very peculiar. Who is he?”

“She.” James stared at his brown boots.

A knot tightened in Mrs. Prior’s stomach and left her nauseous. Another woman. Surely that was a bad sign. She needed to keep James isolated, needed to keep him for herself if he was to do her any good.

“Who?”

He glanced at her briefly. “A woman, a girl I knew for time. Elizabeth Swann.”

“Where?” Mrs. Prior shook, her every nerve ablaze, joints loosened, muscles tense. She felt the whore’s windpipe beneath her fingers once more.

James stared. “You know her?”

Mrs. Prior took a step back and left the dark comfort of the alcove. She had slipped, said something she shouldn’t have and that was rare indeed. “Never mind,” she said and touched James’ chest lightly, hoping to wash away the error with lust.

“You do know her.” He was incredulous.

“Once upon a time,” Mrs. Prior admitted and she curled her tongue against her lips, striving to ignore the bitter taste of bile that bloomed in her throat. “Never mind, dear, never mind.”

A kiss would smooth away all ills, she decided and with a seductive sneer, she drew closer to him. But James grabbed her shoulders and pushed her roughly back into the alcove.

Mrs. Prior gasped in surprise. “Wretch!”

“How do you know Elizabeth?” he asked. His voice was a growl and Mrs. Prior raised a brow, half-shocked, but wholly impressed.

“In Port Royal,” she muttered. “When my lord took up residence there. That’s it though, no funny business. What? You don’t think I’d lie to you, do you?”

James stared at her. “What else? Tell me!”

He was shouting, drawing attention to them. Mrs. Prior glanced over his large, looming shoulder into the street and saw only a soused boatswain pausing to watch.

“Quiet,” she warned James and her hand slithered up his throat. “Be quiet and I’ll tell you. Don’t know what you expect from me, really. Never saw the girl to begin with, as it was. But I overheard my lord saying she was trouble and had something to do with that Jack Sparrow. That’s all I know, understand? All this fuss for naught. God’s sake, keep your wits about you! Now do you remember what I told you?”

James shuddered once, then nodded. “I do.”

“Then we’ll be alright.” Mrs. Prior grasped his hand in hers. “Two is better than one any day.”

“Any day,” James replied somewhat cynically, but there were tears in his eyes. “I ought to be off now.”

“You’ll be fine,” she assured him and to her great surprise, something of her old maternal instinct squirmed to life in her breast. “You know where to find me when all is said and done.”

“Port Royal.”

“Bring the damned compass.”

“I promise.”

There was nothing left to be said and they stood together in silence for an awkward moment. And then one of them moved or perhaps they both did and a kiss was shared, his mouth longing, hers pained, aching.

They parted.

Mrs. Prior watched as he returned to the docks, his steps surer, off in search of Sparrow’s ship. The murderous moon hid behind a cloud.

“Whew!” she sighed once he had disappeared. “If he mucks this up, I swear to God, I’ll…I’ll throttle him!”

Rome fic: Mater

2008-01-27T18:30:04Z

Title: Mater
Author: celticbard76
Length: 800 words, one-shot
Characters/Pairing: Brutus, Servilia-no pairing.
Rating: PG
Time Frame: Season One “Caesarion”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the HBO series “Rome”.
Summary: A brief look into the dysfunctional mother/son relationship Brutus and Servilia share.
Author’s Note: Any feedback/constructive criticism offered will be greatly cherished. Have a great week!

The parchment crackled, eaten by a fresh fire that hungered for flesh but was instead feed a scroll. Brutus watched the embers scatter on the stones and like keen eyes, they stared at him, questioning, doubting, accusing. He clenched his aching hands into tight fists.

A pile of poetry lay at his sandal-shod feet, worthless reams of rhymes and verbose verses. He wasn’t a fair writer, but a poor one and he swore never to try his hand at it again. But then night would come and he would find only bare, cool walls about him, or the flickering eyes of his ancestors’ death masks and he would turn to his pen once more. It was a perilous cycle born of shame rather than boredom and he could not free himself from Fortune’s wheel.

The fire gnawed at the scorched edges of a fresh sheaf and Brutus inhaled the stale smell of dried ink. Better that than blood, he reminded himself. Better that than abused, rotting flesh. Bad poetry was a lesser evil than a lost war…or so he liked to think.

The villa was lamentably silent this morn and he wondered if his mother was still abed. Servilia was a better artist than him after all, a true champion of her craft. The guilt she inflicted from afar was poisonous and it seeped within his skin, smothered his pores until he felt dead, numb like corpse.

But if he was numb, then why did he still feel pain?

Brutus let his eyes slide shut. By Juno’s mercy, he was becoming like old Socrates or striving to be like him at least. An endless ruminator. A philosopher that was more lost than any of his listeners.

Perhaps suicide would have been preferable….

He did not hear her enter then, did not hear the heralding whisper, the swish of her gown on the floor. Her feet pattered like raindrops on parched stone.

Servilia came to the door of his chamber, stopped and stood, watched her son with pensive eyes.

“Brutus.” His name spoken. He turned, tried to hide the poetry, failed and stayed sitting on the floor, crouched by the smoldering brazier.

“Mother.”

She entered the room wordlessly and her bare toes touched the torn bits of parchment. Brutus flinched inwardly and gathered up as much as he could, made to cast it into the fire.

Her hand fell atop his shoulder.

“Leave it,” she ordered.

Brutus sighed, heartily and dropped the discarded bits onto his lap. “It’s nothing,” he assured her.

She knelt beside him.

“A distraction,” Servilia said, “is most always deeper than deemed.”

Brutus pressed his lips together in a frown. “Not this one, Mother. I had…I had thought you were still abed.”

“Mmm.” She hummed a little under her breath and Brutus was reminded of her old lullabies, the songs she sang to slip him into sleep and leave him quiet. But no more.

He wasn’t a boy, age reminded him sharply. He was man or a mockery of one. A compilation of stick-like limbs, a figure with a death-warmed over face, a pantomime. It was little wonder then that his mother hated him so.

“Poetry,” Servilia said. She had a scrape in her fast withering hands. With a jolt, Brutus realized that she too had aged, the years falling over her like the inescapable shades of a descending night, invisible at first, then grey, then black.

He pressed his hand against hers. “Mother.”

Her nostrils flared ever so slightly. “This poetry is yours, is it not?”

“It is.”

“A poor effort I should say.” And she dropped the scrape into the fire.

Brutus felt his nerves shrivel along with the parchment. So here it was, another expectation, another hope his mother harbored that he would never fulfill. Anger made his blood boil and frustration dampened his fiery tongue.

He swallowed, choked and released her dry hand. “I am sorry.”

Servilia stiffened at his words, a frantic, gasping noise constricting her throat. Brutus watched her fight the emotion, watched her struggle with her own inner peril.

And it became evident to him that perhaps his misery was not singular. That perhaps she too suffered, ashamed of herself, bereft, grieving for some loss neither of them understood.

And perhaps, they were mother and son after all.

“Mother,” he began, not sure how to proceed, how to express the regret he was drowning in.

Her breast rose and fell, rose and fell in an earthly rhythm beneath her gauzy gown.

“You have time yet,” she said at length.

Brutus could not disguise the tears that tore at his eyes.

“Mother.” He made to rest his head on her bosom, hoping she would cradle to him, sing to him, lull him back into sound sleep.

But Servilia rose jerkily, her steps short, quick and left the chamber.

Brutus did not watch her go. Seizing another fistful of parchment, he cast it at once into the greedy flames.

More Delicacy Fanart

2008-01-22T02:38:33Z

aliceworld was so kind and surprised me with another three illustrations for "Delicacy" this morning. Take a look. I think Mrs. P's expression in the last one truly says it all ^_^

Fanart for Delicacy

2008-01-19T18:07:07Z

Today, I received two wonderful pictures from

aliceworld who took the time to illustrate the first two chapters of my Beckett fic "Delicacy" with Helena Bonham Carter from "Sweeney Todd" as Mrs. Prior.

and

She is truly a wonderful artist and I absolutely love her illustrations. Thanks again, aliceworld! I am so honored you chose my fic to illustrate.

Rome Fic: Lucretia

2008-01-02T01:04:41Z

Title: Lucretia
Author: celticbard76
Length: 600 words, one-shot
Characters/Pairing: Brutus, no pairing.
Rating: PG-for mild violence
Time Frame: Season One around “Triumph”, “The Spoils” and “Kalends of February”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of the HBO series “Rome”.
Summary: Ghosts of the Republic haunt Brutus.
Author’s Note: A short fic based on the HBO series "Rome" featuring the tortured Brutus before the assassination of Julius Caesar. Posted also on the community rome_fic.

Lucretia was a Roman woman raped by the son of the last Etruscan king, Tarquin the Proud. After confessing the crime to her husband and his friends, she committed suicide. Lucius Junius Brutus (Marcus Junius Brutus’ ancestor) then paraded her body about Rome, stirring the people to revolt, heralding the formation of the Republic.

A woman screamed and Brutus heard it.

The cry was not a shrill one, more of a moan, more of a retching sigh, more of a plea. And it followed him.

As he walked through the Forum it became a pipe in his ears. As he strolled through the streets it mixed with the drone of each foreign voice, each rolling tongue. And as he sat in the Senate, sat resplendent in his white toga edged with red, it became a command, an order from clay cold lips.

Save me. Save me, Brutus.

Men who heard voices were mad. Men who obeyed their primal needs were wretches. But Brutus was neither. Or perhaps he was both.

His mother was convinced otherwise, convinced that a savior lurked within his ungainly limbs, convinced that he would carry the knife, bear the bludgeon, wield the whip that would set the Republic free.

Brutus did not believe her.

Certainty was a thing of the past. Absolutism reserved for the gods and Caesar perhaps. He had been sure of nothing in his life, had believed only in goodness as a boy, had expected the moon to rise every night only to see it hide behind a cloud.

Everything changed.

Except that cry. Except her shriek.

Save me. Save me, Brutus.

His name, hallowed, holy, once praised. Now soiled, now stained, now ablaze in the ashes of Rome’s freedom.

She was always there to remind him that he had failed. And she pursued him through walls, along marble columns and past the putrid puddles that peppered the streets. Chased him through temples and tents and even onto the barren field of battle.

Save me. Save me, Brutus.

He had given her a name. He had pinned a face to the nightmare that haunted him even in the milky dawn.

Lucretia.

Lady of virtue. A woman of the age when Rome’s flowers were indeed flowers and not painted, porcelain mockeries of their sisters.

Lucretia.

That violated wife, that wounded bride. And his ancestor, the last man to wield the Junii name with glory, had avenged her, had spilled impure blood on the stones of the city.

Save me. Save me, Brutus.

She implored him yet again. She came to him in dreams and sat perched on his bed, a wilted woman, a sorrowful siren with hair down to her waist and a gaping wound in her chest that stared at him in the dark.

“Save me,” she would say, hand touching his, imparting both a sense of mortality and eternity. “Save me, Brutus. Save us all.”

There was a mad dog at the gates of Rome now. A mad dog that needed chasing away. An ancient desire hummed to life within the incessant beating of his breast. And all the while he heard Lucretia, heard her crying, begging, screaming.

Save me, Brutus.

It was on a day in March, a bright, sun-smiling day that he at last took heed, that he at last listened. And when the knife was in his hand, the blade fitted inside Caesar’s flesh, she finally fell silent.

Delicacy Part Seventeen

2008-01-01T23:19:39Z

Title: Delicacy Part Seventeen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,248
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett, James Norrington and Mrs. Prior (OC)
Pairings: mild Beckabeth, Beckett/Mrs. Prior and Norrington/Mrs. Prior.
Chapter Summary: Beckett grows increasingly paranoid while Mrs. Prior tries her hand at manipulation.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean although I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Here I am with another very late chapter and I do apologize for the delay. It took me much longer to write than anticipated and in end, I don’t really care for it. Oh well. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those of you that commented. Thanks you all so much, your continued support has been so encouraging. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. Happy New Year!

Beckett paced the length of his office, turned on his heel and walked smartly back, his steps slowing as the wooden floor was interrupted by a thick carpet. The house was disgustingly silent.

She was gone. Mrs. Prior was gone.

And by God, he should have never sent her away.

A shiver fingered his spine, his flesh crawling beneath the laundered linen of his shirt. Poison lingered on his lips and he licked them. A memory grew and bloomed within his galloping heart. She had kissed him goodbye, silly fool, silly whore. And it had been a mockery, a farce. The widow who pretended to love him and he, the lofty lord, who pretended to lust after her.

But they both hated each other.

Beckett paused his pacing and leaned upon the lip of his desk. He was unaccustomed to perilous self-doubt and his health paid the toll, his stomach cramped, head heavy with pain. Damn it all, Mrs. Prior, he had quite forgotten about Elizabeth Swann.

Yes, she too was gone. Elizabeth Swann was gone.

Hmm and wasn’t it a wonder, wasn’t it a shame that he didn’t care too much about her? She had been a passing distraction perhaps, a delight sampled in fragrant, hedonistic garden. Sport, she had been naught but sport.

Mrs. Prior, however, was something else.

A strange woman, a cursed thing, a dark, evil thing. But he enjoyed their wicked dance.

And now it was over, the song faltering, fading, slipping away. He grasped at the last strains, watched as they fell through his fingers and left him, the great Lord Beckett, alone.

Hmm and wasn’t it a wonder now that he thought of it? He needed her after all.

Too late. It was too late.

Reason nipped at his desperation. He had no hope of recalling her.

Where did she wander, he wondered. Where did she stray? Certainly not home to haunted England and certainly not to the grave.

She knew, yes, the damned woman knew. Knew every inch of him, his flesh, his mind, his soul. And she was dangerous for it.

Beckett straightened and his legs were aching, his bones chilled and dampened by that tempestuous thing called fear.

He had been wrong, wrong to think of Elizabeth Swann as challenge. Camilla, after all, had been the real conquest.

The sky was grey, moody, patchy. Clouds clustered about the horizon. Beckett stumbled towards the shutters and cast them open, greeting the careless wind with a pained laugh.

“Wrong,” he told himself. “I was wrong.”

*****

Mrs. Prior helped James to the top of the stairs and watched as he stumbled into the rented room, the door swinging wildly behind him. She laughed quietly to herself and slipped into the musty little attic above the even mustier tavern. It was a poor place, boasting only a greasy, three-legged table, two scuffed chairs and sagging a mattress that was stretched over a narrow bed.

The floorboards were sticky and Mrs. Prior tread quickly across them to close the shutters over the open window that looked out over the bay. She then returned to the door, fastened the sturdy lock and dropped the key into her pocket.

James raised a brow. Light from a single, yellow candle decked his face in shadows. “Should I feel threatened?”

Mrs. Prior laughed loudly this time. “Indeed, sir.”

He frowned. “I see you’ve taken to mocking me again.”

“Not quite, sir.” She seated herself in one of the chairs, grimacing as it rocked, unsteady. James did likewise, his arms resting on the table, hands splayed over faint, dusty scratches.

“What do you want with me?” he asked and his voice was thin.

Mrs. Prior pulled her hair free and let it fall over her shoulders. “I should ask you the same question, really,” she said. “You did follow me, after all. But to what purpose?”

“No games.” James straightened and he suddenly reminded Mrs. Prior of Lord Beckett, his tone lofty, air arrogant.

She sneered. “We will have games. We will have games if I say so.”

He rose and headed for the door.

“It’s locked,” she called over her shoulder, watching as his lean frame escaped the pool of weak light emitted by the candle.

“I do not need the key,” he replied. James raised his leg and planted his boot heel just above the lock. The door shuddered, the wood shrieking as thin cracks cascaded along the frame.

“Sit back down,” Mrs. Prior ordered. “Sit back down and there’ll be no more games, you hear?”

James returned to table and composed himself.

Mrs. Prior frowned. “I want us to do business.”

“Why?” His question came quick, unexpected.

She shook her head. “I thought you said no more games.”

“This isn’t a trick,” he replied evenly. “If we are to do business, I want to know why. What worth am I to you? What has Beckett promised you that has you wading through the filth of Tortuga to find me?”

“Who said I came to find you?” Mrs. Prior laid her hands on her lap and rolled back her shoulders. By God, the room was hot and a trickle of salty sweat streamed down her creased brow.

“You were pleased enough by your catch.” James stuck out a finger and wiped the weeping tallow from the table. “Why am I worth something to you? You are the middle man and some price must have been promised, some bargain must have past between you and Beckett. If I were to guess, I would say that you were his prisoner and he offered you a pardon in exchange for whatever it is you wish to accomplish here.”

Mrs. Prior scoffed. “I wasn’t his prisoner, sir, I already told you. I was his mistress.”

James folded his arms before him. “I daresay it’s the same thing.”

The chair flew back, bounced once against the floor and then lay still. Mrs. Prior was on her feet and she leaned over the table, leaned over the candle with a wicked leer.

“Mind your words, sir.”

James sniffed. “I see I’ve hit a nerve.”

Her eyes narrowed, slits of brown that had once been hazel but were now tarnished. She fingered her bandage. “Perhaps.” The chair was righted and she sat with a thud, jerking the table, pushing it away until it slammed into his torso.

“Anger.” James watched the wobbling candle. The flame hissed. “Why are you so very angry?”

“That’s not a question one should ask unless one is quite prepared for the reply.” Mrs. Prior flexed her hands and stared at the fine veins that twined over her knuckles and wily fingers.

James sighed. “And then there is your voice. You speak proper at times, like a parlor raised girl. Perhaps it’s all a farce in itself. Perhaps you are a false threat, a lie.”

She glanced up at him through hooded, red-rimmed eyes. “I was never keen on philosophy, never quite so learned as you would believe.”

“I don’t trust you.” James arched his neck and looked suspicious. “Pawn, you’re a pawn of Beckett’s and I cannot place my faith in you.”

Mrs. Prior shrugged, slipping out of her sweat-drenched overcoat. “Why must you?”

“If we are to do business-”

“And not dance about riddles-”

“Then I must trust you.”

Mrs. Prior leaned back in the chair and let her weight lift the front legs off the floor. “You are awfully finicky for a gutter man.”

He grimaced.

“I would certainly say you have no choice,” she continued, “unless you enjoy your life now, but I doubt that. Why did you follow me then? Ah, we have come full circle, sir. Back to the beginning. Name your price and I will name my conditions.”

“Not until you answer me first.” James sounded decisive. Mrs. Prior felt uncomfortable.

She shifted, dropped the chair back down onto it’s front legs and crossed her ankles. He shouldn’t be permitted to dominate the conversation, to lead her about where he wished. Despite her tendency to pounce first and question later, Mrs. Prior knew how to get an answer when need be. Memories of the humid night in the prison courtyard with Elizabeth Swann ruptured her thoughts. Yes, it was all a game, all great fun provided she kept the other party walking in circles, unknowingly trapped within her net.

But James made things difficult with his questions and with his haunted countenance that seemed to only reflect her own.

A sigh slithered past her lips. “I need you.”

Keen appreciation lit James’ gaze. “Why?”

“To gain Beckett’s favor once more,” she said tersely. Her fingers scraped along the rough surface of the table, dragging up splinters and dirt beneath her already stained nails.

“So you are on the outs with him?” James pressed her.

“Now, yes.”

“But not always?”

“No.” Mrs. Prior shook her head and bitter, biting thoughts made her heart thunder in her breast. “I was once his.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The delicacy of James’ tone shocked her. He sounded polite almost, like the gentleman he had supposedly once been. But Mrs. Prior could not reconcile his now filthy countenance with the powdered planes of a dandy’s face.

“I came with him from England,” she continued. “He brought me, imported me if you will.”

“As a slave?”

“As a weapon.” Her tongue curled against her lips. “And…and a slave,” she conceded. “I did some work for him about London, kept on eye on his enemies, dispatched those that became troublesome.”

“And how did you enter into his employ in the first place?” James tilted his head to the side, curious.

Mrs. Prior’s eyes sharpened in annoyance. “Must you know everything about my existence?”

“Indeed.”

“Very well. I came into him employ after he saw me murder a man in London, a man who was our mutual enemy though neither of us knew it at the time. And he was impressed and I was frightened and he offered me a place in his household. He called me his housekeeper and I played the part well for society.”

“Hmmm.” James emitted an amused little noise. “And the Caribbean? Why did you break with him?”

“I did not break with him,” Mrs. Prior replied. “I was taken from him, sir.” She shut her eyes for a instant and remembered pretty Miss Swann, that demon, that devil who had robbed her blind. Pain, a physical memory, touched her wounded hand once more and unconsciously she clutched at the bandage.

Murderess. That Miss Swann was as much of a murderess as she was.

James exhaled sharply. “By what?”

“By whom,” Mrs. Prior corrected him.

James lowered his head, prompted and prodded her with his keen eyes.

“Another woman,” she said stiffly, “but that’s all I shall say.”

“Jealous?” His hand fell over hers, clasped her clammy fingers in his and tightened.

“Yes.” She pulled away. “So very jealous.”

“It’s clear to me now.” A smile tugged at his lips and he looked satisfied. “So I’m to be a part of some elaborate scheme for revenge. Some filthy sport.”

Mrs. Prior sucked on her lower lip. “If you like.” She laid her hands before her and looked at him straight, hoping to dissect the buried secrets in his soul, the burden he bore with an anger-stained smile.

Damn it all, they were of the same mind.

And yet here she sat, a crafty murderer. And here he sat, a sloppy drunk. She wondered why pain changed men so, passing thing that it was. Perhaps neither of them were very strong.

Suddenly, she smiled, a true smile, a thirsty, yearning thing that longed for the tender touch of comfort. “I’ll tell you the truth.”

James leaned forward in his chair. “Do.”

“I came looking for an ally, I did, not another pawn. Not another tool. I want a friend.”

“And you hope to find one in me?”

Mrs. Prior rolled her eyes. “I was never one for hope, really, immaterial thing that it is.”

His face hardened then. His fists slammed against the table, the candle rattling, spitting, shedding wax. James jumped to his feet. “You promised.”

“What?” Mrs. Prior turned in her chair and crossed her slim legs. He was standing before her, panting, shaking, muscles so very taut.

“No more games.”

She watched him for a minute, waited until he was past his breaking point and stood shattered before. “No,” she whispered. “No more games.”

He did not possess the regal stoicism of Lord Beckett and when she came to him he yielded effortlessly enough. She kissed him once, twice, three times and then he became greedy. Eager hands tore at her clothes, tried to lift her up and over to the bed, warm fingers around her thighs.

Mrs. Prior pushed him off. “Enough.” Her steely voice stopped him.

“But-”

She wanted to make him linger. With a witch’s smile she unlocked the door and stepped out onto the top of the stairs. James called her once, twice, three times but still she did not come.

Only when he had fallen silent did Mrs. Prior reenter the room and allowed him to reach for her once more. But ah, he was different now, a quiet creature, humbled, restrained and, yes, so easily controlled.

Delicacy Part Sixteen

2007-12-09T21:42:50Z

Title: Delicacy Part Sixteen
Author: celticbard76
Rating: PG-13
Word Count: 2,357
Characters: James Norrington and Mrs. Prior
Pairing: Norrington/Mrs. P.
Chapter Summary: Misery loves company. James Norrington and Mrs. Prior get to know each other in Tortuga.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Here I am with another belated chapter and I do apologize for the delay. However, the good news is I am finally wrapping up my fall semester so I will have over a month free to write, which is fortunate considering that I am not even halfway through this story. This chapter, however, is another Norrington-centric one, though Beckett will back in the next installment. I would like to thank everyone who has been reading and also, those who took the time to comment. Thanks, you guys. Feedback always means the world to me. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

They walked down to the beach together, a deserted spit of land littered with broken shells and shattered rum bottles. Her companion fell onto the sand, arms draped around his knees and he stared at her, curious.

“Pirate?” he asked.

Mrs. Prior laughed. “No, sir.”

“Sir?” the man snorted. “You think to call me sir?”

“I was mocking you,” she replied truthfully and shifted in her boots, feet aching.

The man sighed. “Whore?”

“No.”

“Luckless?”

“Yes.”

“So is everyone else here.” He clenched his hands into fists.

Mrs. Prior sucked her teeth. The sun was rising already and she hadn’t slept. A dull throb returned to her head, pounding against her skull until she winced. By God, she would never drink again.

“Might I have your name?” she asked and to her surprise, he was quick to answer.

“James.”

She shifted her hips. “A surname? Or are you a bastard?”

The man grimaced and his soft eyes were hard then, angry. “Norrington.”

Mrs. Prior’s stomach dropped into her boots.

Norrington?

She had heard that name before, yes. The stuffy, proper quality resonated within her wretched heart and she remembered. This was the man Lord Beckett was searching for, the ill-fated Navy man who knew of Jack Sparrow.

Oh, what fortune.

Mrs. Prior blinked, wondering if her sight deceived her and she was wrong. Or perhaps this gent was a villain, a man of her measure and he had been sent by the devil to torment her.

She touched her tongue to her teeth. “Commodore Norrington?”

He stiffened. Mrs. Prior smiled.

“I know of you, then,” she crowed. “Yes, I know of you.”

“Vengeful are we?” James asked, his expression sour. “I thought you were a pirate.”

“Bah!” Mrs. Prior recoiled. “No! No, indeed!”

He laughed a little under his breath, his body lurching forward with every gasp so that Mrs. Prior believed she beheld a man in great pain. “Then what are you?”

A shrug lifted her shoulders. “Mrs. Prior.”

“Quite imaginative you are.” James looked off into the dawn, the sky shedding a fine layer of lingering grey, the last of the night.

“Yes.” She rocked back and forth on her heels. “Yes, I am. And as it is, no title truly suits me.”

“Jack of all trades?” His gaze cut over to her.

“You could say that.” She beamed. “But I’ve been sent.”

“So have they all.” James glanced back at the still noisy Tortuga, the streets now brimming with lazy ruffians who had not the strength to stagger home after a night of drinking. “I’ve heard their stories, all of them. Men in search of treasure, of wealth. Men on the run from the Navy. Humph, men searching for lost loves. But they all insist they’ve be sent, it’s all the same.”

“Hmm.” Mrs. Prior tapped a finger to her chin. “But I’m not a man.”

James looked stunned. “Fair enough.”

“Where are you from?” Mrs. Prior let her smile widen, her lips drawing back to reveal the fine points of her teeth. She leaned over James and blew a little in his ear. Tendrils of filthy hair quivered. He shuddered.

“Port Royal,” the response was curt, but laden with some deep memory, one that cut into his flesh and burrowed amongst his bones.

Mrs. Prior paced around him and walked all the way to where the low-tide waves licked the shore.

“Strange, I would have guessed England.”

He sighed. Frustration made his stooped shoulders rise and fall. Mrs. Prior glanced at him and a keen fluttering filled her stomach, warming her thighs. She had forgotten what it was like to control a man and she had forgotten how very thrilling the game could be, the chase, the hunt. Her tongue curled in her mouth.

No, not yet.

“Originally,” James barked. He had his head in hands now and those strangely delicate fingers kneaded his temples.

Mrs. Prior tried to imagine him as a fine Navy man, as an officer with a pretty wig and pristine stockings and a sword. But no, he would be like Beckett then and she wanted no such man, no such demon. Perhaps James was better this way, reduced…vulnerable.

“London?” she prompted.

He shrugged. “I visited the city on the Thames once, but never lived there.”

“I did.”

He let his hands fall into his lap. “Where?”

She laughed. Her back arched a little, thrusting her abdomen out. A cat she was, one of those alley creatures that slinked along shadow-dappled walls. Her teeth clicked together. “The East End.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised then.” Defiance lit an uneasy spark in James’ eye. “That you ended up here.”

But Mrs. Prior was too caught up in the game to be offended. She turned away from the waves and the pummeling, roaring sound that echoed up off the ocean. “Why? I liked Whitechapel well enough.”

James recoiled. “Are you mad?” There was curiosity in his voice.

“A little,” she crooned.

He shifted in the sand, limbs tense and taut. Mrs. Prior circled him.

“What, there’s nothing wrong with a little madness now, is there?”

“It depends.” His eyes flew to her and she relished in her height, the way she could lean over him and overpower him with her body. “And if you find Whitechapel so agreeable, why leave? Or did the tide spit you up in Tortuga?”

She pretended to be amused by his poor jest. “Business,” Mrs. Prior replied after a chuckle. “I am here on business.”

James fell silent then and she was disappointed when he did not ask another question. A shame, she thought she had been leading him along.

“I work for the East India Trading Company, you know,” she said.

He laughed sourly. “A lie.”

“You don’t believe me?” Mrs. Prior laid a hand on his shoulder and squeezed ever so slightly. He responded to her touch, did not shrink away but pressed against her weight. Mrs. Prior swallowed. Her control was slipping, her grip tightening. With difficulty, she released him.

“You’ve given me little reason to.” James jammed his hands into his pockets, legs stretched out before him like dried pieces of driftwood.

Mrs. Prior likewise shoved her hands inside her coat and rocked back and forth upon her heels. “I answer to Lord Beckett alone, certainly you would believe him.”

James frowned. The lines crossing his brow deepened. “You?”

“Myself.”

“Ha. And now you see, there is something amiss with a little madness.”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Prior curbed her anger, softening her voice which threatened to overwhelm her with rage. “But I am quite prepared to offer you a full pardon, a commission as a privateer if you like, whatever that means…I don’t know, I’m just a poor messenger.” She chewed her lower lip. “Unless, sir, you quite prejudiced against accepting the offer of a madwoman.”

A moment of silence followed and then suddenly he was on his feet, hands outstretched and grasping her wrists.

“You lie!” He shook her fiercely.

Mrs. Prior raised a brow, tipping forward until she was pressed against him and he could feel her breathing. Direct contact, body to body, skin to skin was perhaps the quickest way to weaken a man. But she despised revealing herself as a flesh and blood being, a creature that could be wounded and destroyed and broken.

She sighed and felt his heartbeat quicken against hers. “Yes, you’re right. I do not have the authority to offer you both a pardon and a commission. But if you bring Beckett Sparrow’s compass-ah, you know the name I see-then I am certain, so very certain you will be rewarded, or restored to your former glory if you prefer.”

He released her, stumbled and staggered, looking again like a lost little boy.

“Trying to quell your hope?” Mrs. Prior asked, flicking a haughty hand in his direction. Oh, she was in her element now, yes. Why, she almost felt as though she were back in Whitechapel, back stalking through the narrow, cobblestone streets amongst the wretched whores and poor, starving men who would eat their own guts if they could.

James sank to his knees, looking thoroughly submissive. He blinked his bleak eyes once, then took her hand in his, rubbing her sweaty palm with his thumb.

“What would Lord Beckett want with me?”

Mrs. Prior cackled, the noise vibrating in the back of her throat and she hummed a little, a lost scrape of some happy tune that she had heard once when the days were long and her family yet lived.

“Everything, my dear.”

James let go of her hand, fumbled in his pocket and found a cracked bottle of rum. He lifted it to his lips but Mrs. Prior was quicker. She snatched it from him and cast it far away. It landed in the churning sea with a satisfying splash. He was enraged, but only for a moment and then fell to weeping once more.

She hauled off and belted him once. Straight across the face, hard. He reeled, hiccupped and sucked the blood from his lips.

“You see, a little madness does go a long way.” Mrs. Prior grabbed his chin and let her nails burrow in his flesh.

“Leave me be,” he begged.

She shook him roughly, fingers trailing crimson across his cheeks. “Listen.”

He obeyed, falling dumb but not deaf. Mrs. Prior swallowed, trying to remember the days when Lord Beckett had been good to her, when she had a pleasant sort of life, coming and going as she wished. Yes, there was a little dirty work on the side but other than that she didn’t mind the killing.

If only she hadn’t cared for him…

Love had nothing to do with it, Mrs. Prior decided. She wasn’t even sure if she was capable of love, really, when she felt so hollow inside, so empty. She cared for him maybe, responded to his affection and lust as any human would. But beyond that, well, she didn’t give a damn.

“He’s not a good man,” Mrs. Prior said at length, “but a clever man. Money, he has money. Wealth would be a more apt term, perhaps. And he has power. Power.” She let the word roll off her tongue to entice him.

James blinked, shaking his head fiercely so that Mrs. Prior grabbed his throat at last, fingers tingling as she felt his windpipe contract beneath her palm.

A noxious bile rose up in her throat and she thought of the East End, the sights and smells and silent screams that slipped from the crushed throats of her victims. She began shaking then, with streams of sweat pouring down her back. And all the while James stared her, innocent as a lamb, unsuspecting, trusting. Just like John, she thought, just like John until she throttled him in his own bed.

Mrs. Prior loosened her grip on James’ neck and instead, took a fistful of his hair in her hand.

“Beckett’ll take care of you, he will. It’s a lucky man who finds himself in his lordship’s employ.”

James inhaled sharply, wincing a little as her fingers snaked through the tangles, nesting somewhere at the back of his head. “Are you lucky then?”

The question caught her off-guard and she snarled.

“What’s this?”

“Are you lucky? Did he take care of you?” He looked at her still bandaged hand, his eyes lingering on the red flesh that peeked out from under the tightly tied rag.

Mrs. Prior expected to feel rage at his insolence, expected to explode and kill him on the spot, his trust be damned. But she was weeping then, releasing him, falling to her knees and shrieking at the sky.

“He…he…hurt me.” Her voice was a whisper that slithered up her throat and made her tongue taste like ash.

James sighed and slung a heavy arm over her shoulder. “You’re just another cat in a cage, I see. Another tool, another weapon-”

“I was his mistress!” She threw him off and he fell back onto the sand, the golden seeds of the sea dusting his shoulders.

James panted, propped himself up on his elbows and laughed at her. “You?”

“And not only his mistress,” Mrs. Prior rasped, choking on the sobs that rattled her lungs. “I did things for him…and I was willing. You have no notion of me, does that frighten you? You have no notion of who I am!”

“Really?” He raised a sooty brow, the rising sun coloring his flesh red. “I should think you are quite like me, quite miserable, quite unfortunate and I am glad for the company.”

Mrs. Prior stared at him, hands halfway to her face, desperate to hide her tears. But he was leaning forward and she saw his eyes, keen, eager, lips reaching her flesh.

She leapt to her feet and kicked sand in his face.

He wept, wretch, and mumbled an apology, told her he had once been a man-a good man and would never take advantage of a woman.

Mrs. Prior resumed her pacing and sniffed while she swallowed away the sobs that sat like immovable stones in her chest.

“Never mind,” she said and let him cry for a while. Something warm pricked at her heart, something akin to pity and shame. This man still struggled with himself, battled with matters of good and evil while she had quite given up a long time ago.

“Never mind, James,” Mrs. Prior sighed. “What poor company I should make for a man like yourself, for you were once virtuous and I was always a villain. And there is a great difference in that.”

“I don’t believe you,” he panted.

The waves were slowly crawling back up onto the shore. Mrs. Prior looked out over the sea.

“I have some money,” she said and picked him up, propped him against her hip where he shivered. “We’ll get a room. Bloody hell, this sand gets everywhere.”

Is it me?

2007-11-30T19:31:26Z

Is it me or does Mrs. Prior have an equally evil twin in Mrs. Lovett (Helena Carter Bonham) from the new Sweeney Todd movie?

Lias Laddie Part Five

2007-11-24T17:31:49Z

Title: Lias Laddie Part Five
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,532
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Lord Beckett/OC
Summary: A wicked little smile touched Maggie’s treacherous lips as she handed the bundle to Beckett. “He has his father’s eyes, does he not?”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Yes, I am still alive as is this story. I do apologize for the delay in posting. The end of my fall semester is fraught with papers and other nasty things my professors like to throw at me. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those who commented. Thanks so much, you guys! Your feedback means the world to me. As always, I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Beckett had not intended to take to the moors. But when it came to the heather and rills and the surprisingly intoxicating scent of fresh earth, he was powerless. The highway was soon abandoned and he trotted amongst the pale stones, over the broken ground that had just begun to thaw. Thin streams gurgled in rocky beds, tangling and trailing through ditches. A heavy fog crowned the crests of the low hills and one could scarce see the tops of the sparse, stunted trees.

Despite his worries, Beckett felt as though he were an entirely different creature on the moors. Guile and deception were both mistaken for innocence and truth lay just around the bend…or did it? One could certainly be what one was not here. And fancy took flight on the wings of brown, dull fowls that clucked and cawed all in their nests.

It was an stimulating bit of land, a deceiving little spit of existence that stretched straight between great England and a seemingly indefinable wilderness.

Beckett put his spurs to his horse’s flanks. Enough now, enough of daydreams, of wispy, wistful thoughts. He had business to attend to, hard, cold business that would set his mind back on the correct track.

But what exactly was he doing out here?

A good question it was and Beckett realized he had no answer.

He was after Fitzroy, yes, that was it. But why? Why did he care what gossip the fop had overheard? What cared he what happened to Maggie when she was revealed as a whore to her husband?

He certainly didn’t care.

But the poor babe, little George, would undoubtedly receive the brunt of whatever unjust fury Swinton dispensed. And that alone sent an unexpected shiver careening up Beckett’s spine.

He had to protect the child, his child.

With a pensive grunt, he urged his horse up a muddy embankment and came to a cool basin surrounded by old standing stones. The wind dipped down into the shallow valley and cackled as it rushed past the pagan watchmen, whipping through the leafless trees.

Beckett had not seen her sitting there or he would have trotted discreetly away. But as it was, Maggie was slumped against a stone, a rain smudged note trapped between her fingers. Her crafty lips mouthed the words, folding into a joyous smile as her bonny, bright eyes widened.

“Charles,” she muttered, “Fox.”

Her tartan shawl fell over her forehead and she lifted a hand, brushing it away. Her glance reached out over the basin and then she saw Beckett and he saw her, looking like a ghost amongst the ruins.

Neither of them spoke for a long minute, though Beckett did stop his horse an uneasy yard away from her, his hand posed on the top of his riding whip.

And then quietly, carefully, Maggie tucked the note into her pocket and straightened.

“So you’ve come,” she said rather matter-of-factly, her indifference disrupted by the flustered blush that stained her smooth cheeks.

Anger made Beckett’s gut churn. God damn it all, she was a haughty bitch.

“Not really,” he said, chin jutting out definitely. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Me?” An eyebrow jumped towards her hairline.

“No.”

“Don’t lie. I can always tell when you’re lying.”

“Ah, is that a new talent of yours?” Beckett shifted in his saddle, wondering just how he had come across her. Out of all the vastness of the moors, he had stumbled into her. Was it fate? No, he didn’t believe in fate. “A pity you hadn’t possessed it before. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be married to Swinton and Henry King wouldn’t be dead.”

Maggie stiffened. “Don’t you dare-”

Beckett swallowed. He had gone too far. Only a true wretch would make sport of Henry King’s death, tragedy that it was. And he didn’t like being reminded of his own impulsive wrongdoing.

Maggie shattered the silence with a snort. “If you dismount and come closer, we might do business proper like.”

“I’ve not come to bargain.”

“And I’ve not come to pick wild flowers. There’s no use in fighting it, you know.”

She had a point. Beckett dismounted.

“Your husband will find out that his son is a bastard,” he said by way of warning. Maggie, however, was unmoved.

“Have you told him already?”

“No.” Beckett knotted his horse’s reins over a small stone.

“I thought so.” Maggie seated herself once more, her legs scandalously crossed beneath her plaid petticoat, fingertips drumming against her thighs. “Will you sit?”

Beckett glanced at the wet, somewhat muddy grass and wrinkled his nose in practiced disgust. “No.”

“Dandy,” she muttered under her breath. Beckett could not help but smile. Maggie herself had outfitted her ship with naught but dandies and during her years as a highwaywoman, she had supposedly kept similar company.

He leaned against a stone, his eyes narrowed as a stiff breeze blew shreds of fog down into the valley. It had the look of smoke and he much expected to smell fire. But only a cool mist met his nostrils, sweetened by the warm, musty smell shed by his horse. Beckett pulled his chilled fingers inside his coat cuffs and sighed. There would be no putting it off now.

“What do you want?” he asked Maggie.

She looked a fair bit surprised and her head fell to the side in a most distracting manner. Tendrils of her hair pooled into her lap and Beckett had to remind herself that she was a fiend of the worst kind.

“I’ve already told you,” she replied, her voice clipped and quiet. “I want things to be kept calm. You were obviously clever enough to uncover George’s true parentage and as his sire, I would expect you to keep your lips locked. What you do after I’m gone, well, that is your business, sir, not mine.”

Beckett chuckled nasally. “Fair enough. But if you wanted my silence, you wouldn’t have offered me your son. Your bartering with me, Maggie. So I shall ask again, what do you want?”

This seemed to frustrate her a great deal, for as he spoke, she rose to her feet, stamped about and shook her skirts free of grass.

Beckett watched her, amused if not bewildered by her actions. At length she turned on her heel, stance feral but eyes subdued.

“Very well,” she spat. “I want you take my son and give him a fine life, a comfortable life. It’s more than I should expect, but in a day or so, I shan’t be able to care for him myself. And Hindley, drunken fool that he is, will be in no position to do so either.”

There was something decidedly terrifying about her. Beckett straightened and stepped away.

“Speak plain,” he demanded.

Maggie rubbed her eyes with her long fingers. “You’ll have me hanged, you will.”

Her words froze in the frosty air, falling like shards of unfeeling ice onto the cold ground. Beckett tensed, his hands curling into tight fists. He understood then.

Maggie meant to kill Hindley Swinton.

“I’m not a murderer,” he said at once.

Maggie rolled her head from side to side in a most mocking manner. “Not for anything?”

They were both silent for a breath and their thoughts turned to Henry King who now seemed to sit amongst them. Maggie wrapped her arms about waist, guarding herself against the sinister spirit. Beckett swallowed once, his pulse throbbing beneath layers of brocade, flesh and bone. At length, Maggie coughed into her palm and continued.

“Guilt weighs heavily upon you.”

Beckett snorted. “Who’s to say I’m guilty?”

Maggie shrugged. “No one, though it’s clear enough in your eyes and certainly plain for those who know where to look for it.”

Beckett felt naked then and he began to pace. Maggie watched him, her expression unreadable.

“I’m asking you plainly,” she said. “Take George for me.”

“And let Swinton be murdered?”

“What care you? It certainly makes things simpler.”

She was right. Damn it all, Maggie was always right. With Swinton, slovenly, senseless Swinton gone, Beckett had everything to gain and little to lose. George would be his heir without question. Maggie would certainly be out of the way and not eager for revenge and he needn’t have the burden of worry anymore. The whole matter might be put to rest.

But he couldn’t settle the thing in his mind yet, not until he was certain he had the upper hand.

“Why?” he asked her.

She started. “Why?”

“Yes, why do you want him killed?”

Maggie shook her head, feigning indifference but seeming all too vexed. “Why should I not? Merrily I might go on my way then. It’s called freedom, your lordship, for those of us who can afford it.”

“That’s a lie,” Beckett scoffed. Maggie might spout ideals and romanticized fantasies, but he always knew that she was lying. No, this was something more primal, a need that wanted feeding and she was too ashamed to admit it. “Who is your lover?”

Maggie sniffed. “Oh, so that’s the way you think of me then. A whore? Well, I take umbrage, sir, great umbrage.”

“Then shall I find out for myself?” Beckett dared to draw closer to her. “It’s Greville, isn’t it?”

Maggie’s eyes narrowed. “Captain Greville?” She hesitated and Beckett felt his heart leap into his mouth. At length, Maggie sighed and shook her head. “No.”

But he was not satisfied. “Who then?”

Again, hesitancy. It was a long moment before she spoke again and when she did, her voice shook so terribly that Beckett recoiled.

“A Fox.”

Flippancy. Sheer flippancy. Beckett ground his teeth. Well, he shouldn’t be surprised.

“Amusing,” he muttered. “But I still think it’s Greville.”

Maggie didn’t reply.

Beckett suddenly felt the urge to flee from the place, the shallow basin with it’s old, watching stones. He didn’t like haunted countryside or persons for that matter.

Maggie sensed his unease and she nodded. “I’ll have Hindley sign some paper,” she said huskily, “making you legal guardian. We’ll do it all proper. Shouldn’t be too suspicious. He’s been bragging about you to all the servants. Likes you, he does.”

“And kill him you will.”

Maggie sighed. “I must.”

“Now that is a lie.” But Beckett didn’t argue with her anymore. He untied his horse’s reins, mounted and made to ride away. Maggie still stood there, steady as one of the standing stones with the dew falling all around her.

“If it’s any comfort,” she said, “I never missed you much.”

Beckett wanted to answer her, but his tongue was caught behind his teeth. With a haughty flip of his head, he turned his horse away and cantered up out of the basin. The stones watched him still and a vengeful chill danced up his spine.

*****

Maggie waited until Lord Beckett had mounted his horse and rode far away along the moors. She watched as he swayed slightly in the saddle, letting his hips shift and swing with every smooth movement of his mount’s legs. The horse was surefooted and easily picked his way amongst the clumps of heather, the rutted road and deep ditches that punctured the great plains.

A smile curved her mouth, the wind conjuring throaty laughter from her lips. Lord Beckett did not glance back at her. Ah, he was so sure, so steady, so very certain of himself.

That amused her terribly.

What a sad little man. What a poor soul. She pitied him in a way, in a soft, motherly way. They could have been happy together once upon a time, very happy…had conquest not called to him and caused her to be cast away like a doll.

Yes, she had been a doll then. A doll of husks and string like the milkmaids stitched together when the nights were cold. And like those childish toys she had been torn by the tempest, shredded by the sea and spat back into an unforgiving world. Discarded like filth. But Lord Beckett had made quite a mistake.

That amused her terribly.

Maggie would wait and he would see. Yes, he would see. She would make him regret, make him feel guilt for the very first time in his life, make his nights forever tormented by doubt and distrust.

It began to rain and Maggie turned for home. She mounted the slow nag Hindley had unwittingly lent her, a sweet, serious creature that was near blind but knew the moors well. Such an animal wouldn’t do though. No, she needed a swift horse, a stallion that would fly if she asked him to. For she needed to fly, needed wings to carry her over the water with Charlie.

But now, she was still in Scotland and so was her dear and they couldn’t flee just yet.

The road dipped down beneath her and the old mare extended her neck, fumbling with the bit as rain dripped onto the saddle and Maggie’s shoulders. Cows were lowing in the nearby fields, driven to pasture by lads with long sticks. Clouds of fog tripped lazily over the sky, shielding from view the tiny town with it’s quaint church and stone steeple.

Maggie stopped the nag on a small rise overlooking a creek and caught sight of the grand hunting lodge that sat in state next to Hindley’s decaying lands.

The farm had belonged to the MacFerrran clan once upon a when, as had most of the moors. But no more.

Yes, there was nothing left here for her. Nothing at all.

She turned and trotted all the way home, stopping only at the crossroads where Fox awaited her, the wily, witty Fox with his two blue eyes.

“Is it done?” he asked when she passed by. He had his hand perched on his hip, his red-coated arm jutting out from beneath his cloak.

“Almost,” she cooed. “Almost, my dear, dear soul. Almost.”

Fox blinked once, his cocked hat set at a jaunty angle on his head.

“Almost.” He crooned and his cool breath spilled across her cheeks. “Have a kiss?”

“Not here, love.”

“Yes, lass.”

“No, my jewel.”

“Please, Maggie.”

She was powerless then, her limbs like water and she leaned forward in the saddle to touch her lips to his. He lingered too long, oh, too painfully long and she began to weep when he drew away.

“Soon,” Maggie promised Fox and herself. “Soon.”

“Hurry,” he begged her.

She could say no more. A lump clogged her throat and cut off her voice, made her tongue numb and limp. She turned the mare back down the highway and left Fox by the road sign. Hindley’s moldy old farm with it’s winding, narrow drive lay before her.

Maggie made sure to dry her tears before she approached the house. She was making a fool of both her husband and Beckett.

And oh, that amused her terribly.

The line “Over the Water to Charlie” is taken from a folk song which laments the exile of Bonnie Prince Charlie after his defeat on Culloden Moor.

Delicacy Part Fifteen

2007-11-12T02:01:34Z

Title: Delicacy Part Fifteen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 3,483
Rating: A strong PG-13
Warning: Some mild sexuality and language.
Characters: Mrs. Prior, James Norrington and several OCs
Pairing: Beckett/OC, mild Mrs. P/Norrington
Chapter Summary: Mrs. Prior arrives in Tortuga seeking rebirth but finds only wretchedness…and a gentle stranger in a torn Navy coat.
Disclaimer: I clam no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior, the tailor, Lord Darby’s son and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: This chapter is certainly one of those strange examples where the characters decide to run off on their own and run the story for a while. Neither Elizabeth or Beckett will be making an appearance in this chapter, but on the bright side of things, Norrington is introduced. Unfortunately, I might not be able to update this story for a week or two, as I really have to sit down and write my medieval lit term paper, so I do apologize in advance for the delay. Special thanks goes out to everyone who read the last chapter and reviewed. Thanks so much everyone, your feedback has been most encouraging. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Mrs. Prior felt like she would retch.

Pirates.

Prostitutes.

Paupers.

And the whole damned place was provincial.

Damn it all and damn Lord Cutler Beckett to hell.

She had not expected this, had not expected the sea-shell strewn streets, the ratty little taverns from which shouts and pistol shots rang and the people, the filthy, disgusting people.

Mrs. Prior knew she was above this place and as it was, she wasn’t above much. Insult rubbed her wounds raw. So this was where she was likely to die-Tortuga. The name had a decidedly exotic flair to it, one that had left her hopeful when she disembarked from the tiny merchant vessel that was now quickly fleeing the disorderly harbor. But her unfounded hope now sank into her stomach like a stone, leaving her nauseous and unsettled and nothing less than furious.

How was she to do her job here? How was she pick through whispers and slip down streets and return triumphant to Beckett, return a conquering queen who had done what she had been sent to do.

The notion was laughable, hysterically so. Lord Beckett knew exactly where he had sent her and he knew exactly what would happen when she arrived.

A death sentence it was then and Mrs. Prior would die between a pig trough and some piss-stained mud.

She sighed. At least her fever had abated some.

The long dock leading up from the harbor was crowded. Scrawny cabin boys darted around muscled sailors. And Mrs. Prior felt so very out of place amongst these men of the sea.

She pulled up the collar of her coat and walked, hands in pockets, steps short and sure. No one seemed to pay much mind to her. Good. She hated to be watched. The dock emptied onto a waterfront street, a chaotic lane that ran straight up into the town square. But there were too many people. She would look for a quiet place to sit and get her bearings.

A tavern, maybe.

With the mien of a patient spider, Mrs. Prior worked her way through the throng of stinking bodies. An obscure, hovel of an inn sat to her right and she tried to ignore the apt, but crude name scrawled across the welcoming sign, “The Maidenhead”. Once inside, she was assaulted by a symphony of scents-all unpleasant. Rotund and ragged serving maids knocked into her.

Just as there had been chaos in the streets, so was there chaos within and Mrs. Prior only just managed to squeeze into a bare corner. She was served some bitter drink, some poor excuse for wine and her stomach nearly revolted against it. A harried pulse beat against her bruised flesh.

There was no hiding in Tortuga and absolutely no way she could go about her business. How long should she stay? A night? A week? Either way, she had little to return to. Port Royal was a mausoleum to her, an empty spit of land where she was. The name jumped into her mind like a curse, a hex sent to torment her.

Elizabeth Swann.

Mrs. Prior growled. She should have killed the whore, should have throttled the life out of…but instead she had let her go.

A strange thing that was. Mrs. Prior never let her enemies go…nor her friends.

Smiling smugly, she sipped the wine with renewed taste. A toast then, yes, she would have a toast to Lord Beckett. But oh, she wished she could have been there to see his face when he discovered the Swann girl gone.

That would have been quite amusing.

Mrs. Prior drained the mug, relishing in her sudden sense of freedom. How had she become entangled with Beckett, after all? She was certain she had been much happier on her own, destitute, starving-but content.

A serving maid slid another mug across the table to her and Mrs. Prior twined her fingers about the handle, already drifting with the tempestuous touch of the libation. She remembered now, remembered how she had been cast out into the streets and so had turned to Beckett. It seemed rather foolish now. Perhaps she should have stayed with the tailor after all.

*****

It was autumn in Whitechapel, which meant only that thin layers of ice stretched over the puddles of mud and piss that littered the streets and the stench of burning coal would fill the air with a most noxious ash. Mrs. Prior didn’t mind it so much, as long as she had the tiny, wood-fueled fire to sew by and the drafty, leaking roof over her head.

She was most fortunate to have a place now that her mother had cast her aside. Perhaps she would survive well enough for the next few months.

Whatever the misery of her condition, the fragile hunting coat in her hands spoke of elegance and riches, wealth. Mrs. Prior tried not to mind the feel of the silk as it rushed like water through her fingers, tried not to mind the gentleness of the fabric. She would think of John then and Betty’s wispy, curling brown hair. And memories brought burning brands that would mercilessly press against her heart. Instead, Mrs. Prior concentrated on the tiny stitches that shaped the movements of her nimble hands. The thread was black, strong and cut into her frigid palms whenever she paused to rest.

“Have the sleeve sewn already?”

Mrs. Prior glanced up briefly when the tailor entered. He was an older man, stoop-shouldered and had a clouded pair of glasses eternally perched on his nose. Scraps of discarded fabrics were pinned to his waistcoat, patches used for a quick job of darning. Mrs. Prior thought he looked like molting bird of some sort, but why the fellow kept shop in Whitechapel, she had no idea. He had quite enough coin to set up nicely elsewhere.

Not that she was complaining…Whitechapel had a certain intoxicating way about itself anyway.

“Almost,” she whispered, her breath spilling out across the frozen air and warming her fingertips. “When is he due in?”

“Lord Darby’s son?” The tailor lifted his shoulders in an artless shrug. “An hour, maybe, but he doesn’t expect his coat to be finished yet…I hope.”

Mrs. Prior shook her head and dove back into her work. If there was one thing she disliked about the tailor, it was his rather disorganized business habits. Disorganization bred chaos and Mrs. Prior hated chaos.

But there was something comforting in the way he shuffled about the cramped room, the way the measuring tape swung from his belt as he hummed to himself. They weren’t husband and wife. They weren’t man and whore. They weren’t even friends really. Two human beings, yes, that was it, two bereft human beings with a desperate need for company and someone else to help pay the rent.

And Mrs. Prior was grateful to know that there existed other creatures who were nearly as miserable as she.

The door downstairs opened. The tailor stopped his shuffling. Mrs. Prior continued on with her work.

“Lord Darby’s son?” the tailor mouthed. Mrs. Prior set her needle to the side and tore the thread with her teeth. She didn’t like intruders, be they costumers, fellow tradesmen or family. Not that she had any family. John was dead and her rheumatic mother wanted little-well, nothing-to do with her. Mrs. Prior shivered and tried to think of something else, but memories pounded against her skull, shards of bitter words and insults that had been laid upon her bare flesh like a barbed whip. She had gone to live with her mother…after, after everything. But the quaint countryside was not as she remembered, her childhood cottage more of a straw shack and less of a welcoming home. And her mother, her own dear mother who had once nursed her so tenderly, had become a suspicious bitch.

Where was John?

Why did Camilla not visit her daughter’s grave?

And why did she wake up in nights screaming? Why were her eyes wild? Why did she weep all the time?

It had ended with her mother quoting scripture. ‘He who troubles his own house shall inherit the wind’ or some such nonsense. Her mother wasn’t prepared to weather any storm for her sake and Mrs. Prior was banished back to the city-a paradise compared to the pastoral nightmare.

But still, she missed her mother or rather, the comforting feel of warmth that was associated with love.

The tailor was dashing about now, clearing a rickety chair of stained, cotton scraps and putting the kettle on for a bit of tea. Mrs. Prior stayed where she was, only folding her hands on her lap with a disgruntled sigh. Hopefully, Lord Darby’s son would be quick.

The gentleman was admitted soon after, a tall, somewhat ungainly man with a shrew’s upturned nose and a practiced way of speaking.

Handsome, Mrs. Prior thought at first. His skin was powdered and he smelled of fresh picked mint and honeysuckle. But his eyes…she didn’t much care for them. Licentious, opportunistic, crafty. She frowned and threaded another needle. The tailor was offering him tea and stale biscuits. The gentleman waved him away.

“Is my coat ready yet?”

Mrs. Prior sucked the tips of her fingers. Lord Darby’s son made her uncomfortable. There was something decidedly out of place about him. Noblemen didn’t belong in the slums and she thought he must be one of those errant fellows, the type that strolled through the most fetid corners of ancient London for a cheap thrill. Slummers, they were called and Mrs. Prior hated them, especially the way they titled all women “Unfortunates”, prostitutes.

She wasn’t a whore.

The tailor cleared his throat. “Camilla?”

Mrs. Prior dutifully held up one sleeve for inspection. “Just about, sir. Just have to finish the braiding on the cuff.”

The tailor nodded, his air shifting from careless to sycophantic. “It shouldn’t be long then, sir. Will you sit and wait, sir? Have another cup of tea, sir?”

“No.” Lord Darby’s son drew out the word, his lips puckered by a sudden smile. “I’m quite fine as it is.” Languidly, he moved closely to Mrs. Prior, hand outstretched. He pretended to touch the fabric on her lap, but instead, plunged his fingers between her thighs. Mrs. Prior tensed, her leg muscles coiling. With great difficulty, she restrained herself and offered him the cruelest of glances. After a moment, Lord Darby’s son swallowed nervously and withdrew his hand.

The tailor pushed his glasses further up his nose. “I’ll tell your coachman to wait, sir,” he said.

“No need. Tell Charles he might return home.”

The tailor nodded and slipped out of the room like the coward he was.

Mrs. Prior shuddered with rage. So this was how they thought to play the game. Well, they were mistaken, both sorely mistaken.

Lord Darby’s son smiled roguishly.

“A bit more privacy for us now,” he said cheekily. “Tell me, are you familiar with the theater? Ever seen John Gay’s “The Beggar’s Opera”? It’s a delightful farce and not quite beyond you common folk. Perhaps I might take you there in my fine carriage some night.”

He was mocking her now and Mrs. Prior hated to be mocked. She set aside his garish, ugly, fop coat and wriggled her fingers, loosening her joints and chasing away the chill.

“I’m not a whore,” she told him directly.

Lord Darby’s son raised a powdered brow. “But that can be arranged, I’m certain.”

“Never.”

“I’ll pay you well and not just for tonight.”

“No.”

The man sighed, chewing the inside of his lip. “Why so prudish? By God, Your husband isn’t even alive!” And without warning, he slipped his hand down her short gown and Mrs. Prior felt him pinching her breasts.

She hissed, a cat with claws at the ready. But Lord Darby’s son was a fool of a man. With his other hand, he reached down and threw back her skirts. Mrs. Prior did not wait to feel his knees prying apart her thighs.

She bit him on the ear and he howled. Blood, there was blood, splattered on the floor, all over the dandy coat. He howled and the tailor came rushing in, face yellow like sour milk.

“Mother of God!” he bellowed.

Lord Darby’s son was reeling about like a wounded animal and Mrs. Prior just stood, smiling, never more pleased with herself. But then he recovered, briefly and belted her hard across the face.

Anger fueled the blazing furnace within her. She fell to the floor and touched her quickly swelling cheek. There were words, garbled phrases. The door slammed shut. The tailor seemed to be weeping.

In a flash, he was by her side, hauling her to her feet with little ceremony and less care.

“Out!” he cried, stinking spit spraying from his mouth. “Out! And don’t come back.”

Mrs. Prior didn’t protest. She wanted to flee now, to run through the streets until her legs were numb and she could forget the unwanted feel of his fingers. But as she tumbled out of the shop and into the suffocating fog she saw him, Lord Darby’s son, the bastard, tying a handkerchief over his bleeding ear. His coachman had not come back and he would walk home, disorientated, stumbling, lost.

Mrs. Prior gathered herself stealthy. He hadn’t seen her…not yet. Perhaps, if she was careful, if she watched and stalked him long enough, she would be the last thing he ever saw.

*****

Mrs. Prior stared into her mug, sticky with poor wine and grime. She felt disgusted and pushed it away. The serving girl was over in a second, a frown pinching her face.

“You don’t want it?” she asked, taking the mug up in her spindly fingers.

“Not really.” Mrs. Prior crossed her arms over her chest. She felt chilled now. Could the fever be returning? It had abated during her voyage, the cool sea breezes whisking it away to the end of the world. And a nice scab had formed over the grievous bite mark on her hand. She had hoped she was getting better….

“No more wine,” she said.

The girl picked at her grey teeth. “Rum, then?”

“Nothing.” Mrs. Prior fished inside her pocket for a coin, a bit of Beckett’s pay that she had stored in case of disaster. And of course, disaster was never far away as far as she was concerned.

“Are you sure?” the serving girl flipped her head in the direction of the bar. “There’s a man that’s been paying for you. Says you can drink on him.”

Mrs. Prior froze. There were three men at the bar, one in dull brown waistcoat, one in his shirtsleeves and another in a torn blue coat-a Navy uniform.

Her voice fell away and left her speechless. She didn’t want to be paid for. Shaking her head, Mrs. Prior rose and all but fled the tavern. The air outside was wretchedly hot and she walked for a long while, walked until her black boots were muddy and her hand began to throb. She needed to rest, but something drove her onward, a frightened feeling that made her back and neck cold.

Was someone watching her?

The notion was terrifying and Mrs. Prior walked until the night was an impenetrable black and her knees gave way. After that, she finally settled herself in a dim doorway, legs crossed, hands falling into her lap with an air of irrepressible disappointment. So she was out of the fire now, but trapped instead in a muddy, filth-strewn purgatory. Tortuga wasn’t half so promising as she had expected. No, it was a home to the basest of wretches, the fraying threads of humanity that hid on the fringe of the tapestry of life. She watched them for a while. Paupers, prostitutes and pirates. Distaste welled within her, a sickening feeling that left her tongue tasting tart.

She had been wrong to think of this place as London. Ah, that ancient city was different, a one-time stronghold of Romans, palace to the Tudors and a festering sore of commoners. But London was different. London had a purpose, a plan, a plot. There was no aimless wandering in London, no pointless folly. The streets there held secrets, the cobblestones humming with tales of better, brighter days, or sinister ballads of battle. Mrs. Prior loved London and hated Lord Beckett for snatching her away. The Caribbean was a blank, bare canvas of sea, punctured only by pale islands and creaking ships.

Nothing of use might be found here. No release, no reprieve, no rebirth.

Mrs. Prior yawned, her cracked lips drawing back over her teeth like a braying donkey. The fish-tainted air filtered into her mouth and made her gag. Oh, what was the use. She might as well get some sleep.

Stretching out her long legs, Mrs. Prior leaned back, her head cradled between the doorjamb and wall, boot heels planted in the sludge like immovable stones. Around her there was much chatter and a keen buzzing in her ears, a whirring that kept in time with her slow heartbeat. She hated this place, this peculiar, rotten, ugly-

“Jesus Christ!”

Something slammed against her ankles and Mrs. Prior jolted, her bleary eyes flying open as a man tumbled to the ground.

“Damn it all to hell, lad, can’t you see people are walking about?” The man was on his knees, a fine smudge of dirt darkening his yellowed face. Two beetle black eyes glared at her with all the fury of a king and the unabashed insolence of a rogue.

Mrs. Prior glanced at her legs and then back at the vagabond.

“Sorry,” she muttered, tucking her hands within her coat. The man scrambled to his feet, stumbling and reeling about like the drunkard he was.

“Oi, you ain’t a laddie.” He tipped back his straw hat. “Ain’t a laddie at all. What a pretty young thing you are, pretty little filly, little fawn. Too fine for a place like this you are.”

Mrs. Prior bit back an amused smile and settled down to sleep. “You’d be surprised to hear of the places I’ve been, sir.”

“Saucy,” the man panted. “I like ‘em saucy and fresh….how much?”

Mrs. Prior’s spine stiffened when she realized what the fellow was after. Wrinkling her pert nose, she shook her head.

“I don’t charge a thing.”

“No?” The man’s fingers flew to his trouser buttons. “You mean…for free?”

“I mean I don’t whore myself. Now off with you, I’m trying to sleep.”

“Not a whore? I didn’t ask if you was a whore. I asked how much.”

The man was getting louder, his reedy voice leaping a note higher until he sounded like a rodent. Mrs. Prior watched as he scratched his whiskery upper lip in confusion. Ha, he did look quite like a rat.

She began to laugh.

“What’s this now?” And suddenly the man lashed out with his lanky arm and grabbed the front of her coat. “What’s set you laughing, wench? Is it me? Aye, it is me! Think you’re too proper, too good to be fucked. Come here!”

Mrs. Prior growled as he tried to tear open her shirt, hands reaching for her breasts in a wretchedly lewd manner. She pushed him back with the edge of her hip and sent him careening into a crumbling shed. But the man was surprisingly spry and in a moment, he recovered and flew at her. His weight brought Mrs. Prior to the ground, the air shooting out of her lungs as he tugged at her breeches.

Fury mad her blood boil and thinking of haughty Lord Darby’s son and the last frightened look on his face as his life left him, she freed her hands and wrapped them about his throat.

The man gurgled and gasped. Mrs. Prior tightened her grip. She almost had him dead, almost had him killed with his bulging eyes and body writhing and pain cutting lines of horror in his brow.

But then it was all over. His nearly dead weight was lifted off her and thrown roughly to the side.

“Good God.” A hand brushed her shoulder, then settled by her collar bone. “Still breathing.”

The voice was warm, yet fragile. Mrs. Prior was gently lifted up and set upon her feet.

“Has he hurt you much, Miss?” The deliciously soothing tone washed over her, washed away the last hurt that made her limbs tighten and tense.

Mrs. Prior turned and faced the strange man in the torn Navy coat.

She smiled. “No, sir.”

Whitechapel is an inner city district of London, which, through the 17^th and 19^th centuries, became the epitome of a Dickensian neighborhood. Housing the poor and destitute and hundreds of prostitutes, Whitechapel was made somewhat infamous as the killing ground of Jack the Ripper in 1888.

The term “Unfortunates” is a Victorian phrase used to refer to prostitutes, however, I thought it rather suited the feel of this piece.

“The Beggar’s Opera” was indeed an extremely popular ballad opera written in 1728 by John Gay. It was a highly successful piece in its time, with a cast of characters including aristocrats, the middle class and the common poor. Lord Darby’s son’s remark that Mrs. Prior would enjoy it is therefore sarcastic as the opera’s music was somewhat based around common folk ballads.

Delicacy Part Fourteen

2007-11-02T22:36:31Z

Title: Delicacy Part Fourteen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,316
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett, Elizabeth Swann, Governor Swann, Murtogg and several OCs.
Pairings: Beckabeth, Beckett/OC
Warning: I don’t think Beckabeth fans will approve of this chapter. Sorry, my friends. ^_^
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Chapter Summary: A miracle delivers Elizabeth from Beckett‘s clutches.
Author’s Note: Here I am, late in posting and I come bearing a slow, vague chapter. Sorry guys, but I do promise much more action will follow. Special thanks goes out to everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and comment. Thanks a million! I always cherish your feedback. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

There was a single rose on the dressing table in Elizabeth’s bedchamber. A red rose. A crimson, sinful flower that sat in a elegant white vase. Elizabeth hated the look of it, the way it seemed to smile, saturated with conceit and understanding. She rolled onto her side and faced the wall. But still the rose stared.

It had to be sometime before dawn. Elizabeth had learned to calculate the hours by the changing of guards in the corridor. Apparently, Lord Beckett still thought her untrustworthy and had doubled the number of sentries guarding the stairs.

He was right to be cautious.

Now that her plan had fallen through, her perfect plot for revenge, Elizabeth felt herself chafing under her imprisonment. The walls of the bedchamber fenced her in, a suffocating den for a wily she-fox.

But she was not wily. She was not clever. She was not even particularly smart.

Elizabeth had failed, failed to notice the single matter of importance, the throbbing lust that hid beneath the porcelain veneer of Beckett’s stoicism.

She had been mistaken. She had been remiss. She had been wrong.

Seduction.

Ha! The notion was laughable now, a thing to be mocked and teased. She had played straight into his hands.

Had she the strength, Elizabeth would have hated herself, reviled every inch of her flesh that he had touch. But she was tired now and only a sigh made her breast rise. Often she had heard tales, childhood allegories of women who died for their virginity, martyrs and saints, flowers described as fair yet chaste.

And yet she was the red rose, the sinner, the whore.

How could she ever face Will again?

Death would be a reprieve and Elizabeth fancied she was dying. Grief would take her before the next merciless memory drove a blade into her heart. Blackness would blot her out.

She did not care for revenge anymore…or life.

Elizabeth turned onto her back, felt the bed dip down beneath her weight, felt the irrepressible sorrow fill her lungs like water. She would drown before the morning sun pushed past the insolent clouds.

One last time she glanced at the rose. Lord Beckett had sent it to her last evening. She wondered if he was frightened of her now. After Mrs. Prior had been exiled, so had Elizabeth. Beckett had cast her from his bedchamber and ignored her the following day.

Elizabeth had imagined his torment, finding succor only when she thought of him as tortured, repentant. And then he had sent her the red rose and Elizabeth knew that he did not care for thing. What a horrid notion that was, to belong to a careless man, to be trapped by one who had everything to gain in life and nothing to lose.

Elizabeth watched the rose now and laughed lowly, the sound rupturing the pain that kept her jaw set and locked. She laughed at the pretty petals, the sleek stem with it’s two, pointed thorns and luscious leaves.

Why should she be bothered a flower?

Elizabeth closed her eyes and settled her hands on her stomach. The creaks and groans of the otherwise silent house gnawed at her ears. She heard someone cough. She heard the crackle of a fire in some far off room. And in the distance, the dark, indefinable distance, she heard a gate swing open.

The guards were coming, the guards that would pace outside her chamber, Beckett’s puppets who would do naught but mimic his futile power over her. How great would their shock be then, when they found her dead the next morning. The maid would come in with some poor breakfast. The tray would clatter to the floor, the pot of tea shattering and spraying the succulent ambrosia over the dingy coverlets. They would see her lying there, perfect, preserved by the dew shed from the dying moon.

And then Lord Beckett would be sent for and he would know that she had willed herself to die to spite him, yes it was all to spite him now.

Elizabeth smiled as she lay, but frowned when she heard an indecisive step on the stair. A whisper, it was a whisper, not the trod of the guard or a servant.

A shudder shook her pale body. There was a click and the bolts that fastened her door slid open.

Elizabeth sprang up, forgetting her weakness, forgetting death, forgetting the silly rose on the nightstand.

“Come gently now, girl,” someone rasped, “or they’ll hear.”

All was silent again. Elizabeth did not hear any retreating footsteps. She stood. The door was open.

Warmth spiraled through her limbs and reminded her of life. Elizabeth crept to the door and tested it.

Open, it was open.

She peered out into the corridor.

Empty, it was empty.

The guards were gone.

Elizabeth glanced back into her chamber, glanced back at the foolish rose that sat in it’s slim vase on the nightstand.

And then she fled.

No hesitation slowed her step this time, no torturous wonderment or debate. Elizabeth fled the house, fled down the corridor, down the long stairs and into the kitchen. A low fire birthed tiny embers in the hearth, small, hot ashes that reminded her of a blacksmith’s forge. And Will stood over it, hammer in hand, a contagious smile twisting his kissable lips.

Elizabeth fled out into the courtyard and was greeted by the rising sun. Pink clouds parted for golden beams. For a moment she stood in the open air, stared at the hopeful patches of light blue that peppered the sky. And then she fled, stumbled down the hill that housed Beckett’s manor and into the still slumbering center of Port Royal. It was as she had remembered, with gulls swooping amongst the gables and chattering on the sandy beaches.

There were ships in the harbor. Handsome ships with graceful masts and smooth hulls. The sea was waiting, the endless, life-giving sea that welcomed her with crashing waves and warm, cerulean waters.

*****

Governor Swann had been resting, resting as well as any man could on a few stalks of moldy straw. The cell floor was hard beneath him and damp. A single, narrow window opened to reveal a murky morning sky. Steam rose off the sweating bodies of his fellow prisoners.

Fellow prisoners, humph. Swann had never seen the jail so full. Commodore Norrington had kept the streets of Port Royal quiet and clean with just law. And Swann liked to think that his own paternal presence had dissuaded much wrongdoing. Of course, one always had to contend with rogues. Pickpockets and pirates and the like. But the men, women and children crammed into the stinking cells were not thieves, at least not any he could recognize.

There was a portly baker across the corridor, a man by the name of Jenkins who had always been thought of as a goodly fellow. Two cells away sat Mrs. McKenna, an Irish widow with auburn hair and a talented cobbler at that. And then there was old Mr. Brown, the blacksmith, slouched against the wall and pale for want of drink. Swann tried to avoid looking at the man who reminded him only of a skinny, pirate of a boy who had sought the hand of his Elizabeth and now sailed the seas freely while they rotted.

Swann rolled over and crossed his aching arms over his dirty blue waistcoat. Oh, who knew if Elizabeth was still alive…

A hoot and a holler shattered his misery. All along the corridor prisoners were standing, shouting, holding out their pathetically thin arms in protest.

“It’s the rat, the damned rat,” Mrs. McKenna sobbed and covered her face with her shawl.

“Kill ‘em!” Jenkins bellowed.

Only Mr. Brown stayed silent, his head drowsily tipped against his chest.

Governor Swann looked up and noticed a rather disheveled Lord Beckett come stalking into the prison. The fiend was accompanied by at least a dozen guards, some of whom Swann had known by name…and loyalty. No more.

His lordship was nothing less than harried and bore the look of a man lately disturbed from sleep. Of course, he wore both breeches and coat but his hair had yet to be dressed and languid brown curls dripped across his shoulders, contained by a loose queue.

Beckett stopped abruptly outside Swann’s cell and the governor dragged himself up into a sitting position, struggling to remain stoic despite the horrid pain that weakened his limbs.

“Where is she?”

“Your pardon, sir?” Swann said dryly.

Beckett slammed his fists against the bars.

“Where is your daughter?”

It took Swann a moment to understand. Elizabeth, Beckett wanted to know where she was. That must mean…that could only mean….

He rose shakily to his feet.

“Elizabeth?”

Beckett raised his head, eyes suddenly hard and hawk-like. “Elizabeth.” It was an admission of weakness and the way Beckett spoke her name made Swann’s skin prickle with fear.

Something was wrong, wretchedly wrong….

“She’s alive?” he whispered, hope kindling a fresh fire of resistance in his chest. “Is she hurt?”

“I haven’t the slightest notion.” Beckett leaned upon the rotting bars, his shoulders wedged between them. “She’s gone, as of this morning. And I had thought…she didn’t come for you?”

Swann forced himself to face Beckett. Elizabeth was free and she had not come for him. At once, the blaze was snuffed out, his fire failing and leaving him cold. Elizabeth was free…and she had not come for him.

“No,” he said in a voice that was dead, decaying.

Beckett laughed. “I should have guessed it. Wily Miss Swann, a heartless bitch.”

There were scattered chuckles amongst the guards. The prisoners were silent. Swann took a step back.

Elizabeth was free, that was all that mattered. Perhaps she had boarded a ship to England, yes, England. Help might be found there in the king’s court. But how long had it been since Lord Beckett had bought His Majesty with thirty pieces of gleaming silver? And who did he deceive with his hope. Elizabeth had not gone to England. Why go to England when Will was waiting?

Beckett was still laughing, his face a mask of mirth meant to disguise unease. “I suppose I taught her well after all.”

Bile coated Swann’s throat. He choked. Dear God…dear God.

His knees gave way and despite all his struggle, his conjured strength, he fell.

Beckett ceased his laughing, turned to his guards and beckoned them with a dandified wave of his hand.

“Come, gentlemen, she’s not to be found here. No, not when-”

“My lord.” A weak wisp of a voice punctured Beckett’s cool tenor.

But his lordship stopped nonetheless and glared at the cowed guard, the frightened Private Murtogg who held his musket in his white, bony fingers.

“That Mrs. Prior,” he ventured, “the maid said she came to the kitchen last night, a bit funny she was, disturbed. And later on I heard the gate open and close, my lord.”

Silence.

Beckett seemed to deflate, his skin waxy, an effigy of dread.

“Mrs. Prior?” he asked.

“Mrs. Prior, my lord,” Murtogg affirmed. “I’m sure of it.”

For one moment, Beckett glanced at Swann and Swann stared at him. And for one moment, they both knew to fear for Elizabeth.

*****

There was blood on hands. Yes, blood. Black blood. Blood that seeped into her skin and poisoned her. But Camilla Prior didn’t think of herself as a murderer.

No.

No, she couldn’t be a murderer. Murderers went to Hell. Murderers were tormented after death. Murderers didn’t deserve pity.

Standing on the deck of a wretched, rocking, sea-tossed merchant ship, Mrs. Prior yearned for pity.

A smile. A thawed glance. A gentle hand pressed against her twisted, aching shoulder.

Somewhere along the way, somewhere along a winding London street, a cramped hovel, a piss-stained alley, she had lost herself. And Mrs. Prior missed kindness, missed being counted on for something other than her ability to kill.

Lord Beckett wasn’t kind her. Nor did he pity her. And now it seemed as though he had never cared for her in the first place.

Mrs. Prior let her knees fall upon the railing and she watched the sea.

Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall. Rise. Fall.

The rhythm was hypnotic and a wet wind licked her brow. She felt the fever subside, the pain in her hand ebb and she could think clearly once more.

Port Royal was behind her now, that seemingly exotic place where she existed only under the humid shadows. Mrs. Prior decided that exile was better than watching Beckett enchant his new pet.

But she would have the last laugh. Yes. She would laugh all the way Tortuga. She would shriek and dream of how she had deceived Lord Beckett.

Mrs. Prior undid the tight, ragged ribbon that held back her hair. Echoes of ebony spilled across her face, streamed out on the wind and reached fingertips towards the sky.

Tortuga awaited.

Lias Laddie Part Four

2007-10-23T00:41:45Z

Title: Lias Laddie Part Four
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,115
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Beckett/OC
Summary: A wicked little smile touched Maggie’s treacherous lips as she handed the bundle to Beckett. “He has his father’s eyes, does he not?”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those who commented. Thanks so much, you guys! Your feedback means the world to me. As always, I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Beckett had hoped to avoid any further social entanglements that evening, but then he found Captain Fitzroy sitting in the common room of the lodge, a goblet of sticky dark wine in hand.

“Good evening, sir,” was all Beckett intended to say. But Fitzroy rose from his chair, put his back to the hearth and frowned bitterly.

“Where is Greville?”

Beckett shrugged and shadows fell from his shoulders, along with the last drops of rain the storm had spat at him.

“You don’t know?” Fitzroy raised his delicate, dandified head. He looked furious in a repressed sort of way and his teeth caught on his bottom lip. “Dear God, what has the fool done now?”

“Nothing, I wager,” Beckett replied and he turned to go. But Fitzroy stopped him. One hand closed about his forearm and held him fast.

“Did you see anything? Hear anything?”

“I went to dinner at Swinton’s.” Beckett jerked his arm and freed it from Fitzroy’s surprisingly crushing grasp. “And I don’t see what business this is of yours.”

“Plenty.” Fitzroy sipped his wine, restoring a genteel blush to his cheeks. “Did you see Mrs. Swinton?”

Beckett tensed. He had tried to avoid thinking about Maggie as he rode back to the lodge, a feat that was nearly impossible when every wind that blew seemed to carry her voice upon it. The cold kisses of the rain mimicked hers so artfully.

“Again, sir, I am not sure what business this is of yours.”

Fitzroy snarled, his nose wrinkling in a manner that conveyed both distaste and distrust. “It bloody well is, your lordship. Did you see Mrs. Swinton? Did she speak with Greville?”

Beckett felt his heart plummet into his gut. So there it was, quite plain for all to see. Fitzroy knew of some sordid dealings between the two and prudish as he seemed, he was certain to disapprove. Beckett did not disapprove, really. He had left Maggie with little choice, after all. But by God, he would trade places with Greville if ever he had even the slightest opportunity.

“I saw Mrs. Swinton,” he replied evenly. Fitzroy seemed to relax.

“Is she…is she still sickly?”

“Not that I could tell.”

“And the husband, Hindley Swinton?”

“Fell asleep drunk before the meal was out.”

“Thank God.” Fitzroy sighed and in turn, drained his own glass of wine. “A small mercy it is, but I am happy to hear it.”

Beckett was shocked by Fitzroy’s relief and he stared at him for a time, watching an unusual smile lift the corners of the Captain’s mouth. And then a thought occurred to him.

“Mrs. Swinton knew of my coming.” Beckett crossed his arms over his chest. “She said you told her, on the road the other day.”

“I did.” But Fitzroy was distracted, idly rolling the empty wine glass between his palms.

“Did she mention that she knew me?”

“What?”

Beckett rolled his shoulders, his nerves rubbed raw from agitation. “What did Mrs. Swinton tell you of me, Captain?”

Fitzroy raised his thin eyebrows and chuckled a little under his breath. “That, my lord, is none of your business.”

Beckett was incensed, but he had not the mind-nor the strength-to pick a fight with haughty Fitzroy. Instead, he nodded coldly, turned on his heel and left the common room.

Damn the man. He could not contend with such false airs. Greville was the only sane fellow about…though perhaps not if he had allowed Maggie to take him as a lover.

A cold weight sat in his chest, pressing against his heart which pounded fervently as he climbed up the long stairs. The corridor was wood-paneled, dark. It had a warm, moist feel, like sweaty, perfumed flesh. Beckett swallowed.

He could almost see Maggie with Greville, the two of them having a hasty roll in the hay, Maggie’s hair falling over her shoulders, the trembling laughter. And Greville’s hands, tossing away the tartan shawl and flowery gown, removing the silver clasp that so neatly held her tresses.

Beckett dug his muddy boot heels into the carpeting. Downstairs, he heard the charmed tinkle of a harpsichord. Fitzroy was playing and singing to himself.

“Were I laid on Greenland's Coast,
And in my arms embrac'd my Lass;
Warm amidst eternal frost,
Too soon the half year's night would pass.

And I would love you all the day,
Every night would kiss and play,
If with me you'd fondly stray,
Over the hills and far away.”

“Bloody fop,” Beckett muttered and pushed open the heavy door to his chamber. Darkness alone awaited him along with emptiness. Stray beams of moonlight fell through the shutters. He threw them open and let the great vastness of the moors envelope him. The rainstorm had passed by already.

He half fancied he could see the lone candle, the single light that lifted the shadows about Swinton’s house. And little George lay in the glow of it.

Would Maggie truly leave the boy?

Beckett could not even guess at her intentions now, twisted as they were and all the while he reminded himself that it meant little to him. He had few worries these days. And yet, when he laid down on the silken top sheets stretched over the good featherbed, he could not sleep.

Maggie was dangerous still.

Nightmares gnawed at his weary mind and oh, he knew what it was to grow up without a mother, without a parent really. His father had been a man like Hindley, a man who had drank himself half into the grave until pneumonia pushed him entirely in. His mother he could not remember, save for a fragmented voice that whispered to him in dreams and the smell of fresh powder that evoked images of a plump, pleasant woman.

Little George would be lucky to have a childhood half so fortunate as Beckett’s.

He turned onto his side and let the moonbeams fall across his hands. The air was cold, unfriendly and biting instead of brisk. Perhaps he should return to London early.

At once the traitorous weight slid off his chest. Beckett imagined himself in some grand ballroom, chatting with the likes of lords and ladies, men and women of his status. Yet it all seemed so dull now, so empty when compared to Maggie and her wily way of putting things.

But what, in God’s name, would he do with a child?

The wooden bed frame groaned as he turned over once more, still insufferably trapped in his coat, breeches and boots. Maggie had a talent for getting under his skin. And damn it all, he felt guilty now.

Was that his penance? Was he fated to feel guilty for the rest of his life? But why should he worry after her, she was the madwoman, she was the danger that he had eradicated.

And why should his child suffer for her wrongs?

Beckett didn’t want the babe to raised by Swinton, didn’t want his own blood, his flesh to be so sorely abused.

And he needed an heir, an Octavian of his own.

After all, he would rather pass his empire on to another Beckett as opposed to some Company whelp.

But he would not think on it now, no, he needed rest, the doctors had said so. Beckett peeled off his clothes and slipped between the sheets. Even with a good feather quilt and wool nightshirt, the night was still cold.

He dozed for some time, long enough to be startled from sleep when a door downstairs slammed closed. Fitzroy had ceased his playing a while ago.

Voices, he heard voices. Muffled at first, then resounding. They echoed up from the common room and Beckett soon found himself listening with eager curiosity. Greville had returned at last and was having quite a good row with Fitzroy.

Hmm, how very intriguing.

“Wretch! Villain!” Fitzroy shrieked. “You coward, Greville, damn you! Couldn’t even-”

“I’ll not tolerate your temper, sir-”

“My temper?”

“Lower your voice, sir.”

“I bloody well won’t, sir. And here I thought I could trust you. Bah! You’ve made a fool of me.”

“Oh, I have, have I?” Greville was restrained, as always and his boots stumbled up the stairs. “A fool, sir? Really, sir? Don’t you think that-”

“I’ll hear no more of this!”

“I’ll tell Swinton, by God!”

“Damn you to hell if you do.”

Things were becoming vicious and Beckett could not withstand temptation. Quietly, he pulled himself out of bed and leaned against the chamber door. Their voices were entangled, twisted and snarls could not be distinguished from swears.

Greville was closer, Beckett perceived, standing somewhere on the staircase, his shouts careening down the corridor.

“The fault is entirely Mrs. Swinton’s,” he bellowed.

Beckett felt jittery, his limbs turning to water and then freezing when the chill hit them.

Maggie.

Of course, she had her hand in every bit of devilry.

A rumble raced along the second floor corridor when Greville slammed his door. Downstairs, Fitzroy was still muttering to himself and Beckett listened to the man pace before he stormed out of the lodge. A deliciously ironic smile tweaked Beckett’s lips as he crawled back into bed. It was rather amusing, really, to watch Maggie weave her mischief, provided he escaped each tantalizing, tempting thread that tried to knot about him.

*****

Greville was in a sour mood the next morn or so Beckett found when he went down to breakfast. The Captain stood by the hearth, one hand perched on the mantle, the other lifting a cup of tea to his lips. Beckett glanced about the empty common room. His eyes combed the dark green walls, the dusty corners and old, yellowed paintings that poorly depicted a medieval hunt.

“Where is Captain Fitzroy?”

Greville flinched as though he had been struck and tossed the rest of his tea into the spitting fire.

“I don’t know.”

“Oh.” Beckett grinned like a demon. He felt refreshed, unlike poor Greville who wore an expression of an abused and belabored man. Beckett recognized the look, the harried, tremulous stare that only revealed an ounce of the torment that reigned in one’s heart.

Maggie commonly had that effect on men.

A wind battered the windows and pushed against the panes. Beckett sniffed.

“It’s raining.”

“It always is.”

“And you suppose Fitzroy has gone out in this weather?”

“To the moors, your lordship.”

There was something unsettling about that. Beckett chewed the inside of his cheek and studied Greville. Fitzroy on the moors? He could not imagine the stuffy Captain finding any solace amongst the great emptiness. Usually those with hollow souls found naught but despair in such places.

And then Beckett felt a chill rush over him, a grasping, desperate thing that made his all his joints lock.

Could Fitzroy have ridden to Swinton’s?

Beckett remembered well the garbled argument of last night and what he had heard. Someone had threatened to tell Hindley something, but what?

Greville set his tea cup down on the mantle and rubbed his face with his hands. Beckett glared at him and felt some measure of annoyance. If Greville was indeed Maggie’s lover, then Hindley would suffer for the knowledge of it.

Beckett imagined that Swinton wasn’t a merciful man, a brute probably, who would not hesitate to use his bare fists as instruments in justice. Ah, no matter. Maggie probably deserved a good beating anyway.

But not little George.

Beckett cringed at the thought. Suspicions would be raised if the truth were retched up by Fitzroy’s gossiping mouth and Swinton would jump to conclusions. Either way, little George would most likely be proved a bastard. And bastards did not fare well in an unkind world.

A sudden sense of duty took Beckett to the door and he snatched up his riding crop and hat. Greville followed him out into the hall with a whimsical, if not indifferent frown.

“Where are you going, sir?”

“Out riding,” Beckett replied shortly.

This seemed to disturb gentle Greville a fair bit, for his small mouth twisted in an unhappy grimace.

“Where, sir?”

“I have no notion.”

“Oh.” The Captain leaned against the corridor wall and drummed his fingers on the paneling. “But you will be careful, sir, won’t you?”

Beckett bristled and wheeled about. What did Greville care, after all, bloody paramour that he was.

And yet there was naught but sincerity in the young man’s eyes. Beckett nodded curtly.

“I will Captain,” he said as he yanked the door open, “though there is very little that I am frightened of and certainly, nothing that can be found here.”

The song Fitzroy sings in this chapter is called “Over the Hills and Far Away” and comes from the “Beggar’s Opera” which first opened in 1728 and was written by John Gay.
Octavian, later known as the Roman emperor Augustus, was the nephew and heir of Julius Caesar.

Delicacy Part Thirteen

2007-10-16T18:13:44Z

Title: Delicacy Part Thirteen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,359
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Mild sexuality, suggestive themes, all around darkness.
Characters: Lord Beckett, Elizabeth Swann and several OCs
Pairing: Beckabeth, Beckett/OC
Chapter Summary: Elizabeth is forced to face the unimaginable and in an act of terrible cruelty, Beckett reveals Mrs. Prior’s past.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: And here we are at yet another major turning point in this story. After this there will be new settings, new plot twists and new characters *cough*Norrington*cough* along with Mrs. Prior, Beckett and many other returning characters. Special thanks goes out to everyone who took the time to read the last chapter and comment. Thanks a million! I always cherish your feedback. This chapter is also especially dedicated to the wonderful stabbycutlass who was so kind to illustrate a scene from Ch. 12. Make sure you check out her drawing, she’s an amazing artist. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

“Has Mrs. Prior left yet?”

“No, my lord.”

“Good, send her to me.”

The silken voice stirred Elizabeth from the depths of a demonic sleep. She had dreamt things, horrid things laced by lies, betrayal and stain that would never wash away. But it was all just a dream, a nightmare, immaterial. Elizabeth rolled over and clutched the blankets closer to her naked body.

A quill pen scratched across a sheet of parchment. The noise was irritating, a fly circling about her head and buzzing in her ear. She cracked open a bloodshot eye and searched for the source.

Lord Beckett was seated by his writing desk and after a moment, he acknowledged her with a nod.

Elizabeth started up, expecting to feel fear or shame or rage when she remembered the wicked things she had done, the sins she had willingly committed with a fiend. But she felt nothing, only emptiness. And the night before was a dream, a nightmare, immaterial.

It could not have happened.

The ache that racked her body protested her denial. Memories surfaced, treacherous memories that reminded her of kisses and pleasure and pain.

Elizabeth was overwhelmed.

It could not have happened.

She could not remember. What was the day? The year? And how had she come to this place?

Confusion threatened to smother her.Mrs. Prior at the head of the stairs, pleading with her. Beckett waiting down the hall. A fly snared by the spider’s web, a fox drowned in it’s own den.

But Elizabeth did not want to think now. No, it hurt. She wanted to rest and enjoy for the first time in her life, the absolute numbness that trapped her soul.

Lord Beckett continued on with his writing and only stopped when a knock sounded on the door.

Elizabeth snatched up the blankets. The door opened, slowly, timidly and a weary face dipped inside the chamber.

“My lord?”

The voice sent scattered chills up Elizabeth’s spine. Mrs. Prior closed the door behind her and leaned upon it, shaking. Her legs threatened to buckle and it was only with great difficulty that she managed to stand, her hand gripping the bronze doorknob.

“Ah, Camilla, good morning.” Beckett did not rise when she entered, but remained seated at his table, dressing gown falling upon in a delicately dashing manner. His shirt was snow white, unblemished.

“You sent for me, my lord,” Mrs. Prior said and her eyes remained on Beckett alone. She did not notice Elizabeth.

“Yes, I did. Do you know why?”

Mrs. Prior seemed to deflate under the question and her shoulders sagged. “I don’t know, my lord, I never know.”

“Hmm.” Beckett tilted his head to side, towards Elizabeth but still Mrs. Prior did not glance at the bed. Her eyes were glassy, pools of pain and wretchedness. And she could only look at Lord Beckett with that same desperate longing, that same dreadful hope that was founded upon sand and so would sink into nothingness.

“I don’t know, my lord,” she repeated.

Beckett sighed and tapped his fingers on the table, a hollow, empty rhythm that made Elizabeth’s skin prickle.

“Well, I do.” Beckett smiled at Mrs. Prior and his smile was a vicious, feral thing.

Mrs. Prior exhaled shakily.

“I was thinking last night, Camilla, when the hours were darkest and it rained.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I was thinking of you and how you came to be as you are.”

Mrs. Prior shut her eyes for an instant and Elizabeth thought she saw a tear slide from underneath her blue-tinged lids.

“Please, my lord.”

Elizabeth stiffened. She had heard those words before. They had echoed in her ears the night before.

“Oh?” Beckett’s voice rose, jumped a note higher and dripped with irony. “You don’t want to hear the tale again? Why not? Well, I know it isn’t pleasant, but it’s your life, Camilla. Certainly you do not fear it?”

“Please, my lord.”

“Very well.” Beckett stood and continued to tap his fingers tersely upon the tabletop. “If you won’t hear it, than I shall tell it to someone else. Hmm, Elizabeth.” And then he turned around to face the bed. Elizabeth wished she could hide, but Mrs. Prior spotted her first and the pure devastation on her face was enough to fill her nightmares for decades.

She said nothing though, her waxy lips pressed together, hand still fastened over the doorknob.

“It’s a simple tale,” Beckett continued, not missing a beat, his voice sounding utterly boyish and brutish at the same time. “Rather morbid, though, not for the faint of heart. Though I think Miss Swann can stand to hear it, she deserves to hear it and I do so wish to settle her curiosity.”

Elizabeth wanted to speak, to protest…for Mrs. Prior’s sake. Her shame was naught compared to the utter grief that ravaged the poor creature. Yes poor. She pitied Mrs. Prior in a way.

“Well, it begins some years ago, yes once upon a time.” Beckett turned away from the bed and glanced quickly at Mrs. Prior. “I am certain, Miss Swann, that you know Mrs. Prior was married, widowed now, but married once. And she was happily married. What was his name again, Camilla?”

Mrs. Prior shuddered, the veins in her neck bulging as she swallowed away sobs. “John Prior, my lord.”

“Yes, John Prior.” Beckett scratched his chin. “And from what I’ve heard, he wasn’t a terribly intelligent fellow, but strong, well built. But that mattered not, for Mrs. Prior was a seamstress of some repute and together they lived in London with their little daughter. Her name, I believe, was Elizabeth.”

“Betty,” Mrs. Prior interrupted.

Beckett glanced at her over his silk-clad shoulder.

“Her name was Betty, my lord.”

Elizabeth wrapped her hands over her knees. Something ill permeated from that name and it seemed like a cursed thing. She shivered at the very mention of it.

“Yes.” Beckett’s lips barely moved. “Betty. Well, on with it then. As it was, Miss Swann, I have reason to believe that Mrs. Prior was happy and perhaps not half as mad as she is now.” He leaned against the foot of the bed but Elizabeth would not look at him. Beckett spoke as though Mrs. Prior were naught but a shade, a creature that was blind and deaf and dumb.

His shameless mockery was revolting.

Beckett raised his head, his back arching, hips poised in a triumphant stance. “I’m convinced things were quite pleasant for them, until the night Mrs. Prior fell asleep while sewing and knocked over a candle. The house caught fire. The husband escaped. The child was burned alive.”

“Oh God!” Mrs. Prior shrieked. The sound bounced off the ashen walls and shattered Elizabeth’s resolve. She wanted to weep.

Beckett simply laughed.

“I’m not quite sure what happened afterwards, Miss Swann,” he continued. “But I do know she lost her business. And her poor husband, that poor, pitiful fool had to work his way through the slums. Isn’t a wonder that he loved her, after all? I don’t think she loved him-”

“Liar!” Mrs. Prior screamed until her words were ragged gasps. “Liar! I loved him!”

“Well, I don’t see how that is possible.” Beckett jerked about and for the very first time, looked at her with hurting human eyes. Jealousy hardened his face. “You killed him, throttled him in his sleep. That is not love, my dear, love is not betrayal.”

“And you would know, my lord,” she hiccupped. And then, face blazing with fever, she turned to Elizabeth. “Listen to me girl and I’ll save you’re life. You’ll die here, girl. He’s going to kill. He’s killed me, my God, I’m dying, I’m dying and I never wanted to die. He’ll kill you, girl. Run!”

Mrs. Prior’s pleas were so ardent that Elizabeth started up out of bed, her feet landing on the sweaty floor with a thud. She wanted to run, wanted to flee…but Beckett stood before the door.

Snarling, he glared at Mrs. Prior. “Be quiet now, Camilla.”

She obeyed, fingers crushed against her trembling chin.

Beckett took a deep breath and regained his easeful composure. “Sit back down, Miss Swann, I have yet to finish the story.”

And Elizabeth herself obeyed, knowing that she had nowhere to run and like Mrs. Prior, would most certainly be better off dead.

“I met Mrs. Prior sometime after,” he resumed, his voice measured and clipped and suited for some dainty parlor, “when she was employed by a tailor. One of her clients must have vexed her, he was a rival of mine, a company man, Lord Darby’s son. She killed him, stalked him and strangled him. And I saw it. Yes, she was in my good graces then, but that was so many years ago. No more. No more.”

Elizabeth fancied she recognized a mournful note in his voice and he seemed much smaller, standing there at the foot of the bed. She wondered what could possibly leave a man like him defeated.

A moment of dreadful silence blanketed the room and only Mrs. Prior had the courage to break it.

“Have you finished with me, my lord?” she asked, seeming beyond pain, beyond any reality.

“I have, Mrs. Prior and thank God for that.”

“I leave tonight, my lord. Will you not bid me farewell?”

“Yes. Goodbye, Camilla. Should I expect to see you again?”

Mrs. Prior glanced at Beckett and her eyes became self-determined, cool and calm with a dignity Elizabeth had never noticed before.

“You will, my lord. I’m to do my job and return.”

Beckett seemed shocked and his head snapped back.

“Goodbye, Camilla.”

“Goodbye, Cutler.” There was a sneer to her voice and she left the chamber with a final toss of her head.

Beckett sank onto the edge of the bed and for a long while, Elizabeth watched him. He did not move for a time and nor did she. The sun rose, dispersing clouds, Elizabeth saw a milky patch of blue lighten the sky. Her heart rose.

Beckett sighed at length, his fingers curled into tight fists on his lap. “It is better this way,” he muttered.

*****

Polly was sitting in the kitchen cleaning knives that evening when she heard the back gate snap close. Laughter followed, a shrill, keening shriek that made her whimper and wish she was elsewhere. Mrs. Prior stumbled into the kitchen. Polly gripped the edge of the table.

“Ma’am!”

“Oh hush, whore!”

Mrs. Prior was bleeding from the brow and black droplets of it fell upon the table. She panted like a hard pressed horse.

A ice cold stone dropped in Polly’s stomach and, hastily, she shoved the knives back into their proper cupboard. She had never known Mrs. Prior to use knives though.

“What’s the matter with you?” the wretched woman asked, looking ridiculous, reeling from side to side.

“You’re bleeding, ma’am.”

“I know you stupid, stupid wench of a girl.”

Polly offered her a dirty dish rag but Mrs. Prior waved it away.

“I need no favors, no generosity,” she spat and for a moment, managed to hold herself still.

Polly watched her with silent awe, the only sound echoing forth from the hearth where a low fire nibbled at moldy logs. She thought of calling for the guard, little help that he was. Lord Beckett didn’t want Mrs. Prior about anymore. Why, he had come downstairs that very morning and said to keep her out of the house, make sure she boarded her ship to Tortuga or whatever hellhole he had banished her too. But Polly was just the kitchen maid and she couldn’t-daren’t-contend with a madwoman.

Suddenly, Mrs. Prior’s knees gave way and she tumbled into the table, jerky shadows mimicking her trembling limbs. Polly huddled against the warm wall.

“Ma’am, please-”

“No,” Mrs. Prior rasped. “No please, no favors anymore. I’m done for, don’t be polite to a dead woman.”

“Ma’am.”

“Where is Swann?”

“Ma’am?”

“Where is the Swann girl?”

Polly felt frightened tears prick her eyes. “I don’t know, ma’am, but Lord Beckett says you’re to be on your ship now. He said it this morning after breakfast. I think…I think you should be going now, ma’am.”

“I will.” Mrs. Prior leaned against the mantle and the jagged cut above her eye wept blood onto the hearthstone. “But I need to know, where is the Swann girl?”

“I don’t know, ma’am,” Polly managed to repeat though her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth.

Mrs. Prior lifted her shoulders in an artless shrug. “Do you know I’ve killed a man tonight?”

Polly muffled a scream behind her hands. Mrs. Prior laughed.

“No reason,” she said, “no reason at all. But I killed him just the same.”

Polly began to back out of the kitchen, wondering, praying that she could run fast enough and summon the guard. But then Mrs. Prior gathered herself, shook herself once and fastened the tarnished buttons on her black coat.

“I’m going,” she said. “And you may tell Lord Beckett, if he asks, that all I loved, I loved alone. He’ll know what it means, he ought to.”

And without another word, without another frantic gesture or flailing, she left. Polly waited several long minutes, waited for relief to thaw the fear that froze her limbs before she called for the guard. The sentry came and walked with her to the servant’s quarters and together they swore not to tell Lord Beckett any of it and they swore to offer their most fervent prayers to merciful God, that he might strike Mrs. Prior down before ever she returned.

For most of the night Polly sat with a candle lit surrounded by easefully sleeping servants. Hours past before sleep took her and she did not hear the back gate swing open once more, nor slam close a short while later.

The line “And all I loved, I loved alone” comes from “Alone” by Edgar Allan Poe, my favorite poem of all time.

Lias Laddie Part Three

2007-10-11T22:08:27Z

Title: Lias Laddie Part Three
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,388
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Beckett/OC
Summary: A wicked little smile touched Maggie’s treacherous lips as she handed the bundle to Beckett. “He has his father’s eyes, does he not?”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Well, it seems like I am managing one chapter every two weeks, which isn’t too bad considering I’ve had multiple quizzes and midterms to study for. But still, I do apologize for the delay in posting. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those who commented. Thanks so much, you guys! Your feedback means the world to me. As always, I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Beckett passed through the shadow-filled kitchen after dinner and stepped out into the cool courtyard, a rain-laced breeze brushing his cheeks. Scotland was a lovely place after all, when one overlooked the chill and the somewhat somber moors. And he would have found much pleasure in his holiday, had not Maggie pulled him back into their wicked dance.

But no, he was not dancing this time. The babe was his child, she had alluded to such. What did it matter? He had little need for a son…

Or did he?

A shiver stiffened Beckett’s spine and he glanced over his shoulder. The small kitchen, detached from the main house, was empty. He half feared that Hindley had followed him out of doors. Two bottles of wine had seen the fool dozing at table halfway through the torturous dinner. Greville, goodly Greville had been polite enough to ignore his host’s deficiencies and kept Maggie in conversation.

The two got along well enough, too well for Beckett’s liking. But he had let them chat away while his own anxiety festered about him. Painful memories burst open like old sores and he could not eat, nor touch his bitter wine. And when Hindley had been helped into the parlor by a particularly burly manservant and the babe put to bed, Beckett found himself quite alone.

Madam had gone to see a maidservant, he was told and Greville could not be found. Beckett seized the opportunity for himself and stepped outside to collect his thoughts.

Maggie had a child, his child. The notion nipped at his heels and made him uneasy. But in the end, what did it matter?

Nothing. Nothing mattered. He was not beholden to her or the babe and that was quite a blessing in itself.

Yet Beckett could not help but feel uncomfortable. Often, Maggie had smiled at him over the short space of the table, her fingers tapping on the linen cloth as she talked to Greville.

And that worried him.

Beckett left the doorway of the musty kitchen and moved to the stable. The soft smell of hay infused the air and lulled him into a quiet sense of security He felt calm for a time…until the shadows on the other side of the yard began to speak.

Maggie was standing in there with Greville, hands planted on her hips. And Greville, gentle, amiable Greville, looked terrified.

“I cannot, madam,” he said, the words falling like cold stones from his lips and shattering the silence. Maggie sighed and her chest rose. Beckett recognized her stance, the strut that carried her in a careful circle around the yard. She was furious.

“You will, sir.”

“No, madam, it is none of my business.”

“It is, sir.”

Greville fingered the hilt of his sword, flinching as Maggie let her skirts brush against his boots. “Madam, please.”

“Please what, sir?” She leaned close and her breath created idle clouds in the chilled air. With a snarl, she shifted her hips. “I will be most disappointed, sir and so shall he.”

Greville shut his eyes for an instant, heavy, long lashes falling over the misted orbs of brown. “Madam, I cannot.”

“Bah!” Maggie waved her hand and her back arched, mimicking the precise step of the minuet. But she was no lady and never had been, just some Scottish bitch prancing about her fiefdom, her cold, stone stable yard.

And yet Beckett could not shake the memories he held, the visions of her upon her ship when she had been so much more, a creature of immortality, a deity that he had dared to worship.

But no more.

He reminded himself of England, of the Company and other sure, steady things like business. He had built himself an empire and it would not due for the conquer to be wayward, no Mark Antony for a lusty Cleopatra.

Maggie continued to pace around Greville, two fingers tugging at his hair, trailing along the stately line of his red-coated shoulders. “Don’t be a fool, sir.”

Greville shivered and massaged his temples fiercely. “Madam, it is not wise to involve me.”

“Oh, but I have to.” The heels of Maggie’s leather shoes emitted a staccato rhythm that rang over the courtyard. Beckett was reminded of her heart which beat so swiftly when pressed against his. Now she was touching Greville’s cheek, looking coy, her smile promising both pleasure and ruin to any weak man.

He wondered, what could she want with Greville?

The unanswered question pricked open a jealous hole in his chest, a wound that had been sealed sometime ago but was now wrenched open to bleed once more.

Could Maggie and Greville be lovers?

Beckett doubted it, or feared it, rather. Greville was a handsome, kindly man, a man who was familiar with Hindley Swinton and could come and go as he pleased. And Maggie had a taste for bonny, strong men.

They did not behave like lovers though, what with poor Greville cowering and Maggie carousing about. The relationship was strained, not affectionate. Beckett felt as though he observed some manner of dance, a twisted thing that turned in circles and very rarely involved the cooperation of both partners.

“Come now, sir, you are making this much more difficult than it ought to be.” Maggie laid her hand upon Greville’s shoulder. “And I am asking you only a little thing, a tiny, little thing that means naught to you. Will you not oblige me, sir?”

Greville took a step back, dislodging Maggie. She fell away looking ruffled and adjusted the tartan shawl about her arms.

“No, madam.”

Maggie stiffened. “You would leave me here like this?”

“I would, madam.”

“Wretch!” Maggie spun away from him, her shoulders drawn together as she walked to the stable door and back. And then she stopped, plunged her hand into her pocket and withdrew a folded piece of parchment.

“Take it,” she ordered.

Greville complied, holding it in his hands for a moment before he tore it in two. Maggie growled and watched the ivory leafs fall to the cobblestones, her small, neat writing now stained by mud.

“Very well,” she said and Beckett recognized her fury, her cold determination. “Then you may take him this instead.”

She kissed him and Greville gasped and writhed but could not break from her grasp. At last, he pulled away, shuddering and panting with his eyes wide and wild.

“Whore,” he breathed. “Damned whore.”

“How very unkind you are, sir,” Maggie sniffed, not looking particularly cross. “I ought to tell my husband.” And then she laughed, shrieked really and Beckett’s blood curdled.

Greville turned from the yard, his bearing straight and steady once more. Martial pride returned and made him proud. “I’ve no appetite for this business,” he spat. “Keep it to yourself.”

Beckett watched him leave, heard the horse’s hooves echo on the dark road that curled away from Swinton’s house. Damn. He would have to find his way back to the lodge on his own.

Maggie too watched Greville go, perched upon another rotting fence post with her feet dangling just over the heather. She hummed a little tune and seemed to pay no mind to the bitter moor-sent winds that ravaged her hair. Beckett watched it stream out behind her as an unholy banner, a red pennon raised to warn him. He needed to leave this place-and her-for good.

But then his thoughts rolled over and turned to the babe asleep in his cradle, an innocent babe and a boy-an heir. Beckett needed an heir.

He could not imagine his child being raised by Hindley Swinton. He could not stand to think of the boy as no more than a Scottish cur, a child that would turn out as a rogue if Maggie had her way. The notion sickened him and sent rage to shake his reserve. He needed an heir to his empire and Maggie had one.

Waste not, want not.

Little George Swinton was a Beckett, after all.

Maggie was still sitting on the fence post and her glance was dangerously eager. Beckett suddenly realized that he would have to cross the stable yard to reach his horse and thus, be spotted by her.

And yet he could not countenance hiding from her like the frightened Greville.

With little difficulty, he pulled himself together and proceeded across the yard. Maggie waited until he had gone halfway before she called out to him.

“Had your fill of fun?” she asked. Beckett heard her shoes scrape on the ground. She had jumped down from the fence post.

“Fun?” He stopped by the stable door. “I had little mirth to warm me this night, madam.”

“Madam?” Maggie clapped her hands together. “Now promise me you won’t turn into poor, pedantic Greville. I assume you overheard us?”

Beckett half-turned and offered her a threatening smile. “I did. Is he your new bonny?” Fortunately, the roaring wind masked the desperate curiosity in his voice.

Maggie jiggled her head a little. “Mayhap.”

“And does dear Mr. Swinton suspect that his wife has made a cuckold out of him?” Beckett advanced a step but Maggie did not fall back. Strange, she had not the same fear of him, the same cowering respect he had managed to inflict upon her during their time together in Port Royal. She was a bitterly brazen wretch.

“Mr. Swinton suspects nothing, so long as he has three good bottles of port a night to keep him company.”

Beckett frowned. There was something dark about Maggie’s speech now, the way she formed her words and spat them out into the air. She had slipped further into the Highland dialect and it made her common. He did not wish to think of her as common.

“Perhaps I shall play the goodly guest and tell him then,” he said.

“You won’t do that,” she replied in a simpering voice, “not when I have something that you long for, Cutler Beckett.”

“Lord Beckett.”

Maggie laughed at him. “Damn your title. I’ll be a duchess before you are ever a man of good standing…provided you follow along with me.”

She was mad or so Beckett convinced himself. Dreams of grandeur, lies, trickery. Perhaps not much had changed about Maggie or perhaps she had slipped further into insanity. He had no wish to discover the truth of things, but morbid curiosity held his reason at bay.

“What is this now?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

Maggie glanced at the house and pointed at the upper story window where the lone candle still burned.

“I have your son and you, Cutler Beckett, need an heir.”

Frigid fear coated his stomach and Beckett took a step back, falling against the rickety stable door. Maggie stayed where she was, but drew herself up until she seemed tall like the ancient standing stones that guarded the highway.

“The choice is yours, really. I intend to leave Hindley before the week is out…the child I will not take with me. He is a burden and I have no taste for this motherly business. You, Lord Cutler Beckett, must decide for yourself. The child may stay here and he’ll be an orphan as soon as Hindley drinks himself to death. Or you can take him with you to London, hire tutors and send him to some proper king’s college. Have him sit in the House of Commons someday. I don’t give a damn either way.”

Beckett felt the wind cut through him but then he realized that the chill came from Maggie, cold, cruel Maggie.

“Oh, but you do care,” he managed, keeping his voice steady, “or else you wouldn’t stand here in this bloody, forsaken stable yard and beg me to look after your son. Guilt keeps you here and nothing more.”

Maggie scoffed. “You were always susceptible to my fancies, Cutler. And you always wanted to believe that you knew better, that you were one step ahead. You cannot see this for what it is, can you? I am leaving, Cutler.”

“With Greville?” He could not contain himself. But Maggie simply shook her head. “Then what can you possibly want from me?”

“I want things to be kept quiet, calm if you will.” Maggie pulled her tartan shawl over her head and the green plaid contrasted harshly with her skin, making her look sickly. “I want Hindley to remain ignorant and if you go along with things, I suspect no one will be harmed. Certainly you can live with that?”

“I should rather spend seven years in the hell than help you,” Beckett spat.

“Give the devil my regards then,” Maggie replied and with the mien of some highborn lady, she turned on her heel and sallied over to dark kitchen door. Beckett watched her, shock numbing his tongue and leaving him mute.

She was bluffing. Yes, bluffing. And he didn’t believe her at all.

Maggie paused just inside the doorway and leaned against the frame, one hand trailing up the pitted wood.

“If you should change your otherwise obstinate mind,” she said, turning her head so that he could see half of her face, the crescent of a pale moon, “I’ll be on the moors tomorrow morn.”

Beckett moved away, hurried into the stables to find his horse and flee. Eve was offering him the apple, lustful, unprincipled Eve though he would not succumb to Adam’s sin. The wind picked up and groaned against the old moss encrusted walls. In the darkness, Beckett pulled himself into the saddle, enjoying the firm feel of the reins in-between his fingers. But as he trotted out into the yard, he found Maggie awaiting him. Her back was to the stable and she faced to the moors where violet flecked rain clouds mimicked the flailing heather below. She was singing, a laugh lifting her voice even as the late storm gales toyed with it.

“My love was six foot two without stocking or shoe.

In proportion my true love was built.

He was the flower of England and a pride to his name.

Oh but now they have banished him over to Spain.

And so dear was my bonnie to me .”

And for one dangerous moment, Beckett wished that she sang for him.

The song featured in this chapter is an excerpt from the Scottish folk song “Prince Charlie Stuart”. Bonnie Prince Charlie Stuart was the exiled heir to the thrones of England, Ireland and Scotland. In the 1740s, he returned to Scotland to raise an army to restore his father, the king, to his rightful throne. While initially successful in his endeavor, he was defeated by the Duke of Cumberland at the Battle of Culloden in 1746. Bonnie Prince Charlie was forced to flee for his life and spent the rest of his days as a dissolute alcoholic in exile. This story takes place in 1730s Scotland, so obviously, it’s quite inaccurate for Maggie to be singing a song that hasn’t been written yet, but I do think it fits the tone of this fic and I simply couldn’t resist using it.

Delicacy Part Twelve

2007-10-03T15:13:24Z

Title: Delicacy Part Twelve
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,301
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett. Elizabeth Swann and several Ocs
Pairing: Beckabeth, mild Beckett/OC
Chapter Summary: Elizabeth is presented with a choice and fights temptation.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Sorry for the delay again. My professors have been keeping me more than a little busy with reading assignments, papers and quizzes. And to top it all off, this chapter was very difficult to write. Not my best, nor my favorite, but I do promise better things for chapter thirteen. Special thanks goes out to all those who read and commented on the last chapter. You guys are the best, thanks a million! I have no beta reader, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Elizabeth did not expect another evening invitation form Lord Beckett and was quite shocked when the guard came and knocked on her door. She rose and called through the keyhole.

“Come in.”

The guard unlocked the door and stuck his head in, his flesh looking pasty in the yellow light that shone forth from the single candle in her chamber.

“Good evening, miss.”

Elizabeth only nodded.

“Lord Beckett requests your presence.” The guard licked his lips. “Will you join him for dinner?”

Elizabeth raised a brow. Apparently, his lordship was eager for another encounter and not the least bit cowed by her rage. Well, she certainly would not deny him another chance to join battle.

“Very well. Give me a moment.”

The guard shut the door and Elizabeth dressed quickly. Her fingers trembled as she laced up the front of her short gown.

Why?

She certainly wasn’t impatient to meet with Lord Beckett. No, rather she wished to test her ability, to see if she had impressed her charms upon him and thus would win her freedom or at the very least, have her revenge.

Elizabeth extinguished the candle and left the cooling wax dripping upon the bronze holder. The door to her chamber had been left unlocked.

The corridor was dark as it had been the night before, a deadly dark that toyed with memories and fantasies and conjured remote horrors from shadows. Elizabeth smoothed the front of her skirt and tried to make out the head of the staircase to her left. Where was the guard?

The candles had not yet been lit and sconces sat as silver ghosts on the walls. Sweat moistened her brow and palms and Elizabeth suddenly felt unnerved…and alone.

“Hello?” Her voice was but an echo, leaking timidly past her lips. “Is anyone there?” She felt like a child, a lost little girl with no notion of herself. “Hello?”

Silence mocked her, teased her. And then she heard it, an equally meek whisper that froze her blood.

“Run.”

Elizabeth gripped the doorjamb. Her knuckles whitened.

“Run.”

She dare not move, did not breathe, lest the predator should spot her and sink jagged teeth into her neck. Spill blood and stain the corridor a darker shade of black.

“Run.”

“Mrs. Prior?” The name erupted from within her. Feet shuffled, cloth rippled.

“Run away, child.”

“Where is the guard?” Elizabeth began to retreat inside her chamber but then remembered herself. She had battled greater horrors than this, had stood face-to-face with the undead. Why should a mere mortal woman frighten her?

“Never mind that.” A harried note jumped into Mrs. Prior’s voice and she stepped forward, revealing the outline of her pale, pointed face. “No time for questions. Run, run away child.”

She was panting, her entire frame rising and falling beneath short, tortured gasps. Elizabeth realized she had the advantage and ventured back out into the corridor.

“Run where?” she asked.

Mrs. Prior snorted like an agitated horse. “Away, get away from here. Don’t you understand, girl? I’m telling you to run!” One arm reached out and skeletal fingers pointed to the descending stairs.

Elizabeth stared at the wraith of a woman and felt a good deal braver. Mrs. Prior didn’t look strong, really, now that she was ill and more of a corpse than anything else.

“Did Lord Beckett tell you such?”

Mrs. Prior hissed and recoiled. Her arms wrapped about her waist. “No, no, no.” And she moaned softly.

Elizabeth wondered if the creature was a ghost, an unearthly herald sent to warn her. The Romans had made much of dreams and omens, after all. She recalled her father’s tales of Caesar, a man who had conquered the world and did not listen to his wife’s pleas as he headed for the Senate one March morning. But Elizabeth was sensible, a rational girl with a quick mind that had been tutored with scholarly works, not superstition. And to settle her suspicions, she reached forward and brushed Mrs. Prior’s chin with her hand. The flesh was warm, sweaty, not claylike or dead.

“Why am I to run?” she asked and her voice stiffened with determination.

Mrs. Prior coughed and her head whipped about on her neck, bulging eyes glancing down the long corridor that lay before them. “Him, it’s him. Understand this, girl. He’ll be the death of you, the end. He’s killed me you see, cut off my head and laid it at my feet and I am forsaken. Run now, girl. Save yourself and for God’s sake, save me, please.”

“Save you?” Elizabeth had no desire to keep Mrs. Prior in conversation, but she did enjoy taunting her. The woman was responsible for her father’s death and if any person under God deserved such torment, it was her. “How can I save you?”

“Maybe you can’t.” Mrs. Prior lifted her shoulders in a hopeless shrug. “But still, you can run, be free, go home to your handsome lad.”

Elizabeth felt venom thaw her blood. Did Mrs. Prior dare to speak of Will? No, that was her one right, her one and only right.

“I can never go home, Mrs. Prior,” she said. “And I will not save you. In fact, I have half a mind to call Lord Beckett and tell him that you are vexing me. What do you think he will say, Mrs. Prior? Will he put you out again? I suspect you are not welcome here anymore.”

And she made to walk her way, lifting her skirts with the same haughty air she had enjoyed whilst still a governor’s daughter, a lady.

“No!”

Two cold hands, things of ice and frozen flesh closed around Elizabeth’s arm, captured her and dragged back into the dark.

“No! You must run, you must leave him, please, he is all I have.” Mrs. Prior was shivering and crying all at once, her hair falling across Elizabeth’s face like a lash. But Elizabeth would not stand for hysterics nor did she wish to be dragged and jerked and pulled about like some mindless creature. She was not Mrs. Prior, after all.

“Release me at once,” she growled. “Or I shall surely send for Lord Beckett and then no one will save you.”

Mrs. Prior gasped as Elizabeth’s hand shot out and pummeled her gut. She doubled over, grabbing at her stomach and falling against the wall with a thud that the darkness repressed.

“Please,” she wept. “I am giving you a chance. Run. Do it for your father.”

Something shattered within Elizabeth. Her restraint vanished, fluttering away on black wings into the night that would surely smother them all. A great weight fell from her shoulders and she stood straight, tall.

“How dare you?” she demanded in a voice that was not her own, but the pulse of some pagan sea goddess reborn. “Do you not shudder to bring down such destruction, such violence upon yourself by mentioning my father? I am not a madwoman, Camilla. I am not you. But if you speak his name again, if you even think to sully his honor with your unworthy lips, I will extract my revenge and I will not be sorry. No, once I thought to pity you, but no more. You deserve nothing.”

Elizabeth expected her to fight, to miraculously regain her strength and join the battle once more. But Mrs. Prior was defeated and she sank down to the floor, arms reaching over her knees, head bowed in submission.

“I tried,” she whispered. “Do not say I did not try, Miss Swann, for I did. It is over now.”

And she said no more, but at length picked herself up and retreated. Elizabeth watched her go but was not relieved at her departure. Mrs. Prior would have killed her had she tried to run from the house and it was undoubtedly a trap set to catch in her in an inescapable web. Freedom had tempted her and she had fought it. Perhaps she still had her wits about her. But something remained, something indefinable yet undeniable. She could not help but think that Mrs. Prior was right.

The corridor sat silent about her and a storm-sent wind clawed at the house. Down the hall Lord Beckett sat and yet he seemed so very far away. Elizabeth walked to the head of the stairs, one hand grazing the banister and caressing the carved wood.

Should she run? Should she take such a great chance and flee?

Temptation warred with logic and either way, she was damned. Mrs. Prior might be standing at the foot of the stairs, hands ready to throttle the life out of her. And yet Lord Beckett sat awash in his arrogance, his opulence, awaiting her. Elizabeth could trust neither and she found now that she could not trust herself.

She shut her eyes for an instant. With a strangled sigh, she turned and walked down the corridor.

Freedom could not be risked just now, especially when it was borne to her by Mrs. Prior.

Her footsteps were jerky as she walked and panic bloomed between her ribs, sending waves of horror careening against her heart. Elizabeth hated to have her back exposed and more than once, she glanced over her shoulder. Keen, cat-like eyes studied the waves of the ebony but found naught but cold air. It was not warm where the sun failed to shine and she felt she was no longer in the Caribbean, that same bright place that had birthed her love for Will and so many other happy things.

But she could see the sun again, see the dawn rise on it’s blushing throne…if only she listened to Mrs. Prior.

Run. Run. Run.

Her fingers ached and she flexed them. Another unhappy wind fell against the house.

Run. Run. Run.

She could not trust her instincts, could not trust what would lead her to ruin, to death. James Norrington had wed her to logic and Will had taught her to abandon it. But Elizabeth did not remember her lessons, not when she was a prisoner of Lord Beckett.

“Mrs. Prior?” Hesitation made her voice thin.

There was no answer.

“Mrs. Prior?” She called again, hoping that if she met with silence alone, perhaps she could abandon reason and run, run down to the sea.

A mournful creak shredded her ears and Elizabeth leapt into the air, her silken skirts settling about her like light wings. Lord Beckett was standing in the amber shadow of his study and eager firelight dripped into the corridor. And then Elizabeth knew that she had forsaken her one opportunity, her one chance.

Mrs. Prior had been right.

“I thought you intended to join me for dinner.” Beckett reached out a pale, languid hand and grasped her wrist. She shuddered.

“I did, my lord.”

“Then why do you linger? Where is the guard?” He glanced over her shoulder, eyes shrewd and narrow.

“I do not know, my lord.” Elizabeth swallowed away the tremor in her voice. “He knocked upon my door and was gone.”

“Did he now?” Concern aged Lord Beckett’s face and stole away his boyish bearing. “How very peculiar.”

Elizabeth felt the pressure of his thumb against her wrist and her blood pulsed against it. She expected him to question her further or to ask after things she had no notion of. But instead, he pulled her closer, wrestled her into a tight embrace that left her breathless.

“You ought to come inside,” he said. “Come with me.”

“No!” She revolted against him, freeing one arm and half her torso.

And to her utter shock, Beckett loosened his grip. “Very well,” he muttered, an arm still draped about her waist. “But you must tell me, why not?”

Her mind was clogged with fear and now Elizabeth lamented her squandered chance. She could have dashed down the stairs to safety and even if death lay in wait, it was certainly better than sin.

“I don’t know,” she babbled, panic barring her from reason. She flailed and fought against him. But Lord Beckett only laughed.

“What’s happened to your bravery, Miss Swann?”

“I…let me go!”

“Are you frightened?”

“Leave me go!”

“There is nothing to be frightened of.” He dipped his face closer, nestled his chin against her neck and sent tingling tremors down her spine with every breath he took. “You won’t be harmed.”

Elizabeth twisted her head in vain, struggled to pull away from him. “But you hurt Mrs. Prior.”

His grip tightened and long fingers nestled in the flesh about her hips. “She deserved to be hurt, Miss Swann,” he said in a soft voice. “Certainly you cannot disagree with me on that.”

And then he kissed her and she could not escape his blood red lips that burned like brands. Thoughts of Will fluttered past her wide eyes, Will alone on some silver sand bar with only the cold company of the moon.

“I will not leave you go, Miss Swann,” Lord Beckett said as soon as he had broken the kiss. “Not when you are all that is left to me.”

Elizabeth would have renewed her fight, but she was too drained. She leaned against Lord Beckett and remembered only faintly her attempts at seduction. How wrong she had been, how very wrong.

He had been seducing her.

“Will you join me, Miss Swann?” It was not a question. Lord Beckett held open the study door for her and the light blinded her eyes. She could not see.

“I suppose,” she muttered and let bewilderment carry her away. The door was locked behind them.

It is said that Julius Caesar’s wife dreamed of his death the night before his assassination and begged him not to go to the Senate. Caesar, of course, ignored her warnings.

Lias Laddie Part Two

2007-09-26T00:12:38Z

Title: Lias Laddie Part Two
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,065
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Beckett/OC
Summary: A wicked little smile touched Maggie’s treacherous lips as she handed the bundle to Beckett. “He has his father’s eyes, does he not?”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Well, it took me quite a long while to finally get this chapter written (stupid college0, but here it is. Again, it’s a pretty tame one, but those of you who read “Little Lordie” know Maggie isn’t tame for long ;) Special thanks goes out to everyone who read the last chapter and those who commented. As always, I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

A long road led up to Swinton’s country seat, a long, desolate lane hemmed by lonely moors that were plagued by a biting wind. Beckett did not think the place grand at all or even worth a lingering glance. He rode in silence beside an unusually quiet Greville. Cold men, thin, drawn fellows paused in their work, stopped and stared with mud clinging to their breeches and sullying their hands. Solitude held sway over the frozen fields. Beckett could only hear the hollow groan of wood being shattered by an axe. The heavens bled rain.

Hindley stopped his horse by a rotting gate, one hand extended over the stinking, moldering fence as he pointed out over the farm.

“You see, sirs,” he cried in a hearty voice. “A neat little place it is, well enough for me.” He smiled at Beckett and Greville, lips leering, waiting for sycophantic approval.

“Indeed, Mr. Swinton,” the eternally genial Greville replied. Beckett could only nod stiffly. Overgrown hedges spilled into unplowed meadows. Wild grew the small, stark trees and unruly heather. Beckett could not imagine Maggie in such a place…nor did he wish to.

The decaying gate was opened by a skinny servant and they poured into a bitterly cold courtyard. A stable stood to the right, a stone building with mossy walls. The sound of shifting horses, heavy hooves on cobblestones, echoed from within. Beckett dismounted and tossed his slick reins to the servant. Greville came to stand by his elbow.

“Cheerless,” he whispered so that Hindley could not hear.

“Wretchedly so,” Beckett muttered.

The house sat back from the courtyard in the shadows of two old evergreens. Unsurprisingly, it was a bleak thing with square windows and oak doors and a high, gabled roof. It seemed a part of the moor itself. Shrubs and vines scaled the walls. Of tartan clans it was and whining pipes that keened long into the night. A candle burned in an upper story window and Beckett imagined Maggie sitting there, bound forevermore to her hate.

Hindley ushered them over the threshold and into a room that had once been imposing, a receiving chamber with a stately hearth. A clock ticked sedately on the mantle.

“We shall have wine, we shall, unless you gentlemen prefer port.”

Beckett accepted the goblet of cloudy wine offered to him and sat by the fire in a low chair. Greville sank onto a bench and Hindley stood, hands clasped in a tight knot behind his back.

Beckett studied the thick shadows, the grim flames that chewed at the charred logs. Greville’s face was hidden behind the goblet, but tension touched his brow and spread down to his eyes. And Hindley Swinton, damnable Hindley Swinton still smiled.

“It’s a shame,” he chattered like a lark, “that Captain Fitzroy could not join us.”

Beckett wondered if Swinton was truly mindless, wondered if he could be immune to the gloom that draped like a pall about his house. He tried to sip his wine but choked on the chill, his tongue recoiling when the libation splashed against it.

“Captain Fitzroy.” He cleared his throat with a convulsive cough. “A strange fellow, yes, a strange man.”

Greville said naught and too late did Beckett realize his rudeness. Swinton rolled his shoulders, unaffected.

“In a way, yes. I met him on the road the other day. Flustered he was. Is he always so flighty, Greville?”

“Not usually, sir,” Greville put down his goblet. “But his temperament is often cold, sore, you might say.”

“Ah.” Swinton’s head bobbed, his strong, arched nose looking like a hawk’s beak. “And Martha always speaks so fondly of him, it’s a wonder. Cold or no, I do still wish his company. He brings such cheer to this place.”

Beckett could not help but laugh and Greville cracked a smile. Fitzroy wasn’t the sort of man to spread cheer on his own accord.

“But I ramble on,” Hindley continued, ignoring their mirth as if it were a sudden gale passing over the moors. “You must tell me, Lord Beckett, why have you come to Scotland? Has great London lost it’s genteel touch?”

“Oh.” Beckett shifted in the hard chair, his legs aching in the damp air. “Not at all. But one has need of a holiday.”

“Oh yes, these are fetid times,” Swinton said with a nod, mocking the most learned of philosophers. But he was no Socrates. “Martha was on the outs for a while, kept going to town to see the apothecary. Child birth did not serve her well.” He picked up his goblet and drained it in one quick gulp, calling for more wine in the same sloppy breath. “Have I told you the babe’s name? We settled for George, George Swinton. Martha was opposed it. She fights me over every little thing, every little thing.”

Beckett did not know what was worse, silence or Swinton’s senseless rambling. There was something repulsive about the man and something so very pitiful. But Beckett could not bring himself to feel any emotion except disgust.

“A fine name,” Greville said, unable to keep the emptiness from his voice.

“Mmm.” Swinton eyed the servant who stepped forward to pour him more wine. “I am glad for it, gentlemen, glad for your company, that is. After all, things can sometimes be so damned melancholic here.”

Greville nodded sympathetically. Beckett felt rooted to his chair. He watched as Swinton polished off the second goblet, his head twisting on his broad shoulders as he searched for the servant. A stale breeze fingered the moldy tapestries clinging to the walls. From somewhere up in the shadows of the vaulted ceiling, Beckett heard muffled footsteps. Was Maggie pacing, the babe tucked into her unkind arms? Did she sing a lullaby, as all mother’s are wont to do? Beckett tried to remember his own mother but found he could not put a face to the old, stilted name of Charlotte. Either way, he was certain that Maggie could bear no resemblance to her.

Another servant appeared, this one a tall, bony woman with a pinched look about her. Beckett’s heart leapt when he saw her emerge stealthily from the gloom. But she was not Maggie, nor the drawn ghost of the woman he longed to see.

Yes, longed. He needed to see her, to feel the air catch in his lungs and enliven him once more.

“Master Swinton.” The woman bent her thin lips close to Hindley’s ear. “Madam wishes to know if she might dine alone. She’s ill…again.”

Swinton peered into his once again empty goblet, his plump tongue rolling about in his mouth. “Not this eve. We are most fortunate to have company. Call her downstairs, will you Mrs. Braddock?”

Mrs. Braddock withdrew and of a sudden, Beckett fancied the ticking of the clock grew louder. It chimed the hour, six o’clock, with a steely ring that reminded him of a sword being drawn. The muffled footstep’s from above, the angel’s unwearied tread, ceased abruptly.

Mr. Swinton was brought more wine. Minutes crawled by, or so Beckett thought. He passed the time by descending into some manner of idle chatter with Greville. Servants fed logs to the dimming fire and the walls were illuminated with the blaze. Beckett discerned a great wooden staircase leading up to the second story and a door was perched at the top of it, leading to some devil-haunted corridor, no doubt. With great difficulty, he finished his wine but did not call for more.

And then the door at the top of the stairs jerked open.

Greville stood and so did Beckett, remembering his manners, though it certainly did seem strange to put on such a show for Maggie, Maggie who kept him locked in the brig for days on end.

The high banister obscured her form for a minute, but then Beckett saw her. And despite his iron reserve, he could not withstand the bitter shock that ravaged him.

Maggie was beautiful.

Young, yes, she looked almost young if one ignored the gray hair framing her temples. She wore a pretty gown, a flowered thing that seemed so out of place with her dwelling. There was an undeniable air of freshness about her, spiced with the soft perfume she wore. A silver hair bracelet held back her tresses and it was engraved with some insignia Beckett could not make out.

“Mrs. Swinton.” Greville bowed.

“Captain Greville.” She curtsied genteelly. Beckett waited for her to acknowledge him, standing there like an eager fool by his chair, a crooked, curious smile creasing his mouth. But Maggie, clever, cold Maggie, ignored him. After exchanging polite pleasantries with Greville, she tripped lightly over to the hearthside, her bright, bonny face awash in tawny flames. Hindley stepped to the side, his great frame tipping a bit as the wine infected his ungainly limbs.

“What’s the matter with you, woman?” he asked in a voice meant to be reproving. “You’re a funny, silly thing. Have you not noticed Lord Beckett standing there?”

Maggie’s short arms jerked and she whirled about, looking like a little imp, a fairy bent on mischief.

“Cutler Beckett?”

He should have fled, flown along the moors without a backward glance. He should have forgotten her. But her voice, her ratty, common way of rambling struck a dangerous chord within him.

Maggie clapped her hands and all in a minute she was ranting and dancing and singing for joy.

“Is it you, my dear lord? Aye it is! Here in bonny Scotland no less, fancy that, fancy that.” She lunged forward and captured his hand between hers. “Why I could scarce believe it when Captain Fitzroy told me all on the highway yester morn. He likes to brag, you know. But aye, it is you, sir.”

And then she kissed him, chastely, on the cheek. Hindley chuckled and wrenched Maggie away. He pretended to embrace her fondly though Beckett was not deceived.

“You must run along now, lass and fetch our little lad. I do so wish for our guests to see him.”

Maggie clamped her hands over her mouth and giggled, eyes dangerously wide. “The wee bairn,” she mumbled. “Yes, I shall fetch him. Mrs. Braddock just put him down to sleep, but I will fetch. Yes, I shall.”

She bounded off, her speed contradicting the illness she supposedly suffered from. Beckett, however, sank weak-kneed into his chair, the cold goblet clanking and clanging in his trembling hand. He set it down on the floor next to his feet. Fortunately, neither Hindley nor Greville noticed.

He had wanted to speak to her and there were words aplenty stuck in his throat. But silence held him still, a strangling sort of silence and Lord Cutler Beckett was not fooled.

Maggie was dealing in wickedness.

It seemed strange to him that neither Hindley or Greville recognized it. Or perhaps they did and chose to ignore it. Or perhaps, just perhaps, they did not know Maggie quite so well as he did. Beckett heard the frantic footsteps overhead once more. His spine stiffened.

A child, a child. Maggie could not be a mother, no. She was never so gentle….

The door at the top of the long staircase opened and she descended, a worried Mrs. Braddock at her heels and a bundle in her arms.

Hindley held out his hands. “My little George. Give him here, woman.”

But Maggie whirled away from her drunkard of a husband. “Let our guests see him first.” There was cold admonishment in her voice and it stung Beckett bitterly. The bundle was presented to Greville first, the military man looking both awkward and intrigued.

“A charming child,” he said.

Maggie swayed, taking the infant from him and rocking the boy in her arms.

“Now Lord Beckett,” Swinton insisted.

“Yes, Lord Beckett,” Maggie cooed. And before he could protest, the bundle was placed in Beckett’s arms and Maggie stepped back, a wicked smile touching her treacherous lips.

“He has his father’s eyes, does he not?”

The baby blinked in the flickering firelight and Beckett discerned cloudy blue eyes, green almost in the dreariness of the night.

And Hindley Swinton, that fool of a man, had orbs of brown.

The line “ranting and dancing and singing for joy” comes from the Scottish folk ballad “The Baron of Brackley” in which a man is betrayed (and subsequently murdered) by his wife over impounded cattle.

Delicacy Part Eleven

2007-09-18T18:22:29Z

Title: Delicacy Part Eleven
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,702
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Lord Beckett/OC, Beckabeth
Chapter Summary: Mrs. Prior dreams about her agonized past and faces banishment for her behavior.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior, John Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Mrs. Prior is quite delirious for most of this chapter, so expect some of the scenes to be hazy and of course, vague. However, I do promise to reveal her full back-story by chapter thirteen. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that commented. Thank you all so very much for supporting this fic. I have no beta reader, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Mrs. Prior tried not to sleep that night, for what rest she had was tormented and John came oft to her, his neck still bruised from her hands. He would sit in the corner, his long legs crossed, knees bent, large hands thrown carelessly over his lap.

“I don’t understand. Why, Camilla?”

She wished to answer him but her voice had shriveled inside her and there was no reason to be had from madness. John never tired of asking her though and his own confident, cool voice stoked the fires of her fever.

“Why, Camilla?”

“I don’t know John.” An answer crawled from her throat at last. Her teeth chattered.

“Why, Camilla?” Her dear, dead husband wasn’t satisfied. He stayed, sitting in the cramped corner of the servant’s quarters, longs crossed, knees bent, once gentle hands cradled in his lap. “Why, Camilla?”

“I can’t say, John.”

And she turned away from him and his silken brown eyes. Betty’s eyes. The servants were standing in the doorway, whispering, laughing, talking, talking about her. Mrs. Prior hated to be talked about. It made her so very angry and fearful and had she the strength, she would throttle them all. But oh, she was tired now and the world was a foreign thing, a place she had belonged to only briefly before being snatched away by eager demons. The fire scorched her flesh.

“Dying,” someone said and then all the servants were chanting her dirge.

“Won’t last till the morn,” another crowed.

“Dying, dying, dying.”

Mrs. Prior laughed at them, her chest heaving and pushing against the immeasurable weight of the illness. She wasn’t dying, not yet, though she might as well be a corpse. Her bones ached and her blood curdled. The infection had spread.

Sometime around dawn a soft rain fell. The servants had been good enough to leave the windows open throughout the night. Mrs. Prior welcomed the sky’s tears, let them quench her thirst and sizzle on her sweaty skin. The fever dulled, receding in waves of blackness within her where it would lay in wait, coiled, ready to strike again. The servants were gone, scurrying about their duties like mindless field mice. She could rest now, rest without their chanting and John’s incessant questioning.

Sleep dusted her heavy eyelids and made her weak once more. Fog was dancing in through the window…London fog and God, the streets stank.

****

John Prior was a good man. Not a smart man, not a wealthy man, not a handsome man. But he was a good man and once upon a happy time that had been quite enough for Camilla Prior, enough to win her love.
Yet in the haunted hovels, in the slums that mocked the opulence of London’s better half, Camilla Prior forgot why she loved John Prior, though he never forgot her.
It was easy to forget when he came in smelling of the streets only to tell her that he hadn’t found work and they would have to let their guts rot on emptiness. It was easy to forget when he sold the table and chairs that had been a wedding present for money to keep their room just a day longer. And it was easy to forget when he came home one Christmas Eve, drunk and full of memories.
John Prior was a good man. Not a smart man, not a wealthy man, not a handsome man and not a drunk. But he had chosen one night, one Christmas Eve to swallow his sorrows along with a pint of ale and so did die because of it.
Camilla did not look up when he came in, she never did anymore. There were rags on her lap, not swatches of silk and she had been trying to sew together a blanket. It was snowing out, meager, gray flakes that fell through the clouds and only stained the streets with more filth. John shut the door and stumbled over to the hearth where he began to weep. And still Camilla did not look up.
She missed the touch of linen, she found, along with silk and taffeta and feathers. She missed taking orders for ladies of the court and watching elegant gowns take shape beneath her own nimble fingers. And she missed little Betty, who would sit at her feet and pick up the scrapes of cloth to decorate her doll with. When Camilla had the time she used to sew little dresses for the doll, pretty little things with frills and ruffles. Betty would play for hours then, happy, at her mother’s feet.
But those days were gone and she and John were closer to dying now and Betty was already dead. She would never touch linen or silk or taffeta again.
John untied his greasy neckerchief, another rag and wiped his eyes.
“Camilla, I could not find work.”
She glanced at him for only a minute. “You never do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You always are.”
He did not speak for awhile, but wept. Camilla abandoned the rags on her lap and stared at him.
John Prior was a tall man, a strong man with a thick neck and skin tarnished like an old bronze statue. The soot and sun had done that too him and his hair was black with grime now, not brown. Camilla couldn’t ever remember loving the man, though some small voice told her she did.
“Camilla.” He noticed her eyes on him and like a penitent sinner, fell to his knees. He tried to kiss her, tried to weave his arms about her, slip his hands beneath her dirty shortgown. But she would not have him.
“Get up, John.”
“Camilla, please.”
“Don’t touch me, John.”
“Camilla, I love you.”
“I hate you, John.”
He recoiled then, the brightness of the fire lapping up his long shadow. His lips parted, a tense, tormented breath spilling past them. And then he spoke and so lost his life.
“You knocked over the candle, Camilla.”
She bristled, every fiber of her being, every nerve set ablaze with rage. But she controlled it yet, pushed it away.
“You fell asleep and knocked over the candle, Camilla. You set the house on fire.”
“John!” She rose, but he did not stop.
“And Betty died because of it.”
Camilla reached for him, pressed his head against her womb where their child had grown, their child who now lay dead in some unforgiving graveyard. She thought to smother him then and there, squeeze the life from his lungs. But John was sobbing and some small voice reminded her that she loved him.
“Go to bed, John,” she said softly. He complied, standing on his shaky legs with the firelight flickering behind him.
“I’m sorry, I-”
“Go to bed, John.” And she even kissed him, promised him that all was well and told him she would join him soon. John crossed the small room and collapsed onto their bed. He did not bother to remove his shoes.
Camilla waited for a time, waited until he had fallen asleep and could tuck away the rancid rags that had once been their blanket.
“John?” He did not stir when she called to him. “John?” She straddled his waist, felt him breathe and sigh beneath her. He slept peacefully, did not feel her hands fall around his neck. And he only cried once, gulping for air as she strangled him and watched the panicked, painful tears spring from his eyes.
John Prior was a good man. Not a smart man, not a wealthy man, not a handsome man. But when the landlord found his corpse three days later, he called for the evening watchmen and they concluded it hadn’t been murder. There was an empty bottle of ale in his pocket and John Prior most likely drank himself to death. His body went to a pauper’s grave, unlamented, save for his wife who had disappeared into night never to be seen again, except for those who knew to look in the shadows.
****

The rain ceased, only to be replaced by a flood. Mrs. Prior was convinced that God had descended from the clouds to drown the world again. The water hit her square in the face and she sprang up, sputtering. Polly the maid stood by the door, washing bucket in hand.

“You’re needed, ma’am.”

There was something disgusting about her voice. Mrs. Prior reached for her handkerchief to wipe her face dry.

“What?”

“It’s morning, ma’am and Lord Beckett wants you.”

“The surgeon.” And for the first time in a long while, Mrs. Prior felt blessed relief. Dear Lord Beckett, he had not abandoned her after all. The surgeon, the goodly doctor would come and tend to her throbbing hand. The fever would be chased away, her body purged and bled and she would be well. And despite the sickness, Mrs. Prior smiled. “The surgeon has come?”

“No, ma’am.”

Her shock was softened by the fever which numbed most of her nerves. “I don’t-”

“Lord Beckett wants you in his study. Now.”

“But I cannot stand.” It was painful admitting such and Mrs. Prior swallowed her pride. Polly set down her bucket with a frozen frown.

“Then crawl, ma’am.”

Insolence, that she had not expected. Annoyance, maybe, but not insolence. And just to prove herself, Mrs. Prior stood. Polly seemed only faintly surprised.

“I will go.”

“You had better hurry.”

The door was held open for her and as Mrs. Prior stepped out into the yard, she began to remember herself. It was late morning, yes and she had dozed, her mind finally slumbering after a night of torment. Lord Beckett had cast her from the house the night before because she had wept. Emotion. Lord Beckett disliked emotion and so did Mrs. Prior. John didn’t, however. He smiled and laughed and cried as he pleased. But John was dead and she had no reason to smile or laugh or cry anymore.

Polly did not follow her into the house, but rather stayed by the servant’s quarters, her small form stark against the red brick walls. Mrs. Prior ignored her, pretended she was naught but a gutter rat that ran over one’s toes late at night. Little harm could befall her now, anyway.

****

Dear God, she was dying. Beckett struggled to slip his indifferent mask into place when Mrs. Prior stepped into his study, but his heart stilled for a beat, causing a noxious wave of nausea to sweep over him. Camilla, his little murderess, his black widow, was dying and she came before him with tired eyes that screamed of pain and unyielding agony. He almost felt sorry for her.

She stood in the shadow of the door for some time before her legs gave way and Beckett gave her leave to sit. He had never seen a more dejected and wretched creature and wondered to himself if Hell was reserved for those still living. Mrs. Prior sat with her head rested against the high back of the chair, her eyes rolling over the broken shards of porcelain on the floor, the remnants of Miss Swann’s rage.

“My lord?” Her voice was tiny, frightened and that unnerved Beckett. Her pale skin crawled with fever.

“Mrs. Prior.” He swallowed away the rising lump in his throat. “You are late.”

No sympathy. None. If she died, she died. Beckett did not care, so long as he extracted the last ounce of strength from the wearied workhorse. He would not waste his time beating the corpse, though.

“I’m sorry, my lord.” Waxy lips parted, gasped. Her breathing was ragged and he was reminded of nights spent in sin with her. Hmm, perhaps it would best if she left him. Mistakes might be covered up then, cast away with her into some forgotten grave. But Beckett was getting ahead of himself. There was business that needed seeing to.

“Do you remember our discussion?”

“My lord?”

He paced around her, boots resounding on the great wooden floorboards. “Last night, Mrs. Prior, pay attention.”

“Vaguely, my lord. I can recall but a shadow of it.”

“Shadows will do. I am frustrated Mrs. Prior, so very frustrated. What are you going to do?”

“Me, my lord?”

It had stopped raining, but now the sky thundered and the vengeful pagan gods were shifting in their clouds, ready to strike down the earth that had so readily forgotten them. Beckett left the shutters open and watched the sea boil and churn. Foam caressed the green rocks clustered about the shore.

“Yes, you, Mrs. Prior. What are you going to do?”

She sighed, her shoulders jerking in an involuntary motion, eyes closed. Her mind decayed with fever. “I don’t know, my lord, I’m sickly.”

Beckett stopped, feeling as though he stood on the edge of some great precipice and eternity dangled beneath him. He was close, so very close and here she sat mocking him.

“Is that an excuse?”

“No, my lord, but the only answer I have.”

She was a different creature than the one from last night, the being that had cowered in his hall. The woman who sat before him was destroyed, broken, shattered. No glimmer of hope flickered amongst the flames devouring her body. And he in turn felt hopeless.

“Must I do everything for you, Mrs. Prior?” Anger throbbed within him and he did not know why. “Are you so very mindless?”

“I don’t know, my lord.”

The game was over. She wasn’t even trying now. Disgusted, Beckett wheeled about and sat across from her.

“I am sending you away.”

Mrs. Prior seemed to come to then, her crimson-streaked eyes snapping open. “Where, my lord?” A tremor infected her voice.

“Away, to Tortuga. If you insist on being a wretch, then I shall treat you like one.”

“Tortuga, my lord?”

“A barbarian place, a pirate port. You’ll feel quite at home, I expect.” The sky spilt open and rain lashed Port Royal. Beckett felt the spray of it on his back. “If you cannot bring me news, if you can do nothing but skulk around the streets in the dark then I will put you to use. You are going to Tortuga and you will find me something I need.”

“You are sending me away, my lord?” she asked stupidly.

“Yes, Mrs. Prior.” He wasn’t patient and let it be known, his shoulders tensing, hands braced on his knees. “If you cannot gather news here, you will gather news there. You will do your job. Bring me something I have need of. Oh and, try not to kill anyone.”

“You’ll cut off my head,” she whimpered. The metaphor was not lost on him. He knew she might not return.

“You leave in two days”

Mrs. Prior burst into miserable tears and Beckett found that he was all the more glad to be rid of her. He had Elizabeth Swann just down the hall, anyway and even now she bowed to his will, bending and molding like melted gold. But Mrs. Prior was useless, unless she managed to prove herself once more.

That didn’t seem quite likely, however.

He stood, made to dismiss her, but she latched onto him, a sweaty hand squeezing the life out of his.

“Will you give me a kiss, my lord?”

A question. Servant’s weren’t meant to question their king. She never asked, but he always took.

He did not have time to answer. Mrs. Prior pressed her lips to his palm and Beckett felt heat swoop into his stomach and spread speedily through his body. He knew the answer to Elizabeth Swann’s question then, he knew that he would care if she died.

And she must leave him now because of it.

“Get out.”

She obeyed him, misery following her out into the corridor and down the stairs. He heard her weeping as she walked, suppressed sobs that made the house shake. And he was trembling himself, but she did not see.

No, she must never see.

Lias Laddie Part One

2007-09-12T18:51:03Z

Title: The Lias Laddie Part One
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,580
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Beckett and several OCs
Pairing: Beckett/OC
Summary: A wicked little smile touched Maggie’s treacherous lips as she handed the bundle to Beckett. “He has his father’s eyes, does he not?”
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: So against my better judgment (I have four very long course syllabuses to attend to) I am starting the sequel to “Little Lordie” because it simply won’t let me be. This will be a shorter story, roughly ten chapters and it takes place about a year and a half after "Little Lordie". There will also be many new OCs in this fic, along with the return of both Maggie and Hindley. The first chapter is a bit tame, slow, but I promise things will pick up quickly. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

They took the hedge at a gallop, with Captain Fitzroy falling upon his horse’s neck and cursing all the while. Beckett laughed to himself as they cantered up to the crest of the hill, with the heath-strewn valley behind them and the wind on their faces. He didn’t much care for Fitzroy in the first place.

“Dammy.” Captain Greville rode beside him, red-faced, his cheeks puffed out as he strove to catch his breath. “We’ve had a jolly good run, eh your Lordship?”

“Yes.” Beckett smiled fleetingly at the young man. “But I should rather we bring the fox to ground.”

Greville half-shrugged, sitting back in the saddle as his horse slowed. The hunting party was coming to the creek and the dogs balked, yowling on the banks like a pack of tawny demons.

“On with you!” Captain Fitzroy rode to the fore and thrashed at them with his whip.

“Steady now,” Beckett intoned. His horse faltered, hind hooves sinking into the red mud. He leaned forward, casually flicked his whip and they were on the other side, a cold spray splashing against his boots.

Captain Greville, spry military man that he was, suddenly stood in his stirrups. “There!” A hand batted at the fog. Fitzroy wheeled his nag around and gaped.

“Where? I can’t see, Greville, damn you! Where, man, where?”

Beckett sat still, straining his eyes until he saw a flash of red followed by a bushy, tangled tail. He put his spurs to his horse’s flanks and they were flying.

The hounds caught the scent next and they sent up a chorus of yelps. Greville joined them with a laugh.

“Fitzroy, you fool. Can’t you tell a fox from the fog?”

Fitzroy’s response was lost on the wind. Beckett bent low over his mount’s neck, turning his gaze on the frantic fox and then to the ground. Burrows and ruts littered the moors. The heather lashed his heels, swelling up against him and his horse and the great pack of hounds that were racing for the kill.

Beckett opened his mouth and let the wind rush in. It tasted fine, of earth and narrow creeks and the perpetually grey sky. The certain heaviness in his breast lifted, flitted away on despondent wings and left him lighter than air. He felt as though he could breathe again and he felt as if for just a moment, a pure, God-given moment, he could forget.

The hounds were quickening, the pulse of his mount’s hooves drowned out all sound, all thought. Beckett raised his head, a smile tearing his lips apart.

“Tally ho!”

But then the hounds fell silent and stopped altogether. From out of the fog loomed a great stone wall, an obstinate thing that parted the road from the moors. Beckett gathered the reins and sat back.

“Whoa!”

His horse halted, sliding back on his hindquarters. Greville and Fitzroy slowed and stopped on either side of him.

“The fox!” Fitzroy demanded.

Greville, as always, was more polite. “What’s happened here, sirs?”

The hounds had their noses to the dew-kissed ground. Beckett shook his head and coughed once.

“Gone, disappeared.”

“Bah!” Fitzroy threw down his whip and wrenched off his hat. Greville only looked disappointed.

“Rotten luck,” he said while Fitzroy muttered obscenities. “But we might try tomorrow, your lordship. It’s awfully cold today and damp.”

Beckett nodded, flexing his frozen fingers on the reins. He did not wish to turn in for the day, ride back to the lodge where he would lounge by the fire and be lost to futile rumination. But Greville was already trotting along the wall to unlatch the gate and the rain had steadied, drumming indecently on his cocked hat. Fitzroy, looking more than a little sour, leapt his horse over the wall and awaited them on the road.

“That’s how we do it in London, sirs,” he spat.

“I don’t know how you countenance him,” Beckett told Greville under his breathe. The man did not answer.

In a matter of minutes, the gate was opened and Beckett guided his horse through, the hounds at their heels, ears flopping like tiny white flags against their muzzles.

Surrender. He could still recall days of surrender and nights, nights spent with her. Beckett wondered vaguely if she was still alive.

The moors were open, empty. Haunted, Beckett fancied, although he was not long in Scotland. The holiday had been against his doctor’s wishes. Six months after his return to England he was set upon by a vicious sickness. It left him weak and trembling from fever. They sent him to Bath for half a year, but the pretty lawns reminded him of the Caribbean and the too red roses conjured less dear memories. He would rather not think of her. She plagued his once sweet dreams often enough.

But Beckett yearned for the crisp, clean air of the fields. He yearned for the cold. And he yearned for bonny Scotland, with it’s highlands and lowlands and all the vacant moors in-between.

To Scotland he went, on a holiday he called it and took up residence at a well-appointed hunting lodge. It wasn’t really a place of luxury, but somehow felt more comforting than opulent Bath.

They rode three abreast now, with Fitzroy edging anxiously to the fore. Greville remained by Beckett’s side.

“Have a game of cards tonight, my lord?” he asked, his chest heaving beneath his scarlet regimentals. He was a handsome man with dark coloring, brown eyes, hazel hair and warm-looking skin. And even though Beckett had come to respect him, he hated being overshadowed by an army man, resplendent and dashing in his uniform.

Fitzroy only made things worse, of course. There was something decidedly disgusting about his arrogance. The man had the look of a greyhound, a long nose, a delicate face, two impossibly blue eyes.

They had come up from London, the two of them and Beckett could not conceive an odder pair of friends.

“Cards, cards,” Fitzroy sneered, his head thrown back. “I’ve not the time for cards, Greville, not the time.”

Greville lifted his shoulders in a shrug and Beckett smiled. Were he in London and amongst his fellows in the Company, Fitzroy would not dare be so haughty.

“Cards it is, Captain,” he told Greville, but the man was looking ahead, his eyes on the wide, white road that led into town.

“I say, sirs,” he said, his face tensing. Along the side of the lane, a galloping, grey shape barreled through the mist, the heather crackling and breaking beneath it’s heavy feet.

Fitzroy flicked his tongue over his lips, a faint trace of eagerness brightening his blank eyes. “Deer?”

The hounds had pricked up their ears and were yowling. Beckett felt all the tiny hairs on his neck quiver, standing on end as the ungainly, ghastly shape sprinted closer. He remembered all the fanciful tales, the nonsensical ditties passed about by the servants when they thought no one was listening. Ballads of ghouls and goblins and ghosts. And Beckett was not particularly eager to encounter a ghost. He had many to fear, after all.

But soon the shape took a steady form, that of a large wolfhound and the air dissolved into sweetness once more when he realized they had naught to fear, unlike Fitzroy. The hound, it’s shiny tongue lolling out of it’s mouth, leapt up against his leg and pawed at the saddle cloth. Horse and man shied to the side, Fitzroy shrieking that his pristine white breeches were now stained and utterly soiled. Two muddy paw prints decorated his sinewy thigh.

And from afar, a voice shattered the stillness. “Heel! Heel now, beast!” A man on horseback approached, his brow bent against the shrieking wind and brash rain.

And Beckett thought of another man, a tall gallant of a man, now a rotted corpse, now a skeleton.

Hooves drummed on the road, a seductive pulse. Riding, riding, the highwayman came riding.

Beckett felt the touch of fever once more. He shook his head and tried to forget all about Harry King and his wild ways. The man was slowing his horse, the fog parting about him.

A ghost, he looked like a ghost.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” But the man wasn’t a ghost, rather a silly, witless monkey, a fool with a bonny face.

“Mr. Swinton.” Fitzroy’s face was red, indignant. “Curb your whelp, sir.”

Dear God.

Beckett thought to flee, to turn his horse and ride free once more over the moors. But the moors spoke of storming nights and thieves and Maggie. Yes, Maggie.

An unknown thrill ravaged him. Maggie, Maggie. His lips burned, brushed with her salty, tear-stained kiss. He was on the ship still, watching her collapse, sob, beg.

Dear God, this guilt would not do.

Hindley Swinton called to the hound and the animal retreated, languishing by the long legs of his master’s horse.

“My apologies, Captain Fitzroy,” he panted. “Old Throttler hasn’t had such a run in days. Kept him by the farm, I did, lest he scare away all the little hares and foxes. Did you have any luck today, sirs? I spied a clever fox darting across the field just an hour ago.”

“None at all,” Greville replied, pointedly ignoring the still grumbling Fitzroy.

There was some manner of small talk between the men now. Beckett felt as though he studied Swinton from afar. He was dressed neatly, not extravagantly. A country gentleman. Beckett lowered his head and stared at the rut-filled road. Muddy puddles littered the way, his reflection obscured, twisted.

Greville was laughing again. “Mr. Swinton, I believe you haven’t met our companion.”

And then all attention was drawn to Beckett. He shifted in the saddle, the leather groaning, creaking, his whip shaking in his unsteady hand.

“Might I present to you Lord Cutler Beckett of the East India Trading Company.” Greville extended his hand, his arm sweeping out. “He is on holiday as well, came to the lodge just this Friday. Lord Beckett, sir, this is Mr. Hindley Swinton. His farm adjoins the lodge.”

Beckett acknowledged the introduction with a curt nod. He hoped, he prayed that Swinton was truly the fool he seemed and had forgotten him. If not, then perhaps he would be smart enough to hold his tongue.

But Hindley Swinton was neither fabulously intelligent nor sensationally stupid. He was, instead, a dangerous creature, a man with little reason and much impulse.

“Good God!” One large hand slapped his thigh. “Lord Beckett? Lord Cutler Beckett? Sir, what brings you to Scotland?”

And then he trotted his berry brown horse forward, clapping Beckett on the back with a great, deep chuckle. “I owe this man my life, sirs, my very life.”

Fitzroy rolled his eyes. Greville looked intrigued.

“You’re acquainted, sirs?” he asked, a brow dancing upwards on his smooth forward.

Beckett cringed inwardly, swallowing away the awkwardness of the moment. Swinton was nodding his head, beaming brightly. But they all looked to him….

“Acquainted?” Beckett cleared his throat. “Why yes, vaguely, I believe.” He pulled taut the reins, thought perhaps he could canter away before Swinton struck up a conversation. But the man was standing in his stirrups, looking over the moors with an expression of utter jubilation stretched tight across his face.

“This man, sirs,” he exclaimed, one arm reaching high over his head, “is dearer to me than any man under God! Lord Beckett, sir, what a jolly turn of things. Good God sir, what a pleasure it is to see you again!” And he doffed his hat. “I am forever in your debt.”

Beckett recoiled in the saddle. Both Fitzroy and Greville were quite slack jawed, though some of Fitzroy’s pallor had returned, leaving him cold and crafty as always.

“Acquainted indeed.” The Captain laughed through his nose. “What a small, strange world it is.”

“Has he not told you the tale of it?” Swinton asked. The hound was whimpering by his side. “Has he not spoken of it, sirs? Well, it is a wonder that Lord Beckett is so modest, for he has much to boast of.”

“Really.” Beckett finally roused himself from his stupor and sought to intercede. “It is no matter, Mr. Swinton. In fact, I should rather not discuss it now. The weather is unfriendly, wretched you might say and I do so wish to return to the lodge.”

But Swinton was playing the part of the fool again and he disregarded Beckett with a wondrous smile. “This man, sirs, returned my own dear sweetheart to me after ten years of separation. You may not believe me, perhaps, but I tell you sirs, it is the truth and I might prove it. Why don’t you know.” And here he dropped his voice to a conspiring whisper, “Martha has already given me a son, a bonny little lad conceived the first night in the marriage bed.”

Beckett’s heart plummeted into his stomach. So there he had it. Maggie was alive…and with a child. There was something thoroughly unsettling about the notion and he did not feel altogether comfortable with it. A child. A son. How peculiar.

“Congratulations are in order then,” Greville said.

“And thanks to Lord Beckett,” Swinton replied. “I say, sirs, the weather is indeed miserable. Why not ride along to my house? It is nearby and we might have supper. I have wine aplenty and a warm hearth to host such a set of gracious gentlemen.”

“Humph!” Fitzroy gathered up his reins and pulled in his horse. “I should rather return to the lodge, I am…finicky about company.” He looked Swinton up and down before taking off down the road.

Greville, presumably trying to smooth over his friend’s rudeness, accepted Swinton’s invitation with much thanks. And so Beckett felt himself the odd man out. Logic dictated that he should go along with Fitzroy, but sheer curiosity tempted him.

He could see Maggie, see her this very night. And what a strange thing that would be, to observe her at the hearthside with a babe at her breast. Tamed, domesticated, if such a thing was possible.

But he should ride away, ride away now, back to London. Forget the whore, that treacherous creature who had unsettled his peace of mind. He should turn right around and flee.

And yet he couldn’t, just as he was still beholden to her, no less of a captive than he was in the brig of her ship. She was calling to him over the moors, her voice a whisper that languished amongst the mist and made his mind numb.

“Of course, Mr. Swinton,” he said at length. “Your hospitality is so greatly appreciated.”

Captains Greville and Fitzroy are based on two characters of the same names featured in Alan Bennett’s play/movie “The Madness of King George III”. Bennett’s characters are likewise based on two of George III’s real life equerries, Captain Robert Fulke Greville and General the Hon. Charles Fitzroy.
A lias is a child born with a particular birthmark that protects him/her from the fairies. As fairy women have difficulty birthing their own children, they were apt to steal away human children. A child with a lias, therefore, cannot be stolen. The title of this story, “Lias Laddie” is also the title of a Scottish folk song, the lament of a fairy queen who wishes to steal away a baby for her own, but realizes he has a lias.
The line “Riding, riding, the highwayman came riding.” is taken from the poem “The Highwayman” by Alfred Noyes.

Delicacy Part Ten

2007-09-09T16:04:05Z

Title: Delicacy Part Ten
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,417
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett, Elizabeth Swann and several OCs
Pairing: Beckabeth, Beckett/OC
Chapter Summary: Elizabeth has breakfast with Lord Beckett and tries her hand at the art of seduction.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Beckabeth ahoy! This is the first of the major Beckabeth chapters. In fact, poor Mrs. Prior doesn’t even make an appearance. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those that commented. Thank you all so very much for your support. The fall semester started last week and while I have been busy, I hope to keep updating “Delicacy” regularly. Also, I am pleased to announce that I will begin posting the sequel to “Little Lordie” quite soon as well. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!

Elizabeth was already awake when the guard brought her breakfast the next morning. She sat on the edge of her bed, garbed in plain blue short gown and a cream-colored petticoat. Her hair was twisted back in a pretty bun, two long, delicate locks curling about the base of her neck.

The guard set her tray down on the side table, one curious eye on her indifferent features. He gestured at the bowl of porridge and the black, cold looking mug of coffee.

“Miss.”

“I don’t want it.” Elizabeth braced her hands on the bed. The guard shook his head.

“Not my business.”

“Actually, it is.”

He fidgeted now. A thick thumb hooked into his pocket and he shifted his sinewy legs.

“Miss-”

“You will inform Lord Beckett that I desire to dine with him this morning. We did not have the opportunity to finish our conversation last night.”

The guard laughed. Elizabeth shot to her feet.

“I think you will do it, sir,” she said, letting her voice groan under the threat she intended to pose. “I think you will go and speak with Lord Beckett directly. And do hurry, I am not the least bit patient.”

Memories of idle days flitted across her mind. Elizabeth remembered her life as the governor’s only daughter, the governor’s beloved child and the jewel of Port Royal. There had not been a man then or a woman who would not hasten to do her bidding. Haughty, yes, she had been haughty. The mark of Cain, the brand of good-breeding had been laid upon her and it was indestructible, a thing that would remain until Death sharpened his scythe and wielded it against her. And even Lord Beckett could not deprive her of that.

The guard stared at the tray like a lost dog, his jaw tensing and tightening.

“His lordship made no mention of such.”

“Then remind him.”

She would not be swayed. No, Elizabeth needed this, needed to capture the first pawn and win at least one victory. How else might she secure Lord Beckett’s favor?

The guard hesitated still, but his heavy feet took him to the door and down the hall. Elizabeth waited, impatient. It was still raining. She heard the gentle patter, the whisper of the breeze on the rooftop.

A moment passed and the guard returned. He stepped to the side, held open the door and glanced into the corridor.

“His lordship is waiting, miss.”

A small victory, but a victory none-the-less. Elizabeth did not fuss over the details. Why had Beckett ceded so easily? She reminded herself that he was a curious creature and she would make herself a mystery, one that he would hopefully never unravel.

The house seemed somehow brighter that morning and although the sky was still treacherously grey, faint light dripped through the long windows. Elizabeth walked demurely behind the guard and was led to a separate room, one which she had never been in. The door was open, revealing a small, yet stately study. Lord Beckett sat at a round table, his china tea service perched on a silver platter. There were linen napkins edged with lace, dainty pitchers of cream and a sugar bowl. And Lord Beckett mirrored the genteel appearance of his china. He was wearing a blue brocade frock coat and Elizabeth thought the color suited his eyes.

The guard bowed his way out into the hall and shut the door. Beckett contemplated his teacup for a long minute until Elizabeth thought she might burst from impatience. Her feet carried her further into the room.

“Good morning, my lord.” A curtsey. Her trembling legs remembered the practice well enough, her knees bending against her skirts.

“Good morning, Miss Swann.” He glanced up then and she saw it. Worry? Yes, he was worried. About what she wondered, or rather, about whom?

Mrs. Prior.

Perhaps. But Elizabeth did not think he cared enough for her or anyone else for that matter. Either way, he looked a sorry business in the dim dawn light.

“You told the guard you wished to speak with me.” He leaned back in his chair.

“I lied.”

“Did you now?”

“You are not going to ask why?” She rolled back her shoulders, hoping to remind him that she wasn’t so subservient yet. But Beckett only shrugged gracefully and lapsed into silence.

Elizabeth felt her temper quickening, pulsing in unison with her heart.

“And how is Mrs. Prior?” she asked.

Beckett put down his teacup, the spoon falling onto the saucer with a soft, metallic clang. “Do you truly care?” he replied, “or are you simply another victim of those fantastical creatures we like to call polite society and good breeding?”

Elizabeth shrugged, the sleeves of her shortgown rustling. “I’m curious. Is she dead yet?”

For a moment, Beckett’s eyes were lit with careful appreciation. “I don’t know, I haven’t heard. But as I have not heard, I assume she is still alive. The servants would come running to tell me. They’re rather finicky about having corpses lying about.”

His morbid humor struck a terrifying cord against Elizabeth’s heart. She looked out the window behind him. A feeble shaft of sunlight tumbled down from the clouds, warming the rain.

“But either way, she is of little use to me.” Beckett surveyed her, his plump lips pressed together. Elizabeth inhaled and slowly, regained her composure.

“Pity. What did you have planned for her today? More senseless assassinations? A trip to the slums?”

Beckett laughed quietly. “She misses London, hates the hovels here. Your father’s little kingdom is not at all to her liking.”

“Because it is decent.”

“Because she can be seen.” Beckett gestured at an empty chair by his elbow. “You intend to sit, I assume?”

Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed. “If that is what his lordship wishes,” she said, mocking both him and herself in the same, tense breath.

“I am ever your humble servant, madam.” He stood, his shoulders and head inclined in a haughty bow. Elizabeth gathered her cream-colored skirts and threw herself in the chair. It jolted, clawed feet digging into the wide floorboards. Beckett sat.

“Tea?”

“Yes.” But she served herself. Beckett brought his own teacup to his smiling lips.

“Why have you come here, Miss Swann?”

“Certainly not to negotiate,” she said, the last word sticking in her throat. Elizabeth felt as though she were choking and took a gulp of burning tea.

“Then I am disappointed.”

“Really? I should have thought otherwise.” Elizabeth ran her fingertips over the linen tablecloth. It felt smooth, pleasantly cool beneath her skin and she found she missed fine things. Lord Beckett’s fingers arched over his spoon.

“Why have you come here, Miss Swann?”

“I don’t know,” she lied. “Perhaps I am confused.”

The sun fell behind the clouds once more and Elizabeth felt the chilly spray of rain kiss her cheeks. Lord Beckett rose and walked to the shutters.

“I see no reason for confusion.”

“I do.” Elizabeth drained her teacup. “It is you, my lord.”

The shutters clicked closed. Beckett leaned against them. Silence draped over the room.

“When were you last in London, Miss Swann?” he asked at length, half-turning. Elizabeth shifted in her chair. Certainly her plan, her feminine charm had not corrupted his mind already. And strangely, her own heart leapt, bounded against her ribcage and left her feeling feeble.

“My lord?” She couldn’t remember the question.

“London, Miss Swann.”

Elizabeth stared at her hands, folded tightly over her lap. London? She remembered London, the gray, indistinct blur that it was. Men, women, children. The streets seemed fit to burst. The jingle of harness. Cockney cries. Her father’s warm hand pressed against hers.

“Come along, Elizabeth.”

She had her mother’s doll, not that she was at all delighted by the frozen face, the blank eyes. But it had been her mother’s and now her living cheek pressed against porcelain. She could remember….

“Eleven years.”

Beckett was back in his chair and he lifted the lid of the tea pot. At once, the aroma spiced the air, driving away the clinging moisture, the heady odor of rain.

“You were too young then, too young to miss it now.”

“Do you, my lord?” Elizabeth watched as he replenished her cup and dropped another sugar cube in.

“Yes.”

“But not for the same reasons as Mrs. Prior, I suspect.”

“A grand assumption that is.” Beckett let his hands fall over the arms of his chair, his languid fingers dangling like icicles over the striking yet frivolous carvings. “You think that we have nothing in common?”

“I fear such.” Elizabeth ignored her tea now. A new warmth arose in her stomach and she suddenly found it hard to look at Lord Beckett. He did have a certain elegance about him unlike Will and even Norrington. She had never thought of a man as pretty before, but he was and still so very masculine. With eager eyes she studied the brocade pattern on his coat sleeve. It was of flowers, entwined flowers.

Beckett laughed and the sound returned her to the world, the living earth and the rain that now battered the shutters.

“Mrs. Prior and I are similar in some small ways, but quite different in others. She is…damaged. Much ill has been done to her and much ill she has done to herself. I do not think she will ever be well.”

“Then would you care if she did die?” Elizabeth asked.

Beckett did not answer. A knock on the door saved him and Elizabeth noted his relief. She saw it in his eyes, yes, she was getting rather good at reading his eyes. They widened slightly as he stood, a short sigh dancing past his lips.

“Enter.”

Polly let herself into the study. She shut the door and curtsied once, patting her mobcap into place. Elizabeth frowned. The maid obviously hadn’t slept and she looked harried. Her hands twisted in her apron.

“It’s Mrs. Prior, my lord,” she said in a meek, but pained voice.

Beckett raised a brow. “Oh?”

“She’s…she’s been ill all night. A fever, I think. It’s left her senseless. Weeping for her dead husband and daughter. Can’t you send for the surgeon, my lord? It’s become a disturbance, a distraction. The servants can’t care for her, my lord.”

“The surgeon?” Beckett had a distinctly ruffled appearance, his neck arched indignantly. Polly seemed to sense at once that her cause was lost. Her hands fell against her apron, her shoulders bowed under the yoke of her futile position. Beckett smiled crookedly.

“I will not send for the surgeon. Ignore Mrs. Prior.”

“But my lord.” Polly could not stop herself. Elizabeth saw her take a trembling step forward. “She’s frightfully ill, my lord, deathly ill.”

Beckett’s smile twisted into a frown and deep, worried lines framed his lips. “Leave her be.”

His voice was soft, gentle even, but dangerous. Elizabeth’s skin prickled, the tiny, fine hairs on her arms standing on end. She felt as though the shutters were still open and rain spilled in across her back.

Polly somehow managed a curtsey. “Yes, my lord.”

The door closed behind her. Beckett sat and dropped his hands into his lap, looking vexed. Elizabeth stared at him, unable to look away. Was there concern in his eyes? Did worry twine about his thoughts? She imagined Mrs. Prior, more dead than alive, in some tight, cramped bed with the dark-faced servants ignoring her pleas for help. Did the fires of Hell already torment her?

Lord Beckett cleared his throat suddenly and turned back to his tea.

“I think the more apt question, Miss Swann, is do you care if she dies?” he said. “She didn’t care about your father, I should say.”

Elizabeth felt her resolve unravel, the thread of her composure pulled taut until it snapped. She stood, threw back the table and was pleased when two of his fine teacups smashed on the floor. The shattered porcelain greatly resembled a gray storm cloud and the jagged edges nipped at her ankles.

“You wish to provoke me?” she asked, her voice seething, boiling as rage bubbled in her blood.

Beckett turned in his chair, one hand perched on his hip, his elbow protruding at a jaunty angle. “I wish to test you,” he said.

That frightened Elizabeth. Her soul trembled, shuddering beneath some inescapable wave of darkness.

So much for seduction….

She fled the chamber, terrified, enraged and the guard caught her arm by the door.

“You are a flighty girl,” he said, ushering her back down the hall. “What with all your comings and goings.”

Elizabeth wrenched her arm from his grasp, backing into her chamber like some maddened lioness. And for the first time in her life, she felt immortal, invincible, unstoppable. She would win this battle yet.

“You may tell his lordship,” she spat as the guard closed the door in her face, “that I hope Mrs. Prior dies. And if the fever does not kill her outright, I certainly will!”

*****

Beckett glanced down at the shattered teacups on his study floor.

Disgraceful.

The Swann girl was indeed wild, uncontrollable, so like Camilla, yet different. He touched one fractured rim with the toe of his boot.

Camilla had never broken his finery or furniture. No, she had turned her rage inward and let it break her.

Beckett stood, rounded the table and threw open the shutters. Rain poured in and he felt strangely relieved. He let his brow become damp, wet with humid Caribbean kisses.

He was, perhaps, making some progress, though not nearly enough.

And then he remembered his lessons to Camilla. Restraint. It was he who had abandoned control today. He should have corrected Miss Swann’s knowledge, informed her that her father was in fact alive. But some sordid part of him wanted to see her angry, angry with him.

It thrilled him.

Ah, he had a fine mess on his hands now. No compass, no distant hope of the chest. And now he had an ill Mrs. Prior to contend with and Miss Swann, who seemed to linger on the edge of his dominance, but shied away all too easily.

What was he to do?

Another cup of tea seemed in order and he wanted to have a chat with dear Mrs. Prior as well. Dying, humph, she certainly wasn’t dying. Not yet, anyway. He needed her still.

Ficlet: Passion

2007-09-04T15:53:11Z

Title: Passion/Part Seven of the Enigma Series
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 700
Rating: PG-13
Characters/Pairing: Beckett and an unnamed female character.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean.
Author’s Note: I would like to thank everyone who has been following this series and those who have commented. Thanks for your support. I hope you enjoy!

When she came in from the streets on Saturday night, he noticed something different in her eyes, something terrifying. She was breathing heavy, panting and her hair had come undone, resting like a black storm cloud on her shoulders. The shadow of it fell over her face and she looked young, virginal, but not innocent.

“It’s done, my lord.”

A shiver. He could not help it. Her voice sounded high, excited, so very unlike her. She stared at him expectantly and he shifted in his chair by the fire. The parlor was cold still, the powder-blue walls looking ashy in the gray evening light.

“It’s done, my lord, I’ve done it for you, just as you asked. Are you pleased now, my lord? Have I pleased you?”

She wasn’t cowering before him and their was an unnatural blush on her cheeks. He felt small and pale where he sat…and dangerously exposed.

Beckett forced himself to meet her haunted gaze. She quivered where she stood and her discipline became a living thing to be trampled during a moment of wild abandon. He was anxious, oh so very anxious and he stood, one hand raised to placate her.

“Yes, very. That will be quite enough for now, though. Yes, quite enough, I think.”

Her disappointment was frighteningly clear. She drew together her lips and a tight frown made her face fierce. “But, my lord-”

“Out.” Beckett would not suffer disobedience. He took a threatening step forward, expecting her to cringe and fall back, continuing their torturous minuet of dominance and obedience.

But she hesitated and in that precious moment, he knew she would not obey. He felt her on him before he saw her, her all too nimble hands wandering to indecent places.

“My lord,” she growled and he was smothered by a frostbitten kiss. Beckett struggled against her, feeling her arms slither about his neck and tighten. She wanted to be near him, too near. Disgust welled within him like bile.

“Stop this,” he said, but she forced his mouth open with her tongue.

Something cold settled in his chest, something suffocating. She drew away from him for an instant and he saw her as a succubus, an unearthly thing fueled by entirely earthly desires.

And for a moment, one brief moment, he could not resist. She was trying to shred his garments, it seemed, and impatient, she clutched at his face. Blood welled underneath her nails.

The darkness swallowed him as she kissed him again. He strained to breathe, but could only press his mouth against hers.

“My lord,” she whispered, “Cutler…”

But it was over then, when he realized the power he had lost over her. His control had slipped.

“Pig.”

She was on the floor, in a heap, watching him with surprised eyes.

“Disgusting pig.” He stepped over her with a snarl and sat back down in his chair, feeling restored, a king returned to his throne. “You’re naught but a disgusting pig, an animal.”

“Pig?” She was furious. “So I’m a pig, am I? I’ve had enough.”

She fled and the door jerked on it’s hinges, shattering the perfect stillness. Her shadow passed by the window and he imagined her pounding wildly through the streets, demented as she always was when enraged, her keening voice calling to spirits and ghosts.

He shut his eyes and let his own fury explode within him. She had dared, oh she had dared…

Cutler.

His name, used freely, falling from her lips like a golden drop of ambrosia and he was parched with thirst.

Cutler.

And his heart was throbbing, bringing him to his feet and sending him dashing out the door. He ran into the streets and called for her, but his cries were echoed back as laughter.

Far away he heard her and her footsteps pattered against the greasy cobblestones. She was gone now, behind some fairy veil he could not part. Beckett turned back into his tomb of a house, but not before her voice reached him over the mist.

“Cutler.”