Delicacy Part Eight
Title: Delicacy Part Eight
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,664
Rating: A strong PG-13 for sexuality.
Warning: Some sexuality
Characters: Lord Beckett. Elizabeth Swann and several OCs
Pairing: Lord Beckett/OC and Beckabeth
Chapter Summary: During a quarrel with Mrs. Prior, Lord Beckett makes a surprising discovery. Elizabeth begins to plan her escape.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: This chapter is mainly a Mrs. Prior/Beckett chapter, but I do promise tons of Beckabeth after this. I would like to thank everyone who took the time to read and comment on the last chapter. Thank you all so much, your feedback means the world to me. I have no beta for this fic, (although it has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. I hope you enjoy!
As Beckett shut the door, he caught a fleeting glimpse of Elizabeth Swann retreating down the hall in her costly gown. She had the look of a subdued doe, he thought, with clear round eyes and a face crafted by cherubs. He sighed and turned back to the hell hound at his heels. Well, in truth, Mrs. Prior looked more of a cross between a stray bitch and a gutter rat now, her guard both raised and restrained. Humph, restraint. She had learned little from him after all.
“Camilla,” he said in a gentle voice, hoping to settle her some. She was plucking frantically at the bandage on her hand and he saw a hint of the mangled mess beneath the yellowed linen. His nose wrinkled, sweat staining the genteelly perfumed air. “Camilla, why did you tell Miss Swann that her father was murdered?”
He made sure to use the aptly picked term “Miss Swann” for calling the governor’s daughter by her given name could be disastrous at such a tense moment. He half expected Mrs. Prior to uncoil in her fury, unwind like a tightly tied length of rope. But she only blinked rapidly, as if the dull candlelight burned her eyes.
“Because she’s a damned whore.”
Beckett felt a sigh rise within him, welling up from his stomach. He placed one hand on his hip and offered her a falsely sympathetic smile. “You are being unreasonable and I’m not one to suffer nonsense gladly, so I will ask again. Camilla, why did you tell Miss Swann that her father was murdered?”
Mrs. Prior fell back against the table and Elizabeth’s wine goblet spilled. Beckett ignored the crimson liquid which dripped languidly to the floor, pooling in a black puddle against the wooden boards.
“Because I hate her,” Mrs. Prior replied at length. There was something in her eyes that made Beckett furious and he loathed the way she looked at him so innocently. A woman such as her should not appear innocent.
“My dear, you hate the world,” he said, his hand sliding from his hip and dangling at his waist.
“No.” She chewed on her lower lip. “I don’t hate you, my lord.”
The air tensed about them, becoming suddenly intimate. Beckett felt as though he had been knocked from off his horse and now lay gasping on the cold ground. Reduced, yes, that was the word. They were standing eye to eye, toe to toe, no difference between master and slave.
Unconsciously, his lip curled in disgust and he tilted his chin up. But Mrs. Prior only stared at him, defiantly so. Beckett lashed out and caught her jaw in his hand.
“Do you understand?” he asked as she whimpered, “do you understand what you have done?” He searched her eyes for some intelligence, a flicker of comprehensive that would prove she was a living woman after all. But she had a corpse’s unseeing gaze, that haunted, numb thing that was too dark to be alive.
“I just wanted to vex her, my lord,” she said. Her voice was soft, yet malicious, with a hardened edge. “She deserves to feel pain, wretch that she is. A happy life she has had, filled with feather beds and silk and pretty pearls to string about her neck. I want her to see how life is, my lord, it is she who needs to understand.”
Beckett released her. She stumbled, slamming against the table. The candelabra wobbled and blinked like a deceiving fairy lantern.
“Not everyone is so wretched as you,” he said. Mrs. Prior seemed somewhat more acquiescent, but then she lifted her head and her eyes were alive with the light of the moon that crept in through the windows.
“But you are, my lord.”
He struck her across the cheek but pain never vexed her much. She was a tough creature. The slums had destroyed her. Beckett almost wished he had met her in brighter days, when she was fresh and kind and something other than what she was now. It was horrid to see such a tortured being, but even worse to speculate over what had been. The past was a shadow that followed her but never fell across her path. He could only guess at things and hold lost names in his mind like small trinkets to be inspected in times of great boredom. Camilla Prior was too much of a mystery to him and Lord Beckett hated unanswered questions.
“You assume such of me,” he said, “but I know such of you. There is a difference, a grand difference in that.”
“One wretch is quite the same as another.” She sagged against the table, looking impossibly weary. “I’ve spent many a night in a ratty lodging houses with piss-stained blankets and I’ve spent just as many nights asleep on the streets, my lord, but I was never so wretched as Elizabeth Swann was when I lied to her and told her that her father was dead.” Mrs. Prior smiled to herself and there was something of triumph in her stance.
Beckett despised her sudden confidence.
“I wonder,” he said, daring to draw forth his greatest weapon against her. It had worked on equally desperate occasions when she needed quick subduing after an outburst of some kind. But in truth, he disliked using such a tactic, for it was more than a little unsavory to mock a mourning mother. “I wonder if you are disturbed because Elizabeth Swann bears the same name as your daughter. But you called her Betty, didn’t you? And so did John. Yes, Betty was her name.”
Mrs. Prior stared at him. Tears sprang from her eyes and she looked revolted as though he had confronted her with the most wicked of things, for in the end, even Camilla Prior had a heart, albeit a treacherous one.
“Betty,” she said softly. The hairs on the back of Beckett’s neck stood on end. He felt nauseous and suddenly he wished that he had never brought up the girl. Mrs. Prior would most assuredly be worse now.
But then something surprising happened. Instead of crumbling or collapsing in upon herself and falling to her knees in defeat, Mrs. Prior stood still. Her face sharpened and the tears ceased and she looked nothing short of furious.
“Don’t speak her name,” she said in a high, quivering voice. “You have no right, no right at all. Never speak her name again.”
And although he should have been cowed, Beckett felt naught but rage. He wanted to cause her pain in the only other way he knew how and he reached for her. But in the scuffle his hip collided with her swollen hand and pinned it to the table. Mrs. Prior opened her mouth in a soundless scream and threw him off, forcefully. He landed by the hearth and did not move.
Silence. Beckett could only his heart beating. She had never, never tried to hurt him. Violence was reserved for her victims and with him she was mostly a kitten, tamed, beaten down. Always she had taken his punishment calmly and never once revolted against him, even when she was new to his employ and fresh from the noxious gutters. But the Caribbean had done things to her. Perhaps he had been wrong to take her from London, where she knew the streets and the people. Now she was unpredictable and dangerous. Beckett swallowed.
Had he lost control?
The question burned him like the most brutal flames. He wanted to move, to shift and roll onto his side and off his back. Having his stomach and chest exposed seemed like an unwise thing and instinct told him to shield himself. Beckett thought of another man who had died on his back, helpless, or so she had told him.
But still, he forced himself to stay still. He pretended he was injured or at least unconscious. He pretended he was weak. The next few minutes would decide her fate. If she struck then he would call for the guards and have her executed on the spot. One of his fingers twitched and he noticed the heavy poker by his hand. Good.
He heard her shift. She seemed to have fallen to the floor as well and she sniffed.
“Good Christ.” Her voice was blunt, not dangerous. Mrs. Prior crawled over to him. One hand slid up his stomach. He flinched. “My lord?”
The warmth of her body seeped into his as she crept closer and despite his attempt to maintain passive, he felt the tempting call of lust. Beckett decided at once that she wasn’t dangerous and sat up.
“You’re not hurt?”
“No.” Her hand was still on his stomach and he glanced up at her. “Let me see your wound.”
She did not hesitate. The bandage was unwound and soon he held her sweaty fingers in his. The wound looked awful, the stitches having turned black with dirt and grime. There was a hint of pus about the gash which glared a too bright red. He felt the fever on her skin.
Damn it all.
“I cannot send for the surgeon,” Beckett said, removing his handkerchief from his pocket and wrapping it gently about her hand. “The injury is too suspicious and there is already an indecent amount of attention directed at the Company these days. I can’t afford to stir up a revolt just yet.”
“I understand, my lord.” She rested her hand on his knee, her eyes on the neatly tied handkerchief. Beckett stroked her fingers.
“I’ll send the maid for laudanum tomorrow,” he said at length, “that should do for now. And I don’t think bleeding would benefit you much anyway.”
“No.” She shook her head, her lips quivering. “I’m sorry we quarreled, my lord and I’m sorry I shoved you, it-”
“Was involuntary, I know.” Beckett continued stroking her fingers. It made sense to him now. She had not meant to hurt him, no Mrs. Prior would never do such a thing. He would forgive, but not forget. She still needed to be punished for her indiscretions with the Swann girl, after all.
He looked at her then and so how very sad she was. Well, punishment might be suspended, if only for one night. He needed to think things over.
“Poor, suffering creature,” he said. Mrs. Prior sighed and placed her burning forehead on his shoulder. Tamed she was once more, a soft, quiet thing that watched him with adoring eyes and Lord Beckett liked to be adored.
He kissed her, trying his very best to be tender. Things had to be patched up between them, smoothed over. He needed her still.
To his surprise, she responded, her mouth gently tugging at his. He felt her teeth close over his bottom lip. Beckett inhaled sharply, but did not draw away. One arm fell around her waist, bringing her close. Her chest heaved against his and he sensed some measure of eagerness about her.
He decided to make things pleasant for her. Perhaps then she would learn and perhaps then he needn’t go through the trouble of seducing Elizabeth Swann. And perhaps then he might have a proper mistress for once.
Things turned out quite different that night, delightfully so. He discovered that she could be unruly, as he had always suspected and very tender. And he discovered at long last that she could bring him the pleasure he so desperately needed.
But there was a danger to it yet. With her face inches from his, with their gasps and cries sounding as one, he could see into her eyes and he knew then, that she could see him. They were close, too close, with their bodies locked together and senses joined. And he had made the unfortunate mistake of revealing himself to her.
She was not to be trusted when passion took her and made her wild, not to be trusted at all. She wept that she loved him and needed him and would die if they were sundered only for a breath.
And there was danger in that. They had seen eye to eye, stood toe to toe and clung to each other. They had been too close….
Mrs. Prior slept peacefully then, no horror of a dream pinching her face. Beckett let her rest in his arms, unsettled as he was and watched the moon smile mockingly at him from above the vast expanse of colorless water.
He had come close to peril this night.
****
And down the hall there was also peril. Elizabeth had torn the blankets from the bed and overturned the washstand. She had smashed the pitcher and basin and let the cold water seep into the hem of her gown. She had taken his borrowed books and torn the pages from them. And she had pounded against the door until it groaned on it’s hinges and the guard shouted for her silence.
Why had she not killed Beckett then and there?
It seemed like the sane thing now in her throes of madness, to have murdered him in his fine dining room, to have struck him across the back of his head with the golden candelabra.
And yet, she could not bring herself to do it.
Elizabeth collapsed at last upon the bed, exhausted. She longed for fresh air, for sea breezes and a reprieve from the stale interior of her chamber. Why, she had not seen the sky since the night Mrs. Prior had tried to kill her.
Hmm, she almost felt sorry for the beast, well, not too sorry. Perhaps she and Beckett would destroy each other before the night was through. Yes. Elizabeth ran her tongue over her dry lips. She would like that very much.
Her situation suddenly seemed very complicated now. She had hoped it would be a simple matter of discovering what Beckett wanted from her. Jack Sparrow had wanted his ship and so he had come to help her. James Norrington had wanted to be loved…
Elizabeth shut her eyes and frowned, the soft skin on her forehead creasing. What did Lord Beckett want?
She feared she knew.
It was a game to him, of course, her life, her very existence on this earth and he assuredly enjoyed playing with her. But she was not to be toyed with.
How then would she gain her freedom? Would she have to surrender her control only to win it back? He delighted in destroying women. Mrs. Prior, for all her ferocity and power, was no less of a prisoner than her.
Elizabeth resigned to wait then, as much as it vexed, to draw things out and go along with the great pretense of his game. She would nurse her grief and pain, tend her fear and torment until she had a worthy plan. And then in the end she would have her freedom and revenge.
The next morning, the nameless maid (who revealed herself as Polly) returned with a change of clothes. The gown was a plain, striped thing with a black petticoat which Elizabeth suspected might have once belonged to Mrs. Prior. Nevertheless, she adorned herself in what she was given and pantomimed the role of defeat. Lord Beckett clearly wished to rub salt into her wounds, for he had requested her presence at dinner again that night or so Polly said.
Elizabeth, being too proud to decline and too clever to pass up such an opportunity, accepted his lordship’s invitation. And in her spare hours, she began to plot.