Lias Laddie Part One
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.