Lias Laddie Part Three
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.