Lias Laddie Part Four
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.