merry Christmas (soon!)
Yeah, I meant to update sooner :s
Title: Out of control (part IV)
Author: Raphael_lestat
Disclaimer: Beckett isn’t mine, neithers Mercer…damn it Rating: PG-13
Word count: 1039
Characters: Beckett (um, duh?)
Pairings: Beckett/OFC, Mercer/OFC (maybe, later on)
Summary: A friend of mine said “If Beckett was to ever take a wife she would be like one of his ships. Beautiful, graceful, stylish, ready to obey his every whim and utterly, utterly deadly”
England was, expectedly, unchanged since Beckett had left it a handful of years ago. He spent as little time as he could in Plymouth (the harbour that had been chosen for them by the King himself) preferring instead to make the few days travel by coach to London.
The ceremony, boring and stiffly formal, went as well as could be expected. Smooth and official, as only something organised by Royalty could be. Beckett was in his element, even managing to endure the tedious ball held in his honour afterwards…after all, his Father had been a favourite of the Kings.
Standing besides a large white marble column shot through with rich veins of gold, Beckett held an exquisite crystal goblet of delicate apricot brandy in a similarly delicate hand, signet ring glittering in the soft light from the chandeliers. His slight smile was becoming a little fixed and his gaze wandered to the magnificent clock more and more often.
He was about to make a polite exit when something familiar pressed against his back. The tip of the dagger slipped through the fine silk of his frockcoat and waistcoat, easily sliding through the thin linen of his shirt.
“Good evening, my Lord.” A voice, one that was a little louder than he was used too, murmured in his ear.
“Charlotte, don’t you think this is a little public for our games?” He returned, a small smile gracing his lips until the knife twisted slightly, pulling the smile away with it as it disappeared.
“Our games, Lord Beckett? I rather thought they were mine…and its Lady chase for tonight if you don’t mind” Beckett knew from the tone of her voice that he was meant to turn round and face her…he wasn’t going to give her the satisfaction.
“Did you murder my Father, Lady Chase?” He asked, keeping a tight leash on his curiosity and his eyes fixed on the multitudes of people smiling, chattering and completely oblivious before him.
“No.” Came the flat, rather disinterested reply. Beckett thought for a few second before coming to a different conclusion.
“Did you assassinate him then?” The silence that followed held enough of an answer, “ah.”
“How is your nose, My Lord?” She asked, an amused lilt to her tone. Now Cutler allowed himself to turn round, seeing his would-be-murderer for the first time. She was shorter than he had expected but no less pretty for it. A crescent shaped scar beneath her left eye would see to it that she would never be called beautiful. Her trim and tiny form was corseted into a rather demure forest green dress, a fan of painted black wood rested in a gloved hand. Black curls were caught up in the latest style and Irish blue eyes twinkled at him merrily. The amused little woman in front of him did not seem to pose any real threat to anyone. “Oh, quite well I see.” The voice, a dark whisper, did not seem to fit the rather vapid expression on her face. “I would have hated to have broken it” She sighed, almost wistfully.
“Do you ever intend to leave me alone or will I be haunted by your countenance ever more?” He asked, changing the subject just as quickly as she had, hinting that he could play a game as well as (probably better than) her.
“If you find my company irritable, Lord Beckett-” The barely veiled threat in her voice forced him to interrupt.
“I find your dagger irritable, Lady Chase, your company I find…provoking” He smiled, watching the mask of stupidity slide away suddenly as her eyes narrowed in calculation. “I have a proposition for you.” He murmured smoothly, keeping her off balance. It amused him no end to watch her scramble to keep up now the rules of the game had changed. “Mercer is standing in the galleries with a crossbow aimed at your person so I suggest you don’t run.” He lied faultlessly, watching her eyes flick upwards to the alcoves that surrounded the grand hall. As far as Lord Beckett knew, Mercer was with the servants in the kitchen or off screwing one of the maids somewhere.
“You’re lying.” She accused quietly.
“Are you sure?” He stepped closer to her and smoothly took her waist, his hand fitting in hers far too easily.
“What do you want?” She asked as he guided her steps in time to the music.
“Excellent question.” He smirked, throwing her words back in her face in the politest way possible. “How much is your current…employer paying you?” He asked slowly, weighing his words carefully. She looked at him for a few moments, her expression blank.
“I have to return five hundred pounds sterling for not completing the task.” She said warily. He smiled inwardly, able to hear the curiosity in her voice. He let her stew for a little while, pretending to concentrate on the steps of the dance and absurdly pleased with her when she didn’t crack and ask why. It was the same kind of useless joy he derived when he managed to teach one of Mercers dogs a new trick or he had broken a horse in to his exacting standards. He wondered briefly if the woman before him would break as easily.
“I’m willing to offer you a thousand pounds.” He said it as if commenting on the weather (a typically British downpour at that moment) but still, she nearly fell over her own feet, her hand squeezing his shoulder in shock.
“And…for what service?” Her voice was shaking…Beckett relished it.
“Just do my every wish whenever I ask…lets say, for ten years.” He smiled. “That’s a hundred pounds a year.” He added, as if explaining rudimentary maths to a child.
“Five years at two hundred a year.” She murmured in reply, her eyes distant, as if she really wasn’t thinking about what she was saying.
“Done.” He had been prepared to accept less years but it was worth accepting that just to see the look on her face. “I’ll have Mercer find someone to draw up a contract tomorrow.” He told her, looking into suddenly focused eyes, smiling a little as he did so, “so you will belong to me legally.”