Delicacy Part Seventeen
Title: Delicacy Part Seventeen
Author: celticbard76
Word Count: 2,248
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Lord Beckett, James Norrington and Mrs. Prior (OC)
Pairings: mild Beckabeth, Beckett/Mrs. Prior and Norrington/Mrs. Prior.
Chapter Summary: Beckett grows increasingly paranoid while Mrs. Prior tries her hand at manipulation.
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean although I do own Mrs. Prior and all OCs mentioned herein.
Author’s Note: Here I am with another very late chapter and I do apologize for the delay. It took me much longer to write than anticipated and in end, I don’t really care for it. Oh well. I would like to thank everyone who read the last chapter and those of you that commented. Thanks you all so much, your continued support has been so encouraging. I have no beta reader, (although this chapter has been thoroughly proofread) so any grammatical or spelling errors that appear are my fault and my fault alone. Happy New Year!
Beckett paced the length of his office, turned on his heel and walked smartly back, his steps slowing as the wooden floor was interrupted by a thick carpet. The house was disgustingly silent.
She was gone. Mrs. Prior was gone.
And by God, he should have never sent her away.
A shiver fingered his spine, his flesh crawling beneath the laundered linen of his shirt. Poison lingered on his lips and he licked them. A memory grew and bloomed within his galloping heart. She had kissed him goodbye, silly fool, silly whore. And it had been a mockery, a farce. The widow who pretended to love him and he, the lofty lord, who pretended to lust after her.
But they both hated each other.
Beckett paused his pacing and leaned upon the lip of his desk. He was unaccustomed to perilous self-doubt and his health paid the toll, his stomach cramped, head heavy with pain. Damn it all, Mrs. Prior, he had quite forgotten about Elizabeth Swann.
Yes, she too was gone. Elizabeth Swann was gone.
Hmm and wasn’t it a wonder, wasn’t it a shame that he didn’t care too much about her? She had been a passing distraction perhaps, a delight sampled in fragrant, hedonistic garden. Sport, she had been naught but sport.
Mrs. Prior, however, was something else.
A strange woman, a cursed thing, a dark, evil thing. But he enjoyed their wicked dance.
And now it was over, the song faltering, fading, slipping away. He grasped at the last strains, watched as they fell through his fingers and left him, the great Lord Beckett, alone.
Hmm and wasn’t it a wonder now that he thought of it? He needed her after all.
Too late. It was too late.
Reason nipped at his desperation. He had no hope of recalling her.
Where did she wander, he wondered. Where did she stray? Certainly not home to haunted England and certainly not to the grave.
She knew, yes, the damned woman knew. Knew every inch of him, his flesh, his mind, his soul. And she was dangerous for it.
Beckett straightened and his legs were aching, his bones chilled and dampened by that tempestuous thing called fear.
He had been wrong, wrong to think of Elizabeth Swann as challenge. Camilla, after all, had been the real conquest.
The sky was grey, moody, patchy. Clouds clustered about the horizon. Beckett stumbled towards the shutters and cast them open, greeting the careless wind with a pained laugh.
“Wrong,” he told himself. “I was wrong.”
*****
Mrs. Prior helped James to the top of the stairs and watched as he stumbled into the rented room, the door swinging wildly behind him. She laughed quietly to herself and slipped into the musty little attic above the even mustier tavern. It was a poor place, boasting only a greasy, three-legged table, two scuffed chairs and sagging a mattress that was stretched over a narrow bed.
The floorboards were sticky and Mrs. Prior tread quickly across them to close the shutters over the open window that looked out over the bay. She then returned to the door, fastened the sturdy lock and dropped the key into her pocket.
James raised a brow. Light from a single, yellow candle decked his face in shadows. “Should I feel threatened?”
Mrs. Prior laughed loudly this time. “Indeed, sir.”
He frowned. “I see you’ve taken to mocking me again.”
“Not quite, sir.” She seated herself in one of the chairs, grimacing as it rocked, unsteady. James did likewise, his arms resting on the table, hands splayed over faint, dusty scratches.
“What do you want with me?” he asked and his voice was thin.
Mrs. Prior pulled her hair free and let it fall over her shoulders. “I should ask you the same question, really,” she said. “You did follow me, after all. But to what purpose?”
“No games.” James straightened and he suddenly reminded Mrs. Prior of Lord Beckett, his tone lofty, air arrogant.
She sneered. “We will have games. We will have games if I say so.”
He rose and headed for the door.
“It’s locked,” she called over her shoulder, watching as his lean frame escaped the pool of weak light emitted by the candle.
“I do not need the key,” he replied. James raised his leg and planted his boot heel just above the lock. The door shuddered, the wood shrieking as thin cracks cascaded along the frame.
“Sit back down,” Mrs. Prior ordered. “Sit back down and there’ll be no more games, you hear?”
James returned to table and composed himself.
Mrs. Prior frowned. “I want us to do business.”
“Why?” His question came quick, unexpected.
She shook her head. “I thought you said no more games.”
“This isn’t a trick,” he replied evenly. “If we are to do business, I want to know why. What worth am I to you? What has Beckett promised you that has you wading through the filth of Tortuga to find me?”
“Who said I came to find you?” Mrs. Prior laid her hands on her lap and rolled back her shoulders. By God, the room was hot and a trickle of salty sweat streamed down her creased brow.
“You were pleased enough by your catch.” James stuck out a finger and wiped the weeping tallow from the table. “Why am I worth something to you? You are the middle man and some price must have been promised, some bargain must have past between you and Beckett. If I were to guess, I would say that you were his prisoner and he offered you a pardon in exchange for whatever it is you wish to accomplish here.”
Mrs. Prior scoffed. “I wasn’t his prisoner, sir, I already told you. I was his mistress.”
James folded his arms before him. “I daresay it’s the same thing.”
The chair flew back, bounced once against the floor and then lay still. Mrs. Prior was on her feet and she leaned over the table, leaned over the candle with a wicked leer.
“Mind your words, sir.”
James sniffed. “I see I’ve hit a nerve.”
Her eyes narrowed, slits of brown that had once been hazel but were now tarnished. She fingered her bandage. “Perhaps.” The chair was righted and she sat with a thud, jerking the table, pushing it away until it slammed into his torso.
“Anger.” James watched the wobbling candle. The flame hissed. “Why are you so very angry?”
“That’s not a question one should ask unless one is quite prepared for the reply.” Mrs. Prior flexed her hands and stared at the fine veins that twined over her knuckles and wily fingers.
James sighed. “And then there is your voice. You speak proper at times, like a parlor raised girl. Perhaps it’s all a farce in itself. Perhaps you are a false threat, a lie.”
She glanced up at him through hooded, red-rimmed eyes. “I was never keen on philosophy, never quite so learned as you would believe.”
“I don’t trust you.” James arched his neck and looked suspicious. “Pawn, you’re a pawn of Beckett’s and I cannot place my faith in you.”
Mrs. Prior shrugged, slipping out of her sweat-drenched overcoat. “Why must you?”
“If we are to do business-”
“And not dance about riddles-”
“Then I must trust you.”
Mrs. Prior leaned back in the chair and let her weight lift the front legs off the floor. “You are awfully finicky for a gutter man.”
He grimaced.
“I would certainly say you have no choice,” she continued, “unless you enjoy your life now, but I doubt that. Why did you follow me then? Ah, we have come full circle, sir. Back to the beginning. Name your price and I will name my conditions.”
“Not until you answer me first.” James sounded decisive. Mrs. Prior felt uncomfortable.
She shifted, dropped the chair back down onto it’s front legs and crossed her ankles. He shouldn’t be permitted to dominate the conversation, to lead her about where he wished. Despite her tendency to pounce first and question later, Mrs. Prior knew how to get an answer when need be. Memories of the humid night in the prison courtyard with Elizabeth Swann ruptured her thoughts. Yes, it was all a game, all great fun provided she kept the other party walking in circles, unknowingly trapped within her net.
But James made things difficult with his questions and with his haunted countenance that seemed to only reflect her own.
A sigh slithered past her lips. “I need you.”
Keen appreciation lit James’ gaze. “Why?”
“To gain Beckett’s favor once more,” she said tersely. Her fingers scraped along the rough surface of the table, dragging up splinters and dirt beneath her already stained nails.
“So you are on the outs with him?” James pressed her.
“Now, yes.”
“But not always?”
“No.” Mrs. Prior shook her head and bitter, biting thoughts made her heart thunder in her breast. “I was once his.”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand.” The delicacy of James’ tone shocked her. He sounded polite almost, like the gentleman he had supposedly once been. But Mrs. Prior could not reconcile his now filthy countenance with the powdered planes of a dandy’s face.
“I came with him from England,” she continued. “He brought me, imported me if you will.”
“As a slave?”
“As a weapon.” Her tongue curled against her lips. “And…and a slave,” she conceded. “I did some work for him about London, kept on eye on his enemies, dispatched those that became troublesome.”
“And how did you enter into his employ in the first place?” James tilted his head to the side, curious.
Mrs. Prior’s eyes sharpened in annoyance. “Must you know everything about my existence?”
“Indeed.”
“Very well. I came into him employ after he saw me murder a man in London, a man who was our mutual enemy though neither of us knew it at the time. And he was impressed and I was frightened and he offered me a place in his household. He called me his housekeeper and I played the part well for society.”
“Hmmm.” James emitted an amused little noise. “And the Caribbean? Why did you break with him?”
“I did not break with him,” Mrs. Prior replied. “I was taken from him, sir.” She shut her eyes for a instant and remembered pretty Miss Swann, that demon, that devil who had robbed her blind. Pain, a physical memory, touched her wounded hand once more and unconsciously she clutched at the bandage.
Murderess. That Miss Swann was as much of a murderess as she was.
James exhaled sharply. “By what?”
“By whom,” Mrs. Prior corrected him.
James lowered his head, prompted and prodded her with his keen eyes.
“Another woman,” she said stiffly, “but that’s all I shall say.”
“Jealous?” His hand fell over hers, clasped her clammy fingers in his and tightened.
“Yes.” She pulled away. “So very jealous.”
“It’s clear to me now.” A smile tugged at his lips and he looked satisfied. “So I’m to be a part of some elaborate scheme for revenge. Some filthy sport.”
Mrs. Prior sucked on her lower lip. “If you like.” She laid her hands before her and looked at him straight, hoping to dissect the buried secrets in his soul, the burden he bore with an anger-stained smile.
Damn it all, they were of the same mind.
And yet here she sat, a crafty murderer. And here he sat, a sloppy drunk. She wondered why pain changed men so, passing thing that it was. Perhaps neither of them were very strong.
Suddenly, she smiled, a true smile, a thirsty, yearning thing that longed for the tender touch of comfort. “I’ll tell you the truth.”
James leaned forward in his chair. “Do.”
“I came looking for an ally, I did, not another pawn. Not another tool. I want a friend.”
“And you hope to find one in me?”
Mrs. Prior rolled her eyes. “I was never one for hope, really, immaterial thing that it is.”
His face hardened then. His fists slammed against the table, the candle rattling, spitting, shedding wax. James jumped to his feet. “You promised.”
“What?” Mrs. Prior turned in her chair and crossed her slim legs. He was standing before her, panting, shaking, muscles so very taut.
“No more games.”
She watched him for a minute, waited until he was past his breaking point and stood shattered before. “No,” she whispered. “No more games.”
He did not possess the regal stoicism of Lord Beckett and when she came to him he yielded effortlessly enough. She kissed him once, twice, three times and then he became greedy. Eager hands tore at her clothes, tried to lift her up and over to the bed, warm fingers around her thighs.
Mrs. Prior pushed him off. “Enough.” Her steely voice stopped him.
“But-”
She wanted to make him linger. With a witch’s smile she unlocked the door and stepped out onto the top of the stairs. James called her once, twice, three times but still she did not come.
Only when he had fallen silent did Mrs. Prior reenter the room and allowed him to reach for her once more. But ah, he was different now, a quiet creature, humbled, restrained and, yes, so easily controlled.