A/N: This may be a slightly belated note, but throughout this story I've been using some 18th century slang, the definitions of which can all be found at this absolutely marvelous website: http: / www. from old books. org /Nathan Bailey - Canting Dictionary /transcription .html. Take out the spaces and go visit if you'd like to!

CHAPTER 3

From inside the hold of the Sea Siren, Mercer could hear the ocean's waves beating rhythmically against the hull. The sound steadied him, eased his mind and settled his uneasy spirit. The sight of Catherine's house, the wealth in which she had lived – and the thought of the fate that awaited her in the future – had admittedly unnerved him.

He had no idea what sort of husband Drake Lawless would be, but he could imagine well enough. If all the man wanted was the Whitlock fortune, he would hardly treat young Catherine with kindness. He would take her money, and he would at best leave her to her own devices. At worst…

Mercer pictured his sister, her thin, gaunt face and her eyes full of pain and fear. At worst, he knew, Cat would end up like her.

That thought disturbed him far more than he thought it should. He had sworn to himself, when Cat had first stopped appearing at his home, that he would stop caring; and to some degree he felt he had. He had been sneering in his remarks about her to Beckett, when he talked about her; he hadn't asked Victoria to contact her, hadn't even entertained the thought of revealing their affair to anyone; and he'd almost – almost – stopped thinking about her. But there were still moments when her face would flash across his mind, quick as lightning, and he would feel a searing pain that he should not have experienced, if he truly had ceased to love her.

The morning's viewing of her house had proven to him that his feelings were not what he had thought them to be. It was apparent that Catherine still mattered to him – and that was a problem, particularly on this mission. He couldn't afford to be distracted, least of all by a mere girl. He needed to clear his head, to forget about her and move forward. To pay attention to the now.

The now, of course, was not very interesting, as it consisted of checking the cargo in the hold against the master list of what was supposed to be on board. Thus far, he had seen only weapons – boxes of pistols, boxes of rifles with bayonets, boxes full of cannonballs, casks of powder. There were swords to be checked, and knives, too, still – and then there was the merchant cargo, the valuable trade items that would bring in profit even if Mercer and Savage should fail on their mission.

Failing, of course, meant certain death, either by the pirates or by Beckett – so failure was not really an option.

Mercer sighed, threw the cargo list down atop a box of bayonets, and stormed to the stairs leading upward, dropping down onto one of them and hiding his head in his hands. Savage's remarks wouldn't stop echoing in his head. The horrible things the Lieutenant had said… well, granted, he was more vulgar than most, but that didn't mean the entire aristocracy wasn't thinking the same thing. They didn't know the details, didn't know of Cat's innocence or Mercer's sincerity; in all actuality they didn't know anything, other than that Cat was ruined, apparently by her own choice, and that she wouldn't tell anyone who the father of her child was. What were they supposed to think, really, with so little to go on?

And why was she keeping silent, anyway? Out of love for him? He couldn't manage to assure himself that she cared that deeply for him. He was almost as old as her father, after all; he wasn't good-looking, not remotely charming, not even wealthy enough to make up for that lack of charisma. He had nothing to his name except Beckett, and Beckett would certainly never defend Mercer if it were to come out that he was responsible for Catherine's downfall. Fear, then? Fear that he would be killed, that she would be even more rejected and alone?

Silently the unhappy clerk wondered exactly what Cat was up to at the moment. He wondered if she was still asleep despite the lateness of the hour, or if she was up wandering about her house, staring pensively out her window with that little, concerned frown she sometimes got when she was thinking seriously about something. He wondered what she looked like at the moment, what she was wearing, how much her belly had swelled – how tired and bedraggled and sad she appeared.

The sudden sound of boxes being disturbed made him look up. He frowned, peering into the darkened hold as his hand crept towards his pistol. He hadn't realized anyone else was below decks. As far as he knew he was the only one present in the hold. Unless, of course, there was a stowaway…

Mercer went totally still as more boxes shifted from the corner, hand poised to snatch the pistol the instant his adversary appeared. His eyes narrowed and his focus sharpened. He performed best, he felt, when he thought he was at odds with someone. When there was a threat, when there was danger, Mercer's body coiled like a spring, ready to pounce at the slightest sign of trouble. He monitored the corner carefully, fingers curved just above the pistol, ready to leap up as soon as the mysterious person below appeared.

The boxes made a final shift, and a small, short figure struggled to its feet, pushing its way through the boxes. Mercer's hand flew to the pistol and he jerked it out, cocking it and setting his finger at the trigger – but it dropped to his side when he saw who it was.

"Catherine?" he gasped in disbelief.

She gave a sharp cry and leapt back, eyes wide with fear, but the expression dissolved into relief when she saw him. "Oh, it's you," she said with a thankful sigh. "I had no idea who was moving about down here, and I thought they'd left…"

Mercer was torn between wanting to kill her and wanting to kiss her. "What the hell are you doing here?" he finally spat.

She looked wounded. "Tori told me you were leaving," she said, finally making her way out of the maze of cargo. She was wearing a relatively simple dress, plain black with no decorations – and in the flickering light of his lantern, Mercer was rather astonished to note how tiny she appeared, especially for being pregnant. "And both of us knew I couldn't stay with Lawless," Cat continued, appearing not to notice Mercer's gaze, "Especially after she told me some of his awful history…"

"You've been visiting Victoria?" Mercer said in a strangled voice. "And no one noticed?"

"Apparently not," Cat said with a triumphant smile. "She helped me get onboard this morning."

"Did she, now?" Mercer growled. "Lady Beckett and I are going to have a little chat this afternoon…"

Cat looked confused. "We're out to sea and won't be back to London for at least a few months," she pointed out. "So you won't see her this afternoon!"

"Oh, yes, I will," Mercer assured her, approaching her and taking her arm. "Because we are turning this ship around and bringing you back. Right now."

Catherine jerked her arm out of his grasp and glared stubbornly back at him. "No, we're not," she said, lifting her chin.

"Yes, we are," Mercer said through gritted teeth.

"We're not," Cat exclaimed angrily. "We're already too far out to sea."

"We aren't," Mercer said certainly. "And you can't go with us."

"Why not?" she demanded.

"Why not?" Mercer exploded. "Why not? One, you're pregnant, in case you had failed to notice; two, when Beckett finds out what's happened – and I can assure you he will – he'll beat Victoria senseless and then go after me and you; three, your parents will doubtless have every mercenary in the country looking for you; and four, Lawless is not going to let a fortune like yours run away that easily!"

Cat, oddly enough, was smiling slightly. "May I rebut?" she asked politely.

Mercer blinked at her. "What?" he questioned, completely taken aback.

"Rebut," she said. "You know, respond to all your answers in such a way that proves them wrong?"

Mercer snorted. "You can try," he said.

She folded her hands innocently before her, lacing her fingers together. "All right, then," she said confidently. "Firstly, Tori is prepared to take a beating on my behalf. And even if Beckett is furious about the situation, they'll probably just fight about it, ignore each other for a month, then move on. As for me, Beckett technically has no power over my actions since I'm not directly related to him or living in his household. And for you – he can't really beat you because you didn't know this was going to happen. And about my parents: even if they should have everyone on the lookout for me, it won't matter because I won't be in the country or even in Europe."

Mercer was glaring stoically at her. When she finished, he clapped in a bored manner. "Bra-vo," he drawled. "Really, excellent, Miss Whitlock. But you still haven't addressed my first or last points."

Her face fell, and she hung her head. "Well…" she said. She turned away from him and said hurriedly, "The baby… the baby died."

"What?"

He couldn't see her face, but he could tell from her posture that she was ready to cry. "I was… I was visiting Lawless, you see, and we… we got in this fight. Because my father… well, he was asking me about the baby's father and who it was, but I wouldn't tell him – I couldn't. I was so afraid he'd order your death… so I said nothing. And he got angry, you see, and he… well, he disowned me from my inheritance."

Mercer blinked. "Oh…" he said quietly.

"I don't know if things will stay that way," Cat admitted. "I think… I think maybe someday he'll forgive me. But for the time being my cousin Richard is going to take the property… the title… the money… everything. So that answers your fourth point."

"And the baby?"

He saw her hands tighten on her arms, her fingers digging into her skin. "I… I had nowhere to go, so I went to Lawless," she said slowly. "I didn't know what else to do; Beckett wouldn't stain his reputation by taking in a ruined woman, no matter how much Victoria protested, and Rosemary was out of town with Presbery, and I was afraid to come and find you… so I went to him. I had to tell him I'd been disowned, anyway… and when I told him, we got into a shouting match, and then he pushed me, and… I fell."

"Fell?"

"Down the stairs. Yes."

Mercer closed his eyes tightly, his fists clenching as he imagined Cat's fall and the pain she must have gone through afterwards. "And so the child…"

"Died."

They stood in silence a few moments. "When was this?" Mercer finally managed to ask.

"A few weeks ago. I've been at Lawless' house, recovering, but I sent a message to Victoria and she brought me to the Rose House last week. She told me you were leaving."

"And so you decided to follow me."

She turned to him with wide, desperate eyes. "What else could I do?" she asked, stepping towards him. "I have nothing left in the world now, nothing except you. My parents have rejected me, my own fiancé won't have me, my best friend can't take care of me for fear of her husband's wrath, which is deadly indeed, as you well know…"

Mercer dropped onto the stairs and buried his face in his hands again. "What am I going to do with you, Catie?" he sighed.

She walked over to sit on the lowest stair by his feet. "It seems to me that you're going to take me with you," she said assuredly.

"I can't," he whispered. "You don't understand… you haven't seen… you don't realize -!"

"You're going to kill people," Cat said matter-of-factly.

Mercer looked up at her in amazement, momentarily stunned into silence. "Wha – how did you -?"

"Tori and I talked frequently over the past two months – more so since she so kindly took me in at the Rose House," Catherine said, straightening her skirt. "I know all about your history and the things that you do and plan to do for Beckett."

"And you approve?"

She frowned. "No, I don't," she said. "I don't like it at all, actually, and I'm sure I don't want to see you doing it. But it seems… well… in your blood."

Mercer shook his head in disbelief. "You, Catherine Whitlock, are absolutely out of your mind," he told her finally.

"I know," she sighed. "But you can see how desperate I was. Am. Somewhat. And it isn't as though I've come unprepared – I know about your sister and all that."

"Oh, God," Mercer groaned, realizing rather abruptly that Victoria must have told Catherine about Beckett's command to murder Perthina – and that Mercer had actually done it.

Cat tilted her head to the side, studying him carefully. "You really did kill her, didn't you?" she said.

Mercer stared into the dark of the hold. "Yes," he said bleakly.

She shuddered slightly. "Why?" she asked softly.

"Because I had to," he said simply.

She chewed her lip. "Do you regret it?"

He shrugged. "I didn't, really," he said, "Not when I thought she had intentionally betrayed Beckett. But things have changed a great deal these days…"

Catherine nodded. "So it seems," she murmured painfully. She looked up at him and admitted with great frankness, "After Tori told me everything I didn't want to see you ever again."

Mercer's gloved hands clenched into fists. "Then why did you come?" he asked tightly.

"I changed my mind." She reached tentatively upwards and laid her hand over his. "I can't think you're all bad," she said. "You didn't intend to hurt me, after all, and I believe you really cared about me."

"I did." The confession brought him no joy, only more anger. "But I hope you don't expect to draw out some kind of simpering, God-fearing gentleman from the depths of my soul. This is my life. Beckett is my life, and doing what he asks… is how I live. That won't change no matter what happens to me."

Catherine's hand dropped away. "I… I know," she said, turning away.

Mercer glanced sharply at her. "No, you don't," he said certainly. "You wouldn't be here if you didn't think you could shape me into something else."

She shrugged. "Maybe that's not why I'm here," she said. "Maybe I'm just trying to escape a life in the streets – a life I don't want."

"Believe you me, Miss Whitlock, you don't want this life, either," Mercer said, standing. He started up the stairs. "Are you – are you sure this is the right decision, Catie? Staying with me on board this ship?"

She looked up at him and nodded. "Yes," she said. "This is where I'm supposed to be. I can't go anywhere else, really…" She looked hopefully at him. "But you'll take care of me… I love you, and I think you love me… you'll keep me safe."

Mercer wasn't sure he could keep her safe, but hearing her say that she loved him was more than enough compensation for the moment. "All right," he growled. "All right, so be it, stay. I'll… I'll do what I can for you." He studied her carefully. "You'll have to stay hidden, you know," he warned. "I'll look about and see if I can't find a better place for you, but in the meantime you'll have to stay here."

She nodded. "I can do that."

They stared at each other momentarily; then Cat vaulted up the few steps separating them and hugged him. Mercer stood momentarily frozen in surprise; then, uncertainly, he hugged her back. "Thank you," she murmured into his neck.

He wasn't exactly sure what to say to that, so instead of saying anything he pulled back and rushed up the stairs, away from the hold and away from her.

Beckett was receiving the cold shoulder from his wife, and he was damn unhappy about it.

They had spent the entire morning arguing about Rosemary's threats, with Victoria demanding that the Wellington heiress be permitted to visit and Beckett flat out refusing. "Presbery's marriage is not my concern," he'd said emphatically when Victoria had attempted to argue on the besotted Lord's behalf. "And that little chittiface is not stepping foot in my house ever again if I have anything to say about it."

"You can't just lock me away like a prisoner!" Victoria had exclaimed

To which Beckett had replied simply: "Can't I?"

Well, Victoria had to admit that he had a point there. Obviously Beckett could lock her away if he wished; didn't he do exactly that while courting her, after all? But that didn't stop her from being furious with him for pointing it out.

So she and her husband were currently not on speaking terms – a not-infrequent occurrence about their household, but unpleasant nonetheless. They were eating lunch in chilly silence, sitting across the table from one another with Beckett staring relentlessly at Victoria and Victoria coolly ignoring his intense gaze. Finally, he said to her, "She's not going to come see you, Victoria."

Victoria viciously stabbed at the meat on her plate. "Why not?" she inquired pleasantly, still refusing to look at him. "It's a perfectly reasonable request, you know."

"Reasonable? You think refusing to marry her own fiancé, a man she loves, no less, is reasonable?" Beckett demanded.

"She knows what she wants and she's bargaining hard to get it," Victoria replied evenly. "You should be proud of her."

"No. No I shouldn't," Beckett snapped. "Because, once again, she is interfering in my business, and she has no right."

"I believe she does," Victoria said stiffly. "It involves a friendship that's very dear to both her and me."

"And why is it so dear to you, Miss Thorne?" Beckett asked. Finally, Victoria winced; he only called her Miss Thorne when he was extremely angry. "Why do you insist on sullying your own mostly decent reputation as well as my flawless one by spending time with a harridan like her?"

"She's not a harridan!" Victoria exclaimed, throwing down her fork and finally looking directly at him. "She's my friend and I miss her and I want to see her, and plainly she wants to see me too!"

"I don't want her here!" Beckett snarled, also slamming his fork down. "And I thought we agreed that no one should see your face until it was healed."

"And God knows when that will be," Victoria retorted. "You haven't even heard from Thompson yet."

"I will soon enough," Beckett said assuredly.

"Well, it doesn't matter anyway," Victoria huffed. "Rose is going to wonder when my face heals perfectly, with no scars at all. She'll start asking questions and nosing around even more. For that reason alone, you should let her visit me. Don't you agree, your Lordship?" The title had a sarcastic, unfriendly tone.

"No, I don't," Beckett said frigidly. "She can wait just like everyone else."

"No, she can't," Victoria said through gritted teeth. "It's not as if I'm asking to go to her wedding, Cutler."

"That, too, is absolutely out of the question."

"I know," Victoria said irritably. "I don't plan on going and never have. But what about our daughter?"

"It's a boy, and what about him?" Beckett asked calmly.

"It's a girl, and I want Rosemary to know about her!" Victoria exclaimed. "I haven't been able to tell anyone besides you, and I find that ridiculously unfair! I should be bragging to everyone about the news!"

"Proud to be displaying evidence of how good our marital relations are, are you?" Beckett sneered.

"You are an insufferable dandyprat," Victoria said disgustedly.

Beckett was livid with rage. "Call me that again, and you'll find yourself shackled in the cellar," he warned.

"So you're willing to put your daughter in danger for the sake of your pride?" Victoria fired back.

"My son will be perfectly safe down there," Beckett said evenly. "And my order still stands."

Victoria was prepared to barrage him with another round of arguments, but at that moment Oscar Boddie shuffled in. "Lord Presbery here to see you, sir," he announced.

Victoria smirked across the table at her husband. "Does it, now?" she asked sweetly.

"Go to hell, wench," Beckett snarled at her.

Before Beckett could order Oscar to send Presbery away, the man himself hurried into the room, looking disheveled and displeased. "Beckett, Rosemary's out of her mind," Presbery said wearily, dropping into the chair next to Beckett's. "You have to make her stop."

"I'm sure I have no power over anything Miss Wellington does," Beckett said stiffly, tossing back some of the port in his glass.

"I'm quite sure you do," Presbery said impatiently. "And I think you know what I'm talking about."

"She can't see my wife," Beckett said flatly.

"But -!" Presbery protested.

"No, Presbery," Beckett said.

"If you'd just -!"

"No," Beckett repeated, closing his eyes tightly.

"Cutler, for pity's sake -!" Victoria cried.

"No!" Beckett shouted, slamming a fist on the table.

"Beckett, it's not that absurd of a request," Presbery said angrily. "She just wants to see -!" He glanced at Victoria, stopped speaking, and stared. "Dear God," he breathed, eyes flicking over the series of scars in horror.

Beckett glanced at his wife, then back at Presbery. "You see why I don't want Rose here?" he said quietly. "Seeing Victoria like this will be terrible for her."

Victoria flushed darkly, the scars on her skin standing out bright white against the ruddy flesh. "She knows they're there," she said, valiantly attempting not to show how deeply wounding Presbery's gawking was. "I don't see how it'll hurt her to see them."

"Oh, yes, Victoria darling," Beckett said sarcastically. "I'm sure it won't pain your dear friend in the slightest to see the damage done to you by the pirates, just as it won't pain you to the see look on her face when she first takes you in, and just as it's not paining you now to try and act brave under Presbery's scrutiny."

Presbery abruptly seemed to realize how rude he was being at this remark. He blinked, shook his head, cleared his throat nervously and said, "Nonsense, Beckett, they're not so bad."

Both Victoria and Beckett shot him disdainful looks.

"All right, fine, they're terrible," Presbery snapped. "And I'm sorry they're so bad, but there's not much you can do about them -!"

"There is, actually," Beckett said.

"Really?" Presbery looked amazed. "You've found some way to get rid of them?"

"I believe so, yes," Beckett said with a nod. "Which means no one need know of what's happened. Which is why Rose doesn't need to see her just yet."

Presbery groaned. "But, Beckett, the woman won't marry me until she has," he said pleadingly.

"Not my problem," Beckett said resolutely.

"Cutler, please," Victoria begged. "Even if it hurts me to see her expression when she looks at me, I'll at least have some company."

"Because I don't spend nearly enough of my time with you," Beckett retorted.

"Half the time you're working!" Victoria bristled. "And even if you're not working, half the time we're together we're fighting each other!"

"Like right now," Presbery noted wryly. "Please, Lord Beckett -!"

Oscar peeped into the doorway again. "Um, sir?" he said timidly.

"What now?" Beckett sighed, running a hand over his eyes.

"Lord Whitlock's here to see you," Oscar said.

Beckett looked up in surprise. "What's he want?" he asked.

Victoria leapt out of her chair. "I should go before he sees me," she said, hurriedly turning and running out of the room.

"Wait a minute -!" Beckett snapped, sitting up, but she was already gone. "Why do I get the feeling that wasn't the only reason she ran?" he growled. There came a knock on the door. "Enter," he said coldly.

Lord Whitlock burst into the room, looking harried. There were dark circles under his eyes and he looked as though he'd been wearing his rumpled suit for days. "I'm looking for my daughter," he said, his voice cracking with exhaustion.

Beckett frowned. "Is she missing?" he asked.

Lord Whitlock momentarily looked confused. "No, no, I don't believe so," he said in puzzlement. "Lawless said she was staying here. She… she took a fall, I guess, and the baby died -!"

"What?" Beckett and Presbery exclaimed simultaneously.

Lord Whitlock stumbled to a chair and dropped down into it, hiding his face in his hands. "It's… the poor creature… my only daughter… I disowned her, sir," he burst out.

"You did – why?" Presbery gasped, even though Whitlock hadn't been speaking to him.

"Because she's sullied! Ruined!" Whitlock said, pounding a fist on the table for emphasis. "And… and I can't give my fortune to a creature like that. But… but she didn't know where to go, you see, and she went to Lawless, and I thought she was still staying there, but he told me she tripped on the hem of her dress down the stairs and that her child was taken from her by the Lord. And also that he wouldn't have her now that she was a penniless street urchin."

"The bastard," Presbery raged. "I hate that man. You should hear the things he's done to Rosemary…"

"I'm sure that's not appropriate table conversation, Presbery," Beckett drawled.

"You shut up!" Presbery said passionately.

"That's a good way to earn a slow, painful death," Beckett warned, eyes narrowing.

"Gentlemen, please!" Whitlock begged. "I only came here to see my daughter."

Beckett turned back to him with a frown. "Why here?" he asked.

"Lawless said she had come here," Whitlock cried, beginning to sound hysterical. "Isn't she here?"

Beckett shoved his chair back and stood from it, his face a mask of cold fury. "Not as far as I know," he said. "I didn't give my permission for her to come. But then, I was never asked."

He started towards the door, but paused when he was met with a cry from Whitlock. "Wait! Where are you going?" the distraught father demanded.

Beckett didn't turn around. "To talk to my wife," he said icily. "Go home, Whitlock. When I've gotten the truth out of her I'll tell you what's happened."

Without another word, he set out towards the gardens to search for his errant wife.