Also, I apologize if the events in this chapter seem a little cliché. I just couldn't help it, it sort of wrote itself!
Chapter 4
Clothes Maketh the Man
Elizabeth moved quietly and warily through the hallway, passing paintings and small framed maps hanging on the wall. The corridor branched to the left, and she knew from when she'd been brought in that the corridor opened up onto the deck. She could hear the murmur of voices and the spray of the sea calling to her, the thud of boots and the metallic sounds of jostling guns and clicking swords. Her knuckles were white as her hands made fists at her sides, but she was not truly afraid. She was anxious about being discovered, and not getting the opportunity to investigate the ship; but she had no plans to escape, and nobody could get angry at her for something she had no intention of doing. It was not a crime to merely wander around.
Besides, it was his fault for not locking the door.
Taking in a breath, she stepped around the corner and out onto the deck, raising her face up to the brilliant sunshine. The Endeavour was a hive of activity. It lacked the noisy chaos of the pirate ships, but was busy nonetheless, with soldiers scuttling to and fro and working on various small tasks. She wondered where the officers were and craned her neck up, realizing that they must be all on the upper deck.
So far, nobody had paid the slightest bit of attention to her. A couple men glanced up from a pile of rope they were coiling, but had made no move to seize her. Elizabeth was confused, but at the same time it made her suspicious. Why did they do nothing to stop her? Had Beckett intended for her to leave her cabin?
She moved farther out onto the deck, cautiously. A group of soldiers was marching towards her and she tensed, but to her surprise they passed her by, with barely a glance in her direction.
She straightened, brow furrowed as she gazed around the deck. Fine, then. If he had no intention of keeping her locked away, she had no intention of secreting herself in corners and skulking about like an animal.
Elizabeth strode out into full view, moving through the soldiers and crossing to the port side, stepping in between two massive cannons. She curled her hands around the railing and gazed down at the churning sea, the salty spray glistening on the brightly painted wood. The bigger ship did not rock so much as the smaller Pearl or Empress, riding smoothly on the immense swells and choppy waves.
After a moment or two she stepped back – her freshly washed skin was already sticky with salt, and she rubbed at it with her sleeve, turning away from the sea. She raised her eyes to the upper deck, her gaze traveling up the wide staircase and over the assorted officers. She did not see Beckett, but that didn't guarantee he wasn't there.
As if of their own accord, her feet carried her to the staircase and she moved up them slowly, her hand trailing on the banister. Several officers glanced up at her as she reached the top, looked at each other, then back down at their maps. This lack of interest baffled her, but also created a peculiar sense of freedom, as if unseen restraints around her had loosened. She felt invisible, free to move among them without fear of capture or, frankly, any attention at all.
She stood for a moment, unmoving and unsure, her hand still gripping the railing. She watched silently as they murmured among themselves, fingers touching the map briefly, sketching illustrations on the paper with their hands. The braid on their coats glinted in the sunlight, the pristine uniforms looking very grand, but somehow superior, as if the glittering gold and the solid, sophisticated blue were mocking her own dirty clothing.
She approached two officers hesitantly, their voices becoming more distinct as she drew closer. Their backs were to her, the tails of their wigs immaculately white against the dark of their coats.
"What is our position?" she spoke up loudly. They turned to her in guarded surprise, their eyes flicking over her, then back at each other.
After a pregnant pause, in which she could practically hear their minds working, one of them extended the map wordlessly in her direction. "We sailed directly northwest from the pirates' cove," he said, and his finger lightly touched a tiny group of dots on the map. "We passed these islands approximately an hour ago."
They were in the middle of nowhere, Elizabeth realized despairingly, taking the map in her hands and staring down at it. She had not really contemplated the possibility of escape, but it had hung in the back of her mind nonetheless. Now she saw that their present position, if correct, put them hundreds of miles south of Singapore or, for that matter, any land, sailing in the great blank space between India and Africa.
"Are there plans to make port?" she asked, handing the map back to the officer. But he was looking past her, turning away without answering. She heard a soft voice behind her.
"So you can execute your brave escape? Hardly."
She spun around and came face to face with Lord Beckett. "I'm almost astonished to find you up here," she sneered, looking him up and down derisively. "I thought you'd be lounging below decks and letting other people do your work."
To her surprise, he actually looked affronted. "You offend me," he said with a tilt of his head. "Surely you don't believe I know nothing of ships and sailing?"
"No," she conceded with a slight reddening of cheeks. It had been a foolish comment; of course Beckett would be possess nautical knowledge.
But he seemed to have already forgotten the incident. "Walk with me," he said, and although his tone was casual, it was not so much a request as a command. Elizabeth's first instinct was to rebel, but after a moment she admitted that she felt no real desire to refuse, as she did indeed want to see more of the ship.
"Very well," she said grudgingly, falling into step beside him as he moved about the deck. He slowed his pace from time to time, answering an officer's query or merely listening to them speak, watching them adjust sextants and fiddle with navigational instruments. It struck her that, although he may not be at the helm, he was truly in command of this ship, his quiet, observant authority reminding her of a feudal lord surveying his realm.
Despite the fact that she was, for all intensive purposes, his prisoner, she felt strangely safe and comfortable at his side, as if she too were part of his overseeing of the ship. It was an odd sensation and she stifled it, eyeing him from below her lashes.
No, it would do no good to become careless and unwary. Regardless of his current tranquility, it was impossible to ignore the thread of sharp alertness that ran beneath the surface of his calm voice and composed expression.
She felt irritated suddenly, her languid relaxation dissipating, as she followed him down the staircase and back onto the lower deck. Had he no emotion, no feeling? Was he always this hard, cold, serene statue, with eyes like glass and a smirk that could cut diamonds?
"Won't you say something?" she said loudly, frowning at him as they moved out of the harsh sun and back into the cool, dark corridor.
"What would you have me say?" he replied without turning, passing her and entering his massive study. "Recite sonnets for your enjoyment, inquire about your health and remark on the state of the weather?"
She scowled at his back, her eyes flicking over to the officers poring over a chart in the corner. Beckett followed her gaze and dismissed them with a gesture, and they immediately left the room, silent and fleeting as ghosts.
Elizabeth whirled around and continued, "I would have you say something to me. You think you can convince me to tell you the location of the pirates? Well, you haven't done much convincing yet! Can we at least get it over with?"
As she spoke he had settled into his chair with a sigh. "Very well. If you like, we can finish it here and now. Simply tell me what I need to know and it will be, as you put it, over with."
Her scowl deepened in frustration. "That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean?"
She flung up her hands. "Oh, I don't know! I just know that I can't stand sitting around doing nothing, in dirty clothes and a dull little cabin, waiting for you to decide what to do with me!"
His eyes had suddenly become very bright, and very amused. "You inspire me, Elizabeth."
She waited for him to continue, standing before his desk as his eyes traveled over her rumpled, stained outfit. "You are right about your clothing. Rather unattractive – "
"No thanks to you," she butted in.
He gazed up at her, his expression calm but eyes narrowed slightly. "I would appreciate it greatly, Elizabeth, if you would not interrupt me again."
She gritted her jaw, and apparently he took that as a sign of consent.
"As I was saying, your clothes are very shabby and stained. I can see why you can't tolerate them any longer. However…" Here Elizabeth caught her breath, hoping against hope that he would make the offer of clothing. "However," he continued, "They do not offend me. They can stay as are for the time being."
Her mouth dropped open. "What? But I cannot stay in these, they're filthy!"
He shrugged slightly. "I see nothing wrong with them. True, they could use a good washing, but they aren't falling off yet. And until then, you'll just have to make do."
His calm dismissal infuriated her. "Fine. Just fine," she spat, her earlier relaxation all but forgotten. Without thinking she began tearing off her dirty clothes, the buttons and hooks ripping as she flung off the coat, tossing away the wide belt and armored collar, thudding as they hit the ground. "If you can't be bothered to procure me something else to wear, then I'll just have to take care of it myself!" She lashed out with a foot, the boot flying violently across the room, tearing the grimy trousers down the seams and flinging them behind her.
"Are you convinced now?" she exclaimed, almost panting in her anger. "Now will you get me something to wear?" With a shriek of pent-up rage, she kicked the other boot, and it went skidding across the floor.
She stood, breathing heavily, as Beckett stared at her. Somewhere deep inside, she was pleased to elicit some sort of change in his usual cool demeanor. His expression was a combination of incredulity, and perplexity, with more than a hint of scorn, topped off by an eyebrow that raised in a silent question, as if saying, What on earth are you doing?
She looked slowly down, suddenly becoming aware that she was clad in nothing but a flimsy black undergarment that left little to the imagination. Her cheeks flushed, her own imagination running wild, but raised her eyes to his bravely.
"So you see, now I really do have nothing to wear."
He smiled then, and nodded in her direction, as if acknowledging a clever move in a chess game. "And so I have no choice but to find you something appropriate. An admirable line of attack, Elizabeth, even if it was born out of a thoughtless tantrum."
She wasn't sure whether to be pleased or insulted, and settled for wary nod.
"You have my permission to wear whatever you wish," he said with an uninterested wave of his hand.
"Whatever I wish?" she queried skeptically.
"Whatever you can find," he corrected, settling back in his chair and drumming his fingers slowly on the desk. "I hope I can expect you to locate something more appropriate than, say, a burlap sack?"
She sneered at him and strode towards the desk. He paused in his finger drumming, but she swept past, going straight for the small door in the corner. She heard him rise up quickly, his chair scraping on the floor, and allowed herself a small smile as she swung open the door to Lord Beckett's private cabin.
Elizabeth's eyes flicked over the cabin for a brief moment, then she went straight for the chest of drawers, passing the large bunk and elegant little escritoire, bare feet padding across the thick Oriental rug. She flung open drawers, rummaging through the neatly folded shirts and perfectly pressed waistcoats, laid out flat so they would not wrinkle.
Whatever she could find, then? He would regret such casual words.
She smiled in sadistic pleasure as she delved into the froth of white linen, coming up with a shirt that she quickly shrugged into, buttoning it up deftly. She heard his footsteps stop in the doorway and smiled even wider, carelessly tossing a cream waistcoat to the floor. There was a small mirror propped on the drawers and out of the corner of her eye, she could see his reflection in it.
She tugged out a burgundy waistcoat and slipped it on, reveling in the feel of the fine brocade against her fingers. The clothing had been tailored for broader shoulders and a more masculine figure, but nonetheless fit her rather well. Satisfied with her choice, she yanked out another drawer, hauling out several pairs of black breeches and selected one, letting the others fall to the ground. She hopped into them, one foot at a time, tucking the black undergarment into them and buttoning up the sides.
Strange as if seemed, with each article of clothing she put on, she felt as if she were donning a mantle of splendor and capability. The smooth silk and supple linen made her feel tall, endowing her with an unexplainable sense of radiance.
"There." She pronounced the word with a triumphant satisfaction, spinning on her bare heel to face him. "Am I presentable?"
He smirked, but it lacked real malice, and he crossed the cabin slowly, the corners of his mouth working. She wondered if he was holding in a laugh.
"You have provisioned very well for yourself, Elizabeth," he said, his voice light. "Quite the far cry from the oversized soldier's uniform I was expecting. Or… did I say burlap sack?"
"Do I amuse you?" she said indignantly, her momentary victory dissolving, her energy deflating.
He didn't reply, instead gesturing for her to turn. She did so with a scowl of irritation and suspicion. He reached around her, opening a small drawer and pulling out a length of snowy white fabric, and she drew away as he moved to touch her.
"Hold still," he said severely, and she forced herself to do so as he began winding the fabric around her neck.
"You could strangle me now," she muttered heatedly.
"That wouldn't do me any good, would it?" She glanced into the mirror and saw his fingers moving dexterously, somehow intimately, at her throat, his face half hidden behind her but his eyes focused on the fabric. After a moment, he pulled his hands away to reveal a perfectly knotted cravat.
She met his gaze in the mirror. "I look like you," she announced, exasperated, and vaguely disturbed by the resemblance from the neck down.
He raised an eyebrow. "You raided my wardrobe. Were you expecting another outcome?"
She was hit suddenly by a strange, shocking and completely unexpected feeling of camaraderie. Their conversation was far from that of bosom companions, but it was – dare she say it – bordering on friendly? She looked back into the mirror again. His expression was cool, his smile as sardonic as always, but something in the manner of his bearing gave the impression of easy familiarity. Her own face was relaxed, her eyes softened, her brow smooth and free from the wrinkles of anger she knew frequently blossomed there.
At the thought, the wrinkles returned, and she felt herself tensing up again. As if aware of the shift in temper, Beckett turned away with a haughty tilt of his chin. "Perhaps it is time for you to return to your cabin," he said dismissively. A pair of soldiers magically appeared, as if he'd commanded them mentally. "And, maybe, this time I'll request the door be locked."
As Elizabeth was marched away, bare feet silent on the wooden floors, she felt somehow disheartened. Their interaction had been odd, confusing, creating within her a reaction of bemused uncertainty. She was no sure how, but somehow their association had transversed from that of captor and captive to a tentative, delicate familiarity. There was no mistaking it, she was his prisoner and his dominant, superior attitude would not let her forget it. It was all but impossible to ignore the dangerous undercurrent and ever-present suspicion that sparked between them like small, savage little forks of lightning. And yes, she admitted, even the simmering lust that she fought to control and ignore. But something else had manifested, too, and damned if she knew what it was.
"Home again," she murmured mockingly under her breath as she was pushed into her cabin. She crossed slowly to the porthole, staring out unseeing at the afternoon sky, fingering the silk lapel of her – his – waistcoat.
