Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter eight of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed Phyre Melody, x-red cherry, Tiera-Tarie and .Q.u.3.3.N.o.f.H.3.A.r.T.5.. 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!

Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of Pirates of the Caribbean. However, I do own Maggie, Harry and all OCs mentioned herein.

Chapter Eight

Beckett sat on Maggie's bunk, a pair of boots in his hand. With a grunt, he pulled the first on and then the second. They weren't polished, he noted and were quite scuffed about the toes, but he would make due.

He stood and paced, enjoying the sound the heels made on the floorboards. His own boots had been cracked and ruined by the salt water, forcing him to toss them aside as soon as he had been given a change of shoes. He felt it rather reduced his dignity in some way and was not all pleased to have his feet incased by plain shoes with tarnished buckles.

Fortunately, however, these boots had been tucked in a corner of Maggie's cabin and he intended to keep them, no matter how the witch fussed.

The said creature soon found her way back into the tight room, her hat off and her hair falling in a sweaty mass over her shoulders. She slipped in through the door, shut it and leaned upon the frame. Her eyes were bright.

Maggie glanced at him. "What are you doing here?" She looked surprised, her face pale.

Beckett shrugged. "I don't see what use I serve on deck. Sparrow's gone, I trust?"

"Yes, thank the Lord." She walked shakily to the table and braced her hands on the edge. "He'll come again though, I'm sure of it." Her eyes fell on his boots. "Where did you get those?"

Beckett waved his hand at the now empty corner. "Yours?"

"No." She wiped her brow. "Harry's."

Beckett sniffed. "And what are his boots doing in your cabin?"

"Oh shut up."

"No." He stamped his foot on the floor. "I won't."

She rolled her shoulders, shrugging out of her coat. "You will."

"No." Beckett pulled up a cherry wood chair and sat by the table, his hands folded before him. "I shall talk as much as I like."

He had realized, thanks to Maggie's little chat with Sparrow, that he was of great need to her. The thought thrilled him, sending delightful shivers of reclaimed power along his limbs and sharpening his mind once more.

Maggie needed him for some greater purpose. He was no longer her toy, her plaything, but a rare commodity that was coveted and only traded for a high price.

Years in the Company's employ had taught him many things, including the intricacies of supply and demand. Maggie, therefore, was in quite a precarious situation.

"I should like to know," Beckett said at length, watching the way she had begun to pant and tremble. The oppressive heat had truly done her in, unless she was troubled by something a little less tangible. "What do you intend to do now?"

"That is no business of yours," she spat and began to wring her hands.

Beckett stared at her coolly, resolved to remain calm. "I should think, then, that you have no idea. What's the harm in telling me, after all?"

"You've brought me harm enough."

"Likewise."

Maggie shot him a dark look and walked to the small window, throwing it open. A stiff breeze tore through the cabin, unsettling several pieces of blank parchment on her writing desk. Beckett stood, snatched them up off the floor and began fanning himself.

"I won't ask what Sparrow wants with me. That I know. Some cruel sport, no doubt. But you," he paused, standing close by her slumped right shoulder. One hand touched her forearm. "I'm beginning to think that you have more of a reason to keep me. What is it, I wonder?"

Maggie didn't answer.

"Well, if you want me alive and blithe and in your possession, I would suggest you concoct some sort of plan. Sparrow won't retreat quite so easily next time. He's a villain, through and through."

"And what do you think I am?" she asked, turning about to face him. But their was a certain weakness in her expression, a vulnerability that hitherto he had not seen.

Beckett touched her chin, his thumb running over her cheekbone. "Poor child," he crooned in what he hoped was a terribly annoying manner, "I think you are quite frightened, so very frightened."

"Bah!" Maggie strode past him. She tore the parchment from his hands and threw it to the floor in a crumpled mass. "I have kept this ship afloat for near seven years, laddie. Seven long years. And before that, I was-"

"Along with the highwayman," Beckett said with a little jerk of his head.

Maggie drummed her fingers on the edge of her writing desk. "I know my way well enough," she said. "And when you consider, my pet, that I still have my ship and all my trappings and you have naught, well I should think you are no position to argue."

"Or it's back brig?" Beckett asked hopefully. He yawned. "I expect there is more excitement to be found there than in this stuffy cabin."

Maggie's face twisted. She picked up a corked inkwell sitting on her desk and smashed it against the wall beside his head.

Beckett watched as the ink dripped slowly down the wood, bruising it with hues of blue. "Now there was no good reason for that," he said. "My you are in quite a flighty state. Have I vexed you?"

Maggie whirled away once more and he could not see her face. "I'll deal with Sparrow. Just keep to this cabin and don't put up a fuss. It'll all turn out right, it always does."

"If you need such reassurance, then I doubt your surety…and your success." He dared to move away from the window, keeping a sharp eye for anymore thrown objects or dangerous missiles. But Maggie seemed to ignore him.

She was studying the portrait of her sister, or so he guessed from the way she stood just before it, her neck tense.

"She needed no reassurance," Maggie said at length, her voice low, nostalgic. "Married at sixteen and at eighteen, the grass was growing about her grave. And she never did fret much, no. She was a simple sort of creature. I, however, could never be trusted for such complacency."

"And is that why you went out upon the pad?" Beckett asked. He stood just behind her now and still, she did not turn.

"I never robbed any poor man yet," she said. "But I robbed the lords and their ladies fine. And so did Harry."

"And that makes all the difference?"

"I stole a jewel here or there." Maggie folded her arms over her chest and sighed. "Not livelihoods. There is a different in that, you know."

"I do." Beckett's eyebrows shot up. Her philosophy was similar to his own, too similar.

Some space of silence stretched between them. Maggie slouched and slumped against the table. Beckett watched her chest rise and fall. The rhythmic sound of her even breathing lulled him almost, as when he had slept so peacefully beside her the night before. But then he glanced outside the small window and saw the vengeful sea. Sparrow could come along at any moment, his trickster's mind conjuring up a fleet of ships that would sink Maggie's own vessel and deliver him into even more torturous hands. Desperation swamped him suddenly and Beckett lunged forward, his hands curling about her thin shoulders.

"Maggie," he spoke her name, a title that had only slipped past his lips in gasps during the night before. "Maggie you must have a plan. Let me…oh damn it all, let me help you. What is it you want me for? Please, tell me now. What do you want me for?"

And he gave her a shake for good measure, hoping that some amount of sense would be knocked into her stubborn head.

She stared at him and her lips trembled as she parted them, the words on her tongue. Her hesitation threatened to break him.

"You…you can pardon crimes?" she asked after a horrid pause. "The king has given you such a power?"

"Once upon a time," Beckett said sourly and released her shoulders. "But the Letters of Marque were stolen from me by a rather savage siren. You would like her, now that I think of it." He shook his head. "Any pardon wouldn't be official, but I could certainly vouch for you."

"Yes, but is that good enough?" Maggie wrapped her fingers about the folds of his shirt, as though she were a drowning woman clinging to a single piece of driftwood. "Would that save us from the noose?"

And then she started and trembled and seemed ready to fall a weeping.

Beckett collected himself, his hands snaking around her wrists. "Is that what you want from me? Do you wish a pardon?"

"Not entirely." Maggie sighed and clamped her mouth shut against a sob. "Well, I don't want your help, really. I should much rather help you."

Beckett's eyes widened. "How?"

"I wish to bring piracy to an end."

Beckett stared at her, his mouth dropping open. What could she possibly mean?

But she would answer him no more. Her mind seemed to snap to and secrecy locked her lips.

Maggie backed him over to the bunk, her warm body pressed to his. Beckett could feel her legs moving against him as she straddled his waist. His heartbeat quickened, matching her own tense pulse that throbbed through the thin layers of her shirt and waistcoat. He swallowed and put his hands around her hips.

"Enough."

"What?" she growled, her eyes touched with a feral glint.

Beckett pushed her away until she sat on his legs. "I know what you are trying to do and it won't work this time. Answers you owe me, yes, answers a plenty. I want to know just what you intend to do."

Maggie hesitated, her teeth catching her lower lip.

"Well?" And he gave her another great shake, one that unsettled her. She swayed and was nearly pitched over the side of the bunk.

"Stop!" She grabbed the front of his shirt.

"Am I angering you?" he asked in a high, devilish voice.

"Yes!" Maggie waved a wild arm about her head. "I am so very vexed. Now, by God, be quiet or I'll knock out all of your pretty teeth."

"A poor threat that is," Beckett said bitterly. "Jack Sparrow will do it for you in a short time, I wager."

"No!" And then she brought her face close to his own, her nose pressed against his cheek. Beckett did not know why the feeling was pleasant to him, her weight atop him bringing about a sudden sense of comfort. Instinctively, he wrapped his arm about her neck and pulled her closer.

"Sparrow will not have you," she said. "I promise you that. Do you believe me?"

Beckett pushed her chin up, his eyes finding hers. She looked fierce and wild and beautiful. Yes, beautiful. He could hold out no longer.

Pressing his lips to her, he mumbled a faint, "I do."


The lines "I never robbed any poor man yet." and "But I robbed the lords and their ladies fine." come from one of my favorite folksongs "The Newry Highwayman". The line "And then she started and trembled and seemed ready to fall a weeping." comes from Chapter Six of Emily Bronte's "Wuthering Heights".