Author's Note: Hello and welcome to chapter thirteen of "Little Lordie". I would like to extend my most sincere thanks to everyone who read the last chapter and those that reviewed Lonewolf77 and Phyre Melody. 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 Thirteen

Maggie took a step back, the silver topped cane falling with a clatter onto the stones.

"What's this?" she asked in a strangled voice. "What is the matter with you?"

Harry did not answer at once, but put his pipe to his lips and inhaled deeply. Smoke curled from out of his mouth, lingering about his pert nose.

"I don't trust you, Maggie."

Oh, it was like a dagger thrust straight into her breast. Maggie whimpered and could not hide her tears. A dark night was settling over Port Royal, the shadows seeming to mock her as they darted about the garden of the lodging house like demon children. She sniffed once and wiped her eyes on the cuff of her coat.

"Why?"

"You're in love and there is no sense in that. We'll all be killed." Harry looked at her sympathetically. "Maggie lass, don't you see?"

"No," she growled and began to pace before the gate, her boots slamming along the stones. "I don't understand…don't understand at all. It was your idea, yes, your idea. You wanted me to trust him."

Harry sighed and stared at the ground, his eyes on the sprightly tufts of grass growing by the fence. "Maggie, come sit with me a while. Please, lassie, please dearie. Come sit with me. I want us…I want us to talk."

But Maggie shook her head and rage made her face sharp, dangerous. "I'd rather be damned first. Why, you've caused me plenty of trouble as it is. I haven't the time to trade words with the likes of you."

The barb struck Harry straight in the heart, just as she had intended and he reeled back.

"Oh Maggie." His face fell, his great broad shoulders sagging as he collapsed in upon himself. "You're so very cruel sometimes."

"It's my nature."

"And your fits of passion don't you do any good either. Please talk with me, I…I should hate for it to end like this."

Perhaps it was the fierce desperation that poisoned his eyes or the way he seemed on the verge of weeping, but Maggie relented and went to sit on the step with him. From inside the lodging house she could hear the sounds of good cheer and was reminded of pleasant days in England, when she and Harry would meet in taverns to count up their gold and drink until dawn came. She enjoyed her life then, when she had naught but the highway and her horse and Harry. The simplicity of it all was a bittersweet thing and it stung her as she swallowed away the memories. Never again would she have those days…never.

Harry puffed on his pipe for a moment longer and Maggie knew he was gathering his thoughts. Bees and other small, noisy insects flew about the rosebushes. Maggie stared at the flowers and decided they were too red, too painfully red. She turned her eyes back to Harry.

"You don't trust Lord Beckett?"

"Not entirely, but that is besides the point." Harry lowered his pipe. "Maggie, it's you, lass. I'm worried."

"Why?"

"Because you don't have your head on straight anymore. I've seen you, following him around like a lost whelp. It's not good, not good at all. You should have stayed on the ship."

"And what of you?" she asked quickly, venom slithering into her voice. "Enjoying the fair wenches here? I haven't seen you about the men at all."

"That's not true," Harry said shrewdly. "I've been around them enough to know that they are worried. I think it would be best if we leave now."

"You haven't given me any reason why." She stretched out her legs before her and tapped her fingers on her knee.

"Haven't I? You've lost your sense of reason."

"I'm fine."

"No, you love him."

"I never said that."

"You do, Maggie and that was not part of the plan."

"You're plan, you mean," she snapped. The bees were making a good deal of noise, ducking in-between rose petals and darting away. "It was your plan from the first."

"I feared this," Harry said and he abandoned his pipe, resting it on the stone step and letting all the embers trickle out and smolder softly. "We must remain independent, operate on our own. There is no trouble in helping the Company, but I'm not entirely comfortable with becoming a part of them. We could be taken advantage of and that is no way to regain fortune and prestige. Do you understand now how this effects us?"

"No."

"You cannot love Lord Beckett. As soon as you give him dominance over us, all is lost. You were singular once, a mother to many children, a lover of not one man but your entire crew. Remember how tender you were with them, how very caring?"

"But it is a different sort of love," Maggie protested. "And a woman might be both a mother and a wife."

"Yes, but that mother might just as easily overlook her children for the whims of her husband," Harry said sharply. "In any case, you care for him only and you wish to help him advance, help him regain his position. You work for him now."

Maggie moved as far away from Harry as she could, huddling on the far corner of the step. She would fight him, oh yes, she would fight him to the death. Harry might be smart and witty and charming, but she would never fold to the truth…no matter how right he was.

"It's a fancy," she said. "And nothing more. I enjoy him, he brings me pleasure."

Harry stood suddenly, his shadow falling over her. "Then leave with me now."

"I…"

"If it is only a fancy, leave now. Come, let us cast off."

Maggie sat still. "I'm not leaving."

"That's right." And Harry laughed grimly, a smile of painful irony twisting his lips. "And all these years I've kept my distance, shielded you from my petty affections for the sake of the crew. Ah, it's all been for naught!" He collapsed onto the step and buried his head in his hands.

Maggie looked away. She didn't want to see him weep.

"Harry-"

"I never thought it would come to this," he said in a muffled voice. "Maggie, dammy, I fear we are going to part ways this night."

"No," she said sharply, something of her old authority and command strengthening her tone. "No, you needn't leave. Go up to bed, Harry and forget it all. Please Harry, I need you."

"Not as much as you need him, it seems."

"Stop!" And Maggie wanted to slap him, but she sat on her hands and set her jaw instead. "You are being foolish, so very foolish."

"Ten years," Harry moaned. He threw his head back and let it fall against the door behind them with a muted thud. "Ten years."

"You are not leaving," she said firmly, grasping his wrist. "There is no reason to. Harry, this is but a flight of fancy. Go up to bed and rest tonight. You are not yourself."

But Harry jerked away and stood, his hands laced together behind his back. "There is something I must ask you now and I want a sure answer."

Maggie began to protest. "There's no need for such-"

"Did you ever trust me?"

Maggie's head snapped back, her neck arching beneath her snowy cravat. "What sort of question-"

"Answer me."

She sighed, casting up one hand in exhausted defeat. "Not since Whitechapel."

Harry swore loudly and Maggie recoiled, frightened of his anger.

"An accident," he said through gritted teeth. "It was an accident, Maggie."

"You promised never to hurt me," she countered quickly and slipped out of her jacket, her fingers flying to the buttons on her waistcoat.

"I don't need to see the scar again." He turned his back on her.

"You nearly killed me."

"I thought you were one of the constable's men. Do you not remember how bloody hellish it was, what with us pinned against the pub and ready to be dragged off to the noose."

"But you left me there!"

"I'm sorry!" Harry screamed, whirling around to face her with white hot anger upon his face. "Good Christ, Maggie."

She stood, frowning hard and walked to the gate to retrieve her silver topped cane. "I don't believe you."

Harry seemed to sob then or so Maggie thought. There was silence for a dreadful minute before he joined her by the gate.

"Then I'm sorry for that," he said, bowing low to her like the gentleman he aspired to be. "Good-bye, my little dearie, my little lassie. And may God bless you and the crew, you'll need the luck."

Harry moved out into the street, his pace obscenely slow. Maggie thought to go after him, but something terrible kept her by the gate. She wept.

"Harry, oh Harry, please come back!"

He ignored her though and turned around the shadowed bend.

Harry rambled about the too tidy Port Royal for a time, passing through darkening streets and alleys that ran like tiny streams in a black forest. The place didn't have much charm, he decided, unlike the little towns of England with their plebian hovels. And the people certainly weren't overly friendly. His approach was met with cold stares, not curiosity and Harry began to feel lonesome.

He was delaying his departure, of course and he half-expected saucy Maggie to come trotting up the lane after him. But she didn't.

Harry rounded Port Royal once and came back to the waterfront, his eyes finding their small ship perched between two towering Company vessels. It was a strange sight and a decidedly unnerving one. Harry was suddenly reminded of the immensity of the Company's power which dwarfed there own. And he hated to leave Maggie here, he truly did. Would she be swallowed up by the pomp and procedure that ruled the Company? Would she become a faceless entity, subject to Beckett's rule instead of her own? What then, had been the point of escaping her brother-in-law when she would trade in one tyrant for another?

Harry walked along the waterfront, his stride lengthening. Something pressed against him something urgent. He jammed his hands into his pockets and hurried through the night, which fell around him like a black marble tomb, crushing his lungs. Harry struggled to breathe and wondered that Maggie could not feel the oppressive weight of this place. And yes, it would be cowardly to abandon her to it, but Harry would rather hang as highwayman than smother as a slave.

Poor Maggie, his poor lassie. Pain bit his heart, along with regret and Harry grunted. If he would leave her, well, he would see to it that she was happy. If Beckett had won her hand, then he would deserve it.

Harry turned up a wide street that ran away from the tight slums and up into the hills. A handful of well-appointed houses crowned the crest. A shadowy silhouette revealed Beckett's almost feudal manor, tall, with high windows and a long white drive. Harry looked once over his shoulder and back to the town. The ships were still sitting peacefully in the harbor. But oh, the sky was dark. He saw no stars…

Had Maggie already returned to Beckett's bed? Had she fled the lodging house garden, forgetting him to find lusty comfort in the arms of her lover?

Harry tried to ignore the wanton wave of jealousy that swamped him. It was over now, over and he had to see Beckett, if only to make him understand…if only to ensure Maggie's happiness.

He walked up the lane, slowly, his pace fit for a funeral march to some rotting graveyard. A stiff breeze kissed him farewell, though he knew it not and by the shadows he was embraced, welcomed into the very last hour of his life.

Harry, though a professed gentleman, wasn't the sort of fellow to rap on doors and anticipate a welcome. Instead, he scrambled up the great iron fence and landed softly somewhere in the garden, where ferns grew and tangled about his legs like hunting snares. There were guards about the place, but not so many to concern a veteran thief. Many a foggy English night Harry had slipped past sentries and thus evaded the noose for a day longer. He did not expect such trouble this night.

Several red brick outbuildings blocked his progress, the kitchen, the stables and the servants' quarters. Harry hid in the shadows for a time, assuring himself that things were quiet before passing by. Another sentry sat along by the back door and Harry had to satisfy himself with scrambling up a tall tree and crawling over to a window that had been left open to relieve the heat of the night.

Once inside, he found himself in a long hall lit only by one flickering candle. Red light splashed against the walls, which Harry guessed were green or some other dark color. His only fear, as he snuck down the corridor to the head of the stairs, was encountering Maggie. Would she rage against him then, as she had a horrid habit of doing? Or would she let him pass quietly from her life, like a shade that had never really existed at all? For some reason, he much preferred the former, if only to remember why he had taken a shine to her in the first place.

Harry was about to slip down the elegant, carpeted stairway, one hand gliding along the ornate banister, when he heard a charmed voice coming from behind a door in the corridor.

"Swinton is the name, I believe. Hindley Swinton. Dreadful, is it not? How these rustics name their offspring."

"Repulsive, my lord. But have you some place of residence? The letter shan't get far, otherwise, I fear."

A pause, then…

"No and therein lies my trouble. I can perhaps wrest some more out of Maggie, though she does get vicious whenever he is mentioned. I have the scars to prove it. But ah, it has been nearly ten years since she last saw him, or so I have been told."

"He may very well be dead, my lord."

Beckett sighed. "Damn the luck. But let's keep our hopes up, shall we? I might write to my colleagues in Scotland. If Swinton is a man of considerable means, he might be known to them."

"Seems like an awful chance."

"Yet I must take it. This fellow, hmm, I feel he is the only one who might take Maggie safely off my hands. What else might be done with her…"

Harry did not bother to listen to the rest of Beckett's dreadful drawling. He was already barreling down the hall, senses obscured by violent anger that demanded only one thing of him.

He would kill Cutler Beckett. He would dash his brains out and color all his fine furnishings red with blood.

Harry drew his sword, suddenly remembering his gallant triumph, his days of glory on the highway. With a snarl and a sob, he launched himself through the door and into Beckett's study.