Chapter Twenty-Two

Beckett sat the proffered drink on Elizabeth's end of the table between them and took the other armchair, dissecting the woman before him as he had a hundred times before. She squirmed beneath her poise, itching to stab at him again, he supposed. Her composure was not a mask that was breaking — it was a broken mask she was trying to piece together while maintaining her stubborn silence.

He sipped his sherry. She wore it rather well.

"Forgive me my curiosity," Beckett said, setting down his glass, "but I have to know why, after walking into the blacksmith shop that morning, you defended the man standing over your fiancé's body."

"You framed him for Will's murder —"

"But how could you have possibly known that then?" he shot back. "Sword upright in his chest, morally ambiguous acquaintance manacled next to him, and a witness. And you still didn't bite," he reflected with mild astonishment, tilting his head.

Elizabeth forced a reply, her throat dry at his indirect confession.

"I trust him," she said as resolutely as she could manage. Beckett huffed out a laugh.

"You trust him," he mocked. He repositioned in his chair and dispelled all trace of amusement from his voice. "I've made that mistake before. You cannot trust him; you cannot rely on him; you cannot expect me to believe you are that naïve."

Oh, but there it was: the all-telling glance at the floor, a touch of color that flooded down her neck and into the plane of her chest. Another struggle to keep her tears at bay. Her reddened eyes met his with the admission he'd been after.

Beckett hummed. Her inability to disguise her naïveté was delicious.

"How it escaped the Commodore's notice all this time confounds me."

Elizabeth eyed the hearth. She wasn't entirely sure it had.

"The torment you have put that man through..."

Beckett reached for her untouched sherry. "Did William know?"

Hackles raised; somewhere beyond those two chairs, the distant thunder punctuated the moment Elizabeth's eyes turned feral. But Beckett accepted her unspoken challenge and clarified: "Did William know that you cared for that filthy pirate?"

"There was nothing to know," she scoffed. "Care for Jack, I may, but I loved Will. And you took him from me." She made fists of her skirt. "I thought I knew why, but I'm certain of nothing anymore. You said it was to be me."

"A fleeting notion that crossed my reveries."

Elizabeth watched him polish off her drink with a transitory exhale.

"One of my network overheard Jack intending to sail for Port Royal. And if one apprehends Jack Sparrow, one rids these oceans of piracy. No small feat."

"There are others," Elizabeth argued, not sure where this was going. "So many others who engage in piracy the world over."

"And save for a handful of outliers, they all know him, and they would follow him. Cut off the serpent's head, and a simpleton with a stick could handle the rest of them."

He stood, collecting the empty glasses. "I don't know if Jack divulged our history to you, but he once cost me a chance at a title, a treasure, and the respect of my superiors. As you can imagine," – he lifted a decanter, now pouring into two snifters – "I deeply regret not decapitating this serpent when I had the chance.

"Learning he was en route to Port Royal, I had an opportunity. There were murmurs that I was being considered for Lord High Constable in play as well, and it was imperative Jack not cost me a significant advancement in life again."

Elizabeth warily accepted the brandy, encouraging him to continue.

"Intel said he was going on and on about this sword 'Bootstrap's boy' owed him," Beckett said, making an effort not to roll his eyes as he took a drink. "And I realized, if I did it just right, Jack would hang for murdering the man due to marry the governor's daughter by said daughter herself. Your father would have hardly objected if you'd not demanded that thrice damned trial."

He looked down into the firelight bending in the bowl of brandy and swirled it.

"Jack would have been dead by dinner, and we all would have been saved this messy business this evening."

Elizabeth surrendered; a tear finally slid down her cheek. Against her better judgement, she drank the brandy, hoping whatever poison was in it was half as painful as suffering Beckett's confession. She waited for the sharp breathlessness to overwhelm her as she thumbed the rim of the glass. With a rueful exhalation, her lips twisted at the thought that chose to come to her then.

"How long into our marriage before you murdered me as well? Days? Hours?" She lifted the brandy with a nod, looking up into his empty eyes. "Were you to poison my wedding goblet?"

"When it became clear you were going to be a problem –"

"When you burned the black pearl."

"When it became clear you were going to be a problem," he repeated pointedly over her interruption, "it seemed prudent to keep you as close as possible before resorting to more drastic measures. Try as I might to convince you otherwise, I wouldn't have killed you, Miss Swann. I may not even now.

"With another fiancé dead," he said, moving to sit down, "your prospects have severely dwindled." He sat, resting both arms on the armrests soundly. "And I am about to get a promotion."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. The boldness of this man was truly a wonder to behold. She shifted to the edge of the chair and leaned toward him, folding her elbows into her lap as she caressed the snifter.

"Was my first rejection so unclear?"

Beckett's lips twitched. She had made it very plain that she would prefer a life with a man she had already refused than to endure the mere thought of considering his proposal. He drummed his fingers on the armrest once. His voice was deep, careful.

"What, specifically, were you rejecting?"

"You," she said incredulously.

"I figured that much out for myself."

Oh, he wanted a list, did he? Waking up every morning knowing she was married to the monster that murdered the man she loved was a start. The thought of his vile fingers on her skin, the fear that anything she consumed would be poisoned, knowing he could snuff out her life the moment he tired of her. She resisted the urge to sputter and spit every single objection she could think of, deciding the most succinct was also the most poignant. She delivered it with as much spite as she could muster.

"Having to look at you."

Elizabeth couldn't decipher the look in his eye.

"I am having your father collected as we speak, Miss Swann," he informed her after his last gulp of brandy. "How overjoyed he would be that his only daughter is alive, soon-to-be married to a man with insurmountable influence and power."

"I am not marrying you."

Beckett huffed out a mirthless laugh. "Why not? We would not cross one another, and we'll be as loveless as they come," he readily assured her before inclining his head with a theatric aside, "just in case you thought there was sentiment to address."

Certainly, there was no love lost, but his cut to the quick struck her oddly.

Then, his eyes probed hers with an intensity she hadn't seen before, and it stole her breath away.

"I don't trust you," he said, overenunciating, "and I don't want you out of my sight ever again.

"And I know you feel the same," he cooed impishly.

Elizabeth's eyes darted about, annoyed at the juvenile remark. She put her glass down and smirked at the clock on the mantle, watching the secondhand tick over the roman numerals rhythmically. Soon, she became expressionless and lowered her eyes to the fire.

No. No, she didn't want him out of her sight ever again.

"I see you're actually giving it some thought this time." He supposed she hadn't much choice without Norrington standing over his shoulder to deflect him.

When she remained still after several moments, Beckett experienced a quiver of anticipation rippling through him, and his eyes grew marginally at the thought of her acceptance. This precipice was riveting. It occurred to him to entice the offer with the one vow he could make.

Coaxed by a muffled clap of thunder, he rose from his chair and entered her line of sight, regarding her stoically. Her eyelashes fluttered when he stood between her and the limitless space where she'd hidden away, and she made herself look up at him. Maintaining eye contact, Beckett gently brought her to her feet. They had been in stifling proximity at least twice this evening without a qualm, yet he needed to allow time to adjust to this peculiar intimacy.

"I will always be your enemy," he promised with the soft sincerity of a lover. "Best keep me close."

It took a moment to collect her courage, but with one small step, Elizabeth was half a foot from his face. Beckett drew his head back in an attempt to read her. Her expression was still blank, but her eyes were roaming his face. He saw a flicker of resignation he did not expect but was altogether satisfied with.

She looked away and appraised the shadows along his neck with her left hand. Her eyes flashed up again briefly, seeking permission she did not wait for. Her hand slid down his chest, tentative and reticent, following the edge of his coat. Stepping into him, Elizabeth dropped her head to the side of his.

"Is this close enough?"

Beckett swallowed at her breath on his ear. His heart was shuddering uncontrollably, and he despised that she could in all likelihood feel it. Her hand drifted around his waist, and one by one, the subtle pressure of her fingers smoothed along his back. After another warm rush of air on his earlobe, he shut his eyes and discreetly wet his lips. He began to turn into her when she jerked him flush up against her body, throwing his eyes open.

The muzzle of a pistol dug up into his ribcage.

He rolled his eyes as the moment flooded away.

"I took the gun from the drawer to my left," she murmured, feeling his body slacken while his jaw tightened, stubble grazing her cheek. He sighed as she cocked it, somehow closer to his ear than before.

"Are you going to shoot me with it?"

Gibbs peered through the bowed, faded slats of a warehouse door. He listened to the commotion of his shipmates contending with Beckett's men until they were a decent way's away and then waited still longer. When the shouting and jeering remained stationary, he knew they had reached the Black Pearl to defend her.

He looked back at Governor Swann and tossed his head toward the door silently. Swann nodded, and they slipped into the street, craning their necks at the orange glow and ringing steel in the distance. Acutely aware of the sound his boot made as he stepped onto the sandy dirt, Gibbs cast a wary eye to the disturbance one last time before swatting at Swann's arm – his cue to follow.

Gibbs turned down the coast. It was best to be going in the opposite direction of the all the–

A horrendous explosion from the bay blinded him mid-step. He ducked behind his forearm, catching Governor Swann by the coat before he tripped over himself, great cracks and schwooms and splashes echoing endlessly before them. He had to squint along the horizon of his arm at first, but slowly, Gibbs lowered it, and he stared at the brilliant inferno that was the Heiress.

And the gaping hole in the side of Fort Charles.

Ashes fluttered against the storm clouds. The Heiress had run aground when it exploded, taking out the long dock and a good third of Beckett's office. The initial detonations sent a deluge of flaming debris everywhere – the beach, the bay, palm trees, the office. Once they concluded their chaotic symphony alongside the roaring thunder, the healthier fires began to spread while the spits and sparks exposed to the storm died in the steady rainfall.

Elizabeth choked. There was smoke in the back of her throat and rain rolling back into her sinuses. Her lungs compelled her to lift her head off the ground, and she propped herself up on her left elbow, hanging her head against her shoulder until she could catch her breath. She flexed the hand, watching her fingers curl tiny flecks of ash, splinters, and stone through the wet rug. Her hearing was muffled, and pain shot down into her neck, making her hold it against her shoulder with a hiss.

Cinders floated down with the rain, sometimes extinguished by a perfectly timed raindrop before they could land. The majority of the wall to her left was gone, Beckett's desk with it, and the serrated stone framed the massive, burning shipwreck. The ring of destruction circled overhead and all the way around to the right-most French door. The entire southwestern corner of the office was gone.

Elizabeth blinked away the rain as she stared at the ship, realizing all at once why Beckett had "gifted" her and Norrington with it.

She fought with the bent remains of the cast iron chandelier to free her right arm and, leaning back on both elbows, she slowly sat up to gauge her body's response. She couldn't sit up much more than that, however; a pile of debris had her pelvis and legs pinned. Amongst the heavy stones were pieces of the armchairs, the speared canvas of the painting above the fireplace, and timbers from the veranda. She tried to wriggle her legs to feel how much space she had, but the weight of the rock left her with less than an inch. Tilting her hips side-to-side did nothing.

Coughing, Elizabeth tried pushing away too large a stone, then yanked on a protruding table leg. It gave somewhat, but she could feel the rock around her calves shift unfavorably and unwrapped her hand from around it.

A loud roll of thunder. The gusts offshore drove rain into and over her, bringing with them a hot rush off the Heiress's blaze. She shielded herself in the face of its heat, trying to turn away and wipe the rain from her face.

Then, his boot fell into view, and her courage waned.

Beckett appeared from behind her, from against the muraled wall that remained intact despite being singed and pierced. He took several contemplative steps away from her, skirting the swells of debris at the edge of the office's remnants. The only indications of his having been present for the blast were his ragged breathing, a few black swaths of ash on his coat, and the bizarre absence of his wig. Black smoke billowed behind him, embers twinkling like stars in the air.

He checked the gun in his hand – the gun she had on him before hellfire rained down. Her stomach lurched as he ran a thumb down the barrel, brushing away a stray cinder.

"To answer your question, Miss Swann," he bit out, eyes black, "yes, I am going to shoot you with it."

Elizabeth's lip trembled angrily as she looked up at him, eyes stinging from the smoke. He raised the pistol, but before he could line up, a large stone collided with his hand. Elizabeth's head swiveled; just inside the office's doorway, Norrington panted, hunched at an odd angle with a ferocity in his eyes she didn't know he possessed. Beckett maintained hold on the weapon despite the hit, so Norrington summoned a battle cry and rushed him.

James easily had six or seven inches on Beckett; the difference in their size was striking as they clashed, even as Norrington was doubled over awkwardly in his approach. Norrington grunted as he threw his shoulder into Beckett, knocking him back into such a large hill of debris that Beckett remained upright.

He pinned Beckett to the wall of rubble with his right side and got both hands around Beckett's wrist. He was intent on crushing it with nothing but the rage coursing through his bare hands when Beckett's left hand swung up behind him, grabbed a fistful of his hair, and yanked down. Norrington's head snapped back, his balance disrupted enough to afford Beckett the opportunity to roll his wrist, breaking Norrington's hold.

James seized the close crop of Beckett's hair in return, casting him to the uneven ground fiercely. He lunged, trying to step on the gun or the wrist, but in Beckett's attempt to get up, he settled for planting his boot on his opponent's upper arm.

Lying on his back, face bloodied and blackened, Beckett immediately bent his elbow, buried the muzzle into the side of Norrington's knee, and fired.