A/N: ok, finally some real beckington PWP. TT; Sorry it took so long. Also, like I said, this is a lighter beckington, so no BDSM. ;3 you guys had 8 chapters of it in Falconry-Jesses!

6

Ruses

Annoyingly enough, for the next two weeks Beckett kept to himself, refused dinner invitations by claiming illness, took only minimal visits to the deck or to the stables, and was always accompanied by Mercer (the twins had, after the first week, mentioned the name – it was apparently in the files). James would have felt frustrated, if not for how amusingly exasperated the twins were.

Also, with no real means to attain information when on a ship crossing the Atlantic, even the curious incident of Beckett's strange reaction to the mention of Sparrow's name couldn't be explained to anyone's satisfaction.

So he wasn't surprised to find them in his room when he came back from a discussion about the ship's course and potential piracy threats. Victor wore a crisp iron-gray shirt haphazardly tucked into pale gray breeches, while Katherine wore a smoky gray dress with stormy gray, shoulder-length gloves. Both were taking turns to scribble on papers, a board on the bed providing sufficient backing. Boots, pillows and empty mugs were strewn randomly on the deck, though papers were stacked neatly next to them on the bed. Victor waved absently when James closed the door.

He put pillows in a corner of the bed, boots to the wall and cups on the table, before sitting down, cross-legged, before them, and resting his chin on palms, elbows on the bunk. When they didn't speak, he said, dryly, "I hope you're not planning to 'lose' Mister Mercer over the side of the ship in the next storm."

That got a snicker from both twins. "Tempting, but unfortunately, no," Victor smirked. "Unless you're saying you allow us to resort to our so-called barbaric measures."

"I'm afraid not."

"Spoilsport," Katherine poked the tip of his nose with the quill, then continued to scribble.

"I was going to suggest a truce," James said mildly.

Both twins looked at him, then at each other. Victor repeated, cautiously, "A truce?"

"It's possible that if we work together," James said dryly, "We might be able to get around the problem of Mercer."

Katherine muttered something rude under her breath – it was fairly unfortunate that James caught the phrase 'chastity belt with knives'. He frowned at her – she stuck out her tongue at him. Victor sniggered.

"Well?"

"What do you suggest?" Victor asked, snuggling down on the bed, pulling a pillow under his cheek, body curled into an alarming angle.

"Diversionary tactics," James said blandly, as though discussing naval warfare.

The twins regarded him solemnly, then Katherine smirked. "We've corrupted you, James Norrington."

Victor pursed his lips. "It could just work, though. Sister. But the most plausible scenario would involve us being the diversion, I think."

Katherine pouted. "But I did so want to play."

"There might be a next time," Victor said comfortingly, then glanced at James. "Unless you have problems with sharing."

James raised an eyebrow.

"Don't act naïve, sweetheart," Katherine said dryly, "If you didn't want Beckett yourself, outside of our ulterior motives, you wouldn't be considering this method of defense above any other." The scribble conversation continued.

"Coffee?" James offered. He didn't deny it.

"Please," Victor smiled.

"Don't want to plan?" Katherine grinned.

"I bow in the face of your superior ability at scheming," James drawled, uncurling to his feet.

--

"Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander," Mercer announced, from outside the door.

Beckett grimaced. Two weeks of peace had passed since that embarrassing incident in the stalls, and he had regained composure, some dignity and relative inner peace (as much as he could attain aboard the damned ship, anyway). As far as he could tell, Mercer's presence had put off any (unwanted) attempts at seduction, and he would much rather have kept it that way. Definitely. Dreams notwithstanding. Also, the Rear Admiral hadn't made any advances. Not that he was disappointed, of course (definitely). But the break allowed him to work on plans, not to mention the minor unrelated detail he had to handle in New York.

"Sir?"

"Show them in," he said, getting to his feet. The twins looked solemn, when they were ushered in – Mercer stood behind them, watchfully, at the door. "Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?"

"We'd get down to business, Lord Beckett," Victor said in a clipped tone very much unlike his usual, polite drawl.

"Firstly, we'd have to apologize about the amount of… inconvenience, that we've put you through, since nearly the beginning," Katherine said in the same flat, disinterested tone. "You see, we had to make sure about something important."

"Which is?" Beckett asked, warily.

"Some time ago… information… came into our possession that the 'Kingfisher' would be one of the guests booked aboard our ship on this voyage," Victor said. Beckett didn't need to look at Mercer to know that the other man had straightened up, waiting for a signal to strike. "And naturally, we'll like to know who it is."

"So we've done checks on the Lords over the course of the voyage," Katherine continued, "And we think it's probably either Lord Thom, Mister Ratherthon or Lord Calder."

Lord Beckett arched an eyebrow – his mask perfectly in place – the relief and amusement didn't show. "I see." Dryly. "You do know that even trying to guess at the identity of the 'Kingfisher' would land you in trouble with the Company?"

"Oh, we'd claim responsibility," Katherine said dismissively, "It's just that we also attained information that you may be his next target. Which is why we've been attempting to keep close to you over the past few weeks."

"Mister Mercer is more than capable of doing so," Lord Beckett said, blinking. "And I find it difficult to believe that your motives may have been charitable."

Both twins smiled. "The late Lord Sythe was quite inconvenient, in Port Royal," Victor supplied. "We do hope that we can start off our business relationship on a better note."

"Little favors, Lord Beckett," Katherine elaborated, a little unnecessarily. "Do go a long way."

"So why tell me now?" Beckett asked. "Did something happen?"

"Oh yes. It seems 'Kingfisher' is likely to strike tonight. Don't ask us how we attained that particular intelligence," Victor said carefully, "After all, the less you know about it, the better you stand with the Company."

"What we suggest is that you leave us here in your cabin with Mister Mercer on guard outside, while you make your way to hm… the Manticore cabin," Katherine said. "The 'Kingfisher' will be occupied for an hour with a diversion we set up – after that he'd probably come here looking for you. He'd think that since Mister Mercer is in the cabin, that you'd probably be in there too. And then we'd confront him."

"Rear Admiral Norrington will guard you in the cabin," Victor continued. "As you have seen, his skill with the blade should be enough to ward off any attacker, should the ruse fail. Of course, he knows nothing about 'Kingfisher', only that he's to be on his guard for the night."

"And if there is no attack?" Lord Beckett asked, sounding skeptical.

"Then we'd give you further details of our sources and the nature of the tip offs, and you can analyse them. Perhaps we missed something," Katherine shrugged.

On one hand, he was naturally suspicious of any suggestion that he was to part ways from Mercer – on the other hand, he would definitely like to know anything about sources, misplaced or not, inquiring as to the Kingfisher's identity. Besides, it wasn't as though he was to sit in a room alone with the twins – the Rear Admiral certainly hadn't pressed his case, and Beckett's intuition told him that he had little to fear from foul play, from that man. He'd be bored for a few hours, then he would gain necessary information. And refusing to play to their ruse could suggest that he, in fact, was 'Kingfisher'. Which could be potentially lethal.

"I'll take a pistol," Lord Beckett said. Just in case.

--

Norrington stood up when Beckett entered the room – he smiled a little wryly, waved at the coffee and biscuits available on the table, and sank back into a chair, apparently reading dispatches. "I'm not sure what this is all about, Lord Beckett," he said without preamble, "But I apologize in advance if it's really another mad fancy on the part of my fiancée and her brother. Sometimes they forget how old they really are."

Beckett helped himself to coffee, adjusted the alignment of the tray without it being too obvious, and sank into a chair, surreptitiously arranging the folds of his coat to either side. "Company business," he shrugged.

Norrington looked concerned. "Something I should know about?"

"No."

The Admiral sighed. "They wouldn't tell me anything either." A page turned. "Oh. There was something else I have to… apologize for. Couldn't get hold of you for two weeks, so it rather slipped my mind."

"What else?" Beckett asked, almost absently, his mind busying itself considering the twins' motives.

"I notice I upset you, mentioning that pirate. Jack Sparrow." Norrington said, his eyes fixed on the dispatch, thankfully not noticing how Beckett had stiffened. "I was going to say, he doesn't really regularly visit Port Royal, no matter how I may put it, it's more of a… Lord Beckett?"

Beckett's shaking fingers had spilled hot coffee over his sleeve. In a flash, Norrington was at his side, prying the mug out of curling fingers, biting out an oath. "Your clothes…"

"I… it's nothing, it'd pass," Beckett hissed out, forcing fingers into his palms, the anxiety in full force – too far from his room, unable to return for an hour. "It'd pass…" He looked down at the irregular blotches on his gray jacket, and let out a choked gasp. His clothes were… his hands were…

"It doesn't look like nothing," A warm hand on a wrist, fingers trying to pry out tight fists. "You'll hurt yourself."

Short gasps. "Admiral… Admiral…" Water. He needed water. Jack Sparrow. Water. Weakness. Jack Sparrow. Nausea.

Lips pressed against his shocked him out of the spiraling thoughts that multiplied his anxiety. A light suck, on his lower lip. His mouth parted, even as his body seemed to relax, tension pulling out of his limbs to center in his belly. Warmth. The sea. Faint scent of grease – oiled swords. Musk. Dizzy, disoriented from the near averting of the panic attack, Beckett's body acted by itself – fingers pulled on the braided collar of the captain's coat, insistently claiming another kiss. A hungry moan – his throat, he realized, in a daze.

Sudden weightlessness – being picked up, his battered mind provided – then something soft – blue velvet – under him. His eyes snapped up – a plush couch, against a wall (hadn't been there before)… suspicion melted away when lips pressed against his own. Insistent, demanding kisses, tangling tongues, wet sounds, saliva, a line down from the edge of his mouth. Beckett closed his eyes, struggling to focus. There was a reason why he hadn't wanted to… heat, between his legs. Which were wrapped around Norrington's waist. Hands clutching at buttons on the inner coat. Long fingers had worked out his cravat – discarded, on the floor – and navigated the ribbon in his hair. He was briefly, illogically glad that he hadn't been wearing the wig, as fingers raked through his hair and made the next kiss all the more sweetly persistent. Breathy moans (himself), growls (Norrington) as the Admiral attacked his throat with teeth and tongue. There would be marks in the morning.

A gasped protest. "Stop. Please." The entreaty was all Beckett – the Lord had been stifled by clawing anxiety, only moments ago (yet half forgotten). "Admiral. Please."

"Listen to yourself," the purred response. Long fingers closed over his groin – his hips jerked into the pressure. A whine.

"Admiral. Please." He was no longer sure what he was begging for. Then Norrington's eyes darkened perceptibly, with lust – and he knew. Flushed. Warning bells smothered by need. Drowning in swollen lips melded to flesh. He didn't realize his shirt had been unbuttoned and pulled open until a warm hand stroked up his side – he arched. The world tilted, and he was on his back, head against one cushioned rest, the wooden spiral design at the tip liberally gilded in gold.

"Wait… aah!" Insistent squeezes. He bucked. Words of protest emerged as breathy cries "…Ad-miral… no, don't…". Fabric slowly spotting wet. Warm lips and a hot tongue, mapping a path down to nipples. Brown curls, escaping the ribbon as Beckett fisted fingers in the Admiral's hair, tickled his ribs "… aah, please…". Breath. Sweat. Sudden cold, as breeches were navigated and pulled down, roughly, then a whimper "…n-no, don't…" as fingers closed around him "…unh, God…". Hips jerked.

-cut for Full version at community-livejournal-com(beckington(18140-html, replace – with . and ( with / -

Timeless – sounds, hips, thrusts. Pants. Lifting his hips to meet his part of an ancient rhythm. Then a strangled groan, and a buck backwards "…uhn!". Spilled liquid, on warm fingers. A hiss, above him, then a foul curse, two sharper thrusts that made him choke "…ahh, nh…!". Heat. He sprawled on his side, when Norrington pulled away. Dazed, dizzy, he focused on the table with the cooled coffee, his breathing erratic. Managed not to think of the amount of sticky filth currently on and within him. The Admiral was leaning against the couch, his breathing unsteady, head bowed. Flushed cheeks. Darkness.

--

James put the now-stained towel in the basin and put that on the dresser. Asleep in an over-large nightshirt, marginally cleaned up, Beckett was curled under the sheets. James changed for bed – loose shirt, breeches – and spooned up against him, exhausted. It was a miracle that he'd managed to carry the man to his cabin without being seen.

He'd just pulled blankets up to his shoulders when the door opened. Half-turned with a growl, and suddenly had an armful of wriggling twins. Katherine peered over her brother's shoulder, and both twins began to laugh, silently, in the dark. James rubbed his eyes, speaking in a murmur. "Can't the both of you come back in the morning? And what did you do to the bodyguard?"

"We put something in his coffee," Katherine said softly, and grinned. "Funny, isn't it?"

James arched an eyebrow.

"Odorless, tasteless. We put it in the pot," Victor explained, "Except we ate the counter-agent beforehand."

"We were going to check on you both, but there was a dreadful amount of noise," Katherine smirked. "So? Were we right?"

"…yes." James said irritably. "Now, out."

"No!" Both twins began to settle on the already crowded bed. And he didn't have the energy left to evict them. Wearily, James gave up.

--

Beckett woke to the sensation of an unfamiliar weight over his legs and arm, and far too much warmth. Sleepily, he opened his eyes – and frowned. Gold…?

Fingers came up and picked strands of pale gold hair out of his eyes. A gentle snore, somewhere to his left, and exhalations of different tones. The frown deepened.

When he carefully twisted up to sit, his back and rump reminded him, in sudden detail, exactly what he had done the night before. Though he didn't remember moving to… how had he…

Norrington was on his back, one arm hanging off the bed, cheek turned into the pillow, his tousled hair begging to be combed. Lord Victor had been the weight he had felt – as Beckett sat up, the Earl, in his sleep, immediately rolled into the warm spot he had just vacated, murmuring something about purple dolphins. The pale gold hair was Lady Katherine's, in a wavy mane over pillows, partially cushioned on Norrington's long frame.

The far-too-long sleeves of the shirt he was wearing pooled at his wrists.

And he didn't have any breeches.

Right.

Retreat seemed to be the best plan. Except that he was right next to the wall, and stealth looked difficult, faced with a sea of tangled limbs. He began to curl to his feet – and realized by the change in note in the Earl's tone that the man had woken up. Ice blue eyes looked him over in confusion for a moment, then focused. There was a playful grin as he was abruptly rolled back onto the bed. A voice husky from sleep. "Good morning. Had fun with James last night?"

"The message… was all a ruse," Beckett growled, or tried to. His voice was irritatingly hoarse, and he could only speak in a whisper.

"Of course!" Victor said, far too cheerful for someone whom Lord Beckett had never seen about in the mornings, save for that one instance in the duel. Lady Katherine pulled pillows over her head, however. Norrington rolled over to face his back to the conversation, with a muttered "…fucking noisy…" displacing her into the depression left by her brother.

"Sorry. Hear he's always like that after sex," Victor said, in a stage whisper.

Beckett rubbed his eyes, and groaned. He'd just had sex with the fiancé of one of the targets. Enjoyed it far more than he should have.

And that ruse last night only meant that they knew who he was.

Compromised. Sodomy. A hanging offence.

If London found out…

He looked up into knowing, ice blue eyes. Managed to sneer. "You realize I could still have you all killed."

"You'd have to kill many of the Petrel's passengers, I'm afraid," Victor said with a bright smile. "You don't know how many people may have heard you last night, eh?"

A dry laugh, self-mockery. Conceding defeat. "True."

"You could wreck the ship, but with the escort so close, there'd be many survivors," Victor pointed out, unnecessarily.

"I know," he said, irritably. He needed to think. At least the soreness served a good purpose – it allowed him to focus. The familiar anxiety had been pushed away.

"So we have a proposition for you, Lord Beckett," Victor smiled, lazily.

A smirk that was mostly bravado. "I know."

--

Beckett walked out of an unprepossessing building which had a front as a slightly seedy looking bed and breakfast, accompanied by Mercer. A few words, and the man nodded and slipped away. He mounted Caesar, whickering and impatient, and rode down towards the main street. Absently listened to the brogue of passers-by as he guided his steed into a sedate trot back towards the harbor, picking out at least six different languages.

Given time and resources he would much have preferred New York as an intellectual exercise. With the unsteady power balance in politics, it would have proved fairly amusing, at least, for quite a while – even the minor business regarding careful inquiries as to the Episcopalian parties and their shifting loyalties – with the consequent potential impact on Company interests – was intriguing.

But he was stuck with Jamaica, and a very knotty problem that was seductively dangerous. Brooding, he almost didn't notice the twins on their Percherons, until he was flanked by the tall, snorting warhorses. The twins wore riding gear in outrageous shades of purple – royal purple hats and jackets, lavender breeches (skirt, in Katherine's case), smoky purple shirts (blouse), almost black boots.

"Let's go for a ride, Lord Beckett," Victor grinned, "There's a nice track a short ride from here, and the owner is a friend."

"I still have business to do," he said dryly.

"Mercer's not with you, so you don't," Katherine pointed out, cheerfully. Beckett winced. In one week, with much persistence, the twins had deduced far more about his habits than they should have. "Besides, we're well aware of what's down that street."

Beckett arched an eyebrow. "The two of you are in so much trouble." That particular office of the Company should have been secret only to a few – but he was no longer surprised regarding the depth of their knowledge in the inner workings of the EIC.

"Always," Victor grinned, and pressed his heels to his steed. A surge of speed, and shouts of angry pedestrians, as the warhorse thundered away. Katherine let out a whoop, and followed her brother, expertly navigating scattering merchants.

Caesar quivered, whickering in excitement, but waited for a command. Beckett cast his eyes up to the blue sky, sighed, and gave him the bit.

The track was indeed well-kept, and empty at the moment save for jockeys exercising their thoroughbreds. He wasn't dressed for riding – eventually the wig and cravat felt too uncomfortable, and he pulled Caesar into a trot, the stallion snorting its displeasure but obeying. The twins took the large dapple horses into a canter, then slowed them to flank him again.

"So!" Victor said brightly. "Slept with James again since that night?"

Beckett choked.

"Probably not lately, or you wouldn't have been able to ride like that," Katherine said sagely.

Beckett rubbed at his temple. "Lord and Lady Tembury-Lysander…"

"That was so James," Victor said, sounding impressed. "And it's Victor and Katherine, we've told you this."

"Since you've already been compromised, you should at least enjoy the experience in its entirety," Katherine smirked. "There are some really nice, discreet inns in New York, by the way, if you're interested."

"I may have agreed to present your case – along with your promise to cede influence in Port Royal and Kingston – to London in a favorable light," Beckett said stiffly, "But I don't think I agreed to having to listen to advice about my personal life."

"It's free advice," Victor grinned.

"Also, we don't like to see our James pout," Katherine added. "Probably as much as you wouldn't like to be involved in another ruse."

"Threats?" Arched eyebrow.

"No, promises," Archly sweet smiles, from the both of them. "Though, you know, Lord Beckett" – Katherine – "If somehow you are tired of James, there's always…"

"I certainly didn't agree to listen to improper propositions," Beckett said icily.

"We're just outlining ways you can repay us for favors," Victor said cheerfully.

"Favors?"

"We're well aware of what happens to… compromised Kingfishers, if word got out," Katherine said. "Captain Jack Sparrow."

"Ah." Mounted on Caesar, the anxiety only surfaced as a tingling on his fingers, but his memory prevented vivid images that had failed to fade, even over the decades. "Your agents must indeed be remarkable, if they ferreted out that information."

"We don't know that much," Victor shrugged. "Other than that the code word for your predecessor was Sparrow, and his final task, which he failed at, was the deconstruction of the power base of Lord Christopher Beckett, in Calcutta."

"He succeeded, actually," Beckett said quietly. "My parents attempted to murder their children and then commit suicide. He arrived in time to stop them from doing the former, but was too late to stop them from the latter. Instead of finishing the job and preserving his identity he let us live. That constitutes a compromised Kingfisher – or Sparrow, in that event. He was branded a pirate – that was the cover story, at least – and meant to be killed by 'over judicious torture in the name of information gathering' by the Naval authorities', I think it was. Records of employment erased. My brother managed to free him. I haven't repaid my debt, though I was working towards attaining a pardon in exchange for some sort of sufficient consideration, to allay suspicion."

"I find it rather odd how you chose to fill his role," Katherine said wryly. Both twins didn't comment on the sudden extension of trust.

"So does my brother," Beckett shrugged. "But sad to say, it's what I'm best at, in the EIC. It provides the best intellectual stimulation." Something died, years ago, or was suppressed, after the gunshots that had claimed the lives of Christopher and Mary Beckett – its ghosts the anxiety that plagued him throughout his adult life, that threatened to strangle him at any reference to the moment, when far from any items of comfort, at sea. Sparrow's act hadn't been one of mercy, despite his intentions, but a debt was a debt.

"Ask the Company to transfer you permanently to Port Royal, Lord Beckett. That close to Montserrat, we can probably protect you," Victor said, patting the mane of his steed. "Kingfishers are allowed to retire, aren't they?"

"What makes you think I want to retire?" Beckett's lip quirked. "Or need your protection?"

"The way you look at James when you think we're not watching you," Katherine smirked. "So possessive. As to protection… well. It's merely an offer."

Beckett flushed slightly.

"Besides, what makes you think you won't have fun?" Victor asked, with a wink. "My sister and I haven't had a worthy opponent for longer than we care to remember. It could even only be a semi-retirement. Outside of the ceded power, you could try your hand at besting us at the game."

"We won't go easy on you just because James likes you," Katherine added.

Beckett concentrated, for a moment, on the perfection of movement beneath him, the steady rhythm of hooves on springy turf, the warm scents of horse and sweat. Snorts from the steeds, a whinny from one of the Percherons, the rocking gait. Pealing laughter and wheat-gold hair pulled into a weaving mane by the wind. Failures, and startling green eyes, a deep purr that promised to drown him in heat. Curiosity and challenge.

He smirked. "Caesar will trump your Ares in show jumping."

The twins grinned. Katherine was the first to push heels into her steed – it surged forward, as she called, "But we'd outrace you yet, even with these!"

Beckett urged Caesar into a gallop.

-fin-