A/N: Thank you all for the reviews. They may be few in number, but each one brightens my day.

Chapter 4

Elizabeth's heart turned to ice in her chest. She stared, frozen and horrified, as Beckett crossed the room. He was engrossed in reading a sheaf of papers, and only after he set the documents down on the bureau did he acknowledge her presence.

"I see you have yet to formulate an escape plan, Elizabeth."

"I have resigned myself to my fate," she lied coldly, somehow producing the retort from her agitated train of thought. Escape, escape, what is my escape plan? Good God, he's returned too soon!

He glanced away from the papers and up at her. The weight of his gaze made her feel half-naked in her flimsy attire, and she forced herself to remain still as he crossed the room again and opened the door to his dressing room.

The moment the door closed behind him, Elizabeth leapt from the bed and rushed to the window. She jiggled the locked catch desperately, knowing her efforts were futile - she had tried earlier. She splayed her hand against the glass, staring out at the twilight. She thought the darkened bay had never looked so beautiful as it did now.

What would happen if she screamed? No doubt his servants were either too loyal to their master or too fearful of him to come to her aid. What would he do if she fought and struggled and lashed out like a wildcat? Throw her back into the prison? Father and I can hang together, she thought bitterly.

A dreadful thought hit her like a sack of bricks. What would he consider complete payment? Her stomach gave a lurch of fear. One evening? A full night? Two? They had never exactly discussed it, merely skirted the topic. There had been no need to lay it out - the price tag on her freedom had been innately understood.

She returned to the bed, sinking down onto the edge and resisting the urge to panic. She was no milksop of a maid; she wouldn't burst into tears and hysterics. There had to be a logical solution.

She concentrated hard, keeping a tight reign on her thoughts lest they run away from her and become jumbled and senseless. Beckett had forced her into this situation by exploiting her weakness - saving her father from the gallows. Not just her father, she recalled. Herself as well. Beckett had only promised one pardon. What was his weakness? No man is infallible.

She stood up and paced the room, moving over to the bureau and fiddling with the brandy glasses. What was his weakness? What did he want? Other than her... but Elizabeth sensed that it was something more than that. He didn't necessarily want her in his bed - perhaps on the surface, but that was not his primary focus. What he wanted from her was submission.

Elizabeth's thoughts raced, her mind picking out little details and piecing them together. If she showed him willingess, obedience, submission, would he be satisfied and not take it any further? Would a few pandering, flattering words really appease his desire for domination? Surely he could not be so vain as to fall for the same trick twice? Elizabeth thought as she recalled the letter opener. But she seized upon the idea. It was all she had.

She heard the click of the dressing room door opening, and she jerked her head up. "May I have some brandy?" she blurted out.

Beckett regarded her for a long moment before advancing towards her. He had removed his cravat and exchanged his waistcoat and jacket for a deep-green brocade dressing gown, left open and trailing behind him. She realized a half second later that he had removed his wig, revealing wavy brown hair tied back in a short queue. His appearance seemed somehow shockingly intimate and it made Elizabeth's pulse jump erratically, setting her nerves on edge. There was only one situation in which a woman was meant to see a man dressed so informally - and it was not one she wanted to be in.

Elizabeth unconsciously took a step back as he approached and took the glass from the tray, filling it halfway and holding it out to her. Reluctantly she accepted it and downed the liquid, eyeing Beckett warily from the corner of her eye as he poured himself a glass.

Should she make a great show of defiance, so when she finally "submitted" it would make his victory all the sweeter? Or would it be better to duck her head and feign utter surrender? She sneaked a glance towards the door, but it was clear there was no escape through that route - besides, she had seen him lock it when he entered. But it would be a perfect display of insolence, a last ditch effort before she made the pretense of bowing to his will. Her head was reeling from her whirling estimations, Beckett was setting down his glass...

Without warning, she made a dash for the door, pushing past him and racing across the room. She slammed into the door and fumbled for the handle, and abruptly felt him seize her arms and twist them behind her. She didn't have to feign her cry of pain, and she stumbled on the hem of her dressing gown as he marched her over to the bed, her wet hair slapping against her face.

"Am I to expect another escape attempt this evening, Elizabeth?" His voice was deceptively calm, indifferent, infused with the mildest mock curiosity.

She shook her head, biting back another whimper of pain. She heard him let out a sigh behind her. "What was that?"

"No, " she gritted out. He released her arms so suddenly that she nearly fell. She scrambled to her feet, using the bedpost for support and resisting the urge to spit out an expletive.

"Lie down." At his words, shards of fear knifed through Elizabeth and she turned to face him. She opened her mouth to speak, but she could come up with nothing coherent to say.

Beckett regarded her with unreadable blue-green eyes, his hands linked behind his back. "Lie down," he repeated, and the tone in his voice brooked no argument.

Elizabeth looked away, biting her lip. After a long moment, she pulled herself up onto the bed, settled herself into the pillows and cushions, and stared up at the canopy. She wondered if he noticed her trembling. She hoped that he could. She was still clinging to the slim thread of hope that she could turn this situation, this... nightmare around.

Her gaze remained fixed on the canopy as she felt the bed shift under his weight as he sat down. Her body was as rigid as if she'd been encased in metal, her breathing shallow as if she were wearing her stays. For once she wished for its hard protective shell.

Elizabeth sucked in a breath as she felt his fingers on her skin, the barest of touches on the back of her hand and closing around her wrist. She forced herself to keep her eyes averted as she felt her hand being lifted, and a feather-light kiss brushed on the inside of her wrist. She let out a faint sound of dismay, and felt his mouth curve into a smile.

He's enjoying this, she realized. He's enjoying my attempts to remain passive.

She tried to detach herself from the situation, to block it out and become numb and deadened. Perhaps she could concentrate on what she would do once she had earned her liberty... she would free her father, find Will, help him locate the damned compass that would gain him his freedom...

She tried not to flinch as she felt his fingers dance along the outside of her calf, only the thin chemise separating her skin and his. It was useless - nothing could distract her. She was too aware of her surroundings, too conscious of him, the quiet of the room, the soft pillows at her back, the flickering candlelight. To her horror, her body responded to the light caresses, something deep inside her reacting to his touch. It dismayed her, and frightened her, to feel such strange pleasure despite her hostility towards this high-handed, domineering, arrogant man...

She bit her lip as his hands brushed over her hips and encircled her waist, and she clenched her fists at her side to remain still. She forced herself to remember her scheme... oh, God, what was she to do, she couldn't think with his hands skimming her ribs like that...

Abruptly, the jolt of recollection hit her. She relaxed her tense muscles, and forced out a moan - a moan that she prayed sounded like pleasure.

"Oh, my lord," she murmured.

He stilled for a fraction of a second, and hope leapt in her heart - only to be crushed again as he grasped her wrist and hauled her upright. Their faces were inches apart, and his eyes were somehow both steely and heated.

"If you hope to fool me again using the same trick, you are mistaken," he said, his voice deadly calm. Elizabeth compressed her lips and looked away.

"I'm sorry," she whispered. "If it displeases you to be called lord, I won't do it again."

Heavy silence seemed to ring in her ears as she stared down at the rumpled fabric of the bed. His grip on her wrist was like an iron vice.

"Say it again."

"My lord," she replied instantly.

He kissed her roughly.