Chapter 6
Now that the secret of Norrington's return to Port Royal was out, he started to receive invitations to dine or take tea with the families who made up Society in the town. He was known to most of them, of course, from his years with the Navy, but he had never made close friends of any of them, and it was no hardship to turn them down. He had the perfect excuse, after all - Beckett was not yet fit for a long evening's entertainment, and Norrington pointed out that he could hardly leave his host to dine alone.
Instead, he and Beckett spent their evenings together as the weather grew cooler, chatting and reading and dining together. They seldom had company, and continued dining en deshabille, (1) Beckett having given Norrington the green silk dressing gown that he found so unflattering to his own complexion. They were seldom interrupted after the covers were removed, with the result that they sat up late into the night, simply enjoying each other's company. Sometimes there was sex, of a sort; more often there were simply caresses before Norrington finally retired to his own chamber. Life became, in fact, almost idyllic.
Neither of them had forgotten the pirate attack - how could they, when Beckett's dressings continued? - but it was most forcibly returned to their awareness as the trial drew closer. Both of them had been interviewed concerning their own parts in the affray, and, given that they had had several days in which to discuss the matter, it was not surprising that their accounts accorded in general and in particular. It was decided between them that Beckett had been suffering a severe headache brought on by too much reading, for which he had taken a large dose of laudanum, while Norrington's presence on the wharves was explained (in quiet, conspiratorial tones) to be in relation to a mission of some delicacy on behalf of the East India Trading Company, which his lordship would prefer to keep quiet. Norrington had protested at first, but Beckett knew his audience, and the magistrate had responded readily to the implied confidence in his discretion ... and to the press of several guineas into ink-stained hands.
The trial of the eight pirates - only eight of them had been apprehended, the rest having escaped back to their ship - took place in the small courthouse near Fort Charles, a scant three weeks after the attack. The courtroom was crammed with people from the town, eager to see the latest incarnations of piratical infamy meet their doom. In fact, pirate trials were becoming a rarity - the Navy had been so efficient, and the King's offer of pardon (for those who turned themselves in) so effective, that the number of pirates in the warm waters of the Caribbean had dropped . (2) While this was a matter of some comfort to merchants and sailors alike, there were some who bemoaned the lack of entertainment that a public hanging provided to rich and poor alike.
As Beckett had hoped, the trial was short, with minimal evidence being taken from the Company, the marines and the townspeople. He and Norrington were present only long enough to give their evidence and answer a few brief questions, and then they returned back to East India House. Norrington for one, had found it difficult to concentrate with the heat and stench of the room, and was glad to get out into the relatively fresh air. Even after they had returned home, he was still troubled by it, and stood outside on the balcony while Beckett caught up with some paperwork.
He looked at the ships in the harbour, rolling gently in the currents with their sails furled or taken down, their masts gaunt and skeletal. Their crews bustled about, loading and unloading, mending ropes, repairing sails, and touching up the paintwork. He felt a sudden intense longing to be back at sea once more, where the air was fresh and the water clean. He wanted to feel the deck moving under his feet, to see the sails billowing above him, to smell the salt spray as the ship fought the waves. He wanted to see the dolphins and flying fish that gambolled in the warm waters of the Atlantic. He wanted to feel the thrill of seeing a strange mast appear on the horizon, the tense moments before they identified friend or foe, the frantic bustle of preparations for battle. He wanted to be back where he belonged. He wanted it so much it was like an ache in his gut, and he clenched his fists in an effort to retain some small vestige of self-control.
He stayed out there, lost in thought, until Mercer returned with news of the verdict. As expected, some of the pirates had been reprieved, having expressed sincere penitence and a desire to change their lives for good, while five of them (including Nobby and Jemmy, they were pleased to hear) had been sentenced to be hanged.
"When is the execution, Mercer?"
"A week hence, milord, if Mr Eles (30 can get the gibbets built in time. He said he has the wood, but he'll need a couple of good strong men to help him get them erected."
"Make sure he gets that help, then. I don't want those pirates to live a day longer than they have to."
"I'll see to it, milord."
"Good. And send a case of burgundy to the magistrate. A pleasing result, though I don't doubt he was too generous with the penitents. I'll wager they’ll be back to their former ways as soon as they're released."
"Very good, milord."
He left, and Beckett and Norrington exchange relieved looks. Beckett rose from his desk and poured them each a glass of brandy. "I think that news calls for a small celebration, Norrington. I look forward to seeing them hang."
"As do I." He saw again in his mind's eye the gun that Nobby had aimed and fired at him, and gave a little shiver. That gun should have ended his life then and there, but for a simple mishap - or the grace of God. He took the glass from Beckett's hand and swallowed half the contents in one go.
"That's no way to treat a good Armagnac," protested Beckett.
Norrington ignored him and downed the rest of it. It burned in his gullet, but he welcomed the pain. He had to believe that there was a reason he had been spared - that there was a purpose in his life beyond simple survival. He had to believe that he had a future.
In spite of his admonishment, Beckett held out the decanter and poured more brandy into his glass. "To justice for all pirates," he said solemnly, before drinking.
"To justice," echoed Norrington. He couldn't bring himself to add the rest ... not while Elizabeth was still out there, not while he himself was still under attainder for aiding and abetting a pirate. Something compelled him to add: "And to the quality of mercy ... for who knows when we ourselves may need it some day."
Beckett nodded sombrely, and drank in turn. They stood in silence, facing but not looking at each other, for several long seconds. Then Beckett turned away and replaced the decanter on the table. He looked at the map on the wall, then said, softly, "I want you in my bed tonight."
It seemed Beckett wished to remind him that he still lived upon his lordship's mercy. Norrington shrugged. "As you wish," he answered, still gazing into the bottom of his glass.
"I meant - " he broke off, and left the room abruptly, leaving Norrington wondering what he would have said. Had he meant that Norrington had a choice?
He thought about that. He was still technically a prisoner, but he had no doubt that his status was not the same as it had been before his fever. He was no longer an outcast. He was no longer Beckett's shameful secret. People would expect to see him from time to time, dressed as befitted a gentleman, well-fed and uninjured. He was, in fact, quite safe from harm, until such time as Beckett received a reply from the Admiralty. After that ... well, it would all depend on what their lordships decided.
He went back out onto the balcony and looked over the harbour. The tropical vegetation had never seemed so beautiful - so lush, so wild, so different from the placid farmland of England. He shivered at the thought of going home to that damp, cold island, to the modest house in Suffolk where he had grown up. It was hardly reassuring to think that he might never get the chance - that he might, in fact be adorning a gibbet of his own, a few weeks or months hence.
What would he do if the Admiralty upheld their original decision? What would Beckett do if ordered to have him executed? Would he clap him in irons again, or might he be prevailed upon to look the other way as he made his escape ... in much the same way that he, Norrington had connived at Sparrow's escape a year ago? What would it take to persuade Beckett to let him go?
* * *
And so it was that Norrington found himself in Beckett's chamber once more, undressing slowly in the candlelight, while Beckett lay back on the pillows in his nightshirt. He still thought it was too soon, but Beckett had insisted that the wound no longer pained him except upon a great exertion, and Norrington had seen with his own eyes how well it was healing. There was no suppuration, the redness had almost gone and the edges of the wound had adhered quite strongly. There was no reason to believe that Beckett would take any great hurt, as long as they took things gently for a while.
It was for this reason (and none other, he told himself) that he slid silently and smoothly into bed, before turning to Beckett and reaching out an arm to touch the dressing.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I can do -"
"Yes, of course I'm sure," interrupted Beckett. Then, in a lower, less belligerent tone, he added, "I'll tell you if I start to tire, I promise. Now, hand me that oil, and open your legs for me.
Norrington nodded, torn between reluctance and eagerness. He tipped his head back as Beckett's fingers enfolded him, drawing him out and up as his cock stiffened. More fingers entered him, spreading the sweet-scented oil over soft, puckered skin. He sighed, and gasped, and finally he panted as Beckett's hands brought him close to the tipping point.
He rolled over when ordered, raising his buttocks and spreading his knees wide to make the entry as easy as possible. Beckett slid into him slowly, letting him relax and adjust to the intrusion he hadn't felt in three weeks. He welcomed it now; he craved the sensation of being filled and plundered. Slowly, they established a rhythm, moving in time with each other and with the swaying mattress.
When Beckett's strength started to fail - as Norrington had known it would - he took a firm grip on his cock and brought himself off, hoping that he'd bring Beckett with him. It didn't work, and as soon as he had got his breath back, he pulled himself away, turning around and pushing Beckett back down onto the bed.
"Let me," was all he said, but Beckett must have read his meaning, for he relaxed, and let Norrington take him in hand. It wasn't long before his release was pulsing over Norrington's hand, and he sighed.
"I could have finished it myself."
"I know. But this way I don't get shot by Mercer for giving you a relapse."
"Ah. Understandable, then. He's a very good shot." Beckett pulled himself up to a sitting position and turned so that his head was once more at the pillow end. He settled himself down and looked up at the ceiling.
"I don't doubt it." Norrington glanced at Beckett and proffered a large cotton handkerchief that he had been using to wipe his hands. Beckett took it and cleaned himself up before dropping it over the side of the bed.
Norrington got up and reached for his breeches.
"You don't have to go."
"Appearances."
Beckett raised an eyebrow. "Do you honestly think they don't know?"
"It's not what they don't know, it's what they can plausibly deny."
Beckett chuckled. "You're learning far too much guile."
"I'm learning from a master."
"Ah hah! At last you begin to appreciate my worth."
"Don't let it go to your head."
They exchanged grins, and then Norrington pulled on his breeches, shrugged himself into his dressing gown, grabbed his remaining clothing and padded silently from the room.
* * *
Two days later, HMS Glamorgan called in at Port Royal, on her way to pay an official visit to Panama. She carried several packets of letters for the Governor, and some for Lord Beckett, which were delivered by her commanding officer, Captain March, who stayed for an hour, telling the Agent all the latest London news. Norrington kept to his room during the visit, still feeling rather ashamed of his situation and reluctant to be seen by his former colleagues.
It wasn't long after the captain had left however, that Mercer came up to his room. "His lordship's compliments, and he would like you to join him in the office."
"What news from England, Mr Mercer?"
"That I couldn't say, Mr Norrington. His lordship did not elaborate."
"I suppose, then, that I had better join him."
Beckett was sitting back in his chair, nibbling on a fingernail, perusing a rather large, official-looking letter with the East India Trading Company seal. He looked up. "Ah, Norrington," he said, setting the letter to one side and scrabbling about among the many papers on the desk until he found what he was looking for. "We have a response from the Admiralty."
"So soon?" Norrington was astonished.
"Indeed. I had not looked for a response for another month. You'll be interested in the contents." He gave a very self-satisfied smirk as he opened up the letter and scanned it for the relevant parts. "I was right. The Admiralty has had time to reconsider its hasty action and has decided that, in view of the exceptional services you have rendered to the nation, your sentence has been reduced to a fine and a spell of incarceration, not to exceed six months ... terms to be decided by me ... regular reports ... all the usual nonsense. Signed and sealed by Lord Berkeley himself." (4) He grinned mischievously. "Well, I think we might be able to accommodate that, eh, Mr Norrington?"
"I can't say that the prospect of returning to Fort Charles is particularly attractive." In fact, Norrington was devastated. He had hoped for a pardon, not a spell in prison. How was he to cope with the rats, the lice, the damp? How was he to purchase the minimal comforts available to those with gold to spare? He still hadn't made a full recovery from the relapsing fever - he was nowhere near as strong as he used to be, and his heart pounded alarmingly whenever he exerted himself too much. What if he caught another ague in the prison? What about gaol fever? Consumption? Anything was possible in his weakened state.
Beckett was still smiling, and Norrington felt like knocking him off his chair. They'd become so close over the past weeks that he had ceased to think of escape. He'd even harboured thoughts of deepest affection towards his captor, and now to find him apparently complacent at the thought of seeing him in prison once more was simply too much for Norrington to bear. He strode over to the window and looked out, unwilling to let Beckett see how much the news had affected him.
"Idiot."
"What?"
"I said you were an idiot, and you are." Beckett dropped the letter on the table and walked over to join Norrington at the window, leaning on him like a tired child. "They don't specify the date of commencement. If we count the time that has elapsed since you arrived back in Port Royal, you've already served almost three months. I shall simply ask for your parole and, should you give it, life will continue on as it has done for the past few weeks."
Norrington couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Here?" he queried.
"Here. Their lordships did not, after all, specify a location. I'm sure that I can get the Governor to agree to you living here. In fact, there would be nothing to stop me sending you out to sea on Company business either, as long as Mercer or I accompanied you. It's all a matter of interpretation, after all."
Here. He could continue to live here, with Beckett and Mercer and Susan, in comfort and security ... the relief was almost overwhelming. He nodded. "Thank you, milord."
"A friend would call me Cutler."
"Am I a friend?"
"I'd like to think so."
Norrington thought about it, then nodded. "Cutler."
"James."
They shook hands, solemnly.
"So, James, are you going to give me your parole?
Norrington hesitated. It was the one thing he had promised himself that he would never do, in those long hours of tormented solitude in the attic, but things had changed, after all. He looked Beckett in the face, and saw no trace of deception or guile, only honest concern. He nodded. "Yes, Cutler. I'll give you my word of honour. I shall not try to escape."
"Fair enough." Beckett paused, and Norrington thought he looked a little shamefaced. "And I give you my word I shall not abuse you as I did when you first arrived in this house. You shall be treated as an officer and a gentleman."
His head was down, and Norrington fought the urge to tilt his chin up and kiss him as he would a shy girl. Instead, he clapped a hand on his shoulder, saying, "I have no doubt of it."
Beckett smiled at him, still a little unsure, and it tugged at Norrington's heart. Here was the boy he'd known in Madras, before Blakely's poison had touched him, before the years had made him bitter and tormented. Here was the man who shielded himself from the world in a cloak of cynicism and bitter jests, who had hidden even the desires of his heart and his body for fear of ridicule.
"We should start again," he said softly.
Beckett's hand reached up to cover the one on his shoulder, and he smiled. "Perhaps we should."
* * *
That evening, as they retired to Beckett's chamber once more, Norrington was struck with some doubt. He wanted to make sure that the change in their relationship - if so it could be called - was reflected in their nocturnal arrangements. He wanted a more equal voice, a chance to take the initiative, but he wasn't sure that Beckett would let him. He had to try, though. He was no longer the broken man he'd been at the start of his captivity.
At first it was easy to take the lead - he merely rolled over to face Beckett and started running a hand over the lustrous skin of his throat and neck, before venturing further down, over the hairs that covered his chest and abdomen. He accompanied this with kisses, dipping his tongue into Beckett's mouth like a hummingbird seeking nectar from a flower.
He let his fingers stray down, around the rising prick and beyond it, to the sensitive spot beneath, hearing Beckett's groans and half-choked cries of pleasure. Slowly, he moved further back, finally reaching the place where he could insert a fingertip.
Beckett made a half-hearted attempt to push him away. "No."
Norrington wasn't listening, and pushed in more deeply.
Beckett struggled, but failed to dislodge Norrington's finger. "I said no. I won't have it! I won't be taken again!"
His tempter flared, as he had known it would. "I've earned this, damn you," he hissed. He looked into Beckett's eyes, seeing pain and fear and desperation, but also lust and longing. He gathered his courage and continued. "Whatever I did to you in India, I've made up for it and more. You've had your revenge, many times over. If you can't bear to treat me as an equal, now, after all that has happened, then I'll leave your bed now, and I won't return."
Beckett considered that for several long seconds, his body tense and still. It took him a long time to come to a decision, and when he did there was only a marginal relaxation. He gave a slight nod, his eyes closed and his features stern.
Norrington waited, motionless, his finger still buried deep in Beckett's body, not daring to move until he had some answer that was clearer than a nod.
Beckett opened his eyes, still uncertain, biting his lip in a way that made him look absurdly young and vulnerable. Norrington sighed. He wasn't going to force the man - he didn't want to re-start the cycle of hurt and revenge that had cost them both so much over the past years - but he wasn't going to be just his lordship's catamite either. He wanted more - much, much more - and if he wasn't going to be an equal partner, then he wasn't going to play at all. He eased his finger out, then dropped a light kiss to the sweet lips before moving away, saying, "I'll go, then."
"Wait."
He looked back at Beckett, who was reaching out to him.
"Don't go."
"Do you mean that?"
Beckett nodded. "But you'd better make this worth it, damn you."
Norrington smiled. "You'd better find that oil, then."
Beckett reached into the drawer beside the bed and pulled out the familiar vial. He placed it, with some reluctance, into Norrington's hand. "I haven't played the woman's part to any man since that night in Madras. I confess to a considerable degree of apprehension."
Norrington was surprised to hear Beckett's admission. He hadn't realised - in spite of all the evidence he'd seen and felt over the past few weeks - that their one night in Madras had had such an effect on the young factor. For his part, he'd fucked and been fucked plenty of times, enough to know that even when vengeance was not a part of it, a lack of care could cause pain and injury. He looked at the bottle in his hand and then at Beckett. "You need not fear this, you know," he said, hoping to reassure the man. "I'll be gentle. I know what it feels like to be forced."
"That is the very fact that has me worried." Beckett swallowed, then stuck out his chin resolutely. "It would be only just for you to ... to be somewhat careless in your preparation. Do what you must. I shan't cry out."
Norrington shook his head. "No. You need to learn - to re-learn - what it feels like. You need to know how good it can be, with someone who takes the time to open you up, to touch you with patience and consideration. I'll finger you and stroke you and caress you inside and out, over and over, until you beg me to enter you. You'll be writhing under me, arching your hips and reaching desperately for my cock. It's all you'll be able to think about - my cock and your cunt, and how much you want to feel me inside you. You'll see."
Beckett's eyes were glazed already, as Norrington pushed him back onto the pillows and reached between his legs. This time he was slow, wanting to tease his lover, wanting to see him whimper and groan and cry out at his command. He kissed a trail down from lips to jaw to neck, to the spot underneath Beckett's ear that earned him a sigh. He stayed there for a little while, nuzzling gently with lips and tongue and teeth, allowing Beckett to relax and to get used to being touched.
He dipped his head and deliberately ran his tongue over the scar left by the pirate's knife. Beckett started and tried to pull away. Norrington pressed his weight down, preventing him from escaping.
"It's a part of you," he said, answering the silent question. "It's not ugly. It doesn't disgust me. It's just a part of you - a part of your history. It reminds me of your courage."
Beckett looked at him anxiously, and Norrington moved up to kiss him again. "Courage, Cutler. Trust me."
Beckett nodded and relaxed a little, and this time made almost no movement as Norrington returned to kiss the scar once more. He moved down a little, taking his time over the sensitive skin on either flank, allowing his tongue to play with the hairs that led from navel to pubes. Beckett squirmed - he was ticklish there - and tried to hurry him up, but Norrington was determined to take his time. He wanted to hear Beckett moan and yell and lose all control, and he wanted to have the satisfaction of knowing he'd broken through the man's iron composure.
He should have remembered that this was the same Lord Beckett who had withstood the pain of torture without a whimper. Beckett was certainly exhibiting every sign of enjoyment - he was smiling a little, and moving his hips in response to Norrington's fingerthrusts, but there was no whimpering, no pleading; only a gentle sigh now and again.
Norrington shifted down the bed and nuzzled at the dark curls surrounding Beckett's cock. He licked at the full, heavy balls in the wrinkled sac, and, pulling Beckett's legs wider, applied his tongue to the delicate skin behind. He breathed in the slightly musky scent, and even went so far as to scrape his teeth gently over the inner thighs, gratified at the sudden shuddering of Beckett's breath. Finally, after licking up the fluid that was now oozing freely from the erect cock in front of him, he opened the bottle and tipped a small amount onto his fingers. He inserted one finger, gently, knowing that it would merely whet Beckett's appetite. Two fingers went in almost as easily, and he used them to spread open the tissue, still gently, and to let the oil spread over the skin, inside and out.
Beckett sighed. "Mmm... that's good, just there."
"It gets better, trust me."
Three fingers met with some resistance, but he worked them slowly, teasing out the skin with gentle pressure and more oil, noting with approval how Beckett's breathing had become more rapid and his skin more flushed. He worked the fingers a little more forcefully, and Beckett broke at last, giving voice to a long, hoarse moan that rose from the very centre of his being.
"There's still some way to go. Have patience."
"I don't want patience. I want to be fucked."
"Shh. Not long to go. Just one more finger."
"Well, then, get it in there and... oh..." the fourth finger reduced him to speechlessness, and he arched and writhed as Norrington had promised, his skin flushed and his eyes half-closed with passion.
"Now, James! Now! Get your fucking cock inside my arse before I call Mercer and have you clapped in irons again."
Norrington nearly choked with laughter. A month ago those words would have filled him with dread - now they were simply endearing. Still, he withdrew his hand, ignoring Beckett's protests, and coated his shaft with the last of the oil from the bottle, giving it a few strokes to restore it to full hardness. He placed himself between Beckett's thighs, positioned himself, and pushed. There was a momentary resistance, then Beckett opened to him and he slid in smoothly.
"Oh," he exclaimed, involuntarily. His body remembered this. His mind had forgotten, almost, what that boy in India had felt like, but his body hadn't. The glorious heat, the small movements of his hips, the wanton look in his eyes - all were as Norrington remembered, and it was amazing.
He nearly bit through his own lip as he struggled to retain his composure. He wanted to thrust blindly, to let himself go, to abandon all restraint; but he had promised Beckett the fuck of a lifetime, and he wasn't going to let him down. He was going to make this last, he was going to enjoy the feeling of heat that surrounded him, the smell of musk and sweat and perfume that rose from their bodies, and the sight of his lover beneath him, dark and golden in the light of the single candle.
He pulled out a little, pushed in a little, using small, gentle movements that allowed Beckett to get used to the feeling. As the body beneath him relaxed and opened up more, movement became easier, and he started to increase the power and speed of his thrusts. He pushed on Beckett's hips to alter their position and pushed in again, this time brushing against the spot that had Beckett gasping.
It took everything he had to stop for a moment. A few more strokes and he'd be finished, and he couldn't, not yet, not until he'd brought Beckett off. He steadied himself on one elbow and reached for Beckett's prick, giving it along, slow stroke that elicited a deep groan from the other man.
"Come on, James," said Beckett, pulling him down for a kiss, tangling their tongues together in a glorious battle that sent renewed stabs of longing down to his groin. "Fuck me into madness."
He groaned, and pulled back for a moment to regain some composure. Beckett was looking up at him, both trusting and challenging, and he responded with renewed vigour. "You're going to come for me, you're going to call my name."
"Oh, yes, just there, don't stop, please don't stop..."
"Say my name."
"Don't stop."
"Say my name."
"Oh... oh, James."
"Yes."
"James!"
"Yes, go on. Come for me." He thrust harder and faster, trying as best he could to pump Beckett's cock with the same rhythm. He was so close himself, he wasn't going to make it...
And then Beckett cried out and arched off the bed, his prick shooting fluid over his chest and the enclosing hand, and the suddenness of it tipped Norrington over into his own release and there was heat and light and frantic movement and wordless cries and for one brief moment he thought that this orgasm would never end...
Beckett gave once last convulsion and collapsed back onto the sheets. Norrington felt all the strength ebbing from him with the last of his emissions, and let himself drop to lie on Beckett's chest, his head falling naturally into the curve of Beckett's shoulder, sated and drained. He was surprised, but somewhat pleased, to feel Beckett's arms go around him, making him feel warm and wanted.
As awareness returned, he was troubled. The intensity of the emotions he had just felt had overwhelmed him. What's more, he suspected that the longer he stayed with Beckett, the more intense those feelings would get. He was long past the stage where he could tell himself that it was simple lust, but exactly what it was ... well, that was something he wasn't prepared to consider in detail.
He put those dangerous thoughts to one side for the moment. There'd be time enough for thinking in the days ahead.
He lifted himself slightly, pulled out of Beckett's body and rolled over onto his back. He was absurdly pleased when Beckett rolled over in turn and nestled into the crook of his arm. It felt good to be able to hold him, to feel Beckett pressing kisses over his chest, running his hand over the hairs on his chest and abdomen.
"Tickles," he muttered, sleepily.
Beckett giggled. "Good," he said, and tweaked a nipple. "Don't want you to get too complacent," he explained, over Norrington's yelp.
"One of these days," yawned Norrington, "I'm going to... mmm..." he trailed off, unable to think of anything sufficiently wicked and delightful.
"Sshh. Sleep now."
"Mmm."
* * *
Norrington woke early the next morning feeling more rested and full of energy than he had in a long while. He was warm and relaxed, and he could feel the heavy weight of Cutler Beckett against his chest, the cropped hair tickling his chin. He smiled, remembering how good it had been, how he had made Beckett beg for him, made him call out at the moment of completion. He couldn't remember the last time he'd felt so good, so thoroughly drained after sex, and he wondered if there was a chance of it happening again. He really did prefer fucking to being fucked, no matter how good it felt, and he loved fucking Beckett in particular. He wasn't sure why - though his looks and his eagerness were certainly a part of it. The previous night had been the most intense and enjoyable he'd ever had.
Beckett stirred against him, then settled down, muttering something indistinguishable. Norrington glanced at the curtains, noting the light coming through the gaps. It was definitely morning, and Proudfoot would be coming in at any moment to bring Beckett his morning cup of chocolate. He had to leave before that happened. Though I doubt there's any servant in the house who didn't hear us last night, he mused. Still, it was the appearance that counted, and if he were safely in his own bed by the time the servants came upstairs, everything else could be denied.
He eased himself out of the bed, wincing at every small noise, and stood up. Beckett was already inching his way over the warm sheets, like a mole searching blindly for its mate, and Norrington smiled as he stole out of the room and along the passageway to his own bed.
* * *
He wasn't surprised to get a summons to Beckett's room later that morning, but he didn't expect to be taken out riding.
"Are sure you are not in some discomfort?" he asked, as they trotted along the road out of the city, Beckett on his handsome grey, he on a quiet brown gelding.
Beckett looked at him with all the hauteur of a prince, and Norrington felt ashamed for having asked. Then Beckett grinned and said, "It's agony, actually, but I won't let a little pain stop me from doing what I want. And I'm certainly not going to let you think that you could bugger me hard enough to cripple me."
Norrington laughed. "I'll just have to try harder next time," he quipped.
"Hah!" was all that Beckett said, but he sounded amused.
The grey was frolicsome, and Beckett had to rein him in more than once as they rode through the streets, until they reached the open ground and he was able to let him have his head. The grey needed no encouragement and set off at a gallop along the isthmus.
The gelding followed behind, at a slightly less hell-for-leather pace, and caught up with them as they reached the halfway point. After that, they proceeded at a more sedate pace until they reached the promontory, the one that looked south, across the Caribbean to the Spanish Main. It was a popular place for riders, but today there was no one but themselves. They didn't speak, just dismounted, and stood beside their horses, absorbing the freshness of the ocean air and the wind and the majestic view over the sea.
Norrington found a convenient branch to tether the gelding and sat on the grass, hugging his knees. It was some minutes later that he said, quietly, "I'm thinking of taking passage back to England."
The grey started - had Beckett suddenly pulled on the reins? - and Beckett was hard-pressed to get him back under control. "Quiet, Brontës." (5) He kept his head turned away, looking at the horse, running his free hand down the neck to soothe him. "Oh? And what do you intend to do back home?"
Norrington shrugged. "Business, I suppose. My family isn't rich or titled. I'll have to find employment. A friend of my father's once offered me a job in his place of work - I may take it up."
"If the offer remains."
"True."
Beckett looped Brontës' reins to a tree before sitting himself down beside Norrington. "Would you go back to sea?"
"As a merchant master? Possibly."
"What about the Navy?"
"I resigned my commission; they'll never take me back. Even if Lord Carruthers had not died, they wouldn't take me back."
"Ah, yes, I forgot that you were Carruthers' follower. I did wonder how you rose so rapidly to the giddy height of Commodore."
"As I wondered how you advanced so quickly in the Company."
Beckett gave a slow, sly smile. "I'd say that I rose entirely by my own efforts, but truth compels me to admit that I owe my early advancement to the influence of my uncle. He had since retired, unfortunately." He laughed. "We're two of a kind, James. Both our patrons are lost, and we are now suffering the resentment of those we left behind. I, at least, can command some influence through my father now, and through the governor here, but I imagine it must be much harder for you."
"But then I, at least, will have the knowledge that my future advancement will depend on my talent alone, and not on the whims of greybeards in distant offices."
Beckett laughed. "True." He sobered quickly though, leaning over to place a hand on Norrington's knee. "Don't go, James," he said, seriously. "Stay here. Work with me."
"Become a trader? Never." He spoke a little more forcefully than he had intended, and hastened to apologise. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it as an insult. It's just that I do not find the world of trade at all interesting."
"The Company needs more than just traders and factors. I'm sure we can work out something suitable for you, something that won't offend your sensibilities."
Norrington had the grace to blush slightly, but he shook his head.
Beckett pressed on. "I have all the merchants and factors and clerks I can use here. What I don't have is a sound man with local knowledge to help me with the planters. I need an advisor."
"You have Mercer."
Beckett made a dismissive gesture. "Mercer is a very good man in his way - absolutely indispensable for some tasks, I grant you - but he is and always will be a servant. I need someone of my own rank, who can mix with the gentry and the richer merchants and the visiting ships. I need someone who can explain the background to these interminable local scandals. I need someone I can trust with my affairs." He paused, and his voice became a little softer. "I need a friend, James. Don't go."
"Are you asking me, or ordering me?"
There was a long pause. "I rarely ask when I can command, but in this case ... yes, I'm asking you. I won't command you to stay. If you insist on leaving, I'll give you letters of introduction to my father and some of his cronies - just in case your friend's venture falls through. That's the least I can do. I remember my debts, you see."
Norrington pondered Beckett's words. He needed influence in England if he was going to get on. His father's friend - well, there had been more bravado than substance in that statement. The offer was years old now, and might not be repeated. And if it were not ... well, there were far too many out-of-work seamen, and he'd be lucky to get a mate's position at best, with the prospect of long years' arduous service before he could hope to be master of his own ship.
Beckett offered him a position here, where the sun shone and the winds were warm, where he could live the life of a gentleman for a fraction of what it would cost in London. He'd be a fool to turn it down. And yet...
"And what of us?"
"Us?"
"Our previous ... arrangement ... cannot continue. You said so yourself."
Cutler smiled, and his eyes glittered. "Well, James, I can't deny that I hoped our arrangement might survive, though perhaps not in its original form."
"Oh?"
"The circumstances have changed: you're a hero. You have the freedom of the city. I can't go around Port Royal treating the Hero of the Hour like a slave, now can I? Even if you are, technically, still a prisoner. People would talk."
"If not a slave, then what?"
"I told you, James. I do wish you'd listen to me from time to time. I want you as my friend."
"Friend?"
"Yes, friend. "
"Nothing more?"
"Would you be interested in more?"
"I might be. Given the right incentive."
"Hmm. And that might be?"
"A more equal arrangement."
"What did you have in mind?"
Norrington took hold of Beckett and pulled him close. "I don't want last night to be an exception. I want the right to bugger you senseless whenever I want."
"That's a lot to ask."
He might have said more, but Norrington cut him off with a kiss - a hard, deep brutal kiss.
Several minutes later, Beckett was lying flat on the ground, dishevelled and debauched, his eyes half-closed and his hands still trying to reach down inside Norrington's breeches.
"So ... I take it you do not object to my stipulation?" Norrington leaned against him, pushing his hips forward.
"Not exactly."
Norrington lifted an eyebrow. Beckett grinned, pulling him down and rolling them both over for another ravishing kiss. "I'm not giving up my own rights. I want to make sure that I can still bugger you senseless as well."
"Oh, that goes without saying. Milord."
More kissing ensued, until Beckett broke away, struggling for breath. "Perhaps I should endeavour to get the Admiralty to restore your commission. If you're always this energetic I'll need your sea time to recuperate."
"They won't take me back. Even you couldn't get them to take me back."
"Is that a challenge, James?"
"You couldn't ... could you?" Suddenly the prospect of being restored to his former position loomed before him, at once attractive and repellent.
"I don't see why not. At least you're acclimatised. From what I gather, the mortality rate among newcomers here is high enough to put off most officers."
"Well, it is rather high, I suppose." (6)
"And you're still alive after how many years?"
"Nearly ten."
"Nearly ten. Almost a native, then."
"No more than you became a native of India after fifteen." His tone was acerbic.
Beckett grinned, unrepentant. "Touché. A resident, then, rather than a visitor."
Norrington accepted the amended appellation and smiled. "If I get my commission back for me, you might lose me to the Home Fleet."
"Absolutely not. I shall make it a condition that you are to remain here in perpetuity."
"In perpetuity?"
"Well, as long as I'm here, at any rate."
"And then what - a triumphant return to England?"
"Most certainly. I shall open up Beckett House, buy a viscounty, take a noble wife and breed an heir."
Norrington let his hands drop and rolled away, lying on his back with an arm over his face to shield his eyes from the strong midday sun. He felt crushed. He knew he shouldn't. After all, Beckett had to have an heir, and he couldn't get one without marrying, but still, to talk of it so soon after they had disclosed their attachment to each other was cruel. "Of course."
Beckett leaned forward and put an arm around Norrington's waist. "Idiot. I'm not going to forget you."
"You have to marry."
"Of course I have to marry. So do you. When I go back to England you're going to come with me, and then you're going to buy a neat house close to mine - in fact, I know the very one that will suit you. You'll find yourself a pretty little wife, and have half a dozen children, and your eldest son will marry my eldest daughter."
"You seem intent on creating some Arcadian phantasy." Norrington knew he sounded ungrateful, and hated himself for it, but he had imagined - hoped - that they might have some sort of future together. He took a deep breath, and tried to smile. "I'm sure it will be perfect."
"Doubly an idiot." Beckett rolled over so that he was lying on top of Norrington, pushed his arm out of the way and kissed him full on the mouth before continuing in a low voice. "You'll be married, and I'll be married, and there will be much to-ing and fro-ing between our houses, and we will spend all our days together, and there will be fucking and shagging and sucking and fondling behind some very solid oak doors."
Suddenly Norrington realised what Beckett was saying. "Oh." He opened his eyes.
Beckett shook his head and gave a wry smile. "Yes, oh, indeed. It's all about appearances, remember. As long as you remember to shag your wife once a month or so, you can shag me as often as you please and no one will know or care."
"That sounds like a good idea."
"So's this one: kiss me some more."
Norrington complied willingly, and things were starting to get a little heated when Beckett asked, "I don't suppose you brought any oil with you?"
"Sadly, no."
"Bugger. Or, rather, no bugger, which is extremely frustrating. I shall make it a requirement that we each carry a small vial of oil at all times in future. Let us return to the city at once. I have a new friend to debauch."
"What a strange coincidence. So have I."
They made a run for the horses.
Footnotes:
(1) Literally "undressed", but in practice meaning that they wore their breeches and shirts, with a loose dressing gown over the top. Back
(2) Cordingly, David. Life Among the Pirates. London. Little, Brown, 1995. (US Title: Under the Black Flag) Ch 11 - Hunting Down the Pirates. Back
(3) Mr John Eles was Port Royal's carpenter c. 1725 - he submitted an account for the building of 5 gallows between Sep 1724 and May 1725. Cordingly, op cit, Ch 8 - Pirate Islands and Other Haunts. Back
(4) James Berkeley, 3rd Earl of Berkeley, Vice-Admiral of Great Britain. He was the First Lord of the Admiralty from 1717 to 1727. Back
(5) Brontës, meaning Thunderer, was one of the Cyclops in Greek mythology. Back
(6) Actually it was frighteningly high. Admiral Hosier lost over 4,000 men over two years (1726-1728) out of an original strength of 4,750 - though more would have been sent out from England during that time. Cordingly, op cit, Ch 11 Back
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