![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
konstantyaTitle: Catherine and the Pirate (The Reformed Criminal Remix)
Genre: Historical romance.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,372
Summary: A rewrite of the book, Catherine and the Pirate. Full summary and chapter index can be found here.
FYI, you can now find this story over on AO3!
Chapter 11
Elliot Markham was furious.
It had all seemed so simple at first. It had all been so easy, so neat and tidy. And then his niece had gone and ruined everything.
As he dismounted and hitched his horse, Elliot admitted that life had forced him to make some ugly decisions. But he was determined that—at the very least—they would not be in vain. Which was why he was here, twenty minutes before midnight, at this dilapidated establishment on the edge of the harbor.
Elliot wrinkled his nose as the faint odor of stale cooked cabbage reached him. He hated this place—hated any place that was not High Hall—and, after tonight, vowed that nothing would pry him from his illustrious new home.
Four days after he’d sent DeGardineau’s men after the Sea Princess, he’d received a very tersely-worded note, instructing him to present himself here. His first impulse had been to haughtily refuse to come—he was a Markham, by God, and the Markhams bowed to no one—but further reflection made him pause. For all that DeGardineau was little more than a crook, he was intelligent in his own way, and surely wouldn’t have summoned Elliot for no reason.
Perhaps this was about the Sea Princess. Could it be that DeGardineau’s men had been unable to stop her? Despite his young age, Derrick St. John had quite a reputation as a seaman and a captain, after all. Was it possible he could have escaped?
Bah. Unthinkable, that. DeGardineau was a noteworthy captain in his own right, and at least ten years more experienced. So perhaps it was something else. Perhaps they had located Royce’s kidnappers. Could that be the problem?
And so, his heart full of dread, Elliot had decided to answer the rather peremptory summons. He would have much preferred to send somebody else, but he dared not let anyone know of his association with such disreputable characters. To that effect, he’d arranged to stay the night in town, and had set out directly from the inn.
Anxious to put the issue behind him, Elliot went up to the door and knocked. After a long silence, there was the shuffling of boots and then it swung open. A short, fat man with beady eyes stared up at him. “Ye’re late,” was all he said.
Elliot didn’t dignify the words with a reply, merely stepped past him into the entryway. The man closed the door, then jerked his head toward another door to their right. “In there,” he said, and without waiting for Elliot to answer, limped down the hallway and disappeared from sight.
Biting back an aggravated sigh, Elliot peered into the room. Spare and dark, the stained ceiling sagged piteously, and a handful of ramshackle chairs surrounded a worn table. The only illumination came from a small, dirty fireplace, and as his eyes adjusted, Elliot was able to see that two men occupied the room. One was slight and nervous-looking, with a scarred face, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he stood beside the fire. In the low light, the ivory handles of two pistols could be seen sticking out from his belt, and an assortment of knives glinted here and there on his person. Elliot suppressed a sneer; the man was obviously a common thug.
The other, however, seated at the table, possessed a certain elegance despite his shabby surroundings. He wore a wine-colored coat with gleaming brass buttons, a white kerchief that was perfectly knotted about his throat, and black boots that were extraordinarily well made, if in need of a good polishing. To top it all off, a jaunty black tricorn perched on his head above long, dark tresses.
Elliot nodded briefly. “DeGardineau.”
The man grinned, his teeth startlingly white in his swarthy face. “I have been waiting.” A faint French accent colored his words.
Elliot tried not to bristle and took a seat at the table, himself. “I came as soon as I could. We must speak.”
DeGardineau shifted languidly back in his chair. “Oui, we must. It appears you forgot to mention a few things about the ship that carried your niece. You told us the name and where you thought it would be, but you failed to mention her captain.”
Though DeGardineau’s smile never slipped, Elliot could still feel the menace in his tone. He took a breath, reminding himself just how much further down on the social ladder this other man was. “You didn’t ask about her captain. All you wanted to know was her route.”
“And any pertinent information that might affect the outcome of your little plan,” DeGardineau reminded him. “Did you not wish us to sink the ship that held your niece?”
Elliot blanched. “Sink? No, I did not! I asked you to stop her.”
The Frenchman shrugged, unaffected. “You did not specify. Sinking would stop her, non?” Before Elliot could respond, DeGardineau leaned forward and continued. “It is a moot point, besides. The chit lives. We were unable to stop her.”
Relief gave way to anger, and Elliot resisted the urge to leap to his feet in offense. “What? You assured me you would be able to.”
DeGardineau gestured to the room. “And hence why I summoned you here.” He folded his hands in front of him and his gaze narrowed. “You see, you did not tell me the ship belonged to St. John.”
“What difference would that have made?” Elliot demanded. “He is a nothing, a has-been pirate and no more.”
“The difference,” DeGardineau said quietly, “is that had I known it was St. John, I would have gone myself. What you do not understand, mon ami, is that once a pirate, always a pirate. He knows our ways, does St. John. And he used them to defeat my best captain, Marler. As a result, Marler believes we owe him for this oversight.”
Elliot clenched his teeth and ground out, “I owe him nothing.”
At that, the man beside the fireplace started forward, a hand on the grip of one of his pistols, but DeGardineau waved him off. “Let him be, Marcel. He is our guest!” After a tense moment, Marcel stepped back and DeGardineau smiled apologetically. “You must forgive him. He has no patience, and would prefer to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Elliot’s chest ached with the pressure of his heartbeat, and he managed a brittle nod. He carried a pistol of his own, hidden in his front pocket, but it suddenly gave him little comfort. It would take precious seconds to draw it, and in those seconds, death could claim him—and the thought of dying here, on the dirty floor of a hovel, was too horrible to contemplate. His death was destined to be in bed, surrounded by the softest blankets and the best physicians, after a long life filled with wealth and ease.
Indifferent to Elliot’s distress, DeGardineau went on: “It may surprise you to learn of it, Monsieur Markham, but regarding my associate, I am inclined to agree. St. John or no, Marler was caught unawares, and there is no excuse for such stupidity.”
Elliot breathed, rubbing his damp palms on his breeches. “So what is it you want, DeGardineau? I am a busy man and don’t have time for these games.” A part of him couldn’t even believe he’d agreed to come there in the first place. If there was any other way… But at this point, his hands were tied.
Leisurely, DeGardineau picked up one of the empty glasses that sat on the table and wiped it on his sleeve. He splashed some liquid into it from the adjacent bottle and placed it in front of Elliot, then did the same with another glass for himself. The scent of rum rose from the vessels, strong and sweet. “Your niece,” he said. “You still want her stopped?”
Elliot pointedly ignored the offered drink and instead swallowed his simmering anger. “Of course I do. Before she can deliver the gold.”
“Even if I could not guarantee her safety?”
Elliot paused as a heavy wave of apprehension washed over him. Truth be told, he had no major grievance with Catherine, and as he, himself, was unmarried, it would have been convenient to have her around to continue to act as mistress of the household. But if this was the only way…
DeGardineau waved his hand impatiently. “It would save you time and trouble in the long run, non? No silly little girl needing to sign off on your every business decision, no ambitious suitors trying to gain a foothold into your company through marriage…” He shrugged and took a drink.
They were good points. And Elliot was so close to getting everything he’d waited so long for… He took a breath and lowered his gaze to the glass in front of him. The rum still sat at the bottom, dark in color and heady in smell. “Fine,” he agreed at length.
DeGardineau lowered his own drink from his mouth and thoughtfully smoothed the dark mustache that curved over his upper lip. “It will cost you.”
To his own displeasure, Elliot had anticipated as much. He reached into his pocket, and Marcel instantly moved to point his gun at him. Elliot waited, looking at DeGardineau, then slowly resumed his retrieval of a small bag. He silently placed it on the table with a measure of disdain.
DeGardineau’s countenance immediately changed to one of immense friendliness. “Marcel! Put the gun down! Monsieur Markham is making a payment. Pray tell, how much is it?”
“Ten gold pieces.”
“I will need ten more.”
It was practically highway robbery. Elliot had already paid that much. But what could he do? He didn’t like the way DeGardineau was smiling at him, as if he somehow found the whole situation amusing, but Elliot stubbornly forced himself to relax.
DeGardineau opened the bag, picked up a single piece of gold, and bit the edge of it. “A fine coin,” he remarked, satisfied.
“It’s a payment,” Elliot snapped. He leaned forward. “My niece, DeGardineau. I do not want her to reach Norfolk.”
The Frenchman dropped the coin back into the bag, then picked it up and tossed it to Marcel. He neatly caught it and secured it out of sight in his coat. “Just so we are clear this time,” DeGardineau said, “you want her…?” And he lifted a finger to draw a line across his throat.
Seeing the pirate make such a graphic gesture brought a touch of reality to what was happening, and Elliot almost shuddered. It had been one thing to hire DeGardineau to ensure Royce’s kidnappers made good on their ransom threat. The same could be said about sending one of his ships to stop Catherine—even if the Sea Princess had been sunk, well, Elliot hadn’t specifically asked the man to kill anyone before, and so therefore he would have been blameless. But now…
It was horrible, but truly, what else could he do? If Catherine managed to save Royce, all would be lost. Elliot closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and heard himself say, “Do what you must.”
He opened his eyes and found DeGardineau staring at him with ill-concealed contempt. “It seems Monsieur Markham has no stomach for blood.”
“I have the stomach,” Elliot replied stiffly, “but I cannot be connected with…the incident.”
“ ‘The incident,’ eh?” DeGardineau laughed shortly. “That is one way to put it.”
Elliot was about to bite out a retort, but he instead clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t have to justify himself to this cretin. He didn’t have to justify himself to anyone. “Just so we are clear this time,” he said, echoing the other man’s words, “you may have to take care of that St. John character, too. I doubt he will take Catherine to Norfolk and simply leave her. He may have been a pirate once, but he has been in my nephew’s employ for quite some time now. He may feel the need to stay with her and perhaps even help her.”
DeGardineau frowned. “St. John has ties with the girl?”
Marcel burst into speech, but it was so rapid and in such an informal dialect of French that Elliot could only pick up a few random words. DeGardineau listened for a moment, then scowled, cutting his henchman off with a sharp motion of his hand. He turned back to Elliot and managed a shrug. “Marcel dislikes the thought of killing St. John. He says the man has many friends.”
“And I have many gold pieces,” Elliot shot back. At least he would, once Royce and Catherine were out of the way.
DeGardineau chuckled. “So you do.” He looked questioningly over his shoulder at Marcel, who responded with another long, quick spate of unrecognizable French. “The gold reconciles Marcel to St. John’s fate,” DeGardineau translated.
“Good. Do what you must, DeGardineau, but no one, not even the girl, is to know I had anything to do with this.”
“Of course not,” he said with a flinty smile. “It would hardly benefit me in any way to reveal your secrets.”
Elliot thought there might have been a threat buried in those words, but surely not… After all, he was Elliot Markham, a member of one of the most powerful families in Boston and soon to be one of the city’s wealthiest men, while DeGardineau was little more than an ordinary thief.
Decisively, Elliot stood. “We are done, then. I’ll expect a full report once you’ve finished.”
“Of course. I will send you a message as soon as it is done.” And with that, DeGardineau grinned broadly and nodded his head respectfully.
Moments later, Elliot emerged from the wretched house and took great lungfuls of the cool night air. He felt dirty somehow, as if a thin layer of filth had adhered to his skin. When he got back to his inn, he decided, he’d request a bath. And then tomorrow he would go home to High Hall. He pictured the beautiful house on the hill, basked in the morning light, and shook off a lingering twinge of guilt. Really, he deserved such a home. He did. And it would finally be his very, very soon.
-----
A/N: Surprise, surprise, I haven’t actually (entirely) given up on this! (And to anybody who’s just now discovering it on AO3, welcome!) Part of the reason it’s taken me so long to finish this chapter is because it needed a lot of restructuring—the original conversation between Elliot and DeGardineau just…did not progress very logically or sensibly. Anyway, here’s hoping it doesn’t take me four more years to post Chapter 12, pfft.
All other fics can be found here.
Genre: Historical romance.
Rating: PG-13
Word count: 2,372
Summary: A rewrite of the book, Catherine and the Pirate. Full summary and chapter index can be found here.
FYI, you can now find this story over on AO3!
- Catherine and the Pirate (The Reformed Criminal Remix) -
Chapter 11
Elliot Markham was furious.
It had all seemed so simple at first. It had all been so easy, so neat and tidy. And then his niece had gone and ruined everything.
As he dismounted and hitched his horse, Elliot admitted that life had forced him to make some ugly decisions. But he was determined that—at the very least—they would not be in vain. Which was why he was here, twenty minutes before midnight, at this dilapidated establishment on the edge of the harbor.
Elliot wrinkled his nose as the faint odor of stale cooked cabbage reached him. He hated this place—hated any place that was not High Hall—and, after tonight, vowed that nothing would pry him from his illustrious new home.
Four days after he’d sent DeGardineau’s men after the Sea Princess, he’d received a very tersely-worded note, instructing him to present himself here. His first impulse had been to haughtily refuse to come—he was a Markham, by God, and the Markhams bowed to no one—but further reflection made him pause. For all that DeGardineau was little more than a crook, he was intelligent in his own way, and surely wouldn’t have summoned Elliot for no reason.
Perhaps this was about the Sea Princess. Could it be that DeGardineau’s men had been unable to stop her? Despite his young age, Derrick St. John had quite a reputation as a seaman and a captain, after all. Was it possible he could have escaped?
Bah. Unthinkable, that. DeGardineau was a noteworthy captain in his own right, and at least ten years more experienced. So perhaps it was something else. Perhaps they had located Royce’s kidnappers. Could that be the problem?
And so, his heart full of dread, Elliot had decided to answer the rather peremptory summons. He would have much preferred to send somebody else, but he dared not let anyone know of his association with such disreputable characters. To that effect, he’d arranged to stay the night in town, and had set out directly from the inn.
Anxious to put the issue behind him, Elliot went up to the door and knocked. After a long silence, there was the shuffling of boots and then it swung open. A short, fat man with beady eyes stared up at him. “Ye’re late,” was all he said.
Elliot didn’t dignify the words with a reply, merely stepped past him into the entryway. The man closed the door, then jerked his head toward another door to their right. “In there,” he said, and without waiting for Elliot to answer, limped down the hallway and disappeared from sight.
Biting back an aggravated sigh, Elliot peered into the room. Spare and dark, the stained ceiling sagged piteously, and a handful of ramshackle chairs surrounded a worn table. The only illumination came from a small, dirty fireplace, and as his eyes adjusted, Elliot was able to see that two men occupied the room. One was slight and nervous-looking, with a scarred face, and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other as he stood beside the fire. In the low light, the ivory handles of two pistols could be seen sticking out from his belt, and an assortment of knives glinted here and there on his person. Elliot suppressed a sneer; the man was obviously a common thug.
The other, however, seated at the table, possessed a certain elegance despite his shabby surroundings. He wore a wine-colored coat with gleaming brass buttons, a white kerchief that was perfectly knotted about his throat, and black boots that were extraordinarily well made, if in need of a good polishing. To top it all off, a jaunty black tricorn perched on his head above long, dark tresses.
Elliot nodded briefly. “DeGardineau.”
The man grinned, his teeth startlingly white in his swarthy face. “I have been waiting.” A faint French accent colored his words.
Elliot tried not to bristle and took a seat at the table, himself. “I came as soon as I could. We must speak.”
DeGardineau shifted languidly back in his chair. “Oui, we must. It appears you forgot to mention a few things about the ship that carried your niece. You told us the name and where you thought it would be, but you failed to mention her captain.”
Though DeGardineau’s smile never slipped, Elliot could still feel the menace in his tone. He took a breath, reminding himself just how much further down on the social ladder this other man was. “You didn’t ask about her captain. All you wanted to know was her route.”
“And any pertinent information that might affect the outcome of your little plan,” DeGardineau reminded him. “Did you not wish us to sink the ship that held your niece?”
Elliot blanched. “Sink? No, I did not! I asked you to stop her.”
The Frenchman shrugged, unaffected. “You did not specify. Sinking would stop her, non?” Before Elliot could respond, DeGardineau leaned forward and continued. “It is a moot point, besides. The chit lives. We were unable to stop her.”
Relief gave way to anger, and Elliot resisted the urge to leap to his feet in offense. “What? You assured me you would be able to.”
DeGardineau gestured to the room. “And hence why I summoned you here.” He folded his hands in front of him and his gaze narrowed. “You see, you did not tell me the ship belonged to St. John.”
“What difference would that have made?” Elliot demanded. “He is a nothing, a has-been pirate and no more.”
“The difference,” DeGardineau said quietly, “is that had I known it was St. John, I would have gone myself. What you do not understand, mon ami, is that once a pirate, always a pirate. He knows our ways, does St. John. And he used them to defeat my best captain, Marler. As a result, Marler believes we owe him for this oversight.”
Elliot clenched his teeth and ground out, “I owe him nothing.”
At that, the man beside the fireplace started forward, a hand on the grip of one of his pistols, but DeGardineau waved him off. “Let him be, Marcel. He is our guest!” After a tense moment, Marcel stepped back and DeGardineau smiled apologetically. “You must forgive him. He has no patience, and would prefer to shoot first and ask questions later.”
Elliot’s chest ached with the pressure of his heartbeat, and he managed a brittle nod. He carried a pistol of his own, hidden in his front pocket, but it suddenly gave him little comfort. It would take precious seconds to draw it, and in those seconds, death could claim him—and the thought of dying here, on the dirty floor of a hovel, was too horrible to contemplate. His death was destined to be in bed, surrounded by the softest blankets and the best physicians, after a long life filled with wealth and ease.
Indifferent to Elliot’s distress, DeGardineau went on: “It may surprise you to learn of it, Monsieur Markham, but regarding my associate, I am inclined to agree. St. John or no, Marler was caught unawares, and there is no excuse for such stupidity.”
Elliot breathed, rubbing his damp palms on his breeches. “So what is it you want, DeGardineau? I am a busy man and don’t have time for these games.” A part of him couldn’t even believe he’d agreed to come there in the first place. If there was any other way… But at this point, his hands were tied.
Leisurely, DeGardineau picked up one of the empty glasses that sat on the table and wiped it on his sleeve. He splashed some liquid into it from the adjacent bottle and placed it in front of Elliot, then did the same with another glass for himself. The scent of rum rose from the vessels, strong and sweet. “Your niece,” he said. “You still want her stopped?”
Elliot pointedly ignored the offered drink and instead swallowed his simmering anger. “Of course I do. Before she can deliver the gold.”
“Even if I could not guarantee her safety?”
Elliot paused as a heavy wave of apprehension washed over him. Truth be told, he had no major grievance with Catherine, and as he, himself, was unmarried, it would have been convenient to have her around to continue to act as mistress of the household. But if this was the only way…
DeGardineau waved his hand impatiently. “It would save you time and trouble in the long run, non? No silly little girl needing to sign off on your every business decision, no ambitious suitors trying to gain a foothold into your company through marriage…” He shrugged and took a drink.
They were good points. And Elliot was so close to getting everything he’d waited so long for… He took a breath and lowered his gaze to the glass in front of him. The rum still sat at the bottom, dark in color and heady in smell. “Fine,” he agreed at length.
DeGardineau lowered his own drink from his mouth and thoughtfully smoothed the dark mustache that curved over his upper lip. “It will cost you.”
To his own displeasure, Elliot had anticipated as much. He reached into his pocket, and Marcel instantly moved to point his gun at him. Elliot waited, looking at DeGardineau, then slowly resumed his retrieval of a small bag. He silently placed it on the table with a measure of disdain.
DeGardineau’s countenance immediately changed to one of immense friendliness. “Marcel! Put the gun down! Monsieur Markham is making a payment. Pray tell, how much is it?”
“Ten gold pieces.”
“I will need ten more.”
It was practically highway robbery. Elliot had already paid that much. But what could he do? He didn’t like the way DeGardineau was smiling at him, as if he somehow found the whole situation amusing, but Elliot stubbornly forced himself to relax.
DeGardineau opened the bag, picked up a single piece of gold, and bit the edge of it. “A fine coin,” he remarked, satisfied.
“It’s a payment,” Elliot snapped. He leaned forward. “My niece, DeGardineau. I do not want her to reach Norfolk.”
The Frenchman dropped the coin back into the bag, then picked it up and tossed it to Marcel. He neatly caught it and secured it out of sight in his coat. “Just so we are clear this time,” DeGardineau said, “you want her…?” And he lifted a finger to draw a line across his throat.
Seeing the pirate make such a graphic gesture brought a touch of reality to what was happening, and Elliot almost shuddered. It had been one thing to hire DeGardineau to ensure Royce’s kidnappers made good on their ransom threat. The same could be said about sending one of his ships to stop Catherine—even if the Sea Princess had been sunk, well, Elliot hadn’t specifically asked the man to kill anyone before, and so therefore he would have been blameless. But now…
It was horrible, but truly, what else could he do? If Catherine managed to save Royce, all would be lost. Elliot closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and heard himself say, “Do what you must.”
He opened his eyes and found DeGardineau staring at him with ill-concealed contempt. “It seems Monsieur Markham has no stomach for blood.”
“I have the stomach,” Elliot replied stiffly, “but I cannot be connected with…the incident.”
“ ‘The incident,’ eh?” DeGardineau laughed shortly. “That is one way to put it.”
Elliot was about to bite out a retort, but he instead clamped his mouth shut. He didn’t have to justify himself to this cretin. He didn’t have to justify himself to anyone. “Just so we are clear this time,” he said, echoing the other man’s words, “you may have to take care of that St. John character, too. I doubt he will take Catherine to Norfolk and simply leave her. He may have been a pirate once, but he has been in my nephew’s employ for quite some time now. He may feel the need to stay with her and perhaps even help her.”
DeGardineau frowned. “St. John has ties with the girl?”
Marcel burst into speech, but it was so rapid and in such an informal dialect of French that Elliot could only pick up a few random words. DeGardineau listened for a moment, then scowled, cutting his henchman off with a sharp motion of his hand. He turned back to Elliot and managed a shrug. “Marcel dislikes the thought of killing St. John. He says the man has many friends.”
“And I have many gold pieces,” Elliot shot back. At least he would, once Royce and Catherine were out of the way.
DeGardineau chuckled. “So you do.” He looked questioningly over his shoulder at Marcel, who responded with another long, quick spate of unrecognizable French. “The gold reconciles Marcel to St. John’s fate,” DeGardineau translated.
“Good. Do what you must, DeGardineau, but no one, not even the girl, is to know I had anything to do with this.”
“Of course not,” he said with a flinty smile. “It would hardly benefit me in any way to reveal your secrets.”
Elliot thought there might have been a threat buried in those words, but surely not… After all, he was Elliot Markham, a member of one of the most powerful families in Boston and soon to be one of the city’s wealthiest men, while DeGardineau was little more than an ordinary thief.
Decisively, Elliot stood. “We are done, then. I’ll expect a full report once you’ve finished.”
“Of course. I will send you a message as soon as it is done.” And with that, DeGardineau grinned broadly and nodded his head respectfully.
Moments later, Elliot emerged from the wretched house and took great lungfuls of the cool night air. He felt dirty somehow, as if a thin layer of filth had adhered to his skin. When he got back to his inn, he decided, he’d request a bath. And then tomorrow he would go home to High Hall. He pictured the beautiful house on the hill, basked in the morning light, and shook off a lingering twinge of guilt. Really, he deserved such a home. He did. And it would finally be his very, very soon.
-----
A/N: Surprise, surprise, I haven’t actually (entirely) given up on this! (And to anybody who’s just now discovering it on AO3, welcome!) Part of the reason it’s taken me so long to finish this chapter is because it needed a lot of restructuring—the original conversation between Elliot and DeGardineau just…did not progress very logically or sensibly. Anyway, here’s hoping it doesn’t take me four more years to post Chapter 12, pfft.
All other fics can be found here.
