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The Only Rules That Matter: Legacy (Corsair and Madam Mim)

Beckett froze, stunned by the kiss. He’d hoped he hadn’t imagined a spark if interest as she’d spoken with him, but this? This was so much more than hope! But caution was still needed. After all...

“[BGCOLOR=rgb(25, 49, 66)]Monsieur I am so sorry!" Antoinette cried, and his heart fell at the shock in her voice. "I...I don't know what came over me.”[/BGCOLOR]

“My dear Antoinette,” he began, “there is no need...”

[BGCOLOR=rgb(25, 49, 66)]“You're just... You're so handsome and refined and you've been so very kind, that I..." [/BGCOLOR]

“My dear, please, There is nothing...”

[BGCOLOR=rgb(25, 49, 66)]She took a deep, shuddering breath and shook her head. "I ought to go."[/BGCOLOR]

[BGCOLOR=rgb(25, 49, 66)]He caught his breath. “If you wish, then of course. But...” he hesitated, holding out his hand. “But I should be delighted if you would stay. You are elegant, and witty, and your company enlivens my estate.” He started a step forward, then hesitated and stretched his fingers a little further. “Say you will stay, Antoinette. Please.”[/BGCOLOR]
 
Anne Marie hesitantly held out her hand, then pulled it back. She repeated the gesture once more, and Beckett shuffled forward a little before stretching out a little further and pleading her to stay. If she'd had a conscience, she might have felt bad; he seemed a very lonely man. But that loneliness was of his own devising, and he held several hundred men in an unimaginable purgatory. She had no pity for those who had trapped themselves with their own ambition. Very few had pity for her, after all--not that she needed it. She hesitated, then stepped forward to meet him and gently took his hand.

"I want to stay," she murmured. "You are the first civilized man I've met in this cultureless desert, and I want so badly to stay." This was true enough, or would have been had she not known his true nature. Civilized men didn't victimize innocents with black magic. The young widow appeared to be deliberating with herself, chewing on her lip and squeezing his hand before finally looking at him. "I am your guest," she decided finally, "and nobody saw that but you and I. I suppose I cannot cause a scandal if nobody knows it is a scandal, mais non?" Anne Marie graced him with a nervous smile and stepped closer.
 
Isolating himself in his quest had seemed to be good business. As he was - as Calypso, damn her eyes, had made him - there was a risk in allowing anyone too close. But Antoinette had reawakened something he’d thought buried for good. “Scandal,” he smiled, “is a fiction of society. Something for ladies in their salons and gentlemen in their clubs to gossip about.”

Smiling, he raised her fingers to his lips. The skin was smooth and soft, seemingly at odds with the performance she’d put on with the whip. “But for many, it seemed, a breath of scandal was de rigueur, a way to maintain one’s social cachet. And a way to follow one’s heart, free from the demands of society.”

His skin still tingled from the remembered warmth of her lips, and he found himself wondering what it would feel like to pull her to him. But not here. Not in front of the men under his command. A breath of scandal was one thing. That would be too much. “Perhaps we should return to the house? A glass of wine would be delightful, I think, after this heat.”
 
The sun was down and the moon had only just started to rise by the time they had returned to the house and Beckett had poured them wine in the parlour. Anne Marie lifted her glass to him briefly with a small smile before taking a sip. It was an excellent vintage, and she had to wonder how long he'd had it. Since it had been bottled perhaps?

"So," she said after a long moment. "Alice is in bed. Perhaps we can address the elephant in the room? Now that we're alone?" She stepped closer to him. Alice was, in fact, signaling Sam and Jackie and secreting herself away in the Beckett's secret room in his bed chamber. But they had been gone long enough she had likely had enough time to get there and ensure it didn't look like anyone had come through.

"Cutler...I know it hasn't been but an afternoon," she said, putting a hand on his shoulder, "but it feels like a lifetime. I'm afraid I haven't felt quite this way about anyone in a very long time."
 
“It’s been a... a long time,” Beckett agreed. “For me, as well.” He forced himself to sip his wine, and he shivered as his skin seemed to burn where she’d touched him. “And I, well, it has been only an afternoon. And yet...”

He hesitated, sipping his wine and looking at her. “And yet... I find myself hoping for more afternoons, Antoinette.” His smile was shy. “Although, perhaps, less eventful afternoons?”

Discovering his glass to be empty, he filled it once more. “Would you...” he hesitated. “Would you think it forward of me, if I kissed you?”
 
Anne Marie smiled. "I think I might agree with the caveat that they become a different sort of eventful." She could almost feel sorry for the clearly lonely man. Almost. Then he asked if he could kiss her.

"Cutler, mon chere, not twenty minutes ago I practically threw myself at you, apropos of nothing and without your consent." She stepped closer. "I rather think we are beyond forwardness at this point."

His kiss was... Old fashioned. Chaste but only barely missing shy, very formal and proper. Well, if she was to get what she had come for that would never do. Madame Fleuriste draped her arms over Cutler Beckett's shoulders and pressed her body against his. She wasn't quite so tall as to give him a direct line of sight to her cleavage, but the position was nonetheless suggestive. At the risk of offending his authentically Victorian sensibilities, she cupped the back of his neck with one hand and leaned in for a deeper, more passionate kiss.

"Just how long has it been, Cutler?" she murmured against his lips once they had broken apart again.
 
He’d intended his kiss to be chaste. Controlled. The sort of thing a proper gentleman might offer a lady without giving offense. But Antoinette had other ideas. Proper lady though she was, she transformed his kiss into a heated demonstration of passion and desire, leaving him gasping for breath as it ended. “Just how long has it been, Cutler?”

“Too long,” he murmured back, desire and duty warring within him. He knew what the demands of society were for a man of his station - and England might have rejected him, but he had never abandoned his duties. But at the same time, his soul burned for her. His hands aches to feel her. “Far too long.”

A decision was made, somewhere far below the level of conscious thought. He drew her into his arms, molding her body to his as he kissed her again. Her lips parted, opened, allowing him to taste the wine on her tongue as she pressed against him. “Too long,” he gasped, sliding his palms up her back to caress her bared shoulder. “Too long since I have met a woman as magnificent as you.”

With an effort he drew away, shifting awkwardly to try and conceal his erection. “And yet, you are my guest. I do not wish you to believe I would take advantage of the fact.”
 
The man was maddening! Did he not know it was women who were supposed to play hard to get? Anne Marie sighed when he drew back and protested that he didn't wish to take advantage of a guest. His erection was as obvious as it had been when it was pressed against her thigh, but she had the good grace to pretend not to notice.

"Do you not know, Cutler," she purred, taking his hands in hers, "that I am French? My people would consider me horribly used if you were to turn me out now, when we've both admitted to such...intimate feelings..." She stepped closer again and slid one hand back up to her bare shoulder where her sleeve had fallen artfully down. "I want you to touch me, Cutler." A mischievous smile. "Or else I might have to punish you for such a dreadful abuse of my feelings."
 
“I have long prided myself in being a gentleman,” Beckett replied, a smile crooking his lips. “And no gentleman would allow the feelings of a guest to be abused.” Still smiling, he brought her hand to his lips and kissed her fingers gently. “But how would you have me touch you?”

He turned his hand and hers, kissing the inside of her wrist. “Like this, perhaps?” His teeth scraped her skin, leaving a rapidly-fading red mark. “Or this?”

The taste of her satin skin made him ache for more. Self control crumbled as he swept her back into his arms, molding her body to his as he parted her lips with his tongue. He tugged at her sleeves, baring her shoulders and hips coloring her skin with his fingertips. “Perhaps this sitting room is too public to explore these more intimate feelings?” he suggested.
 
Anne Marie, God help her, simpered. She quivered at Beckett's touch and bit her lower lip as he pulled her back into his arms and pressed another kiss to her. He bared her shoulders before suggesting that they move to somewhere more private. She smiled conspiratorially.

"Well," she said after some pretend thought, "you are the master of this house, I didn't think anywhere in it would be too public for you. But if the servants are not yet asleep..." She glanced toward the door, then stood and tugged on his hand. "Perhaps you can show me where might be a little more private."

On their way upstairs, down the hallway toward his room, Anne Marie pulled him to a stop in front of her door. After giving him instructions to wait there, she disappeared through the door for a few moments. No sign of Alice. Good. She grabbed up the domino mask and whip she had brought for the occasion before stepping back out into the hall and looping her arm through his as though nothing was different. A corner of her mouth quirked upward and she arched an eyebrow.

"What?" she demanded coyly. "Mon chere, if you think I did not see the way you looked at me earlier as I handled your wayward hand, you have much more to learn about me than I imagined. Now pray, lead the way. I do not know my way about the house from here."
 
Beckett lifted an eyebrow of his own as Antoinette returned bearing her prizes from her room - a severe black domino mask and a bullwhip. His expression transformed to one of amused indulgence st her words, though. “You have a stern hand,” he smiled, taking her arm. “I can respect that. I have been required to apply a touch of the lash myself, from time to time. To enforce discipline.”

Despite the easy words, he felt his heart hammering in his chest. It had been a long time, far too long, since he’d been with a woman. Would he embarrass himself? Fail to perform? Disappoint, by finishing too soon? It was an effort to keep his hand from shaking as he opened his door.

The room was nautical in theme, decorated with paintings of ships and brass ships instruments and books about the sea, and even a ship’s wheel. The bed, just large enough for two but clearly only used by one, was smartly made. “My room,” Beckett announced, recognizing it as unnecessary even as he said it.

Closing the door, he fathered Antoinette into his arms and kissed her. “God, I want you,” he whispered, fingers combing through her hair as he kissed her again. Then he grinned as he felt the whip handle in her hand. “Or did you have some special idea in mind?”
 
His room, as Beckett had hilariously announced it, was decorated in a gauche nautical theme. It seemed like everything about Beckett was at least fifty years out of date. That made sense, of course, provided she accepted that he really was an immortal sea captain cursed to remain on dry land. But still. The man could at least attempt to keep up on the latest interior design trends!

The little man was gathering her into his arms. He kissed her and slid his fingers through her hair, pawing at her as though it had been a while--if ever--since he had touched a woman. But he felt the whip in her hand and Anne Marie returned the grin when he asked whether she had some special idea in mind. She leaned down and kissed him slowly.

"Take off your clothes," she murmured against his lips before backing away. She herself undressed down to her slip, not wanting to get blood on her dress, and carefully affixed the domino mask. "Cutler Beckett," she announced with a dramatically sinister edge to her voice, "La Zorra has seen the way you treat your hands and your guests." She stepped up close to him again and slid the whip softly over his chest. He was doughy, but certainly not the most unattractive man she had ever been with. "You will taste the kiss of my lash for your crimes," she promised softly, lips brushing over his. "Assume the position."
 
Cutler stripped off his clothes, trying not to look too eager and aware that he was probably failing badly. God, what a woman she was! And when he turned around, she confirmed that belief - she was stunning in the thin white slip she wore, and her black mask added an air of erotic mystery. “Cutler Beckett," she announced with a dramatically sinister edge to her voice, "La Zorra has seen the way you treat your hands and your guests."

“Has she now?” he smiled, playing along. “And what does this mysterious La Zorra intend to do about it.”

She stepped close, and the braided leather of the whip slid over his chest. “You will taste the kiss of my lash for your crimes," she promised softly, lips brushing over his. "Assume the position."

It shouldn’t have been arousing, objectively. But he felt his breath catch and his penis harden further at the sensuously whispered promise. “I think you will find, Senorita La Zorra,” he replied, catching her wrist pain n a surprisingly powerful grip, “that Cutler Beckett is not a man to be trifled with.”

He pushed her back, pressing her firmly against his dresser. The feel of her strong body against his, with nothing but a single thin layer of fabric separating them, was intoxicating. “You May have seen how I treat my hands and my guests, Senorita La Zorra,” he breathed, resting his fingertips on her skin as he held her wrist pinned between them. “But have you seen how I treat bandits? Ones bold enough to threaten me in my home?”
 
It was tempting to simply draw the blood by backhanding him across the face. She had done much more for much less. Still, he was at least willing to go along with the game and would give her both what she needed and what she wanted, the latter being justice for innocent lives and the spread of an unnatural curse. Anne Marie glanced down at the fingers wrapped around her wrist, then back up to Beckett's face. His erection was pressed against her thigh as he breathed against her neck and pinned her hand between their chests. Her eyes narrowed and a confident smirk painted her lips.

"Your first mistake," she explained softly, "was mistaking a promise for a threat." She lunged forward to press a kiss to his lips then used the distraction to break his grip and reverse their positions, pressing him against the wall. She grinned as she pinned his shoulders to the wall. "What was this you were saying about not trifling with you?" Her teeth grazed against his collarbone and her thigh pressed gently between his legs. "Now...will you take your punishment willingly, or must I tie you up first?"

She played with her food. Algie had always found that far too stereotypically feminine of her, but what could she say? Playing games meant keeping them unawares until it was too late. Hell, she could have killed Beckett at least three different ways by now if she hadn't needed his blood and that was thanks to keeping him off his guard with her games. And once Algernon had watched from the shadows simply to see how she had progressed in her training, and once the deed was done she could have sworn she'd seen something different in him, some sort of glint in his eye. But that was neither here nor there for the time being.
 
“I have never willingly submitted to punishment,” Beckett replied, shifting his arms against her grip. He knew he could break feee easily, but her display of assertiveness was... intoxicating. Arousing. “So, I submit, you will have to bind me.”

How did she break my hold? a small voice nagged. But he dismissed it. She was, after all, a lady. One of the fairer sex. He must have eased his grip, allowing her to play out her game of being ‘the fox’.

He must have.

“Now,” he breathed, straining playfully against her hold once more, “how do you propose to bind me, Madam?” He tried not to feel relief as her slighter frame shifted in response to his efforts. “How, exactly, do you propose to bind me?”
 
Anne Marie quirked an eyebrow and smirked as he struggled against her and challenged her to bind him. She may have been a lady, but she was deceptively strong for her physique and had been complimented on her grip more than once. Without warning, without any change in her facial expression, she twisted his wrist ever-so-slightly. It would have been enough to send a surprising jolt of pain along the outside of his arm, from his pinky to his elbow. She had once when she was 17 assassinated a Thai diplomat who had insisted, in their months of acquaintance, upon her learning the art of massage. It had been most useful in that knowledge of nerves and muscles had allowed her to disarm opponents without much effort.

She used Beckett's momentary distraction to pull him over to the bed. The drapery around his rich four-poster fell closed as she used the two nearest curtain ties to bind him to the footboard. When would men learn not to be alone with a woman and ornate bed frames? She was careful not to tie him up too tightly, in order to avoid startling him, but the knots were quite unbreakable unless he could reach them with his teeth. Madame La Fleuriste ensured that he could not reach them with his teeth.

"Do you repent for your crimes, Monsieur Beckett?" she demanded in a lofty voice. "If you do and it is sincere, you may escape the worst of it." She allowed the tip of the whip to slither down his back. "But not all of it."
 
To be perfectly honest, he had not seen the coming. He had felt the strength In Antoinette’s slim frame, yes, and she had broken his grip once already. But he hadn’t expected her to be able to leave him flat in his own bed, with his arms bound to the frame. Madame Giry was a woman of remarkable talents, it seemed.

“What crimes?” he challenged, shivering as the leather of his whip caressed his spine. “If you pretend I have committed some crime, perhaps you should enumerate them?” Leather slithered between the cheeks of his rear, sending a frisson of desire through him. “Or are you no more than the crude vigilante you seem?”

God, but he wanted her. His arousal ached, trapped between his body and the bed, but he refused to give in. Was it pride? Or merely a desire to draw out this erotic game she was playing? “Do your worst, La Zorra,” he laughed. “One word from me will have twenty of my men here within heartbeats.”
 
"Only twenty?" Madame La Fleuriste slid a smirk into her voice and the tip of the whip flicked against his doughy backside. Lightly, of course, but enough to sting. Enough to acquaint him with the pain that would draw his precious blood from him. He had a point about being able to call for help, but that could be easily fixed with a gag if he cried too loudly. For now they would see how he could handle the whip.

"Cutler Beckett, you stand accused of crimes against hospitality," she accused, flicking the whip and leaving an angry pink welt in its wake. "You stand accused of abusing your workers." She flicked it again, in the same spot, and it turned purple. "You stand accused of atrocities against man and woman alike, of black sorcery and dealing with the devil." A third strike brought a thin line of blood through the broken skin. Anne Marie leaned over his back, pressing a handkerchief to the wound while she brought her lips to his ear and nibbled delicately at the ridge of his ear. "How do you plead?"

Damn! It wasn't enough! The blood had barely left a trace on the handkerchief, and who knew how much the curse needed to be sated? She would simply have to ease into it and strike him harder. It would be easier if he didn't struggle, and didn't notice until it was too late that she was gone. Jackie and Sam had left the secret passage cracked, as promised, and she could see the thin line in the wall where she would need to escape.
 
The whip cracked, and cracked again, and Beckett jumped each time the stinging pain was felt. But it wasn’t the lash that got to him. Black sorcery. Dealing with the devil. He had to stifle the impulse to snap back, because he hadn’t done those things! He’d dealt with terrible Powers for King and Country, yes, but he’d bound them with the power of God! His immortality was a curse from that devil Calypso, not a bargain.

He hissed again as the lash touched him. No. It was a coincidence. A game that cut too close. “I plead innocent, La Zorra,” he replied, unable to keep the edge out of his voice. Straining, he tried to free himself from the ropes. They held fast.

“You cause me of abusing my men? They are low born ruffians.” The headboard shook as he jerked at the ropes. “Only strict discipline renders them fit for service!”
 
"So their low birth means they deserve the lash?" she demanded imperiously, striking him harder. "Like this? Do they deserve to be beaten like this, Beckett?" Madame La Fleuriste struck him harder with each swing. With any luck his natural endorphins would prevent him from realizing just how deeply into his flesh the lash was cutting. He jerked at the ropes but the knots held fast.

"It seems to me as though you need strict discipline yourself, Monsieur." Anne Marie lashed him once more before leaning to whisper into his ear again. Her handkerchief came back with what she considered to be enough blood. "Or do you expect from your men that which you are not man enough to endure?" Her teeth scraped his earlobe as her breath came hot on his ear.
 
Beckett strained at the curtain tied as the whip struck, pain exploding across his back as the leather but his skin. But it wasn’t the pain that suddenly drained the arousal from his veins. It was her words. “So their low birth means they deserve the lash?" she demanded as the lash struck again. "Like this? Do they deserve to be beaten like this, Beckett?"

This was no game. He could hear it in her tone of voice. She was concerned for them, like...

The whip struck again. “It seems to me as though you need strict discipline yourself, Monsieur." She leaned in close, her hand stinging on his back, her breath hot in his ear. "Or do you expect from your men that which you are not man enough to endure?"

“You... do me a disservice,” he rasped, harshly. “And, I fear, you have come under false pretenses.” He strained at the ties again, trying to free himself. “I... welcomed... you. Not some... damned... union organizer.”
 
Well...that had been unexpected. Anne Marie was caught wrong-footed for a moment and blinked in surprise. She considered herself a fair employer and had no quarrels with the unionists, certainly, but she wasn't one of them. And being accused of such a thing here, now...well, it was tantamount to being accused of Communism. She had had some strange conversations in the boudoir, but labor politics was certainly a first.

But, whatever would buy her more time.

"A union organizer, Monsieur?" She slapped him across the cheek for good measure. "You are so concerned with your precious gold that you would accuse anyone concerned for you men of being a unionist? La Zorra fights for the common people, that is all." She leaned in again, her breath hot against his ear. "Now stand there and think about the seriousness of your accusation while I decide what to do with you."

She stepped away quietly. The trap door in the wall slid smoothly, making only the softest of whispers in its tracks. With a glance behind her, Anne Marie had to fight her instinct to run down the torchlit passageway.

"Where the hell were you Doc?" Jackie was standing with Sam near the door. They'd pressed themselves up against the wall in case it was Beckett who came through rather than Doc LaMonte, but now relaxed. "We been standin' here damn near an hour!"

"These things take time and patience, Jacqueline," she answered tersely before handing off the bloodied handkerchief to Sam. "Here. We must hope this is enough, I'm afraid."
 
Sam tensed and raised her revolver as she heard the soft footsteps in the secret passage. Jackie followed suit, as did Alice a moment later. Poor girl looked like hell, with her eye black and her lip split, but she was still game. And she’d gotten them in unnoticed.

The door opened, and Sam took aim. But it was Doc LaMonte that entered. “Where the hell were you Doc?" Jackie hissed, letting out the tension they all felt. "We been standin' here damn near an hour!"

Doc didn’t look any less tense. “These things take time and patience, Jacqueline," she answered tersely before handing off the bloodied handkerchief to Sam. "Here. We must hope this is enough, I'm afraid."

Holstering her pistol, Sam eyed the bloody cloth. It didn’t look any different through the ash and bone warpaint she wore. “Reckon it’ll have ta be,” she replied. “Lessen we wanna go stick a knife in Beckett.”

“Probably bring the whole ranch down on us if we did,” Alice replied.

“Probably.” Sam shrugged. “Ain’t lookin’ ta do that jes’ yet.” Glancing at the door, she heaved open the lid of the chest under all the Aztec statues. “Holy shit.”

The chest was filled with gold. Old coins if unfamiliar design, ragged-edged and rough stamped. They glittered in the candle light, and Sam found herself wanting to dig in and pull out a fistful or two. Dig in, despite the crawling things that scurried over and under and around the coins.

Don’t, whispered a dead Ranger. The curse...

“Yeah, yeah,” she snapped back. “Ah know, an’ Ah ain’t so foolish as ta let them craw all over me.” She looked at Jackie. “Do we jes’ dump th’ blood on? Or do we gotta say a prayer or somethin’ fist?”
 
Jackie inhaled with a sharp hiss. She did not see the unclean things scuttling over the coins. She saw shimmering, buttery gold that glinted invitingly in the candle light, calling out to her to take some. Just a few. It wouldn't hurt anything. That's what great-granddad did anyway, and he turned out just fine. Right? Ancient voices seemed to whisper to her from the chest, beckoning her to lean closer, to reach out.

Jack...

Jaaaack...

"Jackie!" Doc LaMonte looked irritated, pursing her lips in that way she did.

"Hm? Sorry..." Jackie shook her head and felt a sort of regret as she tore her eyes away from the gold. "Uh...yeah, I dunno. Legend's a little fuzzy on that part. Sometimes Daddy'd say there was a spell, sometimes there wasn't. Best just in case, right? Here, give it here." She held out her hand for the bloodied handkerchief and felt a little too grand for her station as she stood over the chest. She felt even sillier as she recited an incantation from an old bedtime story. "Begun by blood...by blood, undone."

Still, it took more effort than it ought to have to drop the handkerchief into the box. She looked down at it, sitting there on top of the gold looking for all the world like a normal handkerchief.

"Now um...the rest of it," she said, taking the stoppered tubes they'd taken from the other hands around the ranch and pouring it over the gold. The act was physically painful for her. "Everyone who's ever taken one hasta put blood back in or else it won't work and we'll be up shit crick."
 
Sam watched Jackie dump the blood in, trying not to flinch away at the hostility of the scuttling things that lurked amongst the gold. At the hostility of the things that lived in the blood her lover returned. They didn’t want to be back in the chest. They wanted to be free. They wanted more blood, more victims to crap within.

“You all right, Sam?”

Alice’s voice made her attention snap back into focus. Her hand gripped her half-drawn revolver, and it trembled with revulsion and dread. “Yeah,” she muttered, scrubbing at her mouth with the back of a gloved hand. “Yeah. Jes’... let’s get th’ hell outta here.”

“But did it work?” Alice persisted.

“Ah reckon it did,” Sam said, sharper than she’d like. As soon as the words left her lips, she smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Ah’m jes... on edge, y’know.” The things reached upwards with misshapen hands, groping hungrily for Jackie, and she slammed the lid shut. “Let’s git th’ hell outta here, all right?”

Even with the lid closed, it took an effort of will to rejoldter her pistol. And to say the next words she spoke. “An’ we gotta take that there chest with us. Or Beckett’ll jes’ start over.” Her skin crawled as she reached for a handle. “Y’git th’ other side, Alice.”
 
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