The Flight of the Valkyrie

[ladydeathfaerie]

Title: The Flight of The Valkyrie
Chapter Three: A Sea of Intrigues
Fandom: something like the Marvel Universe
Rating: 18 and up
Warnings: lots of sex and violence, language, anything else i can toss in. flagrant abuse of a Scots accent and loads of pirates. much badly mangled pirate speech
Disclaimer: the recognizable characters and places contained herein are the property of Marvel. i'm merely borrowing for the sake of entertainment. no money is being made from this venture. the Sues are the sole property of their originators, Ginevra, Dazzledfirestar, Nanaea, SilverFoxChan and ladydeathfaerie. the concept and title of The Mary Sue Virus are used with permission from Dazzledfirestar.

Author's notes: the French used in this chapter is courtesy of Daz. there's one sentence and it translates to "Robert Lord is the White Devil of the seas." mucho thanks and many huggles, Daz, for all the help.

The Flight of the Valkyrie - The Index

"We cannot keep killing ze men if zey do not wish to be part of our crew," Morgan insisted, slapping her tankard down on the table for emphasis. Haley rolled her eyes. It was an old argument, one they had damn near every time they came out of a fight with one of Her Majesty's fleet. Morgan's position never changed, no matter that the five of them had decided that leaving anyone alive was asking for trouble. Never mind the fact that they had a reputation to maintain.

"Morgan, how can you sit there and say that? Do you really believe we wouldn't have every frigate in the Royal Navy chasing us if we allowed those bastards to live? They'd kill us without hesitation. We're safer if they all die," she returned, which was almost the same reply she gave every other time Morgan started talking like this. The shorter Frenchwoman had made it known from the very beginning that she didn't agree with killing, but she would do it if necessary. And it was often necessary.

"I do not like ze feel of so much blood on my hands," Morgan sniffed. Haley wrapped an arm around the woman's shoulders and gave a brief squeeze.

"No more than the rest of us, my love," she reminded the woman before taking a swallow of her ale. Growing up the daughter of a merchant hadn't hardened Morgan to life. Haley might have felt the same as her friend, if it hadn't been for...

She shoved that thought aside and firmly locked it away. There was no place for melancholy thoughts in a victory celebration. She just needed to remind herself why she continued to pirate with the other four women. She just needed to remember that, out on the open sea, she was free of societal perceptions and rules. On the open sea, she was a woman. A sailor. A goddess in her own right.

Screeching drew her from her introspection in time to see one of the whores come flying off the stairs that rose up to the upper floors, where the working girls had their rooms. She was crying, insisting that some man hadn't paid. Haley was ready to ignore the scene, but the man who stepped into the main room caught her attention. She'd never seen the like before in her life.

He was tall and thin, though not sickly. The way he moved spoke of being well nourished, in the prime of his life. His attire was strange and she saw no discernable weapon. In fact, he looked utterly out of place in the Black Unicorn, den of iniquity that it was. Ophelia was already dealing with him, her door guards moving toward the man with their swords drawn, informing him that he would have to suffer for his trespasses. Then the most amazing thing happened. Dare, who rarely ever concerned herself with strangers, spoke up for the man.

Haley shared a look with Morgan, who was wearing an expression that bore the same curiosity and surprise that the taller girl knew she felt. Neither one of them could believe what they were seeing. There was a look in the Scotswoman's eyes that suggested she knew this man, though Haley was sure she'd never seen anyone like him before. Dare would have mentioned someone like that to the rest of them.

The room was tense as patron and hired help alike held their weapons on the newcomer. Despite his not being armed, Haley couldn't help but think that he wasn't as helpless as he looked. She was pretty sure there was an aura of danger around him. It was just like the drunken lot here to ignore what was in front of them. Then again, not everyone knew that you could find a dangerous creature hidden under the most civilized of human facades. She'd learned that the hard way.

Harper was gone again, having left through the windows in her rooms because they overlooked the gardens and the slanted roof that made climbing down to the ground much easier and safer. She'd wanted to go with him, but he'd told her no this time. He hadn't told her no since she'd seen her twelfth summer. His denial had left her feeling as if she weren't special anymore. He'd always been there for her, no matter what had happened. This was the first time he'd ever denied her and it stung.

Sleep was elusive. After he'd climbed out her window, she'd lain in bed and tossed and turned for what felt like hours. She'd finally had to admit that she wasn't going to get to sleep right away and had decided to sneak down to her father's library. There were so many books there and she'd made it her task to read each and every one of them, no matter what the content or how boring they might be.

For a moment, the thought of reading gave her a thrill like it always did. So few women knew how to read or write. Her father had seen her tutored in both subjects, just as he'd had Harper tutored. He'd told them once, long ago, that he wanted more than an ordinary life for his children. That, he'd said, meant a good education. That was why Haley knew how to read and write, how to figure columns of numbers. Just as she knew how to place a stitch and weave a tapestry. She could also play the dulcimer and sing with what she'd been told by her instructors were dulcet tones. Despite the fact that her father was little more than a merchant, he had spared no expense where his children and their education were concerned

The halls were almost dark, only a single candle at either end of the long corridor casting any light on the upstairs wing. The sleeping chambers were up here and she knew that her parents were safely tucked away behind the double doors that opened into their suite. There was a single corridor that ran the length of the house, with a wide set of stairs cutting it in half so that the guest chambers were in one wing and the family's personal chambers were in the other. Haley stopped at the top of the stairs and listened.

She couldn't hear any of the servants. Excellent.

Quiet as a church mouse, she crept down the stairs, carefully skirting the plank that liked to squeak when pressure was put upon it. The bottom of the stairs came out at the rear of the house. Unlike the upper level, this floor was split down the middle from front to back, then divided again from side to side. A wide hallway ran from the huge double doors at the front, where guests entered the building, to the back doors, that opened out into the gardens. There were two smaller halls branched off it, each one leading to either side of the house.

As with the upstairs, a single candle glowed at the end of each hall. She found her way easily down the corridor and stopped before the dark wooden door that would let her into her father's library. Confusion wrinkled her brow. The panel was cracked and a thin finger of mellow golden light poured out onto the carpet. She was about to push the door open when an unfamiliar voice stopped her. "My lord Stone. I don't think you understand just how troublesome this situation can be for you."

A prickle of fear worked its way up her spine. What situation was the stranger talking about?

"You can't ask me to do this, Magistrate." Her father's voice was low, filled with strain and something else. Fear?

"But I can. And I have. You will turn him over to me. Or you won't like the actions taken." What actions? Turn who over?

"Magistrate, please. Reconsider. He's my son. I can't simply hand him over to you as if he were some common criminal." There was sorrow and grief in the words. Haley's heart stopped in her chest. Harper? What had Harper done?

"Well, my lord," the Magistrate drawled. There was something in his tone that grated on her nerves, some sense of self-importance, some smugness, that brought hate roaring to life within her. "If you are unwilling to turn your son over to the authorities, we shall just have to take your wife."

"Charlotte? You can't be serious!" Anger made her father's voice sharp and brittle.

"Someone has to answer for the charges. If not the son, then the mother will have to do."

"Charlotte has never done anything to hurt anyone in her life! How can you..."

"We've ignored her... problems because she hasn't flaunted her affliction before anyone." The Magistrate cut her father off brusquely, as if he were already tired of this conversation. "However, your son has made it known to one and all that he's in league with Satan. Someone will have to pay for his sins. If you will not readily give us your son, we'll simply take your wife."

The room fell silent for a long time. Haley's heart beat so loudly in her chest, she was surprised that neither one of the men on the other side of the door could hear it. Finally, after it became apparent that her father wasn't going to say anything else, the Magistrate spoke again. "I expect she'll scream quite loudly when the flames start to purify her soul."

There was snarling kind of sound that she realized was her father. Something heavy hit the floor with a dull thud, then there was a long sigh. "Very well. But I will not give you my son. I will not simply hand him over to you as if he were a common criminal. He's still my son. If you want him, you'll have to catch him on your own."

"I would recommend, my lord, that you do not warn him of his impending arrest. To do so would be treason to the crown and your life would then be forfeit." The words were a very thinly veiled threat. Haley felt the anger boil over into rage and the desire to throttle the magistrate filled her until she wanted to smash him into the wall, wanted to strangle the life out of him. The rustling of cloth brought her away from the edge and she realized that someone was approaching the door. Quickly, on quiet feet, Haley ducked deeper into the shadows and hid.

More light spilled into the hallway as the wooden panel was swung open wide. The silhouette of a man filled the rectangle of illumination. "Good evening, my lord Stone." The shadow moved and the man stepped out into the hall. Haley could only stare as the man turned and walked away from her father's library, away from where she stood.

Minutes ticked by as she waited in the shadows, her lungs struggling to take in enough air while her heart beat frantically in her chest. She didn't know how long she remained where she was, frozen in place by the fear. But the terrible sound that came from the library scared her. A cry of despair, mingled with the shattering of glass, echoed wildly along the corridor.

Harper was going to die. Someone had named him witch. The authorities wanted to kill him. Not Harper. Not her brother. She had to do something, had to warn him to run and hide.

She had to tell him.

Harper...

"Haley?" Morgan's voice pulled her from the memory and she had to take a moment to bring herself back under control. She hadn't thought about that night in a very long time. She took a quick drink before giving her attention to the woman who sat with her. Morgan was staring at her with concern on her face, her lips turned down in a frown. "Are you well, Haley? You look sad."

"I'm fine," Haley lied. She shot her gaze toward the stairwell and was shocked to find that Dare was now standing before the strange man. Almost every weapon in the place had been returned to its resting place. The man was staring at Dare in the oddest fashion. Haley was willing to swear there was recognition on his face. But she was sure she'd never seen his like before. Their wild Scots wench usually never hid who she slept with from them. More often than not, she bragged about her lovers when they were on board The Valkyrie and well into their cups.

She'd even told them what kind of a bed partner her mysterious lover made.

But there was some fine thread of tension in the man that spoke of something familiar. It was in Dare, too. The situation was odd, to be sure. "Who is he, love?" Ophelia asked, and Haley realized she'd missed some conversation again.

Dare smirked at the madam, a cocky grin that suggested she knew something that no one else did. "A lady doesnae kiss an tell, Ophelia."

"Aye, love. But you're no lady," Ophelia returned with a smile. "Tell me who he is."

Dare sighed and shook her head slightly. There was genuine sorrow in her face. "I'm sorrah, Ophelia. But if ye dinnae ken who he is, I'm no' goin' tae tell ye." Then she turned her back and looked up at the man. They seemed to study one another for a moment or two before he gave the most minute dip of his head. The Scotswoman motioned to the door with one hand. "Lads, lassies. If ye need me, ye'll find me on the ship. Dinnae let us spoil yer fun."

The two of them cut a path through the crowd to slip out the door and disappear into the night. When Haley shifted her gaze back to Morgan, the Frenchwoman's eyes were wide with shock and surprise. "`Ooo was zat man?" she asked.

"I've never seen him before in my life, though something about him is familiar. `Tis obvious that Dare knows him well." Haley took a drink of her ale and considered the turn of events. She hoped that this man wouldn't bring trouble to the crew of The Valkyrie. She knew that there was so much about each of their lives that the others didn't know. It had always been easier to keep their old lives hidden away, kept from the light of day. There was no pain that way, no frightening reminders of what could have been, should have been, would have been if things hadn't gone so horribly wrong. Until earlier that day, she'd never heard Dare speak of her family.

"I do not care `ooo he is as long as we do not return to ze ship to find ze two of zem still fucking away." Morgan sniffed in disdain. As if she were so upset by the idea of one of them having sex in their bed. It was more than likely that she would be angered to find them having sex and not be invited to join the fun. Haley just smiled at her.

"She does seem to have a weakness for men of mystery, doesn't she?" Haley asked, a wicked gleam in her eye. The look earned her a frown. Morgan lifted her cup and drained the contents.

"I wonder if she will..."

Whatever Morgan was wondering ended abruptly as Rosemary joined them at the table, a man at her elbow. James Howlett was of indeterminate age, his face browned and weathered after years at sea. Short and stocky, he was the only man they'd ever seen Rosemary take more than a passing interest in. He was one of the few merchants who got free passage when his vessel was in the same waters as The Valkyrie. More to the point, his ship was one of the only ones that was known to be under the protection of the crew of The Valkyrie. Another pirate had tried once to take Howlett's ship by force. Every man to the last had died screaming and Dare had taken great pleasure in burning the remains of the small sloop. With the crew still on it.

The captain... Well, the man had died screaming, but for an entirely different reason.

"Rosemary," Haley nodded her head at her crewmate. She turned a smile on Howlett. What he gave her in return was more along the lines of a grimace. On the exterior, he wasn't what one could call a truly handsome man. But he had piercing blue eyes, dark hair and a way about him that spoke to Rosemary. They knew, because she'd told them, that her mother had been a member of one of the native tribes in the New World. There was a thin layer of civilization that clung to her, but they all knew she was more wild creature than proper lady. And something in Howlett responded to that part of her, complimented it and soothed it at the same time. That was the biggest reason she sought him out whenever their ships crossed or they were in port at the same time. "James. Pleasure to see you again."

"Haley. Heard ye took on another o' the Royal frigates and won," he said by way of greeting. He had a gruff voice that reminded her more often than not of an animal's growl.

"But of course we won," Morgan retorted. "We always win."

Howlett nodded and took a chair. Rosemary sank into the other one and waved the serving wench over to the table. The woman brought a fresh round of ale for each of them. Howlett was the first one to toss payment at her. After taking a drink from his tankard, he glanced to the doorway and back. "How long has the lassie kenned Robert Lord?"

The question took Haley off guard. While she'd never actually seen him in person, everybody knew who Robert Lord was. He was titled and landed in both France and England. Gossip held him as richer than the Queen and terribly handsome. Even from across the room, she'd been able to see that the man with her crewmate fit that description. He was supposed to have style, charm and grace. The wagging tongues of busybodies always put him with the most beautiful of the noble women, always in the midst of some scandal. There were even whispers, in the dark and shadowy places, that Lord had an interest in men and didn't care who he took to bed with him. Those rumors weren't common and she'd only heard them from the stray pirate here and there. Never in proper society and never from the lips of a proper lady.

He'd been married once, had had a wife he'd supposedly loved deeply. It was said he'd been a perfect husband. During his marriage, word of affairs and illicit assignations had never been spoken in the same sentence as his name. Haley'd heard that his wife had been a true beauty. Some had said she looked like an angel, with soft blonde hair and a slender, feminine figure. They'd had a child together, a son, before his wife had been taken by a fever and he'd been left on his own.

And then the rumors had started flying. He'd gone mad with grief, had become prone to fits that frightened people. His friends had stopped visiting his homes in fear of their lives. Some had whispered that he'd slaughtered his staff and anyone else who'd known his wife to rid himself of reminders, that he'd sent his son away to some distant relative. Some had said that he'd become a changed man, that he'd been cursed with his wife's death. There were too many to keep track of and she couldn't be sure if there was any truth to any of them. The one thing she did know was that Lord hadn't been seen in four years. It was thought he'd befallen an accident that left him so physically scarred that he refused to leave his estate in France. Some even thought he was dead. But nothing had ever been confirmed.

"Robert Lord?" Morgan gasped the name out. She seemed shocked by the knowledge. "Zat was Robert Lord? You are sure of zis?"

James nodded his head, staring at the two of them silently. Rosemary looked concerned and Haley thought she could understand why.

"Surely you're mistaken," Haley shook her head. "Dare couldn't possibly know someone like Robert Lord. He wouldn't ever travel in circles such as ours."

"I've seen Lord once or twice," Hewlett pinned her with his stare and Haley found herself oddly trapped, as if he were some kind of hunter on the trail of his prey. She didn't draw a proper breath until he broke the look to take another drink of his ale. "Up close, mind. Yer girl there," he waved a hand in the general direction of the doors. "Yer lassie is in trouble if she's thinkin' o' entertainin' someone like Lord."

"I zought Robert Lord was dead," Morgan murmured quietly. Haley glanced at her questioningly, prompting the other woman to wave a hand absently. "It is unimportant. If James says zat man is Robert Lord, zen 'ee is Robert Lord. Ze question now is..."

"How does Dare know such a man?" Rosemary finished the statement for them. Morgan nodded her head. She looked thoughtful. Haley frowned and touched her arm.

"Morgan, what is it?" Haley asked. Again, Morgan waved her hand. Rosemary was the one who reached across the table and touched the woman's arm.

"Morgan, you smell of fear. What is the matter?" Rosemary's voice was almost always quiet and gentle, but her words were in a range that Haley had never heard before. It put Haley on edge and she swept a quick glance around the room to see if anyone was paying them any attention. For the moment, it appeared that they were safe.

"Robert Lord est le Diable Blanc de les mers," Morgan replied without realizing she'd lapsed into French. It was bad if that were happening. The only times Morgan ever used her native tongue were when she was angry or scared. There was no need to wonder which it was this time.

"Morgan. English." Rosemary beat Haley to it, which saw their captain's startled gaze flashing to the woman's face. Howlett sat beside her, expression grim.

"Robert Lord is known in France as le Diable Blanc. The White Devil. After ze death of 'ees wife, ze Marquis Lord went mad. `Ee bought a ship and put to sea. `Ee became ze most notorious pirate in..."

"Holy shite!" Haley swore and stared, wide eyed, at Morgan. "You're sure? You're sure Robert Lord and le Diable Blanc are the same person?"

"Oui." The finality in her tone let them know that she was dead serious about this.

"How would Dare know someone like this man?"

"There's only one way to answer that question," Howlett tipped his tankard back to drain the rest of his ale, then slapped the mug down on the table top with determination. He stood and jerked his head toward the door. "We go ask her."

~*~

The crew that had been left behind were whispering amongst themselves when the small group made it up onto the deck of The Valkyrie. A few glances were cast their way and Perry came over to ask if his orders had changed. Morgan gave him a shake of her head, then added that they were not to be disturbed. She led the group quietly across the deck toward the hallway that would take them to the captain's cabin.

It was no surprise that the door was shut.

What was surprising was the sound of arguing that came from the other side of the closed wooden panel. Dare's voice was easy to pick out with its rolling cadence that reminded Haley of riding the waves and the anger that peppered it. There was a lower voice, this one masculine. It was hard to tell what was being said or if it was said in anger. Morgan moved to open the door, but a heavy hand on her shoulder stopped her. Instead, Howlett easily set her aside and took a firm grip on the latch. Haley dropped a hand to the hilt of her sword. She noted that Rosemary and Morgan did the same.

The door opened to show them a confusing tableau. Dare stood by the bed, Robert Lord behind her. Her corset and sword belt were on the floor, her feet bare. Lord's tunic gaped open down the center, exposing a muscled, tanned chest to view. One of her hands was grasped tightly in his. Judging by the color in her face, it was obvious she was holding on to him as if he were some sort of anchor. Haley didn't want to consider just how close she'd come to losing control.

The two of them were facing off against a second man, who stood by himself on the other side of the room, close to the door. He was dressed immaculately, though his attire was somewhat plain. There was a general air of arrogance that surrounded him, as if he were the king of all he saw, and his gaze was latched onto Dare at the moment. Whatever conversation they'd been having before Howlett had opened the door had come to a sudden halt. The strange man turned a bland expression on them and Haley almost dropped to the deck.

What the holy bloody hell was Anthony Stark doing on their ship? And why had he been staring at Dare as if she belonged to him? "Good evening," he told them, eyes lit and shining as he studied the four of them. Then he turned back to Dare and offered her a mocking smile. "I've always wanted to meet your friends, my sweet. Show me that your mother taught you manners and introduce me."

"I'll introduce ye tae the sharp end o' my sword if ye dinnae get the bloody hell off our ship," Dare snarled at him. Haley watched as Lord leaned in to whisper in her ear. Some of the tension drained out of her almost immediately. She even managed a hint of a smile. "Ye've never heard the stories then, have ye? We Scots are naught but a bunch o' barbarians. `Tis time he learned tha' he cannae order me aboot as if I were a slave."

"Alasdare," Stark intoned, sounding very much bored. "I did not come here to play games. You and I will speak. Either you will come with me quietly and act like a lady or I shall simply throw you over my shoulder and carry you from this room as if you were little more than a sack of flour."

"Touch me and I'll ensure ye never have a bairn tae carry on yer line, m'laird," Dare replied sweetly. How did he know her full name? She never went by Alasdare. Never. Haley could remember the last time someone had dared to called her by it. She'd nearly taken his head off.

"And where would that leave you, my sweet? Who would you get to replace me?" The question drew a noise from Morgan's throat and Haley turned to stare at their captain. She was boggling at the man. This was Dare's mysterious lover? How in the name of God had she ended up warming his bed?

The smile that curled up her lips was a wicked as they came. And extremely unkind. Dare stepped back into Lord until her body touched his. She even went so far as to wrap his arm around her waist. "I think I can find someone."

"Dare," Lord spoke and Haley noted that there was warmth and affection in his tone. The woman glanced up at him and smiled, her face softening as she looked at him. Haley blinked. "You go an' talk to de man. Get it over wit'. We can continue when you done."

"Remy..." she shook her head. He lifted a free hand and rested it against her cheek.

"Shhh. Don' worry. Gon' be here when you done. I promise." She closed her eyes a moment, then heaved a sigh and nodded. Amazingly, the tension seemed to drain out of the room. Dare opened her eyes and stepped away from the man, then turned her attention to her crewmates.

"Morgan. Haley. Rosemary. Meet Lord Anthony Stark. Stark, my crewmates." Dare made the introductions, then tossed a grin toward Howlett. "James. `Tis guid tae see ye. Have ye had troubles with anaone?"

Howlett smiled at that, an almost feral looking thing, and shook his head. "Nary a one, lass. Shame. I can see yer lookin' fer a fight. Sadly, yer reputation has kept me and my vessel safe."

"That only means we are doing our job," Rosemary gave him a heated look. It was one he returned fully. Then she returned her attention to Dare and gestured with one hand toward the man standing behind her. "Dare..."

"Why did you not tell us zat you know Robert Lord?" Morgan asked the question without preamble. There was something in her voice, Haley thought. Some hint of uneasiness or confusion. Dare's eyes found theirs and she shook her head.

"He's no' who ye think he is," she said quietly, her voice firm.

"Lass, ye don't understand who it is ye've got here," Hewlett interjected, voice gruff. Lord was slowly looking all of them over and Haley thought she saw, if only for a moment, a hint of recognition in the man's eyes. Eyes...

Dear God, his eyes.

"He isnae Robert Lord. His name is Remy LeBeau," Dare insisted. There was a thread of anger in her voice, which prompted the man behind her to lay his hand on her shoulder. She took a breath. "Trust me. I ken what I'm sayin'. He isnae Robert Lord."

Haley was starting to believe her. She'd seen a painting of Lord once, at some party. He'd been young and quite handsome. But the painting had shown Robert Lord with blue eyes. This man's eyes were red on black. Eyes like a devil. She blinked. A white devil. Damn it, he couldn't stay. He was trouble. She'd known it the moment she'd laid eyes on him. "Why is he here, Dare?" Haley asked, drawing everyone's attention to her.

For a minute or two, it looked as if she wouldn't answer. Anger darkened her gaze and her hands flexed a few times, as if she wished to either hold her sword or burn something. "He's here because I brought him here. He's a guest. And ye'll treat him as such."

"Dare! `Ave you lost your `ead?" Morgan asked softly. "We cannot `ave someone on board `ooo cannot defend himself."

"Dinnae worrah aboot him. He can take care o' himself," Dare assured them. Haley thought that was the truth. Eyes like those could only mark the man as Witchbreed.

"Alasdare," Stark's voice reminded her that he was still in the room. "As pleasant as this conversation is, we still have things to discuss. I would think you'd rather not do that here, in front of your friends."

Dare sighed and glared at the man. "I dinnae want tae talk tae ye. Why dinnae ye return home, Stark. `Tis obvious tae me tha' we've naught tae discuss."

Stark moved then, crossing the room to where she stood with the stranger behind her. He drew a folded bit of parchment from his pocket and showed it to her. Haley saw her eyes go wide and she reached for the letter. He pulled it away before she could take hold of it and tucked it back into the pouch he'd pulled it from. "Ah, ah. Come now, my dear. You know the rules. We will discuss this now, Alasdare. Do not force my hand. You will not be pleased with the results."

It looked as if she was going to fight it. But the man, whoever he was, leaned down and once more whispered in her ear. Dare nodded her head at him, turning to wrap her arms around him. Haley caught a flash of surprise before Dare staked her claim and kissed him hard. Then she pulled away and gave her attention to her friends. "Keep an eye out," she told them. Haley nodded, Morgan and Rosemary did the same. They all knew what she meant.

Without another word, Dare retrieved her corset from the floor. The stranger helped her lace it in place, his hands moving with such ease and speed that Haley was left thinking that he'd dressed and undressed many women in his life. The sword belt came next before Dare bothered to fetch her scattered socks and boots. When she was dressed, she looked at them again, then silently strode out of the room.

"A good evening to all of you," Stark inclined his head and followed after her. When the door shut, the four of them stood and stared at the newcomer.

"I think, perhaps, that I'm not ready to call it an evening," Haley finally said. "I'll be heading back to the Unicorn for a few drinks and to see if I can find some brave soul willing to lay with one of The Valkyrie's infamous witch pirates. I'll be back come sun up."

"I think I'll join ye, Haley," Howlett nodded his head and put a hand on Rosemary's shoulder. "Coming with, lass?"

"Of course," she nodded, then looked at Morgan. "You will be fine here?"

"Aye," Morgan said, eyes filled with heat. She was angry. Haley was sure of it. "Go. But do not be late on the morrow, or I will sail without you!"

"Of course you won't, love," Haley laughed. "Play nice. Don't scare Dare's new friend." Morgan shot her a look that drew another laugh from the taller girl, then she swept out the door with Rosemary and Howlett at her heels.

~*~*~*~*~

Remy was reeling. It had been shocking to discover that there was a Dare and a Tony Stark here. Knowing that there was a Haley, Roxxy and Logan here was almost more than he could bear. And Morgan. Mon Dieu. She looked like his Morgan, the one he'd last seen laying on the ground at Trevor Fitzroy's feet, limp as a rag doll. He was going to go mad in this world if he had to keep staring at the faces of friends and family who weren't friends and family. Who else was going to pop up to taunt him with his lost life? What else was going to happen?

Would he ever find his way home, back to the woman he loved?

She was watching him, her eyes bright and vivid in the candlelit room. The color of the shirt she wore was almost the same shade of green as her eyes. She, like Dare, was clad in the shirt, a corset and tight breeches. She took off the hat she'd been wearing and tossed it down on the table top. He ached to touch her, to feel the silk of her skin beneath his hands. It was hard to remember, even with the rocking of the ship and the clothes, that this wasn't his Morgan.

Casually, he did the buttons up on his shirt, his actions slow and deliberate. But she wasn't watching his hands. She was staring at his face. And there was a look of disdain on hers that said she wasn't happy about this at all. "Morgan," he began. Her expression didn't change at the warmth in his voice. "Cher."

Her lips flattened at that and he felt the sudden anger swell from her. Curious. Carefully ignoring him, she crossed the spacious room to a chest that, when opened, revealed several bottles that stood inside a kind of rack that kept them from moving with the ship. She picked up a bottle and a glass, then closed the chest. She carried her cargo over to the table and set it down, then turned away. From the depths of the another chest, she drew out a large, leather bound tome, an ink pot and a feather quill. Again she returned to the table.

There was an indentation in the wood for the small pot of ink. Another in the center held the bottle, which she settled there after pouring herself a drink. Uncorking the pot, she dipped the quill inside as she opened the book. Then she began writing. And completely ignored him.

Remy stood and watched, listening to the scratch of the quill as it moved across the thick parchment pages. On occasion, Morgan would lift the hand that held the book open to grab for her glass and take a drink. Always, she returned to her writing. And she continued to ignore him.

Silent feet brought him close enough that he could read over her shoulder. She wrote in French, her handwriting flowing in elegant script across the page. He skimmed it, realizing that she was writing in the captain's log. Odd. Perhaps the captain didn't know how to write? It wasn't that uncommon in... he squinted at the date. Sixteen hundred? Fitzroy had thrown him back almost four hundred years. Merde. How was he supposed to get home?

He was realistic enough to know that there was no guarantee his friends would be able to find him and return him to his own time. For a moment, despair rolled through him as he thought of never seeing Morgan, his Morgan, again. Her smiles and laughter. Her love of shopping. Her love of Dare. He'd miss her, too. And their team. And Logan. The rest of his team and his friends. His home, the professor... He was going to miss all of it and so much more. If he couldn't get back, he had to find some way to establish a life here. With these people.

Staring at Morgan's bent head, he felt a small surge of guilt. He'd been trying to seduce Dare. Well, if he was being honest, he'd been well on his way and there'd been no seduction involved. Dare had wanted him so badly, he'd been able to taste it. And, under the desire, he'd gotten a glimpse of love. It had felt old, too, like her guilt. He wondered about it, who she'd loved and why she'd felt guilty and what he had to do with it.

He shoved the guilt aside. He hadn't known there was a Morgan in this time, though he shouldn't have been as surprised by it as he was. He had nothing to feel guilty about. He would concentrate now on Morgan, on establishing their relationship here. He hadn't thought losing her would hurt as badly as it had, until he'd thought she'd been taken away from him. "Morgan," he began again.

She continued to ignore him, the scratching of the quill a counterpoint to the gentle lapping of the waves against the ship's hull. He reached out to lay his hand on her shoulder. Morgan jerked away from him, rising to her feet. The quill was forgotten on the table top and she had a dagger in her hand. Her eyes sparkled with malice as she stared up at him. "Do not touch me! You will keep your `ands to yourself. And you will address me as Captain Lafavre."

The anger in her voice, that poured off her, startled him. For a second, Remy could only stare at her. Then he felt it. The hatred. It was directed at him. "Dere no reason to be so hostile, cher. Remy jus' want to talk. Dat all."

"Talking does not require touching. And you will not be allowed to address me so informally. Zis is my ship. I am ze captain. You will follow orders or I will leave you `ere. It does not matter what Dare says."

"Morgan, petit," he began softly. If anything, it only served to spike her anger higher. She muttered something in French that he didn't think a lady should say. With slow, careful motions, she set the dagger down on the table. For a moment, he thought he was safe. Then she drew the sword at her side and pointed it at him.

"I am not your little one. I do not belong to you. I do not know `ooo you zink you are and I do not care. Touch me again and I will remove ze offending `and!" There was determination in her voice and the grip on her sword was sure. Remy smiled at her. At least she was filled with all kinds of spirit. Too bad for her that he had ways around it.

He called upon his gift and nudged her with it. Not much, just enough to help cancel out the anger and hatred. So he could talk without worrying if she'd stick him with her sword. For a moment, she looked like she might waver. Something softer moved through her eyes and the hand around the hilt of the sword went slack. But she shook her head and it was gone. Damn it. Her grip tightened and she held the sword out further from her body, closer to his. "Do not try your tricks with me, m'sieur."

"Dere no tricks, Morgan." He kept his voice deliberately soft so that she wouldn't see him as being threatening. For the time being, Dare was the only one who knew what he was capable of. As far as Morgan was concerned, he was unarmed. Slowly, Remy lifted his hands, showed her that they were empty. He turned up the wattage on his charm and sent it toward her again.

This time, the sword in her hand wavered. He watched as the blade, slightly curved with a heavy tip, dipped as she stared at him. He'd studied swords when he was younger, had learned the use of them. Morgan held a cutlass, a blade he knew that had been favored by the pirates and sailors when there were no guns to use. The hilt had a plain silver basket on it to guard her hand and the weapon looked wicked in her hands, Wrong and right at the same time. He'd noted earlier, with Dare, that she carried a pair of the deadly blades. Even Haley and Roxxy... no, Rosemary... had each carried one on their belts.

Slowly, the tip of the cutlass dropped to the floor. While Morgan didn't let go of it, her grip did go lax as she simply stared at him. It was utterly unfair of him to use his charm against her like this. But he had to touch her, needed to feel her skin against his. He thought, perhaps, if she realized that he meant her no harm, she'd soften to him. If that were to happen, then perhaps he could survive in this place.

Carefully, with measured steps, he approached Morgan. She watched him, her eyes slightly unfocused and her chest heaving with the remnants of her anger. He curled one hand around hers where it held the hilt of the cutlass and pushed it back until her arm was slightly behind her. In the off chance that this didn't work, he'd have better control of the sword than she would. Then he wrapped the other arm around her waist and pulled her close to him.

Her body was soft and pliant against his own, her breasts flush against his chest. He bent down and took her lips. Moaned softly as sensation rushed through him. She tasted of rum and something else. Her mouth was as soft as her body. It moved against his, kissing him with almost the same fervor as he did her. Some sound slid up her throat. Her free arm slid around his neck, then her grip on the cutlass was released and the blade clattered to the floor.

Remy crushed her against him, feasting eagerly from her mouth. Even though he'd only been gone a few short hours, it felt as if it had been a lifetime since he'd last touched Morgan. Since he'd tasted her lips under his and felt her body wrapped around his own. He wanted her so much.

"Captain, could I have a word?" a voice called only moments before the door opened. Just like that, the spell was broken and Morgan shoved him away from her. She didn't turn, stared straight at him as she lifted an arm and dragged it forcefully across her face. Wiped the taste of him from her lips. It was a blatant message that told him she was rejecting him. Pain shafted through him, deep and agonizing, at her rejection. How was he going to... No. He didn't need Morgan. Dare had made it clear that she'd have him, that she held some kind of affection for him.

He'd spent far too many years pining for women he couldn't have. He wouldn't do it again. Not here. Not with her. No matter how it much it would hurt.

"What do you want, Robert?" Morgan's voice came out slightly husky. She turned to look at their visitor. Remy found himself shocked yet again. Bobby Drake was here, too? Was this some kind of dream, something his mind had crafted from the pits of madness? Was he really here or had Fitzroy done something to him that had left him in the infirmary, lost in this crazy dream world?

Drake was wearing black knee breeches and a brown shirt that matched both his eyes and hair. Like Morgan, he had a cutlass at his side. His feet were bare, his skin bronzed from being in the sun. Morgan cast a glance at Remy over her shoulder before she moved closer to Drake. There was a tension in the air that had nothing to do with her dislike of him. When she slipped under his arm and molded herself to his side, memories of another time rolled through his head. Rumors of Morgan found in various closets, Drake's classroom, the rec room... A week in which she'd been almost caught in various positions and various stages of undress.

It had been odd enough to digest the first time. How was he supposed to accept it now? The hold he had on her made things painfully clear for Remy. She'd chosen Drake. For whatever reason. It wasn't supposed to hurt. This wasn't his Morgan. She wasn't his Morgan. It shouldn't hurt.

But it damn well did.

Drake's gaze shifted between the two of them, sliding from Morgan to where Remy stood and back again. The confusion was bright in his eyes. "Captain?" he asked softly. Remy could hear the softness in his voice. It took every last ounce of his will to hold back the anger that flooded him, to keep him from doing something stupid.

"What is it, Robert?" Morgan asked him, putting such emphasis on his name that Remy couldn't help but hear the affection in it.

"There's a problem with the cargo, Captain. Perry sent me to fetch you," Drake replied, his gaze once more flicking toward Remy. Unwilling to let anyone see what he was feeling, Remy shot a slow smile back toward them.

Morgan sighed and nodded. "Very well. I will go see what `ee wants. You. You will stay `ere. I will not `ave you wandering my ship alone. If I see you outside of zis room, I will kill you." She didn't wait for an answer, simply turned and stalked from the room with Drake on her heels. The door closed with a resounding thump.

It took several minutes to get past the urge to blow something up, to beat someone until they hurt as badly as he did. Instead, he stalked to the chest Morgan had taken the rum out of and scooped up his own glass. Then he retrieved the bottle from the table and took it with him to the huge window. Remy poured a glass for himself, then leaned against the wall and stared out into the darkness.

Was he to be forever cursed, kept from the woman he loved? Had he done something wrong that he was being punished for? Would he ever find happiness? Bella Donna, Rogue... Morgan. Every time he thought he'd found someone that could be his and his alone, something took them from him. Would he be trapped in this time the rest of his life, destined to watch Morgan love someone else? Or would he wake in a bed in the infirmary to find everything had been a sick joke? Would he ever get her back?

"Do not let `er get to you," the voice spoke from just behind him. Remy closed his eyes. Was it Faye? Or was it some hallucination? A hand touched his arm carefully, sliding down to curl around his hand. She was warm and soft. As real as he was. He didn't want to turn around. "She is... `ow you say?" The room was silent as she thought. He could feel her there, her body barely touching his. Then she snapped her fingers and he felt her confusion clear. "Ah, yes. Difficult."

Carefully, he pulled his hand from hers and lifted the rum to his lips. It was more coarse than his preferred bourbon and it burned going down. He didn't care. He needed the burn, needed something to anchor himself with. Slowly, as if he were afraid he would scare her, he turned to face her.

She looked as he remembered her from his time with exception of the clothes she wore. She was dressed in a perfect copy of Morgan's attire; green shirt, black corset and breeches. Faye was studying him with curious eyes, as if she were trying to figure out what was going on. He tipped his glass and swallowed the rum, cast her a smile that lacked any warmth or welcome. "Faye."

The use of her name confused her. Her brow wrinkled as she tried to concentrate on him. "You know me? `Ave we met before? I would remember someone like you if we had. And yet..." she stopped and leaned into him, reached a hand up to touch his cheek. Something faint whispered through him, too quickly for him to catch and hold. Too light to understand. She frowned and slid her hand up to touch his forehead. "I am with you?"

She looked confused. He was, too. He couldn't imagine what she meant by that. But it reminded him of his link with Morgan and he unconsciously searched for it. Something was there, something that could have been the link. Or it could have been nothing but a hole that had once held their link. There wasn't enough of anything to tell him just what it was.

He couldn't help himself. He had nothing to connect him to his life. Morgan was lost to him. Both of them. And Faye was here, looking so much like her. He reached for her, drew her into the circle of his arms. Hugged her close so he could inhale the scent of her hair, a mix of fresh air and something subtle. And he kissed her, took her mouth with his own and kissed her until he had to break away for air. Then he kissed her again, because she didn't fight him and didn't shove him away. When he finally broke from her, she was panting for air, green eyes wide with confusion.

And then she was gone, leaving him alone with the bottle of rum and his pain. Maybe, by the time he finished it off, he wouldn't be able to feel anything.

~*~*~*~*~

He'd dragged her from the ship angrily, his hand an iron band around her arm. He'd ignored her loud complaints. Ignored the looks that her crew had sent their way and the trouble it might have meant for him if she hadn't sent them a warning glare that told them to stay out of it. Ignored it when she'd threatened to set his manhood on fire. He'd ignored her up until the moment she'd lit a spark on his cloak. Then he'd turned and told her in a very quiet, very level voice that she was seconds away from violence. The look in his eyes had suggested murder. It had been enough. She'd seen that look in other people's eyes and had never liked it being sent her way.

So she'd allowed him to pull her down into the long boat. The two men he'd paid to ferry him to The Valkyrie had rowed them back in silence. He'd not let go of her arm the entire trip. At the docks, he'd climbed up first and then waited until she'd joined him. The hold on her arm back toward town had been just as hard and unforgiving as the expression on his face. He'd practically dragged her down the dirt streets until they'd reached the Black Unicorn. There, he'd shot her such a look that she knew he'd do something painful if she put up any kind of fight.

Inside, she looked for Haley or Rosemary, but she saw neither one of them. Just as well. She didn't need to get them embroiled in her problems. Ophelia saw her and frowned, sending her such a look of scorn that Dare wanted to slap her. But she simply let Stark drag her up the stairs, one flight at a time, until they were on the floor where Ophelia's rooms were located. He shoved her through the door roughly, stepped inside and closed the wooden panel behind her. She flinched when she heard the door lock.

Stark opened his mouth to speak, but she beat him to it. "Ye have tae believe me. `Tisnae him. I swear it on my life. `Tisnae him."

"You swear on your life? Quite rich, coming from you, my pet. You're a pirate. Pirates are notorious liars. How ever can I believe you?" His voice was pitched low, filled with all manner of emotions. For a moment, Dare stared at him. Then her anger boiled up. He would doubt her word? Bastard.

"Ye were there! Ye saw his body! I'm telling ye. `Tisnae him!"

"Alasdare, now is not the time to try my patience," he sighed and crossed to his traveling chest. She watched him as he opened it, lifted out his clothing, then pulled up the false bottom. She almost shrank back when he turned to hand her the folded parchment. She stared at the wax seal. Her fingers itched.

"I dinnae want that," she whispered. "I dinnae want it. Take it back."

"You know I cannot," he told her, still holding it out to her. Dare shook her head and stepped back, away from the parchment.

"Ye promised me it was done! Nay more! Ye promised! I'll no' do it. Not again."

"You haven't even read it, my pet," he replied and crossed to her. Dare shoved her hands behind her back. She watched as regret and something else crossed his face, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. His free hand came up and touched her cheek. Lightly. A whisper of a caress. "Please, my sweet. You know what will happen if you do not..."

"I dinnae care!" The fear that the sight of the parchment, of the seal upon it, had brought slid away, eaten up by her anger. "I'm no' a lap dog! I dinnae come when called! I willnae be ordered aboot! No' by ye or that bitch or anaone else! If ye put tha' in my hand, I'll burn it! I swear tae ye. I'll see it tae ashes before I read it."

"If you do, my orders are to return you to the Tower to await your fate."

There was nothing on his face. Absolutely nothing. Dare felt her heart fall to her feet. All this time. He'd been lying to her. And she'd let him, had believed him when he'd told her he would do what he could to keep her safe. She had her blade in her hand before she could think, hatred shining in her eyes. "Ye cauld hearted bastard!"

"Alasdare..." he tried, but she lifted the point of the cutlass and lined it up with his black heart.

"Dinnae lie tae me anamore, Stark! I was foolish tae have believed ye before. I'll no' make the same mistake this time." She edged for the door, her free hand reaching out for the knob. She had to get out of there before she lost control and burned every last inch of the Unicorn to the ground. But he deserved that and so much more. He'd made her think that he'd cared. And he'd been using her. Just like the bitch had.

"Alasdare." Stark put his hand on the hilt of his sword. She knew what it meant, knew that he was a master with the blade. "I have never lied to you, my pet. Never. Put the sword down and come read this. Please. Do not make me hurt you."

"Whatever she wants me tae do, I cannae do it," she whispered. And she couldn't. The last time had nearly been the end of her. It had broken something inside to have... She tried to shove the memory away, but it rose to the front of her mind and she saw it all happen again with startling clarity. Saw the look in his eyes as she'd betrayed him. Saw the pain... Vaguely, as if from a great distance away, she heard the clatter of her sword as it hit the floor.

"Alasdare?" His voice came from far away, too. She blinked slowly and looked at him. Everything was fuzzy. His footsteps sounded, muffled by the thick rugs Ophelia had spread across the floor, then the faint clink of glass. In a few seconds, he was back and he pressed something into her hand. "Drink, my sweet. It'll help."

The rum burned as it went down, then exploded in her belly like fire set to black powder. That small explosion drove the last tendrils of memory from her mind and she found herself sitting on the floor, knees curled up against her chest. Anthony was kneeling before her, eyes filled with concern. Damn it, what had just happened? Her hand shook as she lifted it the glass to her mouth, but she swallowed the rest of it down. "Why did ye have tae come?" She whispered the question into the silent room.

"You know I'm bound by duty, Just as you are," he told her softly. He'd used those words with her before. She hated them as much now as she had then. Dare focused her gaze on him and frowned, then slowly gained her feet. She hated being at such a disadvantage. Hated being weak. Hated being a woman.

Stark's clothes rustled as he gained his feet but she ignored him. She went to the table where Ophelia kept her decanter of rum and picked it up. The glass was left forgotten on the wooden surface. When she turned, he was regarding her with a closed expression. Once again, he held the parchment in his hands. She snorted at him before drinking right from the bottle. It was better than the shite she served from the bar. Only the best for Ophelia and her guests.

Stark sighed as he watched her. She let her gaze flick over the room and stopped on the bed covers, turned down invitingly. No doubt he'd planned on seducing her into bed and having his way with her until she was limp and exhausted. Then he'd have handed her that thrice damned letter and watched as she'd just opened it without question or thought. Too bad she wasn't planning on getting into his bed now. She'd rather sleep with the men of her crew than Stark right now.

He heaved a sigh and crossed to her. Before his hand could curl around the decanter, she stepped back and glared at him. "I hardly think now is the time to get drunk, Alasdare," he told her quietly.

"I dinnae care what ye think, Stark," she snarled at him and took another drink. "If ye want me tae open that blasted thing, ye'll let me get guid and drunk before hand. Otherwise, I'll be off. And I'll leave orders that ye are no' allowed aboard ship. So shut it."

"Alasdare, I know this is unpleasant but..." he fell silent when she shot him a glare. But it didn't last for long. "I would prefer you in a decent mood, my pet. Give me the bottle and..."

She snarled at him, lapsing into Gaelic. He stood there and stared at her as she called him every name she could think of and then some. She dropped every curse she'd ever heard upon his head and insulted his lineage back to the dawn of time. When she finally petered out, he simply stared at her as if she were little more than a child.

"Are you quite finished?" he asked dryly. She glared but nodded. He offered a faint smile. "Good. Now that you've cursed my great-grandmother's goat with a horrible pox, perhaps I can get the rest of the evening's unpleasantness over with. So that we can perhaps get to the more pleasant part of the evening."

"I dinnae think so," she shook her head before taking another drink off the bottle. "I'm no' going to simply fall intae yer bed after this. Ye dinnae deserve that. I believe I shall return to The Valkyrie and seek out my new friend. He was eager enough."

"Stubborn wench. You try my patience. You know this, don't you?" Stark spat at her. She offered him a grin, then hefted the rum and finished it off. He was there to take the decanter from her once it was empty. His motions were controlled when he slammed it down on the table she'd gotten it off of. Then he stalked back to her and shoved the parchment into her hands. "You will not be leaving here until I am finished with you. Is that quite clear?"

"Of course, m'laird," she snarled, her hands curling tightly around the letter in her hand. "Do ye want me tae go down and tend the horses, as weel? Mayhap yer driver needs a bit o' relief. After all, I'm naught more than a whore to ye and that thrice damned bitch, to be used when there be a need."

"Damn you, woman. Don't ever compare yourself to the wenches who make their living upon their backs! You're head and shoulders above that lot. Say such a thing to me again and I will do everything in my power to make you regret it." There was something in his voice she couldn't name, didn't care to name. She only stared at him and shook her head.

"I regret it evra day o' my life, Stark. There's naught left fer ye or the bitch tae take away." They'd already taken what had mattered to her most. What else was there?

"Open your letter, Alasdare. Do it and put it behind you so that we can..."

"That willnae happen, Stark. I'll open this bloody thing. Then I'll return tae my ship." The look she shot him, the tone of her voice, told him she meant business. He simply inclined his head at her and stepped away, as if being half a room away was real privacy.

Dare turned her back on him and stared down at the seal. She'd come to hate it, hated the person it represented. Hated what it had made her all those years ago. There'd only been a few letters since then. Each of them had brought horrible things. Things that had left her with nightmares she couldn't drive away, no matter how much ale and wine and rum she drank. Nothing made the horror fade. No amount of alcohol or slaughter would wipe those things from her mind. Wouldn't erase the hate she'd found for herself.

There was a good reason she'd never tried to return home and see her parents. She'd fallen so far, become something so terrible that she could never face them again. She didn't want them to see what she'd become.

The seal gave so easily under her numb fingers, broke as if it were some child's toy. Not someone's fate. Dare unfolded the expensive parchment, her hands shaking slightly. There was only one sentence scrawled across it in black ink. The hand that had written it was elegant and educated. Her vision blurred and her stomach roiled. She'd thought she'd lost everything already. She'd been wrong.

"Alasdare?" Stark's voice was soft and filled with concern. The parchment slipped from her hands, fluttered to the floor. "My sweet, what is it? What's the matter?"

"I'm goin' tae be sick," she whispered. The next thing she knew, Stark had her head out the window, his hands holding her hair away from her face. Vomit burned its way up her throat and her fingers were curled so tightly around the wooden sill that she felt her nails score it. She closed her eyes. Heard the spatter of her sick as it hit the ground below. Tried to block the contents of the letter from her mind.

But that single sentence was burned into it. She could see it behind her eyes, against her eyelids. Seven little words. Seven words that had turned her world on end.

Bring me the crew of The Valkyrie.