The Flight of the Valkyrie

[ladydeathfaerie]

Title: The Flight of The Valkyrie
Chapter Seven: Past, Present and Future
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.

The Flight of the Valkyrie - The Index 

The hall was still noisy, despite the fact that several people had wandered off already. Among those had been her shipmates. Haley had left first, escorted from the large room by a blonde she'd seen sitting among Anthony Stark's crew. Some inner sense had suggested to her that there was something odd going on there. But that notion had been shoved aside the moment their host had stepped up to the table and hefted Dare up into his arms. Thor had crossed the room toward a hall leading to the sleeping chambers. Minutes later, a strange man had sat down beside Rosemary. The two of them had fallen into conversation before they, too, had wandered off. Last to leave had been Morgan and Robert. Jehnna had been left with Dare's strange young man.

He'd been no company to her. The look on his face suggested he was lost in his own thoughts. Several attempts to draw him into a conversation had fallen flat and she'd eventually given up. So there she sat, alone and overcome by a rather foul mood. The only things that cheered her were the varying scenarios of death and destruction that kept running through her head. If she had her way, she'd take the knowledge she'd learned in her years as a pirate and put them to use where they were really needed.

Images of him skewered on the end of her sword brought a sly smile to her face. Flashes of his blood pouring out onto the ground, glistening wetly in the bright sunlight, sent a flush of dark pleasure through her. Scenes of his body, battered and broken and lifeless as a doll as it lay sprawled on the floor, brought a morbid excitement that quivered through her muscles. There was so much she wanted to do to him. Could do to him.

The mead was icy cold as it slid down her throat.

The room was nearly dark, save the flicker of a single flame sitting atop the candle at her bedside. It was late, the world beyond her glass doors so dark that she couldn't see the glassy surface of the ocean in the distance. She should have been asleep long ago, but rest was elusive this night. Strange events were taking place within the villa. She knew this, could feel it, but could not explain why she felt this way.

Wind rattled the panes in the doors, a hint of the storm that was to come. She had seen the storm clouds charging across the sea as they headed directly toward her home. Perhaps the villa could sense the same uneasiness that she did.

There was a creaking sound from the hall, so soft that she thought she was imagining things. But it came again, slightly louder than the previous one. She frowned and rolled over. Cesare was probably out of bed in an attempt to frighten the servants. If he was to get caught, he'd be in such deep trouble.

But then the door to her sleeping chamber was creaking open, allowing a spill of golden candlelight to fall across her bed. The world outside seemed all the darker for that single shaft of light. The door creaked closed, the latch catching with a soft click. She sensed the approach of who ever it was that had come into her chambers, heard the soft sound of the brass candle base as it was set down on the bedside table.

The opposite side of the bed dipped as the weight of her visitor settled onto the edge behind her. She held herself still, pretending she was deep in sleep. A hand touched her hip, a light and ghostly touch that skimmed from that swell of her hip up toward her shoulder. The hand grazed her arm, crept slowly until it could curl over her shoulder. The tips of those fingers grazed her throat, a tender touch that made her skin crawl in disgust. She had to force herself to remain still. Until the hand slipped lower, pushing the blanket aside so that the offending appendage could find its way under her chemise.

She shuddered when the heat of a palm curved over her breast.

The hand squeezed and kneaded the soft mound, plucking at her nipple until it peaked against her will. Then it continued on, withdrawing from her night dress to nudge the blanket down, to expose the rest of her body.

When the coverlet was down around her ankles, the hand continued drifting lower, gliding over the soft cotton of her chemise until it found the hem. The hand inched it higher, baring the long line of her legs to the cool night air, until the material was bunched up around her waist. Fingers grazed the curls between her thighs, sought out the hidden entrance to her most feminine flesh.

That single touch saw her throwing herself from the bed. She only turned when she was up against the wall, her eyes going wide when she saw who was sitting on her bed. "You?" she whispered. It simply couldn't be. Not him. He was...

The memories were pushed aside brusquely as someone jostled her on the bench. And dumped a tankard of mead on the lovely gown that Thor had supplied for her to wear. Jehnna muttered a curse under her breath, her native Italian masking the fact that she called the man responsible an addle pated fool. It was on the tip of her tongue to call a few other choice names to his face, but when she looked at him, the words died in her throat.

He was part of Stark's crew. Of that, she was certain. She'd seen him sitting with the others earlier. And he looked so young. He sported brown hair and brown eyes, looking very much like a dog her family had once owned. One time, after it had been kicked, it had turned the same kind of stare up at her. She'd found herself unable to resist that look and had immediately scooped the dog up to administer to it all the attention it wanted.

Staring at the young man's face, that same urge took her now.

"I beg your pardon, lady. I meant no offense," the lad said, his words slightly slurred by his obvious over-indulgence in mead. Jehnna offered him a cool smile.

"No harm done," she remarked. Which was technically true. The gown did not belong to her. As if reading her mind, his eyes drifted lower until they came to rest on the sodden material of her clothing. His cheeks flamed red while his eyes went wide with horror.

"I've made a mess of your gown. I'm so sorry!" he wailed. She watched as he set the tankard he held down on the table before her. Then his hands began to clumsily brush at the dress she wore. One of those hands brushed against the swell of one breast. Either she'd been too long away from Piotr or she'd had too much to drink. Whatever the excuse, that one touch was electrifying and sent bolts of pleasure scorching through her. He must have realized what he'd done because his hands stilled and pulled away, and he once more turned that wide eyed, kicked dog look her way.

And then she was wrapped around him, arms tugging him closer as their mouths clashed against one another in heated battle.

The hall around them was lost in the fervent rush of their combined need. She was vaguely aware of some calls from masculine voices, but all her mind understood was the tone of them. The lad's hands were everywhere at once, trying to hold on to every part of her all at the same time. It wasn't until she felt cool air against the backs of her calves that she realized those same clumsy hands were trying to undress her. Here. In public. As if she were some common whore. She pulled back long enough to gain his attention. "Not here, my sweet," she whispered. "Let us find some privacy."

"Oh," the boy blinked at her, then a smile spread across his face. Jehnna couldn't help but think that boyish grin made him look handsome and so very innocent. He was a very different type of man than she was used to. Even her own stoic Russian was nothing like the sweet boy who couldn't seem to stop groping her. For this one night, it wasn't entirely unpleasant.

The moment the door closed on a private chamber, the young man had once more dragged her against him, mouth hungry as it ate at hers. His body spoke volumes as to just how much he wanted her, the hardened length of his shaft pressed to her body tightly. His hands crept like spiders across her back, working their way toward the ties that shaped the garment she wore to her body. His fingers plucked at the lacings, unable, it seemed, to actually work them. As if he was unsure of himself or over-eager. Or had drunk too much mead to use his hands properly.

Knowing what she wanted, Jehnna pulled at his clothes with assurance and ability. Or so she thought. The alcohol had blurred her perceptions until her fingers slipped off of his tunic each time she tried to pull the offending piece of clothing from his body. His hands were as clumsy as hers, as if their need to feel one another's skin pushed away common sense so that their actions were hurried, almost frantic.

And when they finally fell naked to the bed, their hands questing over one another's body, she carefully ignored the fact that the young man was even more clumsy now than before. At least until his searching hands found that which they were seeking. Once he did, she forgot all about his gracelessness and focused on the pleasure he gave.

~*~*~*~*~

The sky was a sea of black sprinkled with sparkling. twinkling stars that looked like pinpricks of light in the darkness that unfolded around them. There was a slice of moon hanging low on the horizon, sharing its brilliant white light with the world. Not a hint of cloud moved across the night, belying the storm that The Valkyrie and her crew had come through not more than a day or so ago. The air was crisp and chill without being too cold. Trees and shrubs made low, foreign shapes in the darkness. Haley looked around her, trying to imagine what the land would look like in the light of day. Perhaps tomorrow she'd have the opportunity to discover such things for herself.

She turned to her escort, staring at his face. He was only a few inches taller than she was, something that she found refreshing. Very few men stood taller than her. The difference in their height was enough that she had to raise her eyes to look into his. The moon washed them to a pale, glacial color. It gilded his hair silver. And the stark light created harsh lines in his handsome face. He was smiling at her, a pleasant, almost vacant expression that she knew he'd put on simply to look appealing. It was more than enough to tell her that the man had something up his sleeve.

Clinton Barton was obviously something more than a simple sailor. He spoke too well, was too nicely groomed. It was something she'd noticed with every one of Stark's crew. They were all, to a man, well spoken and well dressed. As if Lord Stark had recruited the men from the upper classes. Not a one of them made Haley think that they'd come from the lowest dregs of society. She found that odd. It might prove problematic to her plans. She would have to play things very carefully if she planned on drawing any information from the man. That was, after all, the reason she'd agreed to accompany him on this walk.

"`Tis a fine evening for a stroll," Barton told her softly, his eyes lifting to stare at the clear night sky and the stars that shone in it.

"Aye," Haley nodded, letting her gaze wander over the blanket of twinkling darkness above them. "I've always enjoyed the night hours. `Tis the most peaceful part of the day. This is the first time I've had chance to enjoy it from such a location."

"The island is rather an amazing place. You wouldn't be able to tell without the light of the sun, but `tis quite beautiful. Thor's hall is a grand affair. `Tis a building befitting a king. Almost finer than the palaces of Europe."

That was a strange observation coming from a privateer. Haley was fairly certain that privateers didn't have many opportunities to see the palaces of Europe. Such a statement only went toward proving to her that the men on Stark's corvette were much more than they seemed. She filed that little tidbit of information away for later. For the moment, she gave all of her attention toward the man with her.

They'd come to a stop at the top of a bluff. The edges crumbled away beneath their feet into a menacing drop that ended at a beach overlooking the small bay where a trio of ships were berthed. She could make out the distinctive dragon's head that marked the Viking's vessel. A little further up was The Valkyrie. She knew the ship well simply by the shape of the masts. The sails had been tied up during their stay since Thor had assured them that there would be no attacked launched on their ship while it was docked in his bay. And still a further distance yet was what she assumed was Stark's corvette. All three vessels bobbed and rocked on the waves, dipping in the gentle swells. She wondered what kind of view this exact spot would provide in the daylight hours.

A chill wind blew across them. Haley shivered slightly, silently cursing the gown for being a touch too thin for an evening stroll without a cape to keep the cool air from seeping down to the bone. He must have felt her shivering because he crept closer and silently offered her the heat from his own body. She allowed him to do so, thinking that such a move would help further her cause. If he thought he was going to get into her knickers, it might make him more willing to answer her questions.

The silence around them was companionable as they stood at the edge of the hill. She didn't know about him, but Haley stared out over the sea, watching the fingers of silver that flickered over the water. His grip tightened slightly as he edged closer. She smiled. She had him in the palms of her hands. His voice broke the silence. "Lord Stark says you're a pirate. I find it difficult to believe that such a beautiful, well bred lady could be associated with those filthy brigands."

Haley felt a moment of temper take her, offended that he would be so prejudiced to think that pirates were filthy and well bred ladies couldn't be a pirate. So he didn't think her a pirate, eh? That just meant she'd have to show him. Her hand reached back and found the hilt of one of his blades. She'd noticed earlier that the man's belt held twin swords and she'd wondered at it. Now it didn't matter. And she suddenly understood exactly why it was that Dare went around with two blades all the time.

He muttered a curse as she drew the sword from its sheath and spun away from him. She gave a brief thought to the skirting of her gown, then brushed it aside as she gave all of her attention to him. He stood where she'd left him, staring at her with an eyebrow quirked in silent query. Haley offered him a faintly mocking smile and swept him a bow, her eyes remaining locked on his face. "That blade is sharp, lady. Perhaps you should return it to me before you hurt yourself."

"You'll be the one getting hurt, Mr. Barton. Draw your other weapon and prepare to defend yourself." She waited, simply watched him, her body loose and at the ready. He simply stood there. smiling at her. Smirking at her in a smug, superior manner. Such a thing only made her temper rise up. He was simply asking for a sound thrashing. Haley tossed him a sickly sweet smile and lunged, bringing the blade down toward him in an arc. He deftly jumped out of the path of the weapon, spinning away in a blur, only to stop with his second blade out and ready for her. Ah. Just what she was looking for. A fight.

"My, my. It would seem that the lady has claws. Please tell me this is your true nature. I do so love a challenge," he drawled at her as he rotated the blade in circles.

"I can offer you quite a challenge, sir." Haley's tone was deceptively mild and faintly mocking. "I assure you that I am a pirate, one of the dreaded crew of The Valkyrie."

The look he gave her suggested that he still had problems believing that bit of news. She'd just have to show him. The small bit of moon that hung over them cast a silvery glow on the ground beneath their feet, picking out the few stones that would present problems for her footing. They were surrounded on two sides, front and back, by trees that grew tall despite the winds that no doubt blew across the island. The edge of the cliff and Thor's hall boxed them in on the other two sides. There was plenty of room to stage a sword fight, though.

The locations of the rocks memorized, Haley studied her opponent. He was still standing in the same place, obviously waiting for her to launch another attack upon his person. Or he thought that she would give up the game now that he was armed. She hoped her choice didn't disappoint him.

She led off with an experimental thrust that was easily parried on his part. The look in his eyes suggested he thought her skills were rather lacking. She swung and thrust again, her blade ringing soundly against his each time. "You must carry twin blades purely for show. My friend Dare carries two and she uses them far better than you seem able to use one."

"We were warned that there might be a threat to our captain's life. The crew of The Avenger decided to go doubly armed. Just in case," he told her, slashing at her with his sword. She blocked it, knocking his blade back so that she could flick hers at his chest. He danced out of her reach with a smile.

"If Lord Stark keeps pushing Dare, she'll have his balls on a silver platter," Haley told him. She swung hard and saw that he barely had time to bring his sword up in time to catch hers. Sparks flew from the force of steel grinding against steel. She saw the brief widening of his eyes, then he broke their stalemate and shoved her from him. She glided back, footsteps graceful on the uneven land.

"The wench who had herself wrapped around that young man?" Something in the tone of his voice alerted her so that she knew the time to ask questions had come. Haley merely smiled at him in response. She could almost see the wheels turning in his head as he considered his next verbal move. "And does she make a habit of flaunting her conquests to one and all? Just how many men does the heartless chit have wrapped around her little finger? Does she make promises of pleasure and passion to gain what it is she wants, then simply leaves them in the dust when all is accomplished?"

"If such things were true, she'd be no better than every man on the face of the earth. Would she?" she shot back. He would either react in anger or he'd smile at it. She saw him tip his head in acknowledgement. It was time to step up the game. Haley brought her blade up and swung at him. "And what does it matter to you whether she has one young man wrapped about her little finger? She's of no importance to you."

She'd asked the question that way on purpose. The man would tell her the truth or she'd lie about his interest. She was convinced beyond reason that he was trying to draw from her all of the information she had about Remy. She had no plans to betray Dare's strange young man to anyone. Whatever he was to Dare, whoever he was, it was between her the two of them. "My Lord Stark has sailed the ocean with nary a thought in his head other than to keep that headstrong wench safe. Why should he do such a thing for an ungrateful, unfaithful woman?"

That gave Haley pause. What could Dare possibly need to be kept safe from? Beyond their time in port in Kennewycke, she rarely set foot on land. There had been a few occasions, less than a handful, that she'd gone some place inland. But Haley couldn't recall a time when she'd seen the man's corvette on the waters. What she did know was that Dare usually came back from her meetings with Lord Stark in such a foul mood that it usually took a good fight to cheer her up again. And she never spoke of their time together. Never.

"Lord Stark," Haley scoffed. "The only thing about that man that puts him above me is the fact that he carries a title. He's no more a lord than Dare is a lady. How many wenches has your Lord Stark bedded in his days? How many has he strung along in order to convince them to join him in his bed? How many young girls' hearts has his cavalier behavior left broken? Surely, if he does as you say, he only does so to gain something from her."

They fell to silence for a few brief moments, only the sounds of their swords clashing and the soft sounds of the waves filling the night. Haley gave herself over to her task, thrusting and slashing at him, parrying and blocking when he thrust and slashed at her. Despite the coolness on the air, she was starting to feel heat creep into her body. It came from the physical exertion she put herself through and it came from the precise motions of the man opposite her. From his rugged good looks and his perfectly formed body. He was the best challenge she'd faced in some time.

"Lord Stark is a gentleman," he told her, his tone suggesting he took offense to her casting aspersions on the other man's character.

"And Dare is a pirate. She goes where she will, does as she pleases. She's ruled by no man."

He stared at her for a moment, the sword moving almost absently in response to her attacks. The the smile returned, all masculine and filled with heat. "Does that apply to all pirates?"

Haley almost faltered with the sudden switch in topics. But her hands remembered what her brain forgot for that brief moment. She allowed her lips to twitch up at the corners, then renewed her assault on him. "Of course it doesn't."

"Then put the sword up and let us find more enjoyable ways to pass the time," he suggested, his voice filled with gentle coaxing. Haley shook her head and struck hard, the force of the blow jarring up her arm.

"Perhaps I should force you to earn such pleasures," she responded, dancing back away from one of his strikes. Haley gave the appearance of considering what she'd just said, then tossed him a coy smile. "If you can best me, Master Barton, then to the victor will go the spoils. Does such an offer interest you?"

His only answer was to smile and reach out with his blade. It hit hers hard and fast, telling Haley that the fight wouldn't last much longer. She'd given him incentive to beat her and, if the strikes coming now were any indication, he hadn't been using his full strength with her. She was more than capable of holding her own against any foe, but that was when it was kill or be killed. Since she had no intention of killing the handsome Mr. Barton, she was going to have to do her best not to get beaten too badly at his hands.

Something told her she'd never hear the end of it.

He came at her fast and hard. Had she been wearing her breeches, the fight might have lasted longer. As it was, she knew there was no way that she could keep her feet for long. The hem of the skirt kept trying to trip her up. Reaching down with her free hand, she grabbed a handful of skirt and lifted it high. It exposed her legs, but she didn't really care. All that mattered was keeping him from ending this far too quickly.

He lunged in, arm extended so that the tip of his sword was aimed straight for her throat. There was no time to bring her sword up to block his strike. It left her with only one option. Haley side stepped his blow. And that was her mistake.

His body crashed into hers. Though she was tall, he was taller. And his arms, his chest, his thighs all rippled with muscles. His height and weight were enough to drive her to the ground, his body following after until he was stretched over her. Both blades had been lost. Hers when he'd slammed into her and his when he'd pushed her off her feet. His body was stretched out over hers, holding her down. Haley didn't care one whit.

Her body was flushed with heat. She'd broken a sweat battling him. But it was more than that. Just being around him brought out things she'd long thought lost and forgotten. Feelings that she'd thought she'd never have again. Even though that part of her that had been brought up to be a lady protested such an intimate position with this man, the part of her that was a pirate didn't care. Her body knew well what it wanted. And it wanted Clinton Barton.

His mouth took hers, hot and heavy, the kiss filled with fiery need. She slid her arms up around his neck and drew him closer, anxious to feel every glorious inch of his body pressed to hers. He smirked down at her. "The stars are shining brightly in the heavens, the night air is not too brisk,the sea is making soft music for lovers and I am in the presence of a beautiful woman."

His words added to the heat boiling the blood in her veins. Desire sang through her body, left her hungry for him. For the feel of him inside of her. She ran her hands down his back, let her fingers curl over the curves of his ass while she rubbed herself against him. He made a noise in the back of his throat, a sound of pleasure that was all masculine. It prompted her to fully press herself against him. That action was apparently all he was waiting for.

One hand skimmed down her side, the tips of his fingers brushing against the curve of her breast. He used the other to prop his upper body up so that he kept his full weight from crushing her. His touch was soft and gentle, a barely there thing that left her aching and hungry for more. Her hands tightened their hold on his bottom, silently urging him to continue. To touch her more. Harder.

Everywhere.

His head dropped, his mouth latching onto her neck just below her ear. She sighed and moaned softly, tipping her head to the side so that he had more access. His body settled over hers, teeth nibbling at the taut skin before his tongue laved the abused spot, easing the small pain he'd left behind. Haley allowed her hands to slide up his back, nails scraping his flesh beneath the tunic he wore. He'd barely touched her and she was already on fire with need of him.

She tried to lift a leg and wrap it around his waist, but it was confined by the length of her gown's skirt. Damned women's clothing. It made it impossible for her to draw him closer to her.

He brushed the thought aside with a single touch of his hand. His fingers grazed her knee, then curled into the linen there. He tugged gently, pulling the material up to expose her legs. She wasn't sure how he did it, but he somehow lifted his lower body to allow the gown free movement. When he had her skirt pulled up around her waist, he resettled himself. And his hand slid between her flesh and the ground.

His fingers were just a little rough as they took hold of her ass cheek. She grunted as he jerked her closer, pressing their groins together suggestively. Her eyes closed on a sigh to feel him so hard against her, the need spiking higher. She wanted him inside of her. Now. She wanted him so fiercely, she ached with it.

Never before had she had such a violent reaction to a man. Not in a sexual situation. Well, there had been one but... Haley forced that thought aside before it could take root. There was no reason to go there. Not with Clinton here with her now. Not with his body molding so completely to hers. Not with the rigid length of his erection caught so tightly between them. Her body was hungry for his.

His mouth dipped lower, teasing kisses along the swell of her breasts before he continued on. The heat of his mouth soaked into her skin through the finely woven linen of her bodice as he wrapped his lips around one of her nipples. It crinkled up so tightly that it hurt. A gasp left her throat and Haley arched her back, offering him more of her breast. He needed no further invitation.

The gentle sound of waves lapping against the shore and the hulls of the docked ships competed with the moans and sighs that he wrung from her. Each one came a little louder and a little longer. Each one encouraged him to press and bite harder, to nip and suck and lick at her until she writhed beneath him, her body silently begging him for more. She needed more so desperately. "Clinton," she gasped, then lost her voice. One of his hands had found its way between the two of them and his fingers were pressing into her.

Her hips rose to meet each questing thrust of his nimble fingers. It felt as if he drove them deep each time, the tips of them scraping against sensitive flesh so that shudders rolled up and down her spine. Short, panting breaths slipped past her lips to paint the night with her pleasure. That same pleasure rippled along nerve endings, filling her body until it felt as if she'd gone liquid, until it felt as if the desire and need and bliss would burst through her skin and turn her inside out. He stroked hard and fast, as deeply as possible, The tension grew.

Her orgasm took her utterly by surprise. One moment, his fingers were sliding in and out. The next, they'd stopped moving and his thumb was pressing and stroking that tiny bundle of nerves until the tension shattered inside of her. The liquid warmth poured out, the muscles deep inside of her clutching at his fingers while the rest of her went rigid and still. Colors exploded behind eyes she hadn't realized she'd closed, streamers of rainbow hues flowing across the back of her lids. Haley gasped for breath, her body so light and airy that it felt as if she was floating.

His chuckle brought her back to herself. Haley blinked her eyes open to find Clinton staring down into her face. He was smirking at her, a knowing look that suggested he knew that such a thing was not common for her. The idea that he knew most men of her acquaintance had not treated her so made her cheeks flush. Before he could comment on it, she winced and shifted. "Something wrong, my lady?" he asked.

"I believe that I'm laying on a rock," Haley replied.

"Then we shall have to find a more comfortable position." He took hold of one of her hands and gently hauled her to her feet, then glanced around in search of a more suitable place for their tryst. After a moment or two of looking, he started walking and tugged her after him. Set back among the trees was a stone bench. She could see that someone had carved images and runes into the stone, the silver of the moonlight leaving them darker than the rest of the stone around them. Not only would the bench be protection against sticks or stones with a personal vendetta, they would be hidden from sight by the trees. Perhaps not the best place to engage in an illicit tryst, but it was better than out in the open with a stone stabbing into the small of her back.

They stopped before the bench. She was puzzled that they simply stood there instead of sinking down to sit. Clinton stared down into her face, the light of the moon giving the blue of his eyes an icy look, so pale that they were almost white. For several seconds, they merely stared at one another, as if they were suspended in time. The illusion was shattered when he curled his hands in her hair, his fingers molding to the shape of her head, and he tugged her forward so that his mouth could take hers in a dominating, devastating kiss that left her knees weak and her body crying out for more.

His lips were hard against hers, his hands tight as they held her head in place. His tongue stabbed into her mouth, slid deep as it delved into every crack and crevice. Her hands began questing across his back, fingers trying desperately to memorize every line and ridge of his back. When he dragged his mouth from hers, they were both panting for breath, chests heaving. Haley felt dizzy, as if she was going to fall over if he let go of her.

There was no need to speak, no words needed to convey what they were both thinking. She reached for the buckle on his belt and began working it. Some seconds later, the wide leather band dropped to the ground with a dull rattle of metal. Already, she was tugging at the laces on his breeches. A triumphant cry left her when the offending ties gave and she was able to drag the offending garment down over his hips.

He took a seat on the bench, allowing the light of the moon to wash over his exposed skin. The sight of him took her breath away. She'd only seen such an impressive cock once before and that had been so long ago that it had become the stuff of faded dreams and half forgotten memories. He was both long and thick, the head glistening in the silvery light with a bead of moisture. Muscles clenched tightly with need while she simply looked at him. Dark blonde hair curled between his thighs. It looked to her as if his shaft rested on a bed of spun gold.

He reached for her, his hands taking firm hold of her hips as he pulled her toward him. The look in his eyes said he was as hungry for her as she was for him. It was somehow pleasing to see, despite the obvious evidence of his arousal. A man's body could want even if the man himself did not. But the eyes... The eyes couldn't lie. Not about this. She lifted her gown until the skirting was bunched up around her waist. His gaze flicked up and down her body, then a slow, sensual smile slid across his face. Wordlessly, he pulled her into his lap.

It was a bit of a dance to arrange things. It took both of her hands to hold the gown's skirt up. That meant that he was forced to guide both her and himself at the same time. There was a brief moment when the head of his cock rubbed against that tiny button of pleasure. Sparks of pure need shot through her, straightening her spine while shivers raced through her. She thought that it had been an accident but that idea was driven away by the smug look on his face. Arrogant bastard. She opened her mouth to protest or complain or some other silly thing. But the words were choked off into a strangled moan as he shifted his angle and pulled her down on top of him.

Haley groaned loudly as she settled fully on top of him, her body quivering with the position. She was unaccustomed to sitting in her partner's lap and could only wait while her body adjusted to the glorious part of him that was buried inside of her. Letting go of the material they held, her hands sought out his shoulders. He curled his big hands around her waist, holding her lightly while awaiting her signal to continue.

After several long minutes of sitting on his lap, impaled upon his shaft, she gave a single nod of her head. Clinton offered her the gentlest smile she'd seen on his face, then he lifted her up until their bodies were almost completely separated. He held her in the air for a second or two, the muscles in his arms bunched with the strain of holding himself back. She curled her fingers into his shoulders, her nails biting into his skin through his tunic, and he pulled her back down.

Pleasure exploded through her with that first hard thrust, her body becoming nothing more than molten gold. Haley barely made note of the fact that she was moving with him, that her legs, bent and spread on the bench, were pushing her up before allowing her to drop down over him. His hips snapped into hers when they slapped together, forcing himself deep inside of her each time. She only knew that there had been only one other time in her life that she'd felt like this. Had she been in her right mind, she might have been frightened by the fact. As it was, she simply allowed the need to rule her.

When she had his rhythm, his hands left her side to shape her breasts under the bodice of the gown. Her back arched, pressing the fullness of her breasts into them. A soft growl rolled up his throat at that. The next thing she knew, the still darkness was filled with the sound of cloth rending as his hands pulled the bodice of her gown apart. Haley had a single beat of her heart to be shocked before the heat of his mouth closed over one of her exposed breasts.

She moaned and groaned, the sucking of his mouth drawing a line from her breast to her very center, each tug filling her with that same golden pleasure she'd felt earlier. He nipped at the crinkled peak, sending sparks of pain hazed bliss through her body. After moments of his mouth, teeth and tongue paying homage to one breast, he lifted his head and drew away so that he could do the same to its mate.

Memories that she'd long kept hidden tumbled through her mind, the pain of them blunted by the man beneath her. They rose to the front before fading away almost immediately, twining with the feel of Clinton, the smell of him, the taste of him, mingling with all of him until the old and the new were wrapped around one another like twin vines of ivy coiled about one another. Again, if she hadn't been caught up in the pleasure he gave her, she might have been frightened. But the past meant nothing here, had no place in her present, so she ignored it and concentrated entirely on him.

He lifted his head from her breasts, his eyes dark with lust as they watched her breasts bounce up and down with each stroke made into her. There was such intense heat in his gaze that she swore she could feel it scorching her skin. The intensity of his stare as it moved from her breasts to her face made her shudder, the action creating interesting sensations within her.

His mouth opened. Haley expected a sound of pleasure to come out. But he spoke. Words that weren't permitted in polite company fell from between his kissable lips, words that told her all the things he'd like to do to her. He called her beautiful, told her she felt perfect around him. He sang praises to the porcelain appearance of her skin, to the perfection of her breasts and the glory of her lithe body. Some of the things he said would make any hardened sailor blush. His voice came as little more than a whisper, his hips snapping up into her to punctuate each sentence. Every single thing he said only served to heighten her desire, saw her thrusting against him harder and faster.

New tension coiled tightly within her body. built upon itself over and over with each of his strokes. She panted, body eager for release. She could feel it just out of her reach, teasing her with the promise of her sweet bliss. Added to that was the feel of his cock swelling inside of her, his hips slapping hard and fast as his hands once more returned to her waist in order to guide her motions.

She allowed him to take control, followed his silent orders as his fingers tightened their hold on her. He was close. She could tell by the intense concentration on his face, feel it in the way he moved and filled her. She rocked against him harder, faster, body begging him for more.

He whispered three words to her, his voice deep and strained and filled with his own need. Her body went tight, stilling over him as the tension exploded within her. Once more, golden pleasure rolled through her, drowning her in the bliss of release. Colors went off behind her eyes and she cried out her completion to the heavens. His voice echoed hers, hips snapping up one last time to bury himself deep. His cock twitched as his seed poured from him, filled her.

Haley slumped forward into his arms, panting softly as she tried to remember how to breathe. His hands stroked slowly up her back, pressing her against him as he held her tight. "That was..." she began, only to stop when she realized that she had no idea what it was.

"That was what, sweetling?" he asked, his mouth leaving a trail of tiny kisses along her throat.

"That was amazing," she whispered. He laughed, a masculine sound that said he was fully pleased with himself.

"That was only the beginning, sweetling. The night is young and I find that I still hunger for your lovely body."

"You do?" she asked, one brow cocked. He grinned at her and stole a kiss.

"I do," he nodded, then helped her to her feet. She watched, unabashed, as he tugged his breeches back into place. When he looked up, she was frowning. "Now, now, sweet. There's no need for such a sour look. I'm merely righting my garb because I have no desire to start a fight among the men."

She gave him a blank face. He smiled and motioned with one hand toward his groin. That brought a laugh to her lips. He smiled and offered her his arm. She took it and the two of them were on their way toward the hall. "Shall we make use of the bed Thor has granted us this night?"

~*~*~*~*~

There was a strange warmth pressed up to his back. A heavy arm had been tossed over his body, pinning him to a chest behind him. There was a soft snore in his ear, hot breath wafting across it and his cheek. Correction. Make that hot, fetid, stale breath. A faint grumble reminded him just where he was and why.

Last night, he'd helped Anthony Stark to bed after a losing battle with far too many pitchers of mead. Last night, Anthony Stark had passed out in his arms and then dragged him down onto the bed with him. Last night, Anthony Stark had curled up against him as if he were some tart.

Steven was glad no one had witnessed his embarrassment. This was something he was sure he'd never live down.

Thinking back on all the years Steven had known Anthony, he couldn't recall ever having seen his friend this drunk before. And never, in all that time, had Stark ever gotten pissed because of a woman. Just who the hell was this Alasdare Scott and what power did she have over the man?

Speaking of, the man who was presently on Steven's mind shifted, moving closer to him. This time, dark red crept up into his cheeks. Lord Anthony Stark was as hard as the main mast and pressing his morning erection into the small of Steven's back. Perhaps someone could come and run him through now, before his captain woke and asked him what the bloody hell was going on.

Steven sighed. How was he to get out of this mess? Nature was calling, rather loudly. He had to get up, had to find the privy. Had to hope that no one saw him leaving Anthony's room, should he manage to actually slip away. The other man's arm had already tightened down once when Steven had shifted slightly on the bed.

"What the bloody hell do you wish me to do, Alasdare? My hands are tied," Anthony muttered, one of his hands stroking Steven's chest soothingly. "Be a good lass and come to bed. Let us forget this mess we find ourselves caught up in the middle of. Let us share a little pleasure together."

What was that supposed to mean? Steven knew that Anthony had been following after the wench for some time, but no one had ever known there was a reason. The entire crew of The Avenger had thought that he chased her because she told him no and was worth a tumble between the sheets. Perhaps there actually was a reason for Anthony always being anxious about the pirate woman. If that was the case, why hadn't he told his men what was going on? Why had he left them in the dark?

What kind of secrets was Anthony Stark hiding?

Steven shifted, attempted to move toward the edge of the bed. Once more, the other man's arm tightened around him. "Why do you always run from me, my sweet? Why can you not admit that there is an attraction between us? Why do you always throw him between us? Why do you always hide behind him?"

The words came with a note of pleading to them this time, as if the man uttering them was on the verge of some kind of emotional collapse. Steven didn't like to think that his friend was so easily susceptible to the same trivial problems to which everyone else fell prey. Anthony Stark had always been larger than life, beyond the same insecurities that plagued other men. It was shocking and dismaying to see him brought low by a common pirate wench.

If Steven was a man of lesser character, he'd take care of the problem for Stark.

"Mmmm." Anthony pressed even closer, his hips thrusting just a little against Steven's. His face flamed with heat. If anyone ever found out about this night, he'd see them dead. He didn't care who it was. Stark's hand began roaming again, fingers moving deftly as they found and tweaked Steven's nipples. Why couldn't God strike him dead here and now? "What game shall we play this night, my sweet? What position would you like to be in when I take you?"

Sweet mother of Christ! Steven wanted out of bed and he wanted out of bed now. That roaming hand was drifting down, its target easy to determine. He tried. Heaven knows he tried. But Stark refused to let him go. In only moments, though it felt like a lifetime, Anthony's hand dipped between Steven's thighs and cupped lightly. Steven froze. This was not happening.

Steven let go a very undignified yelp and threw himself from the bed. He just couldn't help himself. At the same time, Anthony's eyes fluttered open. "Rogers! What the hell is going on?"

"You fell into a drunken stupor last night, Anthony. And you refused to let me go. I was forced to share your bed with you." Steven had retreated to the far side of the room. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest. Anthony sat up in the bed, eyes red and bleary. There was confusion on his face and Steven watched as it slowly seeped away, replaced by the faintly cynical look the man normally wore. "Your hands wander in your sleep."

Anthony cocked a brow at him. "My hands wander? Just where did they wander to?"

Steven shot him a glare. "You know that I've got a woman," he said. "I doubt that Cathryne would appreciate the fact that you felt free to..."

"Shall I marry you now? Or can we forget that this ever happened?" Anthony frowned and put his head in his hands. The excessive amounts of alcohol the night before had obviously just caught up to him. Steven hid a smirk. Perhaps the man's sore head would teach him the dangers of drinking too much mead the next time.

"I would rather we forget this ever happened. Marriage is out of the question," Steven told him, keeping hold of the laughter that threatened to spill out. "My heart belongs to another and she's much prettier than you, Lord Stark."

"No one is prettier than I am," Anthony remarked dryly. Steven couldn't help the laughter that the man's statement brought to life. "Bloody hell. Take that blinding grin of yours elsewhere. It offends my tender head. As does your obvious enjoyment of my discomfort. Leave me to wallow in my own misery."

Steven tossed his head back with laughter. Anthony shot him a baleful glare. Steven managed to rein his laughter in until it was nothing more than a soft chuckle. Sighing, he nodded and turned for the door. "Shall I send someone to tend to you? Perhaps ask one of Thor's wenches to bring you some mead for the ache pounding through your thick skull?"

"Mead? Aye. A mead would be good. If you have to send a wench to deliver it, make sure she has the face of a horse. I want nothing to do with women ever again," he ordered. Steven considered making a comment about Anthony's inability to keep his John Thomas in his trousers, but wisely kept his mouth shut. There was no reason to anger his friend. With another nod, he opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. Anthony's voice followed him, the muttered words not meant to be heard. "Damn the wench. If I ever lay my hands on her again, it will be to strangle the life out of her stubborn body."

Steven closed the door and went in search of one of Thor's wenches. Perhaps he should seek out the cause of all this trouble and see what she had to say about it.

~*~*~*~*~

A faint noise invaded the dark depth of sleep and nearly woke her but the heat of a body curled up against her back combined with the lingering remnants of slumber to drag her back under. Darkness rose up to swallow her, submerging her in the sweet bliss of sleep. Giving her over to the visions that lurked in the shadows.

The candle casts a deep yellow stain across the sheaf of parchment, illuminating the deep lines etched into the hand that holds the quill. There are dark marks flowing across the surface, a river racing from its source to the open waters of the sea. Writing. But the words are blurry, hard to read. Only one of them is legible. "Witchbreed."

Those aged hands sand the parchment, fold it into a square. The stick of sealing wax is a dark, bloody red color as the hands melt it over the candle, then press it to the parchment to form a seal. The imprint of the metal crafted seal is indistinct, impossible to read.

One of the aged hands is holding the folded parchment out, the fingers clutching tightly to the square. Shaking it for emphasis. As if the one holding it is upset or angered. Another hand reaches out of the shadows to take possession of the parchment. A gold ring set with a large ruby glints in the light. There is a jerk as the ringed hand pulls the parchment from the aged hand.

A stack of parchments lays on a desk, all with indistinct words on them. The writing is little more than a blur. But each of them looks to be written all in the same hand. This time, the hand that reaches for them is a woman's hand, the fingers long and narrow. It takes hold of the letters and crumples them, the fingers curling into a fist. The ball of parchment is thrown into a fireplace, into hungry flames that eat them, blacken them until they are dust.

Destroy them.

The flames died, receded into darkness. Sighing, she shifted and rolled over. An arm curled over her tightly, drawing her closer to the warm body pressed up against her. Again, sleep pulled her deeper and, again, the visions leapt out of the darkness to claim her.

Hedges that seem to reach for the sky surround her, covered with fragrant, deep waxy green leaves that leave the path between them in shadows. Walls of green run as far as the eye can see in both directions, making it seem as if the world is nothing more than dark green broken up by patches of near black. Except for the path under her feet. This is made up of cobbled stones, fit to one another to form a patterned walk.

There is a rustling sound, a whisper of leaves blowing with a breeze that isn't there. She can see that the leaves rustle all in one direction, as if trying to point her that way. Nothing else stirs. She can't hear any sounds, can't see any obvious source of light. Yet she can plainly see the path before her, a pale walkway that seems to shine with a light of its own. She uses the stones as her guide, following them as they lead her toward an unknown destination.

She realizes that she is in a maze, the walls made up by the hedges towering on either side of her. She turns left and right, the wind that isn't there showing her which direction she should go. The leaves whisper to her, telling her secrets she cannot understand. The voice of the leaves is soft and lyrical, like the sirens or faeries of myth. It sings to her, lulls her and keeps drawing her forward. There is something ahead it wants to show her.

The singing stops the moment she turns one last corner and steps into the center of the maze. It feels as if she has been following that cobbled path for a long time. Exhaustion is creeping up on her and she wants nothing more than to leave this place and seek out her bed.

There is light here and it shines down upon a solitary figure standing in the very center of the clearing. It is up on a pedestal, hands down and spread before it. She is amazed by the details as she looks the statue over. The folds of a Roman toga flow down the body from one shoulder, hiding the feet from view. There is a look of sorrow on the statue's face, a young woman caught in silent supplication for a lost love. The skin and the toga are both pale, with delicately formed features, expertly shaped.

The statue is striking, a true work of art. She is beautiful and filled with emotion, a true treasure. But it isn't the simplicity of her attire or the expression upon her face. It is the hair that falls down around her shoulders. Somehow, the stone is red, vibrant and alive. It waves and coils as it tumbles from her crown past her shoulders. She is stunning. Breath taking.

Suddenly, the statue stands below her and she can see the entire maze. Even from this height, she can see that the hedges go on forever. The leaves are still singing, but they are now singing to someone else. As she looks over the maze, she can see a pair of pale spots moving through the maze. There is one on each side of the statue, following the cobbled path toward the center where the statue waits.

Time holds its breath as the two newcomers follow the soft song of the leaves, the sound drawing them ever closer to the center. From her position, she can follow both light patches. She can see them drawing nearer and nearer to the statue.

And then they step out from between the hedge walls. She can see that they are men, both sporting golden tresses. They stop the moment they enter the clearing and stare around. One man wears a dark blue velvet coat. The other is clad in purple. They both see one another, taking a moment to size one another up. Their gazes sweep around until they see the statue standing in the center of the clearing. They share another look before they begin racing toward the glowing marble figure between them.

Their steps are quick, eating up the distance as they race to be the first to the statue. She can sense their eagerness. At almost the same time, they reach the statue. Both hesitate for just a second before each man lifts a hand toward the statue. The man in blue takes hold of the statue's hand, plunging the world into madness.

The other man simply stands there, staring at the statue where its hand is held by his competitor. There is sorrow on his face, a sadness that mirrors the one the statue wears. But then the statue ripples, the marble color retreating to become pale, living flesh. The statue is a woman, the toga she wears a pale sky blue. The young man holding her hand tugs her into his arms and hugs her tightly. The sky flashes with light as the hedges burst into flames.

She stares down at the scene, notes the man standing alone in the flickering light. There is sadness there, but there is something else. The man stands there by himself for several long moments. The silence of the night is shattered by a roar and the flames shoot higher. When the fingers of fire die down, the man in blue is gone. The woman has collapsed to the ground, her face bathed with tears. The other man crosses the distance and takes the woman into his arms.

His mouth is claiming hers when the darkness blots the scene out completely.

She shifted, rolling into the warmth of the body next to her. Sleep dragged her down to the place where the visions waited to pounce upon her.

Flames.

They roar up around her, swallowing everything they come into contact with. Stacks of parchment curl and smoke as fingers of flame lick at them. Bits and pieces of wood smolder before igniting. Cloth catches, is eaten away by the hungry fire.

Faces appear in the flames, faces she knows well. Faces of those she loves and cares for. They are contorted in pain, mouths open in screams of pain.

The flames form recognizable shapes. Ships rock and lurch on a sea of roaring fire. Sink down below the surface and disappear. Everything she knows, everyone she loves... They are all gone.

The entire world is nothing but flames.

She can feel the heat of the fire caressing her skin, drawing the moisture from it. Blisters form while her skin darkens and cracks. Pain creeps over her, singeing her nerve endings. She opens her mouth to release a scream...

"Rosemary? Is something wrong?" A large hand touched her shoulder and drew her away from the vision that had kept her in its clutches for too long. She blinked open her eyes and found Henry peering down at her. There was concern etched into the lines of his face. When she didn't answer right away, he brought a hand up to touch her forehead. "You feel a little warm. Perhaps you should spend the day in bed. No doubt the storm you came through has left you a touch under the weather."

She couldn't find the words to argue with him, to tell him that she'd just lived through the oddest of visions. Not that she would have if it had been possible. Very few people knew about her visions. It was something she kept to herself because she knew that it would see her tied to a wooden steak, awaiting the application of a torch. All she could do was stare up at Henry as he fussed over her.

"I believe I shall go seek out one of Thor's wenches and request a broth for you. I will return," he told her as he tucked the bed furs in around her. After studying her for a moment, he pinned her with a stern gaze. "I expect to find you right here when I return." He was gone before she could make a reply.

Rosemary sat up, the fur caught under her arms to keep her covered. What had those visions been about? She was fairly certain that the second one had something to do with Haley. While she'd never seen the other woman take her stone form, there was no way the lone statue in the center of the maze couldn't have been her. But the two men. She had no clue who they were supposed to be or what their presence in the vision meant. She'd never spent too much time trying to decipher the meaning behind her visions.

The first vision confused her. All those hands, all those blurred parchments. Letters with unreadable words. What did it all mean? The second hand had been wearing a ring. It had seemed familiar. She thought she'd seen it before but she couldn't exactly remember where.

It was the last vision that worried her the most, though. All of that fire. She knew that it meant bad things were going to happen. The flames were going to consume her world and destroy everything she cared about. Everyone she knew was going to die. She only knew one person who could cause that kind of destruction.

Rosemary sank back into the pillows and tried to remain calm. Just what the hell had Dare gotten all of them into?