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marysuevirus2011-03-19 07:13 pm
ladydeathfaerie) wrote in marysuevirus2011-03-19 07:13 pm
The Flight of the Valkyrie
Title: The Flight of The Valkyrie
Chapter Eleven: Dirty Little Secrets
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
Robert couldn't believe he was doing this. Never before had he seen Morgan or Jehnna shy away from doing something they didn't like. The more the two of them had discussed the events of the previous night, the more they'd come to believe that they would be unable to show their faces inside of Thor's hall without whispers of the word 'whore' following them where ever they went. Together, they'd turned their feminine wiles upon him in order to convince him to scout the hall and find out what the general attitude was. So it was that he found himself dressed and venturing out whilst they remained safely hidden away in the room where the three of them had woken.
None of it made sense to him. They were pirates, known and feared across England and France. He'd heard from a few Italian sailors he had met that tales of their exploits had spread as far south as Rome. Merchantmen, naval men and pirates all feared the crew of The Valkyrie. He'd seen the women throw themselves into the fray with as much energy and bloodlust as any man. Yet they were afraid to step out into a room of strangers for fear someone would whisper insults about them.
If he lived to be one hundred, he'd never understand women.
The main hall was filled with people, many of them bustling back and forth in preparation for the departure that would take place tomorrow. Now that the sloop was repaired and once again sea worthy, he and the other members of the crew would be putting out to open water come the rising of the sun.
Those people who were in a constant state of activity were equal parts ship's crew and Thor's servants. One group was busy hauling provisions and the like out of the hall and down the lush green hillside to the small harbor where the sloop was anchored. The other group was hurrying to and fro, clearing away left over plates from the night before and doing general cleaning. The stench of stale mead and old wood smoke was strong on the air. Some of Thor's people were opening small windows to allow fresh sea air into the vast room. Despite the fact that so many were present, no one seemed to notice that Robert was standing there.
Wondering at that, he wandered toward the trestle table that his fellow crewmates had claimed as their own. A few men were sitting, breaking their fast with a meal being served to them by some of Thor's wenches. Though they were eating hearty, he could see that they all wore a slightly pained expression, as if their heads ached something fierce. Hmmm. Curious. He joined them, taking a seat between Jig and Durwyn. They glanced at him, then went back to their meals. One of the rules of sailing. Take a good meal when you could, no matter how you felt, because you never knew when you'd get another. A buxom blonde settled a platter of food before him, leaving Robert feeling slightly nauseous.
"Aye. `Twas that way wi' me," Jig muttered. Robert glanced up to find the other man staring at him with a jaundiced eye. "I canna recall just how much mead I had to drink yester eve. But the pounding agin my skull suggests I had too much."
Robert nodded. He'd felt a touch on the ill side when he'd woken earlier, though that sensation seemed to be clearing some. His memories of the night's activities, however, seemed to be growing foggier and foggier. Not fading away so much as becoming something from a distant dream. He could clearly recall the best parts and most everything else felt softer. Less defined. "`Twas a wild evening, was it not?"
"Aye." Durwyn agreed with a nod. "The fight was the highlight of the feast."
"The fight?" Robert made the question light and only slightly curious. He'd learned such abilities in the process of watching over Morgan for her father. Diplomacy was ever becoming one of his talents.
"Aye. The fight between our girl Dare and tha' high an' mighty Lord Stark." This from Perry, who put his nose in the air as he spoke. It was obviously his attempt at being one of the upper crust. Robert hid his smile with a bite of some smoky, meaty sausage that he'd never tasted before. Knowing the Norse and their penchant to eat disgusting foods, it was likely he didn't want to know what was in it. In fact, it would be better if he didn't think about his breakfast at all.
"`Tis a shame that Haley stopped it." There was glee in Jig's voice, as if he was assured that Dare would have finished Stark off. Perhaps she would have. Robert had witnessed her fighting skills on more than one occasion. And it seemed as if the angrier she got, the better she fought. He'd never before come across anyone who did that.
"It would have been worth the trouble we'd get from his crew to see her put tha' man in his place." Perry's knuckles rapped loudly against the wooden plank of the table top. A chorus of agreement rose up around Robert. Apparently they'd all been waiting to see such an event take place. For just a moment, Robert allowed himself to dream of that same outcome. It would have been nice to see, but they'd never be sure. While Dare was a fine swordswoman, Lord Anthony Stark's abilities with a sword was the stuff of legend.
"Aye," Robert agreed absently. His mind was already turned toward what had happened after that fight. He had a vague recollection of Haley and Dare nearly engaging in their own fight. But they'd touched one another and then they'd been all over each other. As best as he could remember, that was what had started the orgy. Some had been pulled in after a touch while others had joined of their own free will. At least, he thought it had happened that way. "`Twas a fine fight."
"Aye." All three men nodded. Robert waited for one of them to make comment on the events that occurred immediately after the fight. He had no doubt that someone would say something about the orgy that took place and specifically his involvement in it. Such things were common among sailors. They spent so much time at sea, without willing women, that the men didn't allow anything of a ribald nature to go by without commenting on it.
When nothing was immediately forth coming, he risked a glance to see if there was anything to read upon their faces. He couldn't discern anything that suggested they recalled the orgy. Hadn't he told Morgan and Jehnna when they'd woken that something strange had been afoot at the feast last night? Perhaps he'd been closer to the truth than he'd thought. He'd expected a thorough ribbing from the crew for what he'd been involved in. And yet, there was nothing from them. As if they didn't know what had happened. Or as if they didn't remember it.
Perhaps there was something to his thought that there had been something odd going on the night before. It would explain what he was witnessing. How else could it be that men he knew had been present at the feast last night, who had witnessed the fight and the orgy that followed, couldn't recall everything that had taken place? And if his own crewmates didn't recall the orgy, was it possible that no one else recalled it, either?
Robert lifted his eyes from his meal and glanced casually around the hall. Those who were there seemed to be deeply involved in whatever it was they were doing. Many were there to break their fast and they were eating with a great deal of relish. Some chatted absently with the people sitting closest to them. Others were still hurrying about in the middle of chores. Not a one of them was looking at him. They all seemed oblivious.
Well, all but one. His gaze slid to a stop on a face that smirked at him. It was a familiar one, though not so familiar that he could immediately place it. Blue eyes stared back at him. Even across the distance, Robert thought he could see knowing in the man's gaze. The smirk turned into a grin and the man winked, then disappeared into the shadows.
His meal was finished without notice, his mind occupied with the things he'd learned. Something, or perhaps someone, had tampered with their minds or bodies. Somehow. He wasn't sure what they'd done or how they'd done it. But he was fairly certain they'd done it. Whatever it was. Based on what he'd observed, it was safe to assume that there would be no lasting harm from the orgy the girls had engaged in. All that he had left to do was inform them of this.
The platter emptied of its burden, Robert stood from the trestle table. He bid his companions a quick fare thee well, then made his way back toward the hall that would lead him to the room in which he'd spent the night with Morgan and Jehnna. It was in this hallway that he ran into Haley.
Her shoulders were tense and there was a look in her eyes that suggested she was itching for a fight. Haley had always been the one member of the crew that seemed to keep that part of her life to herself. It was known by one and all on the sloop that the five of them had no problems piling up into bed with one another. And it was also known that they all sought out specific partners when the ship docked at Kennewycke. All but Haley, that was. Robert knew for a fact that she often kept to herself, that she didn't seem to participate in bed sport with the same frequency as the rest of them. The events of the night before were unusual, even by their standards, and he had no doubt that the tall redhead would find herself confused and embarrassed by all that had passed.
"Good morrow, Haley. Did you pass a pleasant evening?"
He thought the question was innocent enough. But Haley shot a glittering green gaze his way, eyes narrowed on him almost hatefully. Robert didn't step back, though it was a close thing. He did reach out with one hand, settling it gently against her arm. The tension that ran through her was so tight that, had she been one of the ropes on the ship, she would have snapped in a good wind. After casting a glance up the hall in both directions, he spoke to her in a low voice. "They don't recall what happened last night, Haley. None of them."
She blinked at him, but the tension didn't ease right away. "I don't know what..."
"Last night. The orgy. No one in the hall can remember it. They remember the sword fight Dare picked with Lord Stark. But everything that happened after that is gone. As if someone erased it from their minds."
Her gaze shifted from him toward the other end of the hall, where she knew the hall lay. Where the men waited. She brought her eyes back to him and shook her head. "That cannot be. They were all there. They should all recall vividly what occurred. How... Are you sure?"
Robert nodded his head emphatically. "I spoke with some of our men. They were mightily pleased with the sword fight between Dare and Lord Stark. But they said nothing of the orgy. No one said anything of the orgy. Even my own memories of it are hazy, as if it is some dream of long ago events."
Haley frowned at him. It was obvious that she was having a hard time believing what he'd told her. Not that he could blame her. The things that had happened the night before were considered abhorrent and evil by the church. No doubt anyone who was found to have engaged in such acts would be punished under God's law. And though some of the members of the crew had long ago rid themselves of the burden of religion, Haley was one of those who still clung to the beliefs she'd been brought up with. "I promise you, Haley. They recall nothing beyond the fight. It is as if everything else has been erased."
"I... Thank you, Robert. Thank you." Haley turned and made her way back up the hall. He watched her go, wondering at the strangeness that was woman. If he lived to be one hundred...
~*~*~*~*~
Remy sank gratefully down onto the hard bench that lined the trestle tables in the hall. It was the first he'd stopped moving since climbing from bed and Dare's arms earlier in the day to help restock the ship for their departure in the morning. He was finding that there was so much more to being a pirate than he'd first thought. Of course, everything he'd ever learned about being a pirate had to do more or less come from books and movies. Everyone knew that these weren't the best sources for information. He should have known that there was more to pirating than putting wind in the sails.
For quite literally hours, he'd been part of a line of people who had carried supplies down to the waiting sloop. Thor had gifted them with dried meats, fresh fruits, casks of fresh water and rum, crates of material for sail repairs and a few stacks of wood meant to be used on the sloop if it took damage again. By the time they'd gotten everything stored in the hold, his arms and legs had been so sore that he longed for a spa or hot tub to soak in. The best he knew he'd get was Thor's bath house. He could only hope that no one else would want to claim use of that miracle of miracles in such a backward time.
Perhaps if he dragged Dare with him, the others would leave them alone. She'd been working just as hard as everyone else. No doubt, despite being used to such taxing work, she needed to relax just as much as he did.
One of the wenches, a honey blonde with an impressive pair, made sure to press her breast to the side of his face as she set his plate before him. When he looked up at her to offer her a smile, she tossed a wink at him and turned to go. He had to pull his face back before she took one of his eyes out. A chorus of chuckles rose up around him, only to be silenced quickly. Remy didn't have to look around to know that Dare was approaching the table. He could feel her, a swirl of possessive jealousy and light exhaustion. He was right. She'd worked just as hard as any other member of the crew. Perhaps even harder.
"Off with ye." The snarl in her voice was half hearted. "Or I'll run ye through with m'blades!"
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the serving wench hurry off as if someone had set her ass on fire. He had to check, just to make sure. None of the woman's body was set alight. That was a good sign. Either Dare had held her temper or she was just too damned tired to even try. Either way, whatever the woman felt melted away when she saw him awaiting her at the table. With a tired smile, she sank down next to him. "You look tired, cher," he commented.
"Aye. `Tis glad I am tae sit. Tomorrow will be just as busy as today." She sounded as if she was ready to crawl into bed. He was definitely going to take her off to Thor's bath house after the meal. She needed to relax even more than he did.
"You an' me, we gon' go relax in de bath after de meal."
She looked up at him and he could see the relief in her eyes. It made him wonder just how these five women coped in a world that was so definitely dominated by men. If the women he knew thought that they had it rough, they needed to experience life in this place. He'd watched, the entire week that they'd been stuck on Thor's island, how the women had been treated by the men. The women who brought food and drink, who brought fresh clothing and linens, were treated as if they were little more than objects. Hands reached out to pinch breasts and buttocks without regard for how the owner felt about such actions.
Were the present versions of the five girls subjected to such treatment, Remy had no doubt that they'd each show these men what such actions would earn them from modern, liberal women. That image made him smile.
A second wench, this one with dark hair, stepped forward to settle food before the woman at his side. Dare gave her nod and dug in without uttering a word. The wench slipped away on silent feet. Remy reached for a piece of ham and chewed on it almost absently. A few moments later, the woman returned with a pitcher of mead. She filled their tankards and left again.
They ate in silence, he and Dare, while conversation flowed around them. Much of it was boisterous and loud, the kind of ribaldry that he'd come to expect from the sailors. Some of the men discussed the sword fight of the night before, wondering out loud just which party would have won the night. Would it have been Lord Anthony Stark, one of the most accomplished men in all the British Isles? Or would it have been the fiery Scots lass that seemed indifferent to the man's charms? The debate carried across the room and saw some men ribbing Stark while others tried to goad Dare into a repeat performance. Remy was shocked that she ignored them and more than just a little proud of the fact.
What he found most surprising was that no one seemed inclined to speak about the orgy that had taken place after the fight. Given the lustful nature of the sailors, he'd expected to be teased about it when he'd joined them for the feast. But no one had even looked at him twice when he'd stepped into the hall. In fact, no one seemed to be talking about it at all. In his experience, there were only two reasons why a man wouldn't be bragging about a free show. Either the man was gay and totally uninterested, which he didn't think was the case here with these men, or they simply couldn't remember that anything sexual had taken place. That was something he found mildly disturbing even though it was a good thing where the girls were concerned.
The sound of a soft belch pulled him from his thoughts. Turning, Remy took in the slightly embarrassed look on Dare's face and smiled. There was a hint of a blush staining her cheeks, something he found odd considering her chosen life. She muttered a phrase under her breath and it took him a moment to realize she'd excused herself. So the fearless pirate wench had manners after all. Perhaps later, when they were alone, he'd tease her about them. She hid her face in her tankard, taking a deep drink of mead. When she was done, she set the mug down and gave him a look. "I'm off tae the privy. Dinnae let those pretty wenches take my place."
She was gone before he could reply to her comment.
Remy sank into his thoughts for just a few minutes, wondering at her sudden discomfort. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen such behavior from her previously. She was a pirate. Then again, the Dare from the future, his present, had never been one for manners. Why should the one in this present be any different? It shouldn't, but this Dare was different. Just a little. He just couldn't put his finger on how.
The sound of the hall's giant double doors slamming open dragged his attention away from the oddity that was Dare Scott. Looking up, he found that a small group of men were stalking toward the main table where their host sat. They swept up the open floor in the middle of the tables, all grim faced and determined looking. At the lead was a short, slight man with face that struck him as familiar. It took a second or two for Remy to realize that the man's face bore resemblance to his own.
The newcomer had hair pulled into a short pony tail at the nape of his neck. Hair that was the same exact color of Remy's own. A mustache and one of those pointed Vandyke beards kept him from looking too plain for notice. His clothes were impeccable, done in shades of red and brown in the finest materials. The garments alone were enough to shout his station to one and all. But the jewel encrusted hilt at his waist said what his clothing didn't. The man was landed and titled. And he was on a mission.
The entire room went silent in an instant. Out of the corner of his eye, Remy saw Thor rise to his feet. The man towered over his visitor, was quite physically imposing next to the shorter man. It didn't bother the stranger in the slightest. That one had a presence all his own, though it had more to do with his confidence and less to do with his actual height. "Pray allow me to welcome thee and thine to mine hall." Thor's voice boomed out over the assembled people. It didn't impress the man at the head of the visiting delegation.
Remy couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man who wore a version of his face was filled with righteous indignation and rage. Beneath that, Remy thought he detected a hint of sorrow. But it was so slight and buried so deeply that he really wasn't sure. Coming to a halt before Thor, the man put his hand on the hilt of his sword and stared at the burly Viking. "I have come on business of the utmost importance."
Thor didn't seem impressed with the news. After nodding to a few of his men, he retook his seat and leaned back. "This business brings you to my hall where all are welcome?"
"Aye, my lord." There was curt politeness in the man's tone. Thor signaled with one hand for the man to state his business. "I come to you in hopes that you will hand over to me the person responsible for my brother's death."
"You believe Robert's murderer is here?" This question came from Stark. Remy glanced at the dark headed man and frowned. Stark knew what was going on here. There was an underlying tension in him that one couldn't see. Not with the lazy smile that twisted his lips up or the relaxed pose he kept in his chair.
"You know this person?" The thunder god turned to look at the man sitting beside him.
"I do. Thor, allow me to introduce you to Samuel Lord, younger brother to Robert Lord." The name struck a chord with Remy that was so loud, he almost missed the rest of Stark's words. "No doubt I mentioned him to you. It was a great scandal some years ago. Lord was Marquis de Chagny in France and Marquess of Dormenshire in Britain. Though there was never a body found, it is believed that he was killed in the middle of the night by some vengeful spouse. You may remember that he had quite the reputation as a ladies' man."
"No doubt learned at your hand, my Lord Stark." Samuel Lord dipped into a mocking bow as he spoke. Stark returned the look with an insincere smile. Things were getting too weird for Remy. Not only was he staring at a man who was the younger brother of a man who had been given one of his aliases as a name but it was blatantly obvious to him that the other man knew more about Lord's death than he was letting on. A thought occurred to him, but he shook it off immediately. There was no way Dare would have ever committed such an act.
"My hall is a place of peace," Thor intoned solemnly. "There are no murderers here."
"Information brought to me not more than a few days ago says that Robert's murderer is here. I have come to take the bastard into custody. I will see to it that they pay for their crime. Robert's young son was left without his father. His death will be avenged and I will be the one to avenge it." Steely determination kept Lord's spine straight. And it kept him going even though his brother had died some time ago. "I will not leave until I have accomplished my mission."
Thor leaned back in his chair and let his gaze slide around the vast hall. "Then I invite you to search my hall. If you can find this supposed murderer, you are free to take him with you when you go." The two men regarded each other for a few moments before Thor extended his arms and gestured in silent invitation.
Remy watched as the man named Samuel Lord turned to his left and started scanning the crowds gathered around the tables. He took his time, studying each face with care before moving on to the next. The room stayed silent, each person there waiting to see if the man found his murderer and, if he did, who it was.
It was when the man turned to face the side of the room the crew of the sloop had claimed as their that Remy felt the first stirrings of emotions. They came from behind him. On the top was fear. It ran bone deep and nearly drowned out everything under it. Confusion came next. Last, but definitely not least, was guilt. He'd felt that guilt before and was once again left wondering what had prompted such an emotion. Dare had obviously spied their visitor and Remy had no doubt that she hadn't come out of the corridor. Which left him wondering yet again just what was going on.
Samuel's eyes finally reached the end of the trestle table where Remy was seated. And the moment those eyes landed on him, it almost felt as if the entire world fell away around him. There was a sense of surprise coming from the other man, though it didn't show on his face. Along with the surprise was disbelief. And a hint of recognition. Which was odd, because he'd never seen Samuel Lord before in his life. For that moment in time, he wished he could read minds because he really wanted to know what the man was thinking. A voice in the back of his head whispered to him, suggesting that Lord was staring at him so intently because he looked like the other man's dead brother.
That settled it. He really needed to talk to Dare and get the answers to a few questions.
~*~*~*~*~
Dare tuned out the conversation going on in the hall, her mind reeling. How had Samuel found his way here? Stark had assured her that the man would never know, that should would be safe from him. She should have known that he'd lied. He'd lied about everything else. She really shouldn't have been surprised that he'd lied about this.
She had to get away from this place. Now. She had to go. She had to... Turning, she made her way blindly up the hall until she could stumble numbly through an open door. The hallway was dark, not a single sconce lit against the encroaching night. An absent thought saw the nearest torch blazing with flames. There was a second door at the other end of the hall. She let herself slip through it and stood with her back pressed against the closed panel.
What was she going to do? No doubt Samuel would see her hanged before even leaving Thor's small harbor. A sickening image of her body, limp as a rag doll, swaying side to side from one of the cross beams on the ship's mast as it put out to sea made her stomach lurch. Damn Stark and his reasonable tones. Damn the red headed bitch on the throne and her orders. Damn them all for putting her in this position.
Memories long kept at bay began tumbling through the confusion of her mind. She pushed away from the door and, one hand against the wall, sought out a torch. She needed the light to keep the shadows at bay. Need the light to keep her sanity. If she had to live through it again, she'd go mad. She needed the light...
The moment her hand closed around the bracket that held the torch, she sighed and sent a touch of her magic out to light the end. The single torch flickered to life, casting mellow golden light out over the room she was in. It was some kind of armory or shrine or something, because the walls were covered with glittering swords of all kinds. On the center of the back wall, on a small pedestal, lay a pillow covered with red velvet. There was nothing on it, but she was sure that the pillow bore an indentation from whatever it was that made its home there.
There was a sense of something on the air. Some kind of reverence or spiritual thing. It wasn't an entirely uncomfortable feeling, but it still left her on edge. She shouldn't be here. It felt as if she was trespassing upon something sacred. She needed to leave.
Turning for the exit, she stopped dead in her tracks. A pair of giant war axes crossed over the top of the door. And it brought a specific memory to the surface. She'd faced those axes once before, had seen in the glint of light along their sharpened edges the finality of her death. And there hadn't been a coin to present to the executioner to make it as painless as possible.
"For your crimes against the crowd, Alasdare Scott, you are sentenced to death by beheading to be carried out with the rising of the sun on the morrow. You will be given the opportunity to ask for absolution of your sins. I suggest you spend all night in seclusion with a priest, on your knees on the stone while you pray for forgiveness." The magistrate looked almost bored with his announcement, as if he would have liked to have been anywhere but there. "May God have mercy on your soul."
The sound of the small wooden hammer striking the wooden surface of the table was loud in the nearly empty room. No one had come to witness her 'trial' or the subsequent sentencing. She hadn't expected anyone. There were two guards, a trio of magistrates and the emptiness of her soul. At a nod from the man who'd just pronounced sentence, the guards grabbed her arms with rough hands and dragged her to her feet. The chains that bound her clattered loudly in the devouring silence. The heaviness of them nearly dragged her back to the ground but she forced herself to walk on as if they weren't there at all.
She barely noted the return to her cell. They'd taken everything from her. Clothes, boots, swords. Gone were the breeches she'd become accustomed to, the corset and the tunic she wore daily. In their stead, they'd left her with a coarse chemise that provided modesty. And that was all. It was cold in her cell and the thin garment did nothing to keep the chill at bay. She could feel the cold air right through the material and knew well enough the signs of the ague that were taking her. Tight lungs and a painful cough were the least of her worries, though.
The magistrate hadn't been jesting about spending the night on her knees. Her guards made sure to shackle her into a pillory that kept her in a kneeling position, her head bent down so that she could only see the floor in front of her. She had no problems with such an arrangement for all of ten minutes. By then, her neck hurt and her knees felt bruised from the unevenness of the stones beneath them. And there was nothing for her to do but wait for the dawning. And her death.
He came sometime in the night, a man in the traditional robes of a priest. She couldn't see his face, but she saw the slippers he wore on his feet. They were old, worn leather that was scuffed and battered. And she could see the frayed edges of his robes. For a moment, the cell was silent as death. Then he put his hand on her head and started whispering a prayer. She closed her eyes, not because she felt she needed to repent her sins but because she welcomed the sound of humanity and life.
The prayer went on and on for what felt like hours. When his voice stopped, she thought she might die. When his hand lifted away, she wanted to beg him to return it. She wasn't a religious soul in the slightest. But she missed being out on the sea, with other people at her side. She missed the noise to be had while sailing, even when no one was speaking. She missed it all and, as she sat there and waited for his feet to make a soft sound as he headed for the door, she realized that she absolutely, positively did not want to die.
"Repent, child. Beg forgiveness for your sins." His voice was gentle and soothing. The kind of voice one might want their priest to have if they were confessing.
"I've naught tae confess for, Father," she replied evenly.
"But the magistrate has found you guilty of piracy, child. He has proof that you've murdered innocent souls. The sentence for such crimes is death. In order for your soul to find its way to heaven, you must confess your sins to me. Repent and beg God to turn His light to you."
"I willnae ask God for forgiveness because I dinnae want tae die." The words ended on a hacking cough that left her throat sore and her chest pained.
"We all must die, my child. `Tis but a question of when." There was a sound, like cloth shifting against stone. Someone else was there. listening to them. Maybe they hoped to hear her confess her sins? If so, they were going to be disappointed. The cell fell into silence again. She closed her eyes to block out the sight of his feet. She concentrated on the simple in and out of her breath, something that seemed to be growing increasingly more difficult as the moments passed. "Why did you not use your powers to escape the guard, child? Why did you not burn your way out of this situation?"
The question brought her eyes open as panic lanced through her. He knew. She wasn't sure how, but he knew. There was nothing good in a man of God knowing that she was Witchbreed. He'd condemn her to Hell. Surely. She should deny him, deny his words. Or say something that required the use of her sharp tongue and wit. But there was no denial. No smart comment to be had. Nothing but a deep fear that left her filled with panic.
"I know, child. I know all about you. And it is this knowledge that brings me to your side on this night, the eve of your death. I have come to tell you that you do not have to die. I have come to offer you the salvation you so obviously desire."
She wished she could lift her head so that she could see his face. There was more truth to be found in a man's eyes than in his words. She'd discovered this early in her life. She wanted to know if he offered her real hope or the falsehood of a lie. For all that she was a fierce combatant with a sword, for all that she laughed in the face of her opponents, the truth was that she really didn't want to die. Not in battle with a sword in her hand and not here, on her knees like some mongrel dog begging for a scrap from the lord's table. All she wanted was to live her life as she saw fit.
"Our Majesty the Queen has use for someone of your talents. Such abilities will allow you to go places that normal men cannot go. She is in need of a spy, child. And I believe you will be perfect for her purposes." The man told her, his soft voice coaxing and gentle. It stroked her battered senses and soothed her. "All you need do is say yes. Say yes and your life will be spared. Her Majesty will allow you to go on your way and will contact you by letter when she is in need of your services. Say yes and you can walk out of here a free woman."
He paused and let the silence pool around them again. The minutes passed in the plopping sound of water dripping in the corner. In the scurrying, squeaking sound of rats as they crept across the floor and burrowed through the rotting straw covering the stone. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. She just couldn't. It felt too much like slavery to her.
"Deny the Queen's request and you can stay here for the night. You can stay on your knees and beg God for forgiveness. You can repent your sins without the benefit of a priest to absolve you. You can greet the dawn and the executioner's axe in the morning. And you can hope, in vain, that he makes your death swift. Painless. Easy."
The man remained at her feet for a few more moments, obviously waiting for her to answer him. When she didn't say anything right away, he heaved a sigh and once more put his hand on the top of her head. "May God forgive you, my child. If you should change your mind, all you need do is say so. I will save you from eternal damnation."
His feet made soft scuffing sounds as he crossed to the door of the cell. It creaked ominously as it opened, one last death knell before the blow struck that took her head from her shoulders. Despair took her, saw her head hanging heavy. The wood of the pillory cut into her throat, made breathing hard to do. Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd fall asleep and choke herself to death.
The click of a heel against the stone warned her that she wasn't yet alone. A pair of expensive, well shined boots came into view. Then the owner was sinking down to kneel before her. If she lifted her head a little past comfortable, she could see his face. Blue eyes filled with some emotion she couldn't put her finger on. Lips thinned in distaste. Well kept beard and mustache. He reached out a hand and laid it against her cheek. "Do not let them end your life so young, my sweet. Do not let them end it."
He was gone before she could form a reply. The door creaked shut and she knew she was all alone. She told herself she wouldn't cry, but the tears came anyway.
~*~
She could barely put weight on her legs when the guards came to drag her out to her death the next morning. They were numb with cold and her enforced position of humility. In fact, most of her body didn't really want to work. The guards' hands on her felt much too warm, their grips almost painfully tight. She was so cold and so tired.
The sun was barely up over the horizon, though some of its golden light was pouring across the sky toward them. After the darkness of the cell, the morning sun left her momentarily blind. By the time her eyes adjusted to the brilliance of daylight, she was close enough to the platform to see the pitiless brown eyes of the executioner as he stared at her from behind his hood. The light caught on the edge of his axe's blade, made it gleam with deadly intent.
Beside him stood a man in a priest's vestments, a tattered book held in one hand and a large crucifix in the other. Another man stood off to the side, a man she vaguely recalled from the night before. And it came to her then, as she was being dragged toward the block where her head would rest, that she truly didn't want to die. That she would do anything it took to keep her head on her shoulders. Even if that meant selling her soul.
She licked her lips, tried to form the words. Nothing came out but a harsh, rasping cough that left her throat on fire. The guards were dragging her up the steps, bringing her ever closer to the block. She tried again, cleared her throat and licked her lips with a tongue that was paper dry. "I dinnae want tae die."
It came out as a pale whisper, but the priest heard. He stepped forward and used one hand to hold her head up so that he could look her in the eye. "Then all you have to do is say the words, my child. Say them and this nightmare will be over."
"Whatever ye need o' me. I'll do it." The priest lifted a brow at her, a silent request for more. She coughed and fought the urge to go limp. "I swear it."
"Very good." The man nodded his head at the guards. They dropped her as if she were little more than a sack of grain. She hit the wooden platform hard and lay there, no energy left in her to rise to her feet. Booted feet stalked angrily across the flat surface toward her. She felt herself lifted up into a pair of strong arms. "Now, now, my Lord. You should leave the trash where it belongs."
"There was no need to do it this way, Father Stryker." That was the last thing she heard as she sank gratefully into her savior's arms and the encroaching darkness.
~*~
The material under her was soft and fine. It smelled of fresh heather in the fields and the gentle breezes that blew across the ocean. A pair of voices were murmuring so lowly that she couldn't hear what they were saying. Opening her eyes showed that she was laying in a thick nest of the finest linens, her head resting on fat, plump pillows. She found herself laying in a bed with a heavy velvet canopy in the color of the sky just before the stars came twinkling to life topping it. The bedding was only a few shades lighter.
Scanning the room with her eyes, she found she was a rich man's bed in a rich man's house. The walls were covered with silk coverings in pale blue that matched the sky that immediately surrounded the disk of the sun. The drapes at the windows were a shade between the one covering the wall and the bedding covering her. She tried lifting herself into a sitting position and found that her arms had all the strength of a newly born kitten.
A maid wearing a crisp white apron spied her movements and smiled. "My Lord Stark. She's awake. Finally."
"Thank you, Fiona. That will be all. You may leave us." The maid tossed her another smile, then turned and headed for the door. Someone else went with her. That left Dare alone with a strange man. He casually took a seat on the edge of the bed and smirked down at her. "Typical wench. Spending the better part of a week lounging in bed. I trust you're feeling better?"
She frowned at him. She'd been laid up a week? Had she been that sick? She couldn't really recall. Taking a mental inventory, she fought off a yawn and determinedly pulled herself up into a sitting position. It took far more effort than she thought it should have. "Better than I felt before," she admitted. A good look at the man brought back vague memories of a concerned face hovering just before hers in a cramped, cold stone cell. That was followed by memories of a sharp axe and a man wearing an executioner's hood. A priest with dulcet tones that promised and lied with a silvery, forked tongue. "Sae... Yer tae be my keeper?"
The question startled him. She could see it in the way his eyes widened ever so slightly before narrowing on her once again. He'd apparently thought she was as stupid as the wenches he no doubt cajoled into his bed at night. Looking back at things now, she could see that she'd been used. That the priest, if he truly was a priest, had used the threat of death to get what he wanted. And, being the horrible soul that he was, he didn't trust her to keep his word. Smart man, that one. Which meant that the man currently studying her as if she was some exotic meal placed before him was to keep her leashed at his side.
"Your accent is positively atrocious, girl. Where were you brought up? In a barn? We must fix that if we're to smuggle you into the finest homes in Britain and France." He disregarded her question with such ease that she knew him to be a politician of some sort. The maid had addressed him as Lord Stark. She struggled to recall such a name from her youth. Sadly, she'd been gone for a very long time. There was nothing immediately springing to mind.
"Ye can fix the hole my sword will leave behind if ye try aught."
He sighed and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if a headache had suddenly sprung to life behind his eyes. "Bloody hell. This is going to be a nightmare."
"`Tis nay joy for me," she snarled. Each second of consciousness was doing its best to turn her mood as foul as was possible.
"You've no idea what's in store for you. Do you, girl?"
"I've a bloody guid idea. I'm no' stupid." She managed to cross her arms over her chest and shot him a scowl that had seen old sea dogs piss themselves. He barely flinched in the face of her temper. They stared at one another for a long time, the silence stretching painfully thin between them. He was waiting for her to break, waiting for her to give in and ask him what was in store for her. To beg him for his help. He didn't know her very well if he thought she would break before he did. He might not know it, but she'd made a name for herself on the sea. Men feared her. He would be no exception.
He broke first. "You're to be used as little more than tool. And yes. I am to be your keeper. It is believed that you cannot be trusted to keep your end of the bargain. Should you try to slip away, I am fully authorized by Her Majesty to return you to your cell where you will await execution. And there will be nothing to save your lovely neck from the chopping block the next time."
She muttered something uncomplimentary about his family in Gaelic and watched as his eyes warmed ever so slightly. "My father would say that you're correct. My mother would have washed your mouth out for using such language. And she would assure you quite strongly that I am not a bastard."
"Ye are. Ye're a smug bastard." She didn't like that she couldn't insult him without his knowledge. Frowning, she felt the itch in her palms that said the flames wanted to ensure that there was no child to carry on his arrogance.
"Smug, yes. But not a bastard. Simply in possession of more knowledge than you, my sweet." She let her scowl darken, bringing a chuckle from him. "Oh, I am. I know who you are, Alasdare MacKenzie Scott. I know all there is to know about you. I know that you are the oldest daughter, the oldest child, of Daniel and Amelia Scott. I know that your father is titled and that you ran away from home rather than marry a stranger when your father told you you were to be wed. I know that you've spent every day of your life since on a ship with a sword in your hand. I know that you can control fire. And I know that your accent is the worst I've ever heard."
"Ye make it a point to stick yer nose intae other people's business, do ye? Sounds like an auld woman tae me."
"Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear to you, Alasdare," he began, his voice devoid of emotion. He stared at her with steely blue eyes that held her motionless. Despite that, her retort was instant, little more than habit.
"Dare. Dinnae call me Alasdare. My name is Dare."
"You have given up your freedom as surely as if you'd wed that man you wanted so desperately to avoid." He went on as if she'd never spoken, his voice sharp and stinging. "You'll never again own your own life. You'll be at the beck and call of your master, little more than a well trained attack dog. You will do as you are ordered or you will face your death. And I will see to it that you fall into line and play the roles you are given like a good, obedient little girl. Or wife. Do you understand what I'm saying? You no longer own yourself."
She glared at him, her jaw clenching down until her teeth hurt.
"Answer me, girl. Do you understand me? Do you understand everything I've just told you, Alasdare?"
"Alasdare?" His voice broke through the memories a moment before his hand touched her shoulder. She jerked away from him, fire already flaring to life around her hands. Anthony held his own hands up in a gesture of surrender. It was enough to see her pulling the flames back into her. She came back to herself enough to look around. She was still in the armory, still facing the door and its twin axes. There was no one there but herself and Stark. And nothing was on fire yet. "Are you well, my sweet? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
How dare he sound concerned about her! This whole mess was his fault. Every last bit of it. She turned her scowl on him and stepped back. She didn't stop until her back came up against the pedestal and its red velvet pillow. She gave him her back, her hands stroking at the worn material gently. "Alasdare?"
"Dinnae come near me, Stark. Dinnae touch me. Ever again. This is yer fault."
He ignored her order, the tread of his boots light on the wooden floor. One of his hands took hold of her arm so that he could turn her to face him. She didn't realize that she was crying until he reached up with one hand and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I am sorry, Alasdare. I truly never wanted you to find yourself in such a place."
"Ye dinnae ken anything aboot me, Stark. No' really. Ye should have let me die that day. Ye should have found someone else tae do yer dirty work." She stepped away from him. She was tired of the lies. He'd been lying to her from the very first. She, in turn, had been lying to her friends. That made her feel sick to her stomach. The last thing in the world she'd wanted to do was lie to the people she considered her family. "I'm done. Do ye hear? I'm done with all of it. The next letter that comes, ye can use it to wipe yer arse with. I dinnae want it. Never again."
"Alasdare, you..." he began, only to fall silent when a surge of her temper set a flame to every torch on the wall. The room swam in light and heat and she knew her hair was floating around her head. She'd rarely ever given in to fits of temper around him. Not like this one. So he'd never actually seen what it was she was capable of doing. Based on what she saw in his eyes, he was now afraid of that ability. He, the man who never showed fear of anything, was frightened of her.
"Nay! I'm done with it. I'm going tae tell them. All of them. I'm going tae tell them what I did. What ye and that bitch made me do."
"Do you think that will lift the guilt you feel, my sweet? Do you think that will atone for the sins you've committed?" There was no hint of fear in his voice, only the tender and gentle concern she knew to be a lie. She'd heard it all before. It didn't mean a thing to her.
"Sins I committed in her name. And yers, Stark. Dinnae forget that ye're as responsible for all of this as I am." She pointed a finger at him, her expression daring him to contradict her.
"Do you think it wise to confess these sins now? With Lord's brother here?" Naturally he ignored what she'd said. "The man is out for blood. In case you've forgotten, he's out for your blood."
"I ken that weel enough." She frowned at him. "I dinnae think I'll ever forgive myself for that day. I ken I'll never forgive ye for it."
"His death wasn't my fault, Alasdare," he reminded her quietly.
"Och, and does that lie help ye sleep at night?"
Stark sighed and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. He looked as weary as she felt. "I did not come back here to argue with you, Alasdare. I came here to warn you that you should remain hidden until Lord sails in the morning. If he finds you here, if he even lays eyes on you, there will be nothing I can do to stop him."
"Mayhap I should let him do what he will with me. Mayhap `tis what I deserve."
"Do you think Robert would agree with you on that, my sweet? And what of your new pet? The one who bears a striking resemblance to a dead man. A dead man you're responsible for murdering."
"What Robert would and wouldn't agree tae is of no importance now. Is it, Stark? Because, as ye've sae delicately pointed out, he's dead." She sighed and turned away from him. She hadn't wanted to do it. But it had been his life or hers. She could see now that it would have been better had it been her life instead of his. She could still see the look that had been in his eyes when he'd died, all these years later. "I hate ye. I didnae want tae kill him. I... Go away, Stark. Go away and leave me tae my fate."
She moved to the nearest wall, allowed her eyes to slide over the weapons that had been mounted on it. "Forgive me for not believing your poor, broken maid act, Alasdare. I've seen you at your worst and deadliest. You're a killer. You enjoy it. This sobbing, mewling little girl I see before me is little more than another role for you to play."
"Ye can go tae Hell, Stark!" she snarled at him. He had no idea what she felt. Not now. Not then. All he cared about was his own lily white arse. Her hand reached for swords that Remy had convinced her to leave in the room she was sharing with him. It didn't matter. There were plenty of them here. All she had to do was pick one.
A long, two handed sword floated away from the wall to nestle snugly in her hands. It was heavier than she'd thought it to be, but that didn't matter. She held the tip up, steadily pointed it at his chest. He snorted a laugh and stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Really, my pet. There's no need for such melodrama. Be a good girl and put the sword down. I'll even be kind enough to put a smile on your face after you do. That pedestal is about the right height. I'll simply bend you over it and..."
His words died when flames raced up the length of the blade, engulfing it. "Another word, Stark, and I'll cut oot yer heart."
"You wouldn't dare hurt me, my sweet. Not after all we've meant to one another." He smiled at her, a sweet smile.
"Ye're a liar and ye like tae use people, Stark. I dinnae mean a damn thing tae ye. I wish I'd never met ye." She didn't have to say, again, that she wished she'd died that day.
Silence sprang to life around them, making the air feel thick and uncomfortable. Even the flames that licked at the blade seemed to do so without a sound. Which was why she heard the latch on the door that announced the arrival of someone else. She quickly doused the flames and lowered the sword. But not too much.
A sigh of relief welled up inside of her as the door opened to reveal Remy. He looked at her, concern etched into his face. His eyes took in Stark, then landed on her. They skimmed over the sword and she saw the concern deepen just a bit. "Dere you are, cher. Everyt'ing okay?"
She turned a hard glare toward Stark and let him see that she'd meant everything she'd said. She was done with it all. Finished. She was taking her life back. And God have mercy on the soul of any person who was fool enough to get in her way. Without taking her eyes from the man, she sent the sword back to where it belonged. It was reminder of what she was. And a warning of what she could do, if she so chose. "Aye, lover. `Tis fine. Do ye still wish tae relax in the bath?"
"Oui."
"Then let's go. I've no' heard a finer idea all day." She made sure that Stark saw the look on her face and the intent in her eyes. Then she made for the door, her arm brushing his as she passed. Remy gave her a probing look before letting his eyes once more stare at Stark. Then he smiled, gave her his arm and escorted her from the room.
They met no one in the hallway. And, thankfully, there was no one in the giant bath house. The torches flickered in their wall sconces, making the light ripple and dance across the water. As soon as the door closed, Dare reached for Remy and began helping him from his clothes. He gave her a look she knew well. It was one that suggested he wanted to talk about what he'd just been witness to. Sighing, she stepped back and shook her heat. "No' tonight, Remy. Please? Ye can ask me questions all ye like on the morrow. But no' tonight."
He stared at her for a few minutes, then finally sighed and gave a nod of consent. "But we gon' talk about dis tomorrow. And you gon' answer all my questions. Truthfully."
"I swear it tae ye." She made the oath with a hand on her heart. He studied her for the count of three, then nodded his head. When he reached for her, she went eagerly. His arms enfolded her into their embrace, pressed her head against his shoulder while his hands stroked gently down her back.
"Dare." His voice was a soft whisper of sound. And it was the most natural thing in the world for her to lift her head and tip it back, to give him her mouth. She could taste the mead on his lips and tongue, could taste the need that filled him. His lips feasted on her own while his tongue danced with hers. She felt a thrill chase through her and sent her hands searching for the waist of his breeches. She was consumed by the need to have him inside of her.
They broke apart with a gasp, their hands quick and nimble as they worked to remove each other's clothes. There was no need for words. The looks in their eyes, the way their hands touched and explored, said everything that needed to be said.
She let her hands touch each newly exposed section of skin. Her fingers grazed lightly over his nipples and across the ridges of his belly. A quiver inched up his spine when she let her hands skim over his belly button. Before she reached for his cock, she let them travel around to his back, let them dip and cup his arse. He muttered something in French, his words thick and hoarse, before his mouth sought hers once more.
They kissed one another, a thing filled with heat and life. His mouth moved over hers slowly, a sensual assault that she didn't want to stop. Instead, she let her hands return to his front, let them curl around his cock and stroke it with long, almost painfully slow motions. His hands found her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples into hard peaks before tugging at them hard enough to draw a gasp up her throat. A gasp he swallowed down and ate as if it was food.
And perhaps it was, because she suddenly found herself sitting on the edge of the large wooden tub while he knelt on the bench in the water. He tugged her hips closer to the opening, positioning them just so, before leaning down so that he could press a kiss to the flesh between her thighs. She heaved a deep sigh and fell back against the floor, allowed him full access to her. He took it, alternating plunging his tongue deep inside of her with dragging it over the small button of flesh that seemed to send her flying when it was touched just the right way.
He knew how to touch it just the right way. It didn't take long for him to send her flying, for him to shatter her until she was nothing more than a million shining pieces of multi colored lights. The hoarse sound of her pleasure filled the empty room, echoed back at them as he lifted his head to stare down at her. "Come here, cher," he whispered before pulling her into his arms.
Remy tugged her into the water with him, turning to settle his arse on the bench. She found herself sitting in his lap, felt the evidence of his need caught between them. He didn't have to tell her what to do. She knew. Her hands each reached out. One settled on the edge of the large tub so that she could balance herself. The other slipped down to find his cock, took hold of it so that she could guide it inside of her body. When she finally sank down on top of him completely, she sighed and closed her eyes. Rested her forehead against his. Breathed in that scent that was uniquely him.
Dare sighed and gave herself up to him. Her hands found his shoulders, fingers curling to map them and hold tight to him. When she pulled back and opened her eyes, it was to find him watching her carefully. Intently. She offered him a smile before leaning forward again. This time, her mouth took his in a kiss that begged him to make her forget, if just for a little while.
His hands took hold of her hips before he shifted her up ever so slightly. She caught his meaning and allowed herself to sink down over him again. The feel of him inside of her was something from a long remember dream, something so pleasant and achingly sweet that she knew it wouldn't, couldn't last. Trying to push away the sense of foreboding that came with his first thrust, she raised her hips up again, sank down again. She shifted herself over him, encouraged his hands to wander and touch.
His hips took up a rhythm of their own, one she willingly allowed to take the lead. Thoughts simply folded away, leaving her filled with nothing more than sensation and feeling. The feel of his hands on her skin. The sensation of the water lapping against her skin. His body buried inside of hers. His mouth hot and demanding on hers.
She allowed him to fill her with himself and with the pleasure that she needed so badly. The church had taught them that such acts were sinful and wrong. They were beautiful, so perfectly right. The silk of his skin on hers. The way his mouth teased and coaxed her to the peaks of pleasure, no matter what part of her body he used it on. The feel of his hand cupping her breasts, her arse. Touching her between her thighs. It was the most amazing feeling.
She'd long ago stopped believing in the church and its teachings. She'd stopped believing in a God who had created man in his image but had made women to be little more than chattel. She'd stopped believing in a God who would take someone so special and dear away from her, leave her broken hearted and destroyed. She'd thrown it all away and put her faith in her friends, in her ability to wield a sword and fire. The only god she knew as her master was that of the sea.
But sitting there in the heated water of Thor's bath with Remy buried inside of her and wrapped around her, she wanted to believe that there was some higher power involved in bringing him to her. And so Dare did something that she hadn't done in a very long time. She prayed. To whatever god there was who would listen. She prayed with the panting of her breath and her cries of passion.
Please don't take him from me. Not this time. Not again. Please...
Chapter Eleven: Dirty Little Secrets
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
Robert couldn't believe he was doing this. Never before had he seen Morgan or Jehnna shy away from doing something they didn't like. The more the two of them had discussed the events of the previous night, the more they'd come to believe that they would be unable to show their faces inside of Thor's hall without whispers of the word 'whore' following them where ever they went. Together, they'd turned their feminine wiles upon him in order to convince him to scout the hall and find out what the general attitude was. So it was that he found himself dressed and venturing out whilst they remained safely hidden away in the room where the three of them had woken.
None of it made sense to him. They were pirates, known and feared across England and France. He'd heard from a few Italian sailors he had met that tales of their exploits had spread as far south as Rome. Merchantmen, naval men and pirates all feared the crew of The Valkyrie. He'd seen the women throw themselves into the fray with as much energy and bloodlust as any man. Yet they were afraid to step out into a room of strangers for fear someone would whisper insults about them.
If he lived to be one hundred, he'd never understand women.
The main hall was filled with people, many of them bustling back and forth in preparation for the departure that would take place tomorrow. Now that the sloop was repaired and once again sea worthy, he and the other members of the crew would be putting out to open water come the rising of the sun.
Those people who were in a constant state of activity were equal parts ship's crew and Thor's servants. One group was busy hauling provisions and the like out of the hall and down the lush green hillside to the small harbor where the sloop was anchored. The other group was hurrying to and fro, clearing away left over plates from the night before and doing general cleaning. The stench of stale mead and old wood smoke was strong on the air. Some of Thor's people were opening small windows to allow fresh sea air into the vast room. Despite the fact that so many were present, no one seemed to notice that Robert was standing there.
Wondering at that, he wandered toward the trestle table that his fellow crewmates had claimed as their own. A few men were sitting, breaking their fast with a meal being served to them by some of Thor's wenches. Though they were eating hearty, he could see that they all wore a slightly pained expression, as if their heads ached something fierce. Hmmm. Curious. He joined them, taking a seat between Jig and Durwyn. They glanced at him, then went back to their meals. One of the rules of sailing. Take a good meal when you could, no matter how you felt, because you never knew when you'd get another. A buxom blonde settled a platter of food before him, leaving Robert feeling slightly nauseous.
"Aye. `Twas that way wi' me," Jig muttered. Robert glanced up to find the other man staring at him with a jaundiced eye. "I canna recall just how much mead I had to drink yester eve. But the pounding agin my skull suggests I had too much."
Robert nodded. He'd felt a touch on the ill side when he'd woken earlier, though that sensation seemed to be clearing some. His memories of the night's activities, however, seemed to be growing foggier and foggier. Not fading away so much as becoming something from a distant dream. He could clearly recall the best parts and most everything else felt softer. Less defined. "`Twas a wild evening, was it not?"
"Aye." Durwyn agreed with a nod. "The fight was the highlight of the feast."
"The fight?" Robert made the question light and only slightly curious. He'd learned such abilities in the process of watching over Morgan for her father. Diplomacy was ever becoming one of his talents.
"Aye. The fight between our girl Dare and tha' high an' mighty Lord Stark." This from Perry, who put his nose in the air as he spoke. It was obviously his attempt at being one of the upper crust. Robert hid his smile with a bite of some smoky, meaty sausage that he'd never tasted before. Knowing the Norse and their penchant to eat disgusting foods, it was likely he didn't want to know what was in it. In fact, it would be better if he didn't think about his breakfast at all.
"`Tis a shame that Haley stopped it." There was glee in Jig's voice, as if he was assured that Dare would have finished Stark off. Perhaps she would have. Robert had witnessed her fighting skills on more than one occasion. And it seemed as if the angrier she got, the better she fought. He'd never before come across anyone who did that.
"It would have been worth the trouble we'd get from his crew to see her put tha' man in his place." Perry's knuckles rapped loudly against the wooden plank of the table top. A chorus of agreement rose up around Robert. Apparently they'd all been waiting to see such an event take place. For just a moment, Robert allowed himself to dream of that same outcome. It would have been nice to see, but they'd never be sure. While Dare was a fine swordswoman, Lord Anthony Stark's abilities with a sword was the stuff of legend.
"Aye," Robert agreed absently. His mind was already turned toward what had happened after that fight. He had a vague recollection of Haley and Dare nearly engaging in their own fight. But they'd touched one another and then they'd been all over each other. As best as he could remember, that was what had started the orgy. Some had been pulled in after a touch while others had joined of their own free will. At least, he thought it had happened that way. "`Twas a fine fight."
"Aye." All three men nodded. Robert waited for one of them to make comment on the events that occurred immediately after the fight. He had no doubt that someone would say something about the orgy that took place and specifically his involvement in it. Such things were common among sailors. They spent so much time at sea, without willing women, that the men didn't allow anything of a ribald nature to go by without commenting on it.
When nothing was immediately forth coming, he risked a glance to see if there was anything to read upon their faces. He couldn't discern anything that suggested they recalled the orgy. Hadn't he told Morgan and Jehnna when they'd woken that something strange had been afoot at the feast last night? Perhaps he'd been closer to the truth than he'd thought. He'd expected a thorough ribbing from the crew for what he'd been involved in. And yet, there was nothing from them. As if they didn't know what had happened. Or as if they didn't remember it.
Perhaps there was something to his thought that there had been something odd going on the night before. It would explain what he was witnessing. How else could it be that men he knew had been present at the feast last night, who had witnessed the fight and the orgy that followed, couldn't recall everything that had taken place? And if his own crewmates didn't recall the orgy, was it possible that no one else recalled it, either?
Robert lifted his eyes from his meal and glanced casually around the hall. Those who were there seemed to be deeply involved in whatever it was they were doing. Many were there to break their fast and they were eating with a great deal of relish. Some chatted absently with the people sitting closest to them. Others were still hurrying about in the middle of chores. Not a one of them was looking at him. They all seemed oblivious.
Well, all but one. His gaze slid to a stop on a face that smirked at him. It was a familiar one, though not so familiar that he could immediately place it. Blue eyes stared back at him. Even across the distance, Robert thought he could see knowing in the man's gaze. The smirk turned into a grin and the man winked, then disappeared into the shadows.
His meal was finished without notice, his mind occupied with the things he'd learned. Something, or perhaps someone, had tampered with their minds or bodies. Somehow. He wasn't sure what they'd done or how they'd done it. But he was fairly certain they'd done it. Whatever it was. Based on what he'd observed, it was safe to assume that there would be no lasting harm from the orgy the girls had engaged in. All that he had left to do was inform them of this.
The platter emptied of its burden, Robert stood from the trestle table. He bid his companions a quick fare thee well, then made his way back toward the hall that would lead him to the room in which he'd spent the night with Morgan and Jehnna. It was in this hallway that he ran into Haley.
Her shoulders were tense and there was a look in her eyes that suggested she was itching for a fight. Haley had always been the one member of the crew that seemed to keep that part of her life to herself. It was known by one and all on the sloop that the five of them had no problems piling up into bed with one another. And it was also known that they all sought out specific partners when the ship docked at Kennewycke. All but Haley, that was. Robert knew for a fact that she often kept to herself, that she didn't seem to participate in bed sport with the same frequency as the rest of them. The events of the night before were unusual, even by their standards, and he had no doubt that the tall redhead would find herself confused and embarrassed by all that had passed.
"Good morrow, Haley. Did you pass a pleasant evening?"
He thought the question was innocent enough. But Haley shot a glittering green gaze his way, eyes narrowed on him almost hatefully. Robert didn't step back, though it was a close thing. He did reach out with one hand, settling it gently against her arm. The tension that ran through her was so tight that, had she been one of the ropes on the ship, she would have snapped in a good wind. After casting a glance up the hall in both directions, he spoke to her in a low voice. "They don't recall what happened last night, Haley. None of them."
She blinked at him, but the tension didn't ease right away. "I don't know what..."
"Last night. The orgy. No one in the hall can remember it. They remember the sword fight Dare picked with Lord Stark. But everything that happened after that is gone. As if someone erased it from their minds."
Her gaze shifted from him toward the other end of the hall, where she knew the hall lay. Where the men waited. She brought her eyes back to him and shook her head. "That cannot be. They were all there. They should all recall vividly what occurred. How... Are you sure?"
Robert nodded his head emphatically. "I spoke with some of our men. They were mightily pleased with the sword fight between Dare and Lord Stark. But they said nothing of the orgy. No one said anything of the orgy. Even my own memories of it are hazy, as if it is some dream of long ago events."
Haley frowned at him. It was obvious that she was having a hard time believing what he'd told her. Not that he could blame her. The things that had happened the night before were considered abhorrent and evil by the church. No doubt anyone who was found to have engaged in such acts would be punished under God's law. And though some of the members of the crew had long ago rid themselves of the burden of religion, Haley was one of those who still clung to the beliefs she'd been brought up with. "I promise you, Haley. They recall nothing beyond the fight. It is as if everything else has been erased."
"I... Thank you, Robert. Thank you." Haley turned and made her way back up the hall. He watched her go, wondering at the strangeness that was woman. If he lived to be one hundred...
~*~*~*~*~
Remy sank gratefully down onto the hard bench that lined the trestle tables in the hall. It was the first he'd stopped moving since climbing from bed and Dare's arms earlier in the day to help restock the ship for their departure in the morning. He was finding that there was so much more to being a pirate than he'd first thought. Of course, everything he'd ever learned about being a pirate had to do more or less come from books and movies. Everyone knew that these weren't the best sources for information. He should have known that there was more to pirating than putting wind in the sails.
For quite literally hours, he'd been part of a line of people who had carried supplies down to the waiting sloop. Thor had gifted them with dried meats, fresh fruits, casks of fresh water and rum, crates of material for sail repairs and a few stacks of wood meant to be used on the sloop if it took damage again. By the time they'd gotten everything stored in the hold, his arms and legs had been so sore that he longed for a spa or hot tub to soak in. The best he knew he'd get was Thor's bath house. He could only hope that no one else would want to claim use of that miracle of miracles in such a backward time.
Perhaps if he dragged Dare with him, the others would leave them alone. She'd been working just as hard as everyone else. No doubt, despite being used to such taxing work, she needed to relax just as much as he did.
One of the wenches, a honey blonde with an impressive pair, made sure to press her breast to the side of his face as she set his plate before him. When he looked up at her to offer her a smile, she tossed a wink at him and turned to go. He had to pull his face back before she took one of his eyes out. A chorus of chuckles rose up around him, only to be silenced quickly. Remy didn't have to look around to know that Dare was approaching the table. He could feel her, a swirl of possessive jealousy and light exhaustion. He was right. She'd worked just as hard as any other member of the crew. Perhaps even harder.
"Off with ye." The snarl in her voice was half hearted. "Or I'll run ye through with m'blades!"
He glanced over his shoulder in time to see the serving wench hurry off as if someone had set her ass on fire. He had to check, just to make sure. None of the woman's body was set alight. That was a good sign. Either Dare had held her temper or she was just too damned tired to even try. Either way, whatever the woman felt melted away when she saw him awaiting her at the table. With a tired smile, she sank down next to him. "You look tired, cher," he commented.
"Aye. `Tis glad I am tae sit. Tomorrow will be just as busy as today." She sounded as if she was ready to crawl into bed. He was definitely going to take her off to Thor's bath house after the meal. She needed to relax even more than he did.
"You an' me, we gon' go relax in de bath after de meal."
She looked up at him and he could see the relief in her eyes. It made him wonder just how these five women coped in a world that was so definitely dominated by men. If the women he knew thought that they had it rough, they needed to experience life in this place. He'd watched, the entire week that they'd been stuck on Thor's island, how the women had been treated by the men. The women who brought food and drink, who brought fresh clothing and linens, were treated as if they were little more than objects. Hands reached out to pinch breasts and buttocks without regard for how the owner felt about such actions.
Were the present versions of the five girls subjected to such treatment, Remy had no doubt that they'd each show these men what such actions would earn them from modern, liberal women. That image made him smile.
A second wench, this one with dark hair, stepped forward to settle food before the woman at his side. Dare gave her nod and dug in without uttering a word. The wench slipped away on silent feet. Remy reached for a piece of ham and chewed on it almost absently. A few moments later, the woman returned with a pitcher of mead. She filled their tankards and left again.
They ate in silence, he and Dare, while conversation flowed around them. Much of it was boisterous and loud, the kind of ribaldry that he'd come to expect from the sailors. Some of the men discussed the sword fight of the night before, wondering out loud just which party would have won the night. Would it have been Lord Anthony Stark, one of the most accomplished men in all the British Isles? Or would it have been the fiery Scots lass that seemed indifferent to the man's charms? The debate carried across the room and saw some men ribbing Stark while others tried to goad Dare into a repeat performance. Remy was shocked that she ignored them and more than just a little proud of the fact.
What he found most surprising was that no one seemed inclined to speak about the orgy that had taken place after the fight. Given the lustful nature of the sailors, he'd expected to be teased about it when he'd joined them for the feast. But no one had even looked at him twice when he'd stepped into the hall. In fact, no one seemed to be talking about it at all. In his experience, there were only two reasons why a man wouldn't be bragging about a free show. Either the man was gay and totally uninterested, which he didn't think was the case here with these men, or they simply couldn't remember that anything sexual had taken place. That was something he found mildly disturbing even though it was a good thing where the girls were concerned.
The sound of a soft belch pulled him from his thoughts. Turning, Remy took in the slightly embarrassed look on Dare's face and smiled. There was a hint of a blush staining her cheeks, something he found odd considering her chosen life. She muttered a phrase under her breath and it took him a moment to realize she'd excused herself. So the fearless pirate wench had manners after all. Perhaps later, when they were alone, he'd tease her about them. She hid her face in her tankard, taking a deep drink of mead. When she was done, she set the mug down and gave him a look. "I'm off tae the privy. Dinnae let those pretty wenches take my place."
She was gone before he could reply to her comment.
Remy sank into his thoughts for just a few minutes, wondering at her sudden discomfort. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen such behavior from her previously. She was a pirate. Then again, the Dare from the future, his present, had never been one for manners. Why should the one in this present be any different? It shouldn't, but this Dare was different. Just a little. He just couldn't put his finger on how.
The sound of the hall's giant double doors slamming open dragged his attention away from the oddity that was Dare Scott. Looking up, he found that a small group of men were stalking toward the main table where their host sat. They swept up the open floor in the middle of the tables, all grim faced and determined looking. At the lead was a short, slight man with face that struck him as familiar. It took a second or two for Remy to realize that the man's face bore resemblance to his own.
The newcomer had hair pulled into a short pony tail at the nape of his neck. Hair that was the same exact color of Remy's own. A mustache and one of those pointed Vandyke beards kept him from looking too plain for notice. His clothes were impeccable, done in shades of red and brown in the finest materials. The garments alone were enough to shout his station to one and all. But the jewel encrusted hilt at his waist said what his clothing didn't. The man was landed and titled. And he was on a mission.
The entire room went silent in an instant. Out of the corner of his eye, Remy saw Thor rise to his feet. The man towered over his visitor, was quite physically imposing next to the shorter man. It didn't bother the stranger in the slightest. That one had a presence all his own, though it had more to do with his confidence and less to do with his actual height. "Pray allow me to welcome thee and thine to mine hall." Thor's voice boomed out over the assembled people. It didn't impress the man at the head of the visiting delegation.
Remy couldn't believe what he was seeing. The man who wore a version of his face was filled with righteous indignation and rage. Beneath that, Remy thought he detected a hint of sorrow. But it was so slight and buried so deeply that he really wasn't sure. Coming to a halt before Thor, the man put his hand on the hilt of his sword and stared at the burly Viking. "I have come on business of the utmost importance."
Thor didn't seem impressed with the news. After nodding to a few of his men, he retook his seat and leaned back. "This business brings you to my hall where all are welcome?"
"Aye, my lord." There was curt politeness in the man's tone. Thor signaled with one hand for the man to state his business. "I come to you in hopes that you will hand over to me the person responsible for my brother's death."
"You believe Robert's murderer is here?" This question came from Stark. Remy glanced at the dark headed man and frowned. Stark knew what was going on here. There was an underlying tension in him that one couldn't see. Not with the lazy smile that twisted his lips up or the relaxed pose he kept in his chair.
"You know this person?" The thunder god turned to look at the man sitting beside him.
"I do. Thor, allow me to introduce you to Samuel Lord, younger brother to Robert Lord." The name struck a chord with Remy that was so loud, he almost missed the rest of Stark's words. "No doubt I mentioned him to you. It was a great scandal some years ago. Lord was Marquis de Chagny in France and Marquess of Dormenshire in Britain. Though there was never a body found, it is believed that he was killed in the middle of the night by some vengeful spouse. You may remember that he had quite the reputation as a ladies' man."
"No doubt learned at your hand, my Lord Stark." Samuel Lord dipped into a mocking bow as he spoke. Stark returned the look with an insincere smile. Things were getting too weird for Remy. Not only was he staring at a man who was the younger brother of a man who had been given one of his aliases as a name but it was blatantly obvious to him that the other man knew more about Lord's death than he was letting on. A thought occurred to him, but he shook it off immediately. There was no way Dare would have ever committed such an act.
"My hall is a place of peace," Thor intoned solemnly. "There are no murderers here."
"Information brought to me not more than a few days ago says that Robert's murderer is here. I have come to take the bastard into custody. I will see to it that they pay for their crime. Robert's young son was left without his father. His death will be avenged and I will be the one to avenge it." Steely determination kept Lord's spine straight. And it kept him going even though his brother had died some time ago. "I will not leave until I have accomplished my mission."
Thor leaned back in his chair and let his gaze slide around the vast hall. "Then I invite you to search my hall. If you can find this supposed murderer, you are free to take him with you when you go." The two men regarded each other for a few moments before Thor extended his arms and gestured in silent invitation.
Remy watched as the man named Samuel Lord turned to his left and started scanning the crowds gathered around the tables. He took his time, studying each face with care before moving on to the next. The room stayed silent, each person there waiting to see if the man found his murderer and, if he did, who it was.
It was when the man turned to face the side of the room the crew of the sloop had claimed as their that Remy felt the first stirrings of emotions. They came from behind him. On the top was fear. It ran bone deep and nearly drowned out everything under it. Confusion came next. Last, but definitely not least, was guilt. He'd felt that guilt before and was once again left wondering what had prompted such an emotion. Dare had obviously spied their visitor and Remy had no doubt that she hadn't come out of the corridor. Which left him wondering yet again just what was going on.
Samuel's eyes finally reached the end of the trestle table where Remy was seated. And the moment those eyes landed on him, it almost felt as if the entire world fell away around him. There was a sense of surprise coming from the other man, though it didn't show on his face. Along with the surprise was disbelief. And a hint of recognition. Which was odd, because he'd never seen Samuel Lord before in his life. For that moment in time, he wished he could read minds because he really wanted to know what the man was thinking. A voice in the back of his head whispered to him, suggesting that Lord was staring at him so intently because he looked like the other man's dead brother.
That settled it. He really needed to talk to Dare and get the answers to a few questions.
~*~*~*~*~
Dare tuned out the conversation going on in the hall, her mind reeling. How had Samuel found his way here? Stark had assured her that the man would never know, that should would be safe from him. She should have known that he'd lied. He'd lied about everything else. She really shouldn't have been surprised that he'd lied about this.
She had to get away from this place. Now. She had to go. She had to... Turning, she made her way blindly up the hall until she could stumble numbly through an open door. The hallway was dark, not a single sconce lit against the encroaching night. An absent thought saw the nearest torch blazing with flames. There was a second door at the other end of the hall. She let herself slip through it and stood with her back pressed against the closed panel.
What was she going to do? No doubt Samuel would see her hanged before even leaving Thor's small harbor. A sickening image of her body, limp as a rag doll, swaying side to side from one of the cross beams on the ship's mast as it put out to sea made her stomach lurch. Damn Stark and his reasonable tones. Damn the red headed bitch on the throne and her orders. Damn them all for putting her in this position.
Memories long kept at bay began tumbling through the confusion of her mind. She pushed away from the door and, one hand against the wall, sought out a torch. She needed the light to keep the shadows at bay. Need the light to keep her sanity. If she had to live through it again, she'd go mad. She needed the light...
The moment her hand closed around the bracket that held the torch, she sighed and sent a touch of her magic out to light the end. The single torch flickered to life, casting mellow golden light out over the room she was in. It was some kind of armory or shrine or something, because the walls were covered with glittering swords of all kinds. On the center of the back wall, on a small pedestal, lay a pillow covered with red velvet. There was nothing on it, but she was sure that the pillow bore an indentation from whatever it was that made its home there.
There was a sense of something on the air. Some kind of reverence or spiritual thing. It wasn't an entirely uncomfortable feeling, but it still left her on edge. She shouldn't be here. It felt as if she was trespassing upon something sacred. She needed to leave.
Turning for the exit, she stopped dead in her tracks. A pair of giant war axes crossed over the top of the door. And it brought a specific memory to the surface. She'd faced those axes once before, had seen in the glint of light along their sharpened edges the finality of her death. And there hadn't been a coin to present to the executioner to make it as painless as possible.
"For your crimes against the crowd, Alasdare Scott, you are sentenced to death by beheading to be carried out with the rising of the sun on the morrow. You will be given the opportunity to ask for absolution of your sins. I suggest you spend all night in seclusion with a priest, on your knees on the stone while you pray for forgiveness." The magistrate looked almost bored with his announcement, as if he would have liked to have been anywhere but there. "May God have mercy on your soul."
The sound of the small wooden hammer striking the wooden surface of the table was loud in the nearly empty room. No one had come to witness her 'trial' or the subsequent sentencing. She hadn't expected anyone. There were two guards, a trio of magistrates and the emptiness of her soul. At a nod from the man who'd just pronounced sentence, the guards grabbed her arms with rough hands and dragged her to her feet. The chains that bound her clattered loudly in the devouring silence. The heaviness of them nearly dragged her back to the ground but she forced herself to walk on as if they weren't there at all.
She barely noted the return to her cell. They'd taken everything from her. Clothes, boots, swords. Gone were the breeches she'd become accustomed to, the corset and the tunic she wore daily. In their stead, they'd left her with a coarse chemise that provided modesty. And that was all. It was cold in her cell and the thin garment did nothing to keep the chill at bay. She could feel the cold air right through the material and knew well enough the signs of the ague that were taking her. Tight lungs and a painful cough were the least of her worries, though.
The magistrate hadn't been jesting about spending the night on her knees. Her guards made sure to shackle her into a pillory that kept her in a kneeling position, her head bent down so that she could only see the floor in front of her. She had no problems with such an arrangement for all of ten minutes. By then, her neck hurt and her knees felt bruised from the unevenness of the stones beneath them. And there was nothing for her to do but wait for the dawning. And her death.
He came sometime in the night, a man in the traditional robes of a priest. She couldn't see his face, but she saw the slippers he wore on his feet. They were old, worn leather that was scuffed and battered. And she could see the frayed edges of his robes. For a moment, the cell was silent as death. Then he put his hand on her head and started whispering a prayer. She closed her eyes, not because she felt she needed to repent her sins but because she welcomed the sound of humanity and life.
The prayer went on and on for what felt like hours. When his voice stopped, she thought she might die. When his hand lifted away, she wanted to beg him to return it. She wasn't a religious soul in the slightest. But she missed being out on the sea, with other people at her side. She missed the noise to be had while sailing, even when no one was speaking. She missed it all and, as she sat there and waited for his feet to make a soft sound as he headed for the door, she realized that she absolutely, positively did not want to die.
"Repent, child. Beg forgiveness for your sins." His voice was gentle and soothing. The kind of voice one might want their priest to have if they were confessing.
"I've naught tae confess for, Father," she replied evenly.
"But the magistrate has found you guilty of piracy, child. He has proof that you've murdered innocent souls. The sentence for such crimes is death. In order for your soul to find its way to heaven, you must confess your sins to me. Repent and beg God to turn His light to you."
"I willnae ask God for forgiveness because I dinnae want tae die." The words ended on a hacking cough that left her throat sore and her chest pained.
"We all must die, my child. `Tis but a question of when." There was a sound, like cloth shifting against stone. Someone else was there. listening to them. Maybe they hoped to hear her confess her sins? If so, they were going to be disappointed. The cell fell into silence again. She closed her eyes to block out the sight of his feet. She concentrated on the simple in and out of her breath, something that seemed to be growing increasingly more difficult as the moments passed. "Why did you not use your powers to escape the guard, child? Why did you not burn your way out of this situation?"
The question brought her eyes open as panic lanced through her. He knew. She wasn't sure how, but he knew. There was nothing good in a man of God knowing that she was Witchbreed. He'd condemn her to Hell. Surely. She should deny him, deny his words. Or say something that required the use of her sharp tongue and wit. But there was no denial. No smart comment to be had. Nothing but a deep fear that left her filled with panic.
"I know, child. I know all about you. And it is this knowledge that brings me to your side on this night, the eve of your death. I have come to tell you that you do not have to die. I have come to offer you the salvation you so obviously desire."
She wished she could lift her head so that she could see his face. There was more truth to be found in a man's eyes than in his words. She'd discovered this early in her life. She wanted to know if he offered her real hope or the falsehood of a lie. For all that she was a fierce combatant with a sword, for all that she laughed in the face of her opponents, the truth was that she really didn't want to die. Not in battle with a sword in her hand and not here, on her knees like some mongrel dog begging for a scrap from the lord's table. All she wanted was to live her life as she saw fit.
"Our Majesty the Queen has use for someone of your talents. Such abilities will allow you to go places that normal men cannot go. She is in need of a spy, child. And I believe you will be perfect for her purposes." The man told her, his soft voice coaxing and gentle. It stroked her battered senses and soothed her. "All you need do is say yes. Say yes and your life will be spared. Her Majesty will allow you to go on your way and will contact you by letter when she is in need of your services. Say yes and you can walk out of here a free woman."
He paused and let the silence pool around them again. The minutes passed in the plopping sound of water dripping in the corner. In the scurrying, squeaking sound of rats as they crept across the floor and burrowed through the rotting straw covering the stone. She couldn't bring herself to say the words. She just couldn't. It felt too much like slavery to her.
"Deny the Queen's request and you can stay here for the night. You can stay on your knees and beg God for forgiveness. You can repent your sins without the benefit of a priest to absolve you. You can greet the dawn and the executioner's axe in the morning. And you can hope, in vain, that he makes your death swift. Painless. Easy."
The man remained at her feet for a few more moments, obviously waiting for her to answer him. When she didn't say anything right away, he heaved a sigh and once more put his hand on the top of her head. "May God forgive you, my child. If you should change your mind, all you need do is say so. I will save you from eternal damnation."
His feet made soft scuffing sounds as he crossed to the door of the cell. It creaked ominously as it opened, one last death knell before the blow struck that took her head from her shoulders. Despair took her, saw her head hanging heavy. The wood of the pillory cut into her throat, made breathing hard to do. Maybe, if she was lucky, she'd fall asleep and choke herself to death.
The click of a heel against the stone warned her that she wasn't yet alone. A pair of expensive, well shined boots came into view. Then the owner was sinking down to kneel before her. If she lifted her head a little past comfortable, she could see his face. Blue eyes filled with some emotion she couldn't put her finger on. Lips thinned in distaste. Well kept beard and mustache. He reached out a hand and laid it against her cheek. "Do not let them end your life so young, my sweet. Do not let them end it."
He was gone before she could form a reply. The door creaked shut and she knew she was all alone. She told herself she wouldn't cry, but the tears came anyway.
~*~
She could barely put weight on her legs when the guards came to drag her out to her death the next morning. They were numb with cold and her enforced position of humility. In fact, most of her body didn't really want to work. The guards' hands on her felt much too warm, their grips almost painfully tight. She was so cold and so tired.
The sun was barely up over the horizon, though some of its golden light was pouring across the sky toward them. After the darkness of the cell, the morning sun left her momentarily blind. By the time her eyes adjusted to the brilliance of daylight, she was close enough to the platform to see the pitiless brown eyes of the executioner as he stared at her from behind his hood. The light caught on the edge of his axe's blade, made it gleam with deadly intent.
Beside him stood a man in a priest's vestments, a tattered book held in one hand and a large crucifix in the other. Another man stood off to the side, a man she vaguely recalled from the night before. And it came to her then, as she was being dragged toward the block where her head would rest, that she truly didn't want to die. That she would do anything it took to keep her head on her shoulders. Even if that meant selling her soul.
She licked her lips, tried to form the words. Nothing came out but a harsh, rasping cough that left her throat on fire. The guards were dragging her up the steps, bringing her ever closer to the block. She tried again, cleared her throat and licked her lips with a tongue that was paper dry. "I dinnae want tae die."
It came out as a pale whisper, but the priest heard. He stepped forward and used one hand to hold her head up so that he could look her in the eye. "Then all you have to do is say the words, my child. Say them and this nightmare will be over."
"Whatever ye need o' me. I'll do it." The priest lifted a brow at her, a silent request for more. She coughed and fought the urge to go limp. "I swear it."
"Very good." The man nodded his head at the guards. They dropped her as if she were little more than a sack of grain. She hit the wooden platform hard and lay there, no energy left in her to rise to her feet. Booted feet stalked angrily across the flat surface toward her. She felt herself lifted up into a pair of strong arms. "Now, now, my Lord. You should leave the trash where it belongs."
"There was no need to do it this way, Father Stryker." That was the last thing she heard as she sank gratefully into her savior's arms and the encroaching darkness.
~*~
The material under her was soft and fine. It smelled of fresh heather in the fields and the gentle breezes that blew across the ocean. A pair of voices were murmuring so lowly that she couldn't hear what they were saying. Opening her eyes showed that she was laying in a thick nest of the finest linens, her head resting on fat, plump pillows. She found herself laying in a bed with a heavy velvet canopy in the color of the sky just before the stars came twinkling to life topping it. The bedding was only a few shades lighter.
Scanning the room with her eyes, she found she was a rich man's bed in a rich man's house. The walls were covered with silk coverings in pale blue that matched the sky that immediately surrounded the disk of the sun. The drapes at the windows were a shade between the one covering the wall and the bedding covering her. She tried lifting herself into a sitting position and found that her arms had all the strength of a newly born kitten.
A maid wearing a crisp white apron spied her movements and smiled. "My Lord Stark. She's awake. Finally."
"Thank you, Fiona. That will be all. You may leave us." The maid tossed her another smile, then turned and headed for the door. Someone else went with her. That left Dare alone with a strange man. He casually took a seat on the edge of the bed and smirked down at her. "Typical wench. Spending the better part of a week lounging in bed. I trust you're feeling better?"
She frowned at him. She'd been laid up a week? Had she been that sick? She couldn't really recall. Taking a mental inventory, she fought off a yawn and determinedly pulled herself up into a sitting position. It took far more effort than she thought it should have. "Better than I felt before," she admitted. A good look at the man brought back vague memories of a concerned face hovering just before hers in a cramped, cold stone cell. That was followed by memories of a sharp axe and a man wearing an executioner's hood. A priest with dulcet tones that promised and lied with a silvery, forked tongue. "Sae... Yer tae be my keeper?"
The question startled him. She could see it in the way his eyes widened ever so slightly before narrowing on her once again. He'd apparently thought she was as stupid as the wenches he no doubt cajoled into his bed at night. Looking back at things now, she could see that she'd been used. That the priest, if he truly was a priest, had used the threat of death to get what he wanted. And, being the horrible soul that he was, he didn't trust her to keep his word. Smart man, that one. Which meant that the man currently studying her as if she was some exotic meal placed before him was to keep her leashed at his side.
"Your accent is positively atrocious, girl. Where were you brought up? In a barn? We must fix that if we're to smuggle you into the finest homes in Britain and France." He disregarded her question with such ease that she knew him to be a politician of some sort. The maid had addressed him as Lord Stark. She struggled to recall such a name from her youth. Sadly, she'd been gone for a very long time. There was nothing immediately springing to mind.
"Ye can fix the hole my sword will leave behind if ye try aught."
He sighed and lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose as if a headache had suddenly sprung to life behind his eyes. "Bloody hell. This is going to be a nightmare."
"`Tis nay joy for me," she snarled. Each second of consciousness was doing its best to turn her mood as foul as was possible.
"You've no idea what's in store for you. Do you, girl?"
"I've a bloody guid idea. I'm no' stupid." She managed to cross her arms over her chest and shot him a scowl that had seen old sea dogs piss themselves. He barely flinched in the face of her temper. They stared at one another for a long time, the silence stretching painfully thin between them. He was waiting for her to break, waiting for her to give in and ask him what was in store for her. To beg him for his help. He didn't know her very well if he thought she would break before he did. He might not know it, but she'd made a name for herself on the sea. Men feared her. He would be no exception.
He broke first. "You're to be used as little more than tool. And yes. I am to be your keeper. It is believed that you cannot be trusted to keep your end of the bargain. Should you try to slip away, I am fully authorized by Her Majesty to return you to your cell where you will await execution. And there will be nothing to save your lovely neck from the chopping block the next time."
She muttered something uncomplimentary about his family in Gaelic and watched as his eyes warmed ever so slightly. "My father would say that you're correct. My mother would have washed your mouth out for using such language. And she would assure you quite strongly that I am not a bastard."
"Ye are. Ye're a smug bastard." She didn't like that she couldn't insult him without his knowledge. Frowning, she felt the itch in her palms that said the flames wanted to ensure that there was no child to carry on his arrogance.
"Smug, yes. But not a bastard. Simply in possession of more knowledge than you, my sweet." She let her scowl darken, bringing a chuckle from him. "Oh, I am. I know who you are, Alasdare MacKenzie Scott. I know all there is to know about you. I know that you are the oldest daughter, the oldest child, of Daniel and Amelia Scott. I know that your father is titled and that you ran away from home rather than marry a stranger when your father told you you were to be wed. I know that you've spent every day of your life since on a ship with a sword in your hand. I know that you can control fire. And I know that your accent is the worst I've ever heard."
"Ye make it a point to stick yer nose intae other people's business, do ye? Sounds like an auld woman tae me."
"Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear to you, Alasdare," he began, his voice devoid of emotion. He stared at her with steely blue eyes that held her motionless. Despite that, her retort was instant, little more than habit.
"Dare. Dinnae call me Alasdare. My name is Dare."
"You have given up your freedom as surely as if you'd wed that man you wanted so desperately to avoid." He went on as if she'd never spoken, his voice sharp and stinging. "You'll never again own your own life. You'll be at the beck and call of your master, little more than a well trained attack dog. You will do as you are ordered or you will face your death. And I will see to it that you fall into line and play the roles you are given like a good, obedient little girl. Or wife. Do you understand what I'm saying? You no longer own yourself."
She glared at him, her jaw clenching down until her teeth hurt.
"Answer me, girl. Do you understand me? Do you understand everything I've just told you, Alasdare?"
"Alasdare?" His voice broke through the memories a moment before his hand touched her shoulder. She jerked away from him, fire already flaring to life around her hands. Anthony held his own hands up in a gesture of surrender. It was enough to see her pulling the flames back into her. She came back to herself enough to look around. She was still in the armory, still facing the door and its twin axes. There was no one there but herself and Stark. And nothing was on fire yet. "Are you well, my sweet? You look as if you've seen a ghost."
How dare he sound concerned about her! This whole mess was his fault. Every last bit of it. She turned her scowl on him and stepped back. She didn't stop until her back came up against the pedestal and its red velvet pillow. She gave him her back, her hands stroking at the worn material gently. "Alasdare?"
"Dinnae come near me, Stark. Dinnae touch me. Ever again. This is yer fault."
He ignored her order, the tread of his boots light on the wooden floor. One of his hands took hold of her arm so that he could turn her to face him. She didn't realize that she was crying until he reached up with one hand and wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. "I am sorry, Alasdare. I truly never wanted you to find yourself in such a place."
"Ye dinnae ken anything aboot me, Stark. No' really. Ye should have let me die that day. Ye should have found someone else tae do yer dirty work." She stepped away from him. She was tired of the lies. He'd been lying to her from the very first. She, in turn, had been lying to her friends. That made her feel sick to her stomach. The last thing in the world she'd wanted to do was lie to the people she considered her family. "I'm done. Do ye hear? I'm done with all of it. The next letter that comes, ye can use it to wipe yer arse with. I dinnae want it. Never again."
"Alasdare, you..." he began, only to fall silent when a surge of her temper set a flame to every torch on the wall. The room swam in light and heat and she knew her hair was floating around her head. She'd rarely ever given in to fits of temper around him. Not like this one. So he'd never actually seen what it was she was capable of doing. Based on what she saw in his eyes, he was now afraid of that ability. He, the man who never showed fear of anything, was frightened of her.
"Nay! I'm done with it. I'm going tae tell them. All of them. I'm going tae tell them what I did. What ye and that bitch made me do."
"Do you think that will lift the guilt you feel, my sweet? Do you think that will atone for the sins you've committed?" There was no hint of fear in his voice, only the tender and gentle concern she knew to be a lie. She'd heard it all before. It didn't mean a thing to her.
"Sins I committed in her name. And yers, Stark. Dinnae forget that ye're as responsible for all of this as I am." She pointed a finger at him, her expression daring him to contradict her.
"Do you think it wise to confess these sins now? With Lord's brother here?" Naturally he ignored what she'd said. "The man is out for blood. In case you've forgotten, he's out for your blood."
"I ken that weel enough." She frowned at him. "I dinnae think I'll ever forgive myself for that day. I ken I'll never forgive ye for it."
"His death wasn't my fault, Alasdare," he reminded her quietly.
"Och, and does that lie help ye sleep at night?"
Stark sighed and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. He looked as weary as she felt. "I did not come back here to argue with you, Alasdare. I came here to warn you that you should remain hidden until Lord sails in the morning. If he finds you here, if he even lays eyes on you, there will be nothing I can do to stop him."
"Mayhap I should let him do what he will with me. Mayhap `tis what I deserve."
"Do you think Robert would agree with you on that, my sweet? And what of your new pet? The one who bears a striking resemblance to a dead man. A dead man you're responsible for murdering."
"What Robert would and wouldn't agree tae is of no importance now. Is it, Stark? Because, as ye've sae delicately pointed out, he's dead." She sighed and turned away from him. She hadn't wanted to do it. But it had been his life or hers. She could see now that it would have been better had it been her life instead of his. She could still see the look that had been in his eyes when he'd died, all these years later. "I hate ye. I didnae want tae kill him. I... Go away, Stark. Go away and leave me tae my fate."
She moved to the nearest wall, allowed her eyes to slide over the weapons that had been mounted on it. "Forgive me for not believing your poor, broken maid act, Alasdare. I've seen you at your worst and deadliest. You're a killer. You enjoy it. This sobbing, mewling little girl I see before me is little more than another role for you to play."
"Ye can go tae Hell, Stark!" she snarled at him. He had no idea what she felt. Not now. Not then. All he cared about was his own lily white arse. Her hand reached for swords that Remy had convinced her to leave in the room she was sharing with him. It didn't matter. There were plenty of them here. All she had to do was pick one.
A long, two handed sword floated away from the wall to nestle snugly in her hands. It was heavier than she'd thought it to be, but that didn't matter. She held the tip up, steadily pointed it at his chest. He snorted a laugh and stared at her as if she'd lost her mind. "Really, my pet. There's no need for such melodrama. Be a good girl and put the sword down. I'll even be kind enough to put a smile on your face after you do. That pedestal is about the right height. I'll simply bend you over it and..."
His words died when flames raced up the length of the blade, engulfing it. "Another word, Stark, and I'll cut oot yer heart."
"You wouldn't dare hurt me, my sweet. Not after all we've meant to one another." He smiled at her, a sweet smile.
"Ye're a liar and ye like tae use people, Stark. I dinnae mean a damn thing tae ye. I wish I'd never met ye." She didn't have to say, again, that she wished she'd died that day.
Silence sprang to life around them, making the air feel thick and uncomfortable. Even the flames that licked at the blade seemed to do so without a sound. Which was why she heard the latch on the door that announced the arrival of someone else. She quickly doused the flames and lowered the sword. But not too much.
A sigh of relief welled up inside of her as the door opened to reveal Remy. He looked at her, concern etched into his face. His eyes took in Stark, then landed on her. They skimmed over the sword and she saw the concern deepen just a bit. "Dere you are, cher. Everyt'ing okay?"
She turned a hard glare toward Stark and let him see that she'd meant everything she'd said. She was done with it all. Finished. She was taking her life back. And God have mercy on the soul of any person who was fool enough to get in her way. Without taking her eyes from the man, she sent the sword back to where it belonged. It was reminder of what she was. And a warning of what she could do, if she so chose. "Aye, lover. `Tis fine. Do ye still wish tae relax in the bath?"
"Oui."
"Then let's go. I've no' heard a finer idea all day." She made sure that Stark saw the look on her face and the intent in her eyes. Then she made for the door, her arm brushing his as she passed. Remy gave her a probing look before letting his eyes once more stare at Stark. Then he smiled, gave her his arm and escorted her from the room.
They met no one in the hallway. And, thankfully, there was no one in the giant bath house. The torches flickered in their wall sconces, making the light ripple and dance across the water. As soon as the door closed, Dare reached for Remy and began helping him from his clothes. He gave her a look she knew well. It was one that suggested he wanted to talk about what he'd just been witness to. Sighing, she stepped back and shook her heat. "No' tonight, Remy. Please? Ye can ask me questions all ye like on the morrow. But no' tonight."
He stared at her for a few minutes, then finally sighed and gave a nod of consent. "But we gon' talk about dis tomorrow. And you gon' answer all my questions. Truthfully."
"I swear it tae ye." She made the oath with a hand on her heart. He studied her for the count of three, then nodded his head. When he reached for her, she went eagerly. His arms enfolded her into their embrace, pressed her head against his shoulder while his hands stroked gently down her back.
"Dare." His voice was a soft whisper of sound. And it was the most natural thing in the world for her to lift her head and tip it back, to give him her mouth. She could taste the mead on his lips and tongue, could taste the need that filled him. His lips feasted on her own while his tongue danced with hers. She felt a thrill chase through her and sent her hands searching for the waist of his breeches. She was consumed by the need to have him inside of her.
They broke apart with a gasp, their hands quick and nimble as they worked to remove each other's clothes. There was no need for words. The looks in their eyes, the way their hands touched and explored, said everything that needed to be said.
She let her hands touch each newly exposed section of skin. Her fingers grazed lightly over his nipples and across the ridges of his belly. A quiver inched up his spine when she let her hands skim over his belly button. Before she reached for his cock, she let them travel around to his back, let them dip and cup his arse. He muttered something in French, his words thick and hoarse, before his mouth sought hers once more.
They kissed one another, a thing filled with heat and life. His mouth moved over hers slowly, a sensual assault that she didn't want to stop. Instead, she let her hands return to his front, let them curl around his cock and stroke it with long, almost painfully slow motions. His hands found her breasts, fingers teasing her nipples into hard peaks before tugging at them hard enough to draw a gasp up her throat. A gasp he swallowed down and ate as if it was food.
And perhaps it was, because she suddenly found herself sitting on the edge of the large wooden tub while he knelt on the bench in the water. He tugged her hips closer to the opening, positioning them just so, before leaning down so that he could press a kiss to the flesh between her thighs. She heaved a deep sigh and fell back against the floor, allowed him full access to her. He took it, alternating plunging his tongue deep inside of her with dragging it over the small button of flesh that seemed to send her flying when it was touched just the right way.
He knew how to touch it just the right way. It didn't take long for him to send her flying, for him to shatter her until she was nothing more than a million shining pieces of multi colored lights. The hoarse sound of her pleasure filled the empty room, echoed back at them as he lifted his head to stare down at her. "Come here, cher," he whispered before pulling her into his arms.
Remy tugged her into the water with him, turning to settle his arse on the bench. She found herself sitting in his lap, felt the evidence of his need caught between them. He didn't have to tell her what to do. She knew. Her hands each reached out. One settled on the edge of the large tub so that she could balance herself. The other slipped down to find his cock, took hold of it so that she could guide it inside of her body. When she finally sank down on top of him completely, she sighed and closed her eyes. Rested her forehead against his. Breathed in that scent that was uniquely him.
Dare sighed and gave herself up to him. Her hands found his shoulders, fingers curling to map them and hold tight to him. When she pulled back and opened her eyes, it was to find him watching her carefully. Intently. She offered him a smile before leaning forward again. This time, her mouth took his in a kiss that begged him to make her forget, if just for a little while.
His hands took hold of her hips before he shifted her up ever so slightly. She caught his meaning and allowed herself to sink down over him again. The feel of him inside of her was something from a long remember dream, something so pleasant and achingly sweet that she knew it wouldn't, couldn't last. Trying to push away the sense of foreboding that came with his first thrust, she raised her hips up again, sank down again. She shifted herself over him, encouraged his hands to wander and touch.
His hips took up a rhythm of their own, one she willingly allowed to take the lead. Thoughts simply folded away, leaving her filled with nothing more than sensation and feeling. The feel of his hands on her skin. The sensation of the water lapping against her skin. His body buried inside of hers. His mouth hot and demanding on hers.
She allowed him to fill her with himself and with the pleasure that she needed so badly. The church had taught them that such acts were sinful and wrong. They were beautiful, so perfectly right. The silk of his skin on hers. The way his mouth teased and coaxed her to the peaks of pleasure, no matter what part of her body he used it on. The feel of his hand cupping her breasts, her arse. Touching her between her thighs. It was the most amazing feeling.
She'd long ago stopped believing in the church and its teachings. She'd stopped believing in a God who had created man in his image but had made women to be little more than chattel. She'd stopped believing in a God who would take someone so special and dear away from her, leave her broken hearted and destroyed. She'd thrown it all away and put her faith in her friends, in her ability to wield a sword and fire. The only god she knew as her master was that of the sea.
But sitting there in the heated water of Thor's bath with Remy buried inside of her and wrapped around her, she wanted to believe that there was some higher power involved in bringing him to her. And so Dare did something that she hadn't done in a very long time. She prayed. To whatever god there was who would listen. She prayed with the panting of her breath and her cries of passion.
Please don't take him from me. Not this time. Not again. Please...
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glad you enjoyed, hon.
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Mmmm... that end bit was lovely too! Great work! Can't wait to see the rest of the last night at Thor's Hall! :D
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the backstory stuff came pouring out and i couldn't really stop it. but it felt right, given the situation. yes. i'm starting to think that "I'm gonna kill ya now!" is her motto. she certainly reacts that way quite frequently, doesn't she?
i wanted to hint at smut but not get lost in it so i tried to make it something less tangible than the usual. i'm happy to know it worked for you.
you know what? i can't wait to see that either.