Love's Savage Sea Spray: An XFiles Pirate Saga, Episode One, Part One
By: THE X-CENTRIC WRITING COLLECTIVE: 
Jacquie LaVa 
Foxsong (foxsong@foxsongfiles.net) 
MaybeAmanda (maybe_a@rocketmail.com 

CATEGORY: MSR, Parody, Humor 
RATING: R, for adult themes, lusty scenes and some rough seafarin'
language

CLASSIFICATION: 
We gleefully parody the trashy romance-novel, "bodice-ripper" genre
by placing our favorite characters in one! (You can thank us later) 
ARCHIVE: Xemplary, Gossamer, and anywhere else is fine - just let us
know! 

SPOILERS: Nay! 

DISCLAIMER: 
Mulder, Scully, Skinner and the gang be not ours, Mateys... we only
beg for the right to turn their "lives" into one big "Bodice-Rippin"
Good Time!

AUTHORS' NOTES, ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS: 
We had a blast writing this little ditty, and although it took quite
a while to finish, we sure laughed a lot. It was our intent to poke
some gentle fun, not only at our beloved X-Files menagerie, but also
at romance, angst, violence and basic debauchery. 

SUMMARY: The dashing Lt. Fox Mulder saves the Lady Dana Scully from
the lustful clutches of the pirate Captain Skinner, and other
assorted seafarin' meanies in this loving tribute to the "Romance
Novel..." 

EPISODE ONE, PART ONE

>>> Prologue

The hot, merciless sun beat down upon the dirt-covered street, the
very subtlest of sea breezes stirring the drooping palms lining the
avenue. It had not rained in days; everyone in Comity was irritable,
and tempers flared as the temperature rose as high as the sun
overhead. 

The auction was in full sway, buyers from all exotic ports standing
eagerly, counting again the money they'd brought: puffed-up, self-
important merchants, made rich upon the suffering of others; Lords
and other Gentry from as far away as the British Isles, and even from
the wilds of Scotland; more money than sense for many of their lot...
Sheiks from the Arabias, wealthy land barons from the Americas, and
the men of more meager means, no money to buy... just wanting to look
at the bounty of the wares to be sold -- 

Human wares. 

Behind a silken drape of golden cloth, rigged to serve as a
makeshift curtain, to protect the 'merchandise' from the relentless
gaze of the crowd, the women stood, almost fainting in the rays of
the killing sun. A burly male slave, hugely muscled from years of
physical labor, passed around a small cup of tepid, brackish water.
The women fought him, and each other, for one sip. All except for one
small woman, standing proud and straight against the outer curtained
wall, staring with disdain at the lot of them. 

She tossed her head, causing cascading curls of thick, deep auburn
to bounce around her lovely face, and tugged hard at the abbreviated
bodice of her harem outfit. A harem outfit -- God's Armpits! The
scurvy knaves who ran this hideous market of human flesh had torn her
demure ivory satin gown from her defiant body as soon as she'd been
dragged from the slaver ship, and replaced it with this, this ...
mockery of coverage! 

She looked down at the offending garment with a grimace of pure
disgust. Bright red, it was, clashing horribly with her hair; trimmed
in gold braiding with tassels and fringe and all manner of furbelows
hanging from every possible place, designed to shimmy and flutter
with each move she made. Low-cut, tightly molded to her generous
bosom, leaving from the edge of her ribcage to well below her little
navel bare. Pantaloons rode very low on her shapely hips and clung to
her tender backside. The legs of the harem pants were slashed on the
sides, from hip to ankle, showcasing her slender thighs and curving
calves, fastened around her dainty ankles with three rows of tiny
bells which tinkled with every step she took. Her feet were encased
in golden slippers made of satiny leather. A series of golden chains
strung with coins had been fastened around her tiny waist, and more
coins hung in cascades from her ears. They'd tried to veil her lower
face, and she'd bit the hand of one of them, actually drawing blood,
hissing at them all with virulence in her bright blue eyes. 

They'd laughed at her, called her a 'saucy wench' and vowed she'd
bring the highest coin of all. But they'd left her alone and kept
their hands well away from her sharp little teeth. 

Lady Dana Scully, well bred, London-educated, and meant for far
better fates than this, born to run the huge estate at QuantiCove,
her palatial home. Dressed in the rags of a harem girl! 
QuantiCove! How she missed it. Left to her by her father, Lord
William Scully, dead these past two years from a mysterious boating
accident. Her cherished home, now in the beefy hands of her brother,
William the Younger (or, as she preferred to call him, 'Wee Willy-
Poop') And here she was, trapped in a place from Hell, lured from her
home by her brother's honeyed promise of a set of fine horseflesh,
only to be waylaid by highwaymen, bound and gagged and tossed aboard
a slaver ship headed for the West Indies. And all because her
precious brother couldn't bear to see his sister become the lady of
the manor. 

A single glistening tear slid down her soft cheek; she dashed it
away with a trembling, angry hand. "I shall not cry," she vowed to
herself; "I shall not! I am a Scully; I stand tall amongst these
scalawags and dregs of society; I shall prevail; I shall escape! And
when I do," she vowed, ". . .when I do, I will return to Ireland and
take my home back from Willy-Poop!"

>>> 1

Lieutenant Fox Mulder was hot, dusty, and tired. 

He stood in the sun, outwardly calm and crisp-looking in his blue
waistcoat and white breeches, a snowy, intricately-tied cravat
framing his darkly handsome features, shiny black Hessian boots
emphasizing the muscled length of his fine legs. He slapped a pair of
white leather gloves against his hard thigh, eyes restlessly scanning
the crowd. 

His Captain was late. Again. Mulder supposed he'd been detained on
board the Piper Maru; that blasted ship was the only 'Lady' that
could keep the lusty Captain away from so many luscious women. Before
Mulder had gone ashore, however, his Captain had given him explicit
directions concerning the bidding, should he not be able to free
himself from duty in time for the auctions' start. He was to bring
back the most comely wench on the block, and the amount of coin was
not to be shrift when bidding for the gel. Mulder had duly promised
and had quietly urged his Captain to make haste with his tasks and
arrive for the beginning of bidding, and as usual, his Captain had
tarried on board. 

Mulder hated the auctions, hated the way the hapless slaves were
herded like cattle into the pens, hated the clanking of the chains
that bound their hands and feet. And yet, whenever the Piper Maru
docked in some port-of-call, he went into the towns, went to the
taverns and townhouses, asking whether there was to be an auction
here, whether he might see the - the merchandise? 

He would wander the marketplace, studying the wretches who were to
be sold. He saw young girls, not yet women, who would be called upon
too soon to perform womanly duties; he saw the aged and the crippled,
who would be sold to low places and 'used up' - their masters would
get their money's worth, with no thought of mercy. He saw mothers
whose babes would be torn from their bosoms in the morning, sold away
from the families they would never remember. 

The captives watched him pass by, sensing that he was looking for
something other than a mere servant. A few met his eyes and saw
compassion there, and mutely extended a fettered hand toward him,
beseeching him with their eyes to remember them when he saw them upon
the auction block. He dropped his gaze in shame and continued on,
searching, searching for -- but never finding -- the face he would
know, the voice he would recognize, even after all these years. It
had been twenty years and more since she'd been stolen from his side
and yet he wandered each market place, hoping against hope, that he'd
see that pair of hazel eyes so like his own... 

Mulder sighed in frustration and resigned himself to carrying out
the unpleasant task of selecting his Captain's next bed-wench. 
He turned and glanced at the auction platform, where a massive 
crowd of men had gathered. Mulder pushed his way to the front 
and center of the block, and secured a prime spot. 

Morris Fletcher stood in the middle of the auction block and
surveyed the eager crowd before him. There stood Lord Pith-Bowles,
newly docked from London, searching for a new skirt to warm his bed.
He was a disgusting individual with a taste for the whip and a mean
temper, but his coin was plentiful and Fletcher didn't much care how
a man treated his purchase, as long as the money changed hands.
Still, Fletcher could not help but feel a bit sorry for the chit who
would find herself pinned under Milord's bloated, fishbelly-pale
body. 

Fletcher glanced over the heads of the men closest to the block and
noticed Abul-Baroh-Fiell, the richest man in the Arabias, no doubt
hoping to find a virgin in this sea of human flesh; an innocent he
could add to his already-burgeoning harem. The chances of the dark-
skinned sheik finding a virgin in this Godforsaken place were just
about non-existent. Then again, one never knew. 

A movement to the right and center of the block caught the
auctioneer's eye, and Fletcher smiled dourly as he recognized the
handsome, somber man standing in the hot sun, seemingly unaffected by
its sweltering heat. Lieutenant Mulder, back again. At Skinner's
orders, he'd warrant. Skinner had already worn out that bed wench
he'd purchased in Pointe-Le-Fluke, no doubt. She'd not been much to
look at, at least in the face, but she'd had a curvy little body and
nice, large titties, and Skinner had out-bid Fletcher to get her, or,
more correctly, Skinner had his second-in-command Mulder outbid him.
Fletcher had been fairly good-natured about the loss, at the time.
Now, however, Fletcher was less than pleased to see the lieutenant in
the crowd, for that meant Skinner would have ordered him to bring
back the comeliest wench in the lot. And Morris Fletcher had already
decided to pluck that bird for himself. 

He was almost drooling at the thought of getting his hands on the
red-haired Irish beauty with the deep blue eyes. She was the most
beautiful female he'd seen on the block in a very long time and
Fletcher wanted her very badly. But she wasn't one of the women he'd
purchased from the slaver which had docked a day ago, and that meant
he'd have to take his chances with all the other buyers. Ah, but he
had been saving for a rainy day and had plenty of coin. The red Irish
would be his. 

Fox Mulder had been standing in one spot for what seemed like hours,
watching with solemn eyes as one woman after another was dragged up
the steps and onto the block, stripped of her clothing and paraded
back and forth in the hot sun while the men whooped and shouted and
gawked. The more serious buyers demanded to approach each hapless
girl and prod her most tender areas with their sweaty, seeking hands,
some prodding with sadistic glee, wanting to hear the anguished cries
which their cruel handling wrought. Each woman was haggled over until
someone was declared the victor, and bore his newest acquisition away
in chains. 

Mulder had always found this final display most disturbing, wishing
for the thousandth, nay, the millionth time that he could save these
poor women from their awful fate. Realistically, of course, he knew
it was just the way of the world, an accepted practice, and he was
just one man. Still, if only he could save just one of these lost
souls, could prevent just one woman from such a heinous fate, then
perhaps, just perhaps, it would somehow ease the pain of losing his
Samantha, just a little. 

But he had a job to do, albeit a distasteful one, and it was time to
set his mind to the task. He turned more fully toward the center of
the block, awaiting the next lurid display. And that's when he saw
her and fell -- instantly, irrevocably -- in love. 

She was small and delicate, pale of skin and sprinkled with a fairy-
dusting of freckles in the most enchanting places. Abundant masses of
auburn curls cascading all around her face caught the sun and blazed
a nimbus around her head as she was pulled across the block. Eyes of
deep blue flashed defiance and resentment at the crowd of howling,
drooling men. She was dressed in a red harem costume that left
little, if anything, to the imagination; as she moved, tiny tinkling
bells shimmered at her ankles while golden coins clinked softly
around her small waist. She was forcibly dragged to front and center,
directly in front of Mulder, and she stood tall and proud, feet
slightly apart, and blue fire shone in her defiant eyes. 

Mulder found himself slowly moving toward the stairs, not really
hearing the hawking of the auctioneer as he extolled all the virtues
of the red-haired Irish. He moved toward her as if in a dream, never
breaking eye contact with her, even though she fought against his
intense gaze. At last he stood directly in front of her, somehow
found his voice and ordered the auctioneer to allow him access to her
so that he might assess her attributes for himself. She spit and
cursed at him, curls bouncing on her pretty shoulders, jerking
ineffectually at the chains which held her in place. Mulder tried to
convey to her with his eyes that he meant her no harm, that by
requesting access to her he was successfully preventing any other
buyer from touching her. He hoped she could see that through this he
might somehow arrange a private purchase with the greedy auctioneer
and block her from being tortured any further. 

She was a lady; of that Mulder was certain. And so, he approached
the red-haired lovely, and held her stubborn jaw taut while her
inspected her even, white teeth, and ran hands through her hair to
check for lice and ticks, and felt with his gentle, warm hands along
her sides and down her legs, checking her bones for solidity and
strength. She shuddered within his grasp, and her cheeks burned
hotly, but she made not a sound. 

Finally, Mulder decided he'd made enough of a show of it to hold
suspicions at bay, and he stepped back from the girl, looking deeply
into her eyes, asking forgiveness with the eloquence of his hazel
gaze. And, somehow she understood what he had done for her, for she
nodded, just the tiniest bit. 

Mulder turned to the auctioneer and spoke one soft sentence to him,
produced a black leather pouch from under his waistcoat and dropped
it into the man's eager hand. The auctioneer hefted the bag in one
beefy hand, weighing it with the ease of practice, then grinned and
nodded, handing the chained girl over to Mulder and pushing a folded
up piece of parchment into his hand as well - her statement of
indenture. Mulder turned and pulled the resisting woman off the
block, ignoring the bellows of rage from the thwarted mob of men. He
led her away from that place of human degradation, right up the
gangplank of yet another prison. 
 
>>> 2 

Dana paced the confines of her little cabin, back and forth, over
and over. Oh, the bad luck! To beset upon by highwaymen, to be
abducted by those dreadful slave traders, to be shipped to the West
Indies like so much chattel, to be put upon the auction block and
sold to the highest bidder! The ignominy, the indignity of it! Her
snowy bosom, lovingly framed by the plunging neckline of the
impractical but exquisite forest-green velvet gown (a vast
improvement over the last "costume" which had been forced on her
body, she grudgingly conceded), rose and fell quickly with her
excited breath. She wrung her delicate hands together, and -- 

But wait! What was that sound outside the door? 

She heard the heavy bar being drawn back, and then watched as the
knob slowly turned. The door opened to admit a tall man, carrying a
tray with a covered dish. Dana looked at him carefully, recognizing
the same man who'd purchased her on that horrid auction block, just a
day ago. She'd been too angry at the time, too humiliated by the
experience of being exposed for the world to see, to notice how very
handsome this man was. He looked mournfully at her with his soulful
hazel eyes, and she decided then and there that she should really
forgive him for what, she knew, had only been a carrying out of
orders from his odious Captain. In fact, she decided she rather liked
this quiet, sad-eyed man, even though he was looking her
appreciatively up and down, and looking a little overmuch at that
plunging neckline. Impatiently, she waited for him to speak, wanting
suddenly to hear that deep rough-velvety voice of his again. 

"So, Miss -- what is your name? I can't very well continue to just
call you 'the captain's new bed-wench', now can I?" he said, and he
set the tray down on the little table. His words infuriated Dana
anew, and she let fly with her fiery temper. 

"You cannot!" she cried, stamping one small foot and placing her
fists on her shapely hips. She tossed her mane of glossy auburn hair
defiantly. "You cannot, for I am not, and I shall not be. I've never
yet known any man, and your captain will not be the first!" 

The handsome man regarded her steadily. "We'll see, Miss. Captain
Skinner is a hard man, and he drives a hard bargain." 

"I don't care!" cried Dana, her blue eyes flashing. "I defied my own
father when he wanted me to marry that boring Mr. Pendrell, and I
shall defy your captain as well. You'll see, Mr. -- Mr. -- " 

"Mulder," said the handsome man, "Lieutenant Fox Mulder. I regret we
were not properly introduced yesterday, when I - " she interrupted
him, angrily. 

"When you strode up on that awful auction platform, and poked and
prodded at me, even looking in my mouth as if to purchase a.. a...
horse! Daring to put your hands on my person, to touch me in my most
private places!" She couldn't go on, remembering how utterly shamed
she'd been by what he had done to her. She hid her face, not wanting
him to see her tears. 

But he had heard a tiny sniffle, and so he approached her, and
reached out one strong, warm hand to brush at the crystalline drops
sliding down her flushed cheeks and murmured to her softly, "Miss,
please believe me... I meant no true disrespect! But I had to examine
you, as protocol at these functions warrant; otherwise the auctioneer
himself would have done so. Can you honestly tell me you would have
preferred his ham-like hands upon you, instead of mine?" He held up
one slender but strong hand in front of her face. She gazed upon it
with sudden fascination, noting the long fingers and clean, evenly
trimmed nails, the soft hair atop the knuckles. A warm and caring
hand, she decided. 

She gave a tiny shake of her head, and made an effort to bring her
emotions under control. She moved away from him, just enough to break
contact. Her gaze raised to his hazel orbs, she regarded him
thoughtfully. "What is your position, here on this ship, Lt. Mulder,
if I might be so bold to inquire?" 

"I'm the second-in-command on this ship, Miss. And I'm to see to
your needs until Captain Skinner calls for you." He lifted the cover
from the dish, and at the spicy aroma of the food Dana remembered how
long it had been since she'd eaten. Lieutenant Mulder smiled a
little. "For what it's worth," he said, drawing the wooden chair out
for her in a gentlemanly fashion, "Captain Skinner said to have only
the best food sent to you. So, though it's not fancy, you know it's
the best we have." 

Dana sat down and began to eat the stew. It was salty and the little
bits of meat were tough and stringy, but she was very hungry, and she
was glad to have it. The handsome lieutenant stood and watched her
eat. 

"So tell me," he asked, "how is it that a woman like you should have
come to the auction block? I can tell by your speech that you've had
schooling; you're no common slattern." 

Dana blushed, her pretty cheeks flushing scarlet. "I was on the road
from Leicester to London, and we were set upon by bandits -
despicable men! - who abducted us and took us to the West Indies,
where we were to be sold and. . . you, I am sure, can fill in the
rest." She closed her lovely eyes and shuddered just thinking of it. 

"Ah," Mulder said. "I'm familiar with abductions." 

Dana glared up at him, her eyes sparkling with sudden anger. "How
dare you! I'm sure you've conducted a great many of them yourself!" 

"No, no," he answered, shaking his head. "It happened to someone in
my own family, when I was just a boy. I grew up in Cornwall, by the
sea; my father was a seafaring man. When I was twelve years old, my
sister and I went down to the shore one evening to check our nets,
and a great monster rose up from the sea and took her away from me."
He looked down at the floor. "She was only eight years old." 

"Oh!" Dana exclaimed, feeling, against her better judgement, very
sorry for him. "Was she -- was she killed instantly?" 

"No! She was not, " he answered, and he looked at her, his hazel
eyes holding her gaze. "It picked her up in its mouth as a cat does
her kittens -- unharmed, despite its sharp teeth. And as it bore her
away, it kept its dreadful head above the water, and I could still
hear her screaming until I watched the awful beast vanish beyond the
horizon. I believe it meant her for a far worse fate than death." 

"Oh!" Dana cried again. She covered her perfect mouth with one
delicate hand. "Whatever did you do?" 

"She was ne'er seen again," Mulder intoned. "When I was sixteen I
ran away from home and joined the Navy, hoping to sail the seven seas
until I find Samantha. I feel sure that she is still alive today." He
walked over to the tiny porthole and stared out at the ocean. "The
truth is out there, Miss," he said solemnly. Turning suddenly from
the porthole, as if he couldn't bear to gaze upon the sea any longer,
he moved to the door and opened it. But before he walked through, he
looked upon her once again, with his large and beautifully-expressive
eyes, and spoke soft and low. 

"Enjoy your stew, Miss... and rest, if you can. The Captain will
want to see you very soon, I warrant..." 

As he turned away, she called him. "Lieutenant Mulder." 

He stopped, and stepped back; he met her proud, steady gaze. 

"My name," she said, "is Scully... Dana Scully." 
 
>>> 3 

Captain Skinner had been a pirate since before he'd ever scraped the
peach fuzz from his cheeks with his father's razor. A large, brawny,
lusty man, he'd never had much in the way of schooling -- preferring
to learn the ways of life from its experiences, rather than burying
his nose in a book such as his milquetoast brothers had done. 

Bah! Skinner spat on the floor in disgust. His brothers; five of
them, all weak and lily-livered, pale bony wrists protruding from
their somber dark pinneys; lank hair and limp man-roots, every man
jack o' them. He'd been disgusted to have had to call them his kin.

He'd gone the way of the sea at barely thirteen, lying about his age
to hop a spot on the Exeter, the sweetest frigate he'd ever seen. The
captain had looked him over with a gimlet eye, noting the rosy, downy
cheeks and eager eyes, noting also the breadth of shoulder and length
of leg on such a young squid. He'd figured the lad would fill out
right well with a lot of hard labor and a nightly dose of grog. And
God's Breath, if the lad didn't prove him right! 

The boy Skinner had grown, brawling his way to lead mate in just a
few short years. He had taken to pirating as a babe to his mam's
titty. And when the old captain died (of a dose of Whore's Sores, it
was rumored), well then, Skinner took over the ship, and a veritable
pirate legend was born. 

And that very legend now stood in front of a large silvered mirror
in his cabin. Preening. Admiring the tight fit of the velvet
waistcoat and the snug fit of his buff breeches, which showed the
contours of his hard, muscled thighs and drew the eye to the massive
bulge of his own man-root. He slapped his thigh in glee, regarding
himself with much admiration. He had quite a surprise in store for
his newest acquisition. 

Just thinking about the saucy red-haired wench in the below-quarters
set his blood fair to boiling. He'd been at sea, a-pirating for nigh
eight months, the longest he'd gone without a woman since the age of
thirteen. His body clamored for hers. He'd caught a glimpse of her as
his Lieutenant had dragged her aboard. A collective growl of lust had
burst from each crewman's throat as she'd been pulled up the plank,
defiant and gloriously lovely in her bright red harem garb. He'd
almost had to whip the men to keep them from grabbing at her,
standing there so proud and fierce on the deck of his ship. Only his
second-in-command, Mulder, his handsome face carefully blank and his
hazel eyes hooded, had not gawked at the beauty displayed so
temptingly on the wooden deck, and Mulder was the only one of his
crew that Skinner trusted to handle the gel and not touch her in an
inappropriate manner. 

Skinner had ordered his Lieutenant to pick the wench off the deck
and take her down to the more private quarters and had chosen the
prettiest gown he could find from one of the many trunks his pirating
had acquired. He'd had his trusted man strip the clothes from her
body and dress her in the stolen finery. He'd waited for word that
she'd calmed, then had sent Mulder down with a tray of stew. She'd be
dressed in his chosen gown by now, Skinner thought, heat awakening
his lusty loins at the image of the gel, there on that red-silk
covered feather bed in his lower quarters. Soon, very soon, he would
go to her, pluck her virginity with hard, callused fingers; plant his
root deep inside her tight womanly core and ride her until he emptied
his pent-up juices deep within her. 

Skinner stroked himself through the tight confines of his breeches,
grinning with bestial eagerness at the thought of what awaited him
just one level down. A ray of watery sun gleaming through a porthole
struck him as he grinned, flashing off his gold tooth. He adjusted
the black eye patch at a more rakish angle, admiring himself anew,
still stroking his man-root. 

- - - - - - - - 

Lieutenant Mulder came above-decks and walked slowly back toward the
stern of the Piper Maru, brooding. He leaned against the ship's rail
and watched her foamy wake glitter in the red-gold light of the
setting sun, red-gold, like her hair... 

He shook his head. This could not be allowed to happen, not this
time -- not to her. There must be a way to keep this woman from the
lusty embrace of the Captain. He rubbed his strong chin with one
elegant hand; his gray-green eyes narrowed. There were very few
things that would keep Captain Skinner from a woman's bed -- unless
he could find a ship to plunder or call down a towering storm from
the sky, he knew that the beautiful Scully would be forced to
surrender her maidenhood to Skinner that very night. And he groaned
aloud at the thought of hearing her screams echo across the ship, as
he had heard the other ones scream so many times before. 

"What's the matter, Mulder? Buck up. It can't be so bad." Mulder
looked over his shoulder to see the face of his friend Byers. 

Byers was among the lowest of the men on the Piper Maru; he and two
others -- Langly and Frohike by name -- swabbed the decks and emptied
the swill-pots, mopped up the refuse of the coarse men who crewed the
ship. But Mulder enjoyed the company of all three, and because he was
second only to Skinner, none dared question his choice of friends.

Most men dismissed them as buffoons, but Mulder knew that they had
traveled widely and they had brought back with them the lore and the
esoteric knowledge of many lands; they had given Mulder the means to
get the Piper Maru and her Captain out of a great many scrapes. 

Mulder was glad to see the three of them tonight. "I've just had to
buy the Captain a new bed-warmer today, and I'm sorry to have been
the one to have brought her so low. I wish there were a way I could
save her," he said in a low voice. "She's not like the other ones.
She's..." 

"The redhead?" Frohike broke in. "I saw her. She's tasty." 

"She's a lady," Mulder corrected him mildly, for he knew Frohike had
meant no harm. "If I could even buy her a little more time, maybe
something else would come up, and a way could be found for her to get
away..." 

"There are things you could use," Frohike said conspiratorially,
leaning closer to Mulder and dropping his voice, lest curious ears
should be nearby. "Things you could give the Captain that would
render him unable to... perform. There are herbs..." 

"Powders and drops..." Byers offered. 

"Lotions," Langly added, and they all turned to stare at him. "Well,
mayhap not - you probably wouldn't want to use the lotions." 

Mulder's hazel eyes glittered dangerously. He looked around and then
slowly nodded. "You can supply me with some of these?" he asked. "I
have to take the Captain his rum in half an hour, and soon thereafter
he'll want his new plaything." 

The three swabbies nodded in unison. "When you stop by the ship's
store to get the rum, be sure to see one of us," Byers said. "We'll
have what you need." And without another word they took up their mops
and pails and went back to their work. 

Mulder looked after their retreating forms, one short and pudgy, the
other two taller -- of much the same height, but different to look
upon as night and day. He shook his head in wonder, yet he found
himself curiously unsurprised at their knowledge of such matters. He
rubbed at his face wearily and made his way below deck. 
 
>>> 4 

Captain Skinner was pacing the floor of his lush quarters with
furiously impatient strides when the soft knock came. He bellowed,
"Enter, damn it!", flinging his muscular body into a leather
armchair, as Mulder silently entered the room, holding a large mug of
rum in his hands. He set the mug down on the small teak stand next to
the captain's armchair and as silently turned to leave; Skinner's
gravel drawl stopped him as his hand touched the door. 

"The Irish... is she... ready, Lt. Mulder... ready for me?"
Skinner's face was flushed, even before he'd taken a single gulp of
the warm rum, and a hungry buzzing deep in his belly owed naught to
the need for the alcohol. Mulder, his back to his captain, gripped
the doorknob so hard the uneven brass dug into his palm, but his
answering affirmation was calm and quiet. 

"Yes, Sir... the woman is dressed and has eaten. She sits and stares
out the porthole, melancholy to be sure, but her initial fire and
spark seem to have subdued a bit. If you've no further need of me,
then..." and he opened the door, cursing softly under his breath when
his captain's voice stopped him yet again. 

"Lt. Mulder...I, ah..." Skinner was hesitant; expressing gratitude
did not come easily to a man such as he, and his voice came out rough
and harsh as he finally growled, "I thank you... for your service to
me... and for your unswerving loyalty these past years. I will meet
with the Irish shortly; please assure we'll not be disturbed." With
that, he turned back to his mug and took another large gulp. 

Mulder's shoulders sagged, just a little; his murmured, "Aye, Sir",
was very softly spoken, almost to himself. He shut the door gently
behind him, then walked slowly down the narrow galley. Making his way
down one set of stairs, he paused at the door of the quarters of the
Lady Scully, and raised a hand to knock at the door, then halted the
same hand within a inch of making contact with the heavy bolted door. 
No, he decided, he'd not warn her, lest the plan fail - he'd stay
close, listening, ready to jump in when necessary... ready to save
her when the time warranted. Ready to save his Scully from the
clutches of a monster. A handsome monster, to be sure, but a monster
just the same. 

- - - - - - - 

Skinner strode down the below-quarters galley, eagerness in every
step which took him closer to the Irish's door. By Hade's nightgown,
he'd not felt this randy in ages. But then, he'd not had a woman so
delectably lovely as the fair wench his Lieutenant had bought for him
in ages, either. Damn, but Mulder had a good eye! 

Skinner recalled again the red harem dress, and the expanse of pale
creamy flesh revealed by its brevity of shimmering material; the
thick, satiny red hair and those huge, flashing blue eyes; the
defiance and the innate courage he'd sensed within her, as fiery as
her crimson locks. B'God, she'd make a tasty challenge for him. He
could feel it, could imagine all that fire and fury pressed under him
on the soft feather bed, could almost smell her musky wet warmth, for
by the time he'd finished preparing her body for his possession,
she'd be wet, and more than ready for his massive staff. She'd be
howling with it, before he was through with her. He'd never failed to
make his women howl. It was a source of great pride for him, to be so
powerfully-equipped as to cause the women he bedded to swoon and
scream with the force of his thunderous thrusts. The Irish would know
this power, oh, so very soon. 

He finally reached her door, and with impatient fingers threw the
bolt, flung the heavy door wide, and stepped in, his dark eyes
searching the room for her eagerly. He finally spotted her curled
into the fat pillows which sat propped against the carved headboard.
Eyes closed, lashes fanned on her pink-tinted cheeks, she appeared to
be asleep. 

Skinner tamped down his raging desire long enough to peruse her
shapely form. The gown fit her fair to perfectly, he noticed,
accentuating her sweetly abundant bosom and defining the tiny waist
and gently swelling hips. Her little feet were tucked underneath the
heavy green skirts, and her rounded, pale arms were folded modestly
under the ribcage, which rose and fell with each deep breath she
took. Skinner hung there, almost not daring to breathe, just drinking
her in, as fine and warm as the expensive rum which he'd consumed
earlier. His lust flared anew within him, deeper this time; he felt
his thick man-root jerk impatiently within the snug confines of his
form-fitting breeches. He needed her, now, needed to bury himself
within her tight, virginal passage. There was not a minute to waste. 

Still nestled within the cushioned veil of sleep, Dana could sense
someone over her, hovering nearby. She could smell the hot musk of
skin, could feel eyes staring at her, devouring her whole. Was she
dreaming? She must be, and what a lovely dream it was! The handsome
Lt. Mulder bent over her slumbering form, eyes hot with desire, hands
running their slender strength over her smooth shoulders and across
her heaving bosom, lips trailing fire against her temple, her cheek,
searching for her moist, quivering lips. She opened those lips on a
sigh, languidly raising a hand to touch his face, to run her fingers
through his tousled, thick hair, to slide her fingers over his
smooth, bald pate... 

His bald pate?!?!? 

Her eyes flew open as her hand encountered not thick, cool hair, but
hot, sweaty and very bare skin, in an area which usually contained
locks of hair. She found herself gazing into the eyes of the captain,
the man who'd bought her, the man who now owned her, body and soul,
and who was busy unfastening her gown with large, roughly callused
fingers. He breathed through his mouth, gasping with barely-concealed
desire, eyes black with the lust boiling up inside his massively-
muscled body. 

At the feel of those hands roughly disrobing her, Dana came fully
awake, gasping in shock and pushing at the hands, at him. She
struggled fiercely, but it was like trying to move stone, so strong
was this powerfully-built man who spoke not a word, but continued to
tug at her clothes. 

So intent was he upon discovering the ripe treasure hidden
underneath the green velvet of her gown, that he never saw her little
foot move, coming up and catching him in the groin, hard. He grunted
with the sudden pain, and slid sideways a little, just enough for her
to scramble off the bed and run to the other side of the room, where
she grasped a serving knife from the tray which held the remains of
her earlier meal. Holding the knife in front of her in both hands,
she spat furiously, "Do not come near me, Sirrah! Trust my words when
I vow I know how to use a knife, and can throw one as well, with
deadly aim! 'Tis the one thing my odious brother taught me, and
taught me well, before he betrayed me. I have enough anger and
resentment built up inside me to make of you quite the pincushion,
should you take a step in my direction!" 

Her tormentor merely smiled, and made himself more comfortable on
her bed, one hand still cradling his aching groin, although the pain
was dissipating fast. He regarded her with hot eyes, seeing the way
her lovely breasts heaved with each word, each breath she took. He'd
no doubt she could carve him up if she got the chance. His initial
fervid ardor had been cooled, just a little, by the pain inflicted
upon him with that little foot of hers. He could wait her out, for a
bit. Just a bit. He grinned again and folded his arms under his head. 

"And why, pray tell, should I not come near you, my Lady? I have
bought you, after all! I have paid solid coin for you, quite a lot
more than I have ever paid for any woman, I assure you! Tell me, my
lovely Irish, would you rather have been bought by one of those
odious, disgusting creatures standing there at the auction block,
drooling at the sight of your young, sweet flesh? I promise you,
they'd have used you most foully, for they are without any semblance
of humanity, the lot of them!" He smiled anew at the look of
repulsion which crossed her face; he knew she was recalling some of
the men who'd undoubtedly been present at the auction, for those same
men showed up at every auction. He continued his little informative
narrative. 

"Those men mayhap are rich, but they are diseased, and foul of mind
and body, perverse in their appetites. They would have used you in
the most heinous ways, and then discarded you as easily as emptying a
chamber pot out the window, when they'd used you all up! I, on the
other hand..." he stood, and stretched, allowing her widened gaze to
view his impressive breadth of shoulder and length of leg, the
elegant cut of his breeches, and the power he kept contained within.
" ... I am a man in the prime of my life, strong and healthy and
virile. I have no diseases, for I assure the protection of my body
when I take a woman. I am rich, richer than your wildest imaginings,
and I can give you everything you would most covet. And I would
require naught but the availability of your lovely body to soothe my
fever, whenever I desire -- and I would desire you all the time, of
that I am sure! And, as I am wont to remind you, I have purchased
that right. But, in deference to your youth and innocence, and as a
sign of my innate respect for your many charms, I will play the
gentleman and request of you, your permission to take you to bed, and
possess you, and make of you my bed-wench. Well, what say you, Miss?" 

Throughout his diatribe, Dana had spoken not a word, and had not
lowered the knife from its deadly position in front of her, held in
both hands. Eyes locked to his, with his every word her gaze
unfaltering, she did not reply for a long moment. Finally, she gave a
small sigh, face downcast, as if ruminating upon his words. Then her
gaze lifted and her blue orbs fastened on his dark ones, and she
spoke with definitive strength and purpose. 

"Tis true, you are a cleaner sort than the dregs which sought to
touch me on that awful block. And you are a man of decent looks, well-
dressed and well-spoken, and 'tis obvious you are a man of
substantial worth. But, Milord," she cautioned, still holding the
knife as protection, when he would have jumped up from the bed and
approached her, "Milord, you are still a pirate. You are still a
despoiler of innocence, a thief, and a blackguard. You deal in the
purchase of human flesh! You plunder and rape, blanketing your crimes
in the pretty wrapping of honeyed words. But you rape; never doubt my
understanding of that! You rape, and you cause pain, and you give
nothing but humiliation to the hapless recipients of your
'attentions'. And Sir, I shall not be a part of it! So, Captain
Skinner..." she gripped the knife tightly, and held it pointed
outwards, shining in the dim light of the room, "So, I must decline
your oh-so-generous offer, and thus inform you that if you come any
closer to my person I shall have to kill you." 

He gaped at her, at her impossible refusal, unwillingly registering
the truth of her ringing resolve. Then he grinned anew, an evil, dark
grin, and slowly advanced toward her, arms loose at his side. "Well,
then, my lovely Irish, you give me no option, no recourse. I shall
have you, willing or unwilling, as it makes naught of a difference to
me. You shall scream in pain or ecstasy -- your choice, I warrant --
as I take you, and take you, and fill myself with you even as I fill
your delectable little body to overflowing." And thus declaring, he
lunged for her as she threw the knife. 

It embedded itself high in his shoulder. He howled with the pain,
but it didn't stop him from wrestling her to the floor, blood running
from the wound and covering them both, as he ripped at her gown with
one strong hand, exposing her white breasts and rosy nipples. His
mouth fastened upon the trembling little bud, and she cried out as he
pulled at it with his teeth. Pinned underneath him, her hands held
behind her in one of his large fists, she twisted against him in a
cold panic as he pulled and tugged at her heavy skirts; as he
uncovered her satiny flesh, inch by inch; her soft calves, and
slender flanks. He took hold of her shimmy, tugging at the delicate
material, ripping it to tatters. His hand went to the fastening of
his breeches, fumbling with the buttons, holding her tightly as he
continued to mouth her breasts and free his raging staff. His hand
finally pushed its way into his gaping breeches and reached for his
root...only to find it as limp and as unresponsive as a dead snake. He
loosed his mouth from her reddened nipple, looking down at the
betrayingly soft flesh with disbelieving eyes... 

And the force of the blow which she inflicted upon the side of his
head with a crystal candlestick, which had toppled off a low table
and within reach of her hand during their skirmish, knocked his head
sideways as, with a low moan of pain, his body slid from hers and he
sprawled on the floor, out cold. 

She stared at him hard, waiting to see if he would move, but he was
still. She scrambled away from him, doing her best to stuff her
breasts back into the torn bodice of her dress, refusing to give in
to the shock. Not yet, she told herself, not until she was safe. 

As she dragged herself to her feet, trembling all over, the door
opened just a little, and Mulder poked in his head. His eyes were
drawn to the sight of his captain, laid out on the floor with one
massive hand still wrapped around his limp member, a knife protruding
from his bloody shoulder. His gaze swung to Dana, noting the
trembling lips and glazed, shocked eyes. He opened his arms, and she
hesitated but a moment before flying into them, burying herself deep
into his embrace, arms sliding around his slender waist as if they'd
always belonged there. He tipped up her chin and forced her gaze to
meet his. 

"Scully... did he hurt you? Did he..." God, he couldn't even say the
words. 

She shook her head fiercely. "No, Mulder. He didn't. He couldn't..." 

Mulder nodded, and hugged her tightly. "Good. The potion worked its
magic in time." 

She looked up at him, utterly confused. "Potion...?" 

"Shhh. Wait a moment, and I'll explain." Mulder reached up to caress
her hair and then gently loosed himself from her embrace. He knelt
down next to the prone form of the captain, holding his open palm a
few scant inches from his nose and slack mouth, feeling for breath.

"At least we'll not have a body to dispose of tonight. He lives,
although I'll warrant his wounds will speak to him when he wakes." 
Just then, Skinner stirred and groaned, and his eyes blinked open.
Scully stepped back in fresh alarm, and Mulder said to her, a little
too loudly, "Foul wench! What have you done?" His hazel eyes pleaded
with her to forgive his words and to play along. "Tell me now what
happened - tell me, or you'll rue your silence as well as your acts!" 

"I have only defended myself!" she cried. Her heart beat wildly
behind her ribs, like a frightened bird trapped in a cage; her
trembling voice belied the bravery of her words. "I care not what
amount of gold was given for me. I'll be owned by no man!" She closed
her eyes against the sight as Mulder began to pull the knife out of
the captain's shoulder; when she could bear to look she saw that he
was holding a folded cloth against the wound to stanch the flow of
blood. Skinner had lifted his head and was staring at her in dull,
angry fascination. 

"This wench," he snarled, glowering, "this strumpet, this trollop,
this... this..." He began struggling to sit up, but Mulder pushed him
down. 

"Lie still," Mulder said, "until the bleeding slows. This must be
cleaned, and dressed - " 

"I know what must be done!" Skinner growled. "But I know as well
that this whore must learn her place - and her duties. You will take
her away and you will *reason* with her." He reached up and twisted a
handful of Mulder's shirt into his fist. "You will not leave *too*
many bruises. And no man on this ship need know what has come to pass
in this cabin tonight." He released Mulder's collar and fell back
again. 

"As you will," Mulder returned coolly. "Shall I send your man to
clean - " 

'I'll do it myself!" the captain barked. " 'Tis a scratch - and from
a mere chit as well. I have had far worse, I'll warrant!" He began to
sit up, and Mulder half-lifted him to his feet; he buttoned up his
pants and turned toward the cabin door. Although he swayed, he pushed
Mulder's supporting hand away. He pulled the door open and, leaning
against the frame, leered over his shoulder at Scully. "And as for
you..." Without finishing his sentence, he left the cabin, slamming
the door behind him. 

Scully stood frozen, staring at the closed door, until Mulder turned
to her, and she rushed once more into his outstretched arms. She hid
her face against his chest; he cradled her in his arms and stroked
her hair. "What am I to do?" she cried. 

"Shhh," Mulder murmured. "We'll think of something. Tonight, I
slipped a powder into his drink before he came to you, and it was
this that kept him from... " 

Scully lifted her head and gazed, wide-eyed with astonishment, into
Mulder's eyes. "So that was the 'potion' you mentioned! Where did you
- ?" 

He laid a finger upon her innocently-plumped lips to silence her. "I
cannot tell you. The less you know, the better. All you need know is
that I will find a way to save you - I swear it." He lovingly
caressed her face. "From the moment I saw you upon the block at that
terrible auction, I knew you were different - knew you were never
meant for such a fate as this." And with that, he leaned down and
covered her mouth with his own. 

His kiss was hot and fervent; his lips plundered the ripe treasure
of her mouth. He tasted of rum and spice and the open sea and
sunflower seeds (sunflower seeds?) and something else, something
spicy and mysterious and dark that was uniquely Fox Mulder. Or maybe
it was just that he'd had that same spicy stew for dinner, too... 

His tongue probed the honeyed cavern of her daintily-dewed mouth
with all the pent-up passion which had been building ever since he
had first looked upon her enchanting face and lusted after her
luscious, virginal form, a form such as the gods and angels
themselves would have fashioned; too perfect for his large, callused
hands as they twined themselves into her satin hair and he breathed
disjointed words of desire and longing into her shell-like ear as he
caressed every exposed inch of silky skin with his full, desire-
enflamed lips. 

Her whole universe narrowed to the confines of the strong manly arms
that held her helpless against his chest. She did not want to give
in, but she couldn't save herself; she twined her arms around his
neck and clung to him. Her lips opened unto his, permitting his
sinfully-sensuous tongue entry into a place where no man's tongue had
ever been permitted to venture. The heat of their combined passions
kept their bodies molded together as he plunged again and again into
her sweet depths, swirling around and over her teeth so lovingly,
tasting each one as if a morsel of manna from heaven itself. 

In this fashion, they exchanged kiss after kiss, drinking in each
other's moisture and essence until they were dizzy and drunk with it,
the endless need and desire. Heavy footsteps outside the door made
them fling themselves away from each other. Mulder glanced over his
shoulder at the sound, and his eyes were anguished when he looked
back at her. He stepped back, moved toward the door; he opened it,
and shouted for the benefit of anyone listening, "Remember from now
on to do as you're told!" He turned and stepped outside. "Let that be
a lesson to you!" he roared, slamming the door behind him. 

Scully fell back onto the soft cushions of the bed, her mind
reeling, overwhelmed. She had never met a man like this Mulder. How
unfair life was, that he should come now, now when she was no more
than another man's chattel, bought with his gold! And yet -- and yet,
Mulder had promised to find a way out of this trap. And she found
that she trusted him, and so trusted him to be as good as his word. 

She gathered the tattered remnants of her dress around herself and
went over to the large trunk full of clothing to select another
garment. She held her head high. She was, after all, a Scully. She
would not surrender - she would, somehow, triumph. 
 
>>> 5 

Captain Skinner finished tying the makeshift bandage over his
shoulder wound, then struggled into a clean linen shirt; it was
damned difficult with his aching shoulder, but he was determined to
get himself dressed without having to call his valet-man -- or
Mulder, for that matter. Fighting to tuck the voluminous material
into the tight breeches, he cursed a particularly vivid streak and
just left the shirt un-tucked. Unless his fair wench Irish had
another weapon hidden somewhere in her chemise (for he did remember
tearing her gown into shreds), he would not be wearing his clothing
long enough to care about striking a style. 

His shoulder twinged anew and he fumed in sudden fury at not only
being thwarted in his desire to bed his own possession, but in being
wounded by said possession, as well. Hell and Hades' nipples! How
long had it been since he'd been wounded, in the bloodiest of
battles! He was always the one left standing, after felling his
enemies with howling power and strength. Not even Lt. Mulder could
remain unscathed, although his fighting prowess was also well-known
and admired. Many was the time Skinner would find himself tending to
Mulder's wounds, after a skirmish at sea. He would grumble and deride
his poor Lieutenant unmercifully during the cleansing process, but
his large, callused fingers were always gentle. And he always made
sure that Mulder was thoroughly saturated with his best rum before
touching the wound. Mulder never felt a thing. 

Skinner shook his head derisively, for he assumed a softness of the
heart for his Lieutenant, a feeling he would never admit and would
carry to the grave. In spite of his bloody ways and gruff exterior,
Skinner was grateful for a man's loyalty and devotion, and Mulder had
proven his worth over the years. A grim smile upon his face, the
captain gave himself a moment to wonder what form of punishment his
first mate had delivered to his wayward wench. 

At that same moment, in the quarters which housed the captain's
"wayward wench," Lady Dana Scully ran trembling fingers over her
still-tingling lips as she lay back upon the red silk-covered bed and
recalled with shuddering heat the feel of Mulder's firm, full lips as
they'd caressed and rubbed themselves all over her soft skin. She
remembered the rough, wet tongue which had plundered her mouth and
had mated with her own in an erotic dance of want and desire. His
hands -- oh, his hands -- ! They had touched her shivering flesh in
places never before touched, had molded themselves to her upthrust,
pouting breasts and rosy nipples, circling each pretty point, tugging
lightly. If they'd been uninterrupted a moment longer, she was
certain his wondrously sensuous mouth would have replaced his
fingers, and she would have experienced, for the first time in her
life, the feel of a man supping at the bounty of her bosom --
rapture, pure rapture! If only... but what was that? 

A knock at the door; an urgent whisper. Mulder! He had returned! She
flew to the door, hung there in front of it in supplication, waiting. 
Slowly, the bolt drew back. Slowly, the heavy door swung open. And
there stood Mulder, his hair tousled, his eyes half-lidded with hot
desire as he perused her lovely form. He took one firm step and was
inside the room, slamming the door tightly as he reached out both
eager hands for his lady, and she fair leapt into his embrace and
clung to him as he rained rough-tender kisses over her face and
shoulders, whispering hoarsely, "Oh, my love, my Scully... my Dana...
I could not stay away from you, dearest one. I had to see you, to
assure myself you were well, to assure myself you were real, and in
my arms, kissing and holding me." 

His feverish kisses trailed down the side of her slender neck into
the soft skin between her breasts, and his impatient fingers tugged
at the lacy neckline of her chemise, baring her white globes and
blushing tips to his ardent gaze. She met that gaze proudly, wanting
him to worship her body. He groaned at the knowledge that even his
eyes upon her could make those delectable buds pout and rise firm
against her rounded perfection. He dipped his head, and his lips
opened and he gently sipped at one sweet flower. Then his thirst knew
no bounds as he seized her willing body tightly into his embrace, and
bent her backwards, forcing the ripe fruit upwards, and his parched
lips took endless suckle at the fount of her heaving breast. She
gasped and moaned with the sweetness which pierced her deeper than an
arrow, and her trembling fingers wound themselves through his thick
hair and held on for dear life. He bit and licked at her, tiny bites
which caused her to shudder even harder. Then they were falling back
onto the bed, his mouth still feeding upon her sweet flesh. 

Suddenly, there was a loud crash right outside her door, and once
again they found themselves springing apart in guilty surprise. Dana
tugged at her chemise with fingers so shaky she could barely make
them function in time. She managed to pull the chemise in place and
fasten the sides of her gaping gown, affording her a little of her
lost modesty. Mulder pressed his finger to his mouth, glancing at the
door. He was certain it was the captain, coming to finish his unholy
task. Luckily the potion was still in effect, and Skinner would not
be able to begin anew, much less finish. 

Motioning Dana to stay prone upon the bed, Mulder approached the
door and wrenched it open, shouting roughly as he did so, "You'll not
try to sway me with your honeyed words, my lady whore..." his words
reaching the captain's ears as he stood in the doorway, his sharp
eyes taking in the scene before him; the room in disarray, the
reddened cheeks of his purchase, shaken from the punishment he was
certain had been meted out by his lieutenant. Mulder was breathing as
if from running, his hand covering a very large arousal showing quite
plainly beneath the tight breeches he wore. Skinner noted the bulge;
Mulder met his inquiring gaze and spoke with deference and humility
in his voice. 

"Sir, I beg your forgiveness. In my zealousness to assure the wench
learned her lesson in her defiance of you, I am afraid I was... um...
aroused unwillingly as I caused her the pain of her punishment." 
Skinner's gaze pinned Scully to the bed, searching for bruises. 
Mulder hastily added, "Sir, her bruises are in places where your eye
could not discern. Not at the moment. I felt it prudent to place her
punishment where the rest of the crew could not see them. As a saving
grace to you, Sir." 

Skinner nodded approvingly; as usual, his lieutenant had shown quite
a bit of foresight. He turned and stared once again at the cowering
wench on the bed, and brought a hand to his breeches to rub at
himself. He was still limp as a wet sea biscuit. God's Buttocks! What
in Hades was wrong with him!? He'd not suffered this sort of limpness
since planking his first whore at the tender age of eleven. 

His fevered brain told him, nay, screamed at him, to take the chit
and bury himself deep and sure within her virgin flesh. But his body
protested the thought of doing just that. His body was betraying him
for no apparent reason. And his men must never know, he thought with
something akin to panic. They must never know their captain had ever
known a moment of weakness. He thought furiously -- what to do to
stimulate his unwilling flesh? There must be something he'd not
attempted, some sort of sensual thrill which he'd not sampled. 

And then he espied Mulder standing at attention near the door, and
that other part of his body, his man-root, also standing at attention
within the tight confines of his buff breeches -- and quite an
impressive standing it was! His lieutenant was hung like a young
bull, all length and thickness, and full-balled. Skinner could just
imagine how full they must be, for even covered in the fine wool
material of his breeches, the captain could see how heavy they seemed
and how they pressed his root into the bulge which stretched him to
an impressive size and girth. Skinner suddenly smiled, thinking he
knew a way to stir his unwilling flesh into a performance. 

He turned to his second-in-command, and ordered, "Lt. Mulder! I want
you to tie the chit to the bedposts, and cut her clothes off with my
skinning knife. Then you will sit here by the door, and watch as I
take this new bed-wench of mine, as I deflower her once and for all!"
And so commanding, the captain unbuckled his pistol-belt, and slowly
began removing his shirt. 

Dana's eyes, grown large with fear and trepidation as she'd listened
to his command, became even larger with untamed fear as she observed
his disrobing. Surely he didn't mean to...? But, oh God and all his
Minions -- he did! He meant to rape and defile her innocence in front
of the one, she knew now, she had saved herself for, in front of her
one and only love, in front of her beloved Mulder! 

What on earth could she do? Her shocked, tear-filled eyes met those
of Mulder, finding his equally horrified, shocked beyond measure. She
shrank back upon the bed-pillows, trembling violently now, clutching
the chemise to herself in such abject fright she doubted she could
even live through such agony as this. 

She closed her beautiful blue eyes, as Skinner stood, his massively-
muscled chest proudly outthrust, his entire body proudly stanced,
except for the offendingly limp evidence of his root's determination
not to cooperate. Ah, but that would change, and very soon! 

He approached the bed, hands reaching for her, intending to rip the
clothes from her body. Then, remembering he'd wanted to watch Mulder
do this, he turned and picked up his knife from the floor, and held
it out to Mulder, commanding, "Take the knife, Lieutenant, and cut
her clothes away." 

Mulder slowly reached out one numbed hand for the knife, his
despairing eyes never leaving Scully's, a wealth of undying love and
deep apology shining in his gaze, as his fingers closed about the
handle of the knife. He slowly walked toward the bed where his love
of a lifetime lay, shivering in fear. He lifted the knife high,
watching her tears spill over her pale cheeks and run in rivulets
down onto her white bosom. Somehow, he would find a way to thwart the
captain yet again, and save them both. 

He delicately ran the tip of the knife down the center of her gown,
the sharp blade piercing the thick material and splitting it like the
skin of a grape. Scully sucked in a horrified gasp, but she was not
cut; only the material fell to the sides of her quivering breasts,
leaving her chemise sliced as well, but still miraculously in place.

Wordlessly, he mouthed the words, "I love you, my dearest Scully,"
then turned his back on her and advanced to where Skinner sat, near
the door, eyes glazed anew with lust and passion as he looked his
fill upon the tempting morsel shivering in the bed. 

He slowly rose, one hand reaching out for the door latch to help
steady his still-shaky frame, opened his mouth to gruffly command
Mulder into the chair which he'd just vacated, and suddenly there
came to their ears a loud commotion from the deck above. Skinner
cursed vehemently under his breath and grated out, "Lt. Mulder! Go
above and see what those scurvy sons of whores have gotten themselves
up to. Then, when you have secured their obedience, return to this
chamber and attend me." 

Mulder could do naught but to obey, for refusing would only arouse
suspicion. Slowly he moved toward the door, opening it wide, and
flinging one last, pleading look at his lady, walked through the
opening and shut the door. A bellow from within caused his eyes to
snap shut in utter anguish, as Skinner yelled, "Bolt the door,
Lieutenant!" His heart breaking within his chest, Mulder slid the
bolt home with trembling fingers. 

- - - - - - - - 

Above deck, a series of fistfights had broken out, and the worst of
the fray had gone ugly. By the time Mulder reached them, a swabbie
lay dead. Young Morgan, it was, bloody and silent on the wet deck.
Mulder paled as he beheld the boy. Darin... his name had been Darin.
Just a young boy, barely eleven, he'd begged to be taken on board, at
one of their last ports of call. Mulder remembered that day... 

"Please, Mr. Mulder, Sir!" the boy had begged, "Please take me with
ye! Me mam don't want me, not no more. She ain't cared ta have me
here since I was a snot in nappies. Too busy spreading 'er legs for
the gents ta care for me, anyhow. Please let me come an' work fer
ye..." And Mulder, feeling sorry for the skinny lad, had agreed. He
had taken him to the ship and settled him in with the other swabbies.
They'd ribbed the poor boy nigh to death at first, but the lad had
spunk, and before long they were affectionately cuffing him about the
ears as they worked, calling him "Squid" and "Sprout." The lad had
blossomed. 

Only, Mulder thought sadly, to end broken and bloody upon the deck
of a ship which was meant to have been his escape. 

"Which of you would be responsible for this? I demand to know his
name so I may give him a fair trial before I run him through...!" 
 
>>> 6 

Lady Dana Scully thought she'd been frightened before now, but that
fright was as nothing compared to what she was experiencing, there on
that rumpled red silk bed, behind a heavy door bolted from the
outside, her gown sliced from her upper body and her equally-cut
chemise barely covering her pale bounty. Her wide, terrified gaze
locked upon that of the ruthless Captain Skinner, who was now bending
over her small frame, grasping at her white shoulders with his huge,
rough hands, pulling her up and into his strong and inescapable
embrace as he rasped into her hair, "It is time, my lady wench, for
you to repay me for my kindness of purchasing you off that block and
saving you from the likes of those diseased dregs whom you had every
right to fear. But you needn't fear me, my little one. I will not
punish you for your earlier... transgression... for I full well
understand a lady's hesitancy and worries the first time her field is
plowed asunder, I surely do. And your actions have assured me of your
lady's status." He pressed his hard mouth to her temple and she
shuddered in revulsion, pushing helplessly against the wall of his
chest. 

"If you accept my lady's status, Captain, if you know this of me,
and accept it, then you cannot, cannot commit this heinous act. You
must have some shred of decency within you, some scrap which shouts
to you of the necessity, nay, the duty you have, to protect the
innocent, to revere the delicacy of maidenhood..." her voice trailed
off in the wake of the sharp bark of laughter which left his throat;
the grimly amused smile he flashed at her, gold tooth sparkling
between his full lips. 

"Revere the delicacy of maidenhood, my dear? Ho, that be a good
one!" He barked out another laugh. Then his eyes narrowed, all
amusement suddenly gone from them. He focused that gaze upon her pale
yet resolute face, and bit off each word with deliberate politeness.

"I am a pirate, milady; a man, a solider and a brigand, but first and
foremost, a pirate. It is the first thought I have upon rising in the
morn, and the last thought before I close this one good eye as I take
to my bed." He tapped the black leather eyepatch mockingly. "A pirate
does not concern himself of the 'delicacy of a lady,' and he does not
care overmuch of the offense of that same lady's sensibilities. I
live to live, milady, and I live to the fullest, knowing I may very
well die on the morrow. I live each day to the fullest, which means I
eat what I will, drink to excess whenever I wish, and I avail myself
of a comely wench as often as possible -- four times a day should
suffice, I would warrant -- after all, I am not so young as I used to
be..." 

And so saying, Skinner buried his face in Scully's exposed, creamy,
pale bosom, and began to lick and press at her with eager lips. She
cried out at the unwelcome feel of his mouth and his body, struggling
anew to free herself even as he pulled and ripped her heavy skirts.
She felt herself weakening with the pain of being bent back so
harshly, unable to gain any leverage with which to push at his head.

He was fastening his hot mouth upon her rosy nipple, a grossly
repugnant imitation of that sacred act which she'd shared with
Mulder, her love. Tears slid from her drenched eyes as she faced the
very real possibility that Mulder would not be able to rescue her
again, not this time 

Skinner was reaching again for the fastening on his breeches. Oh
God. Just as before, she prayed fervently, prayed as she had never
prayed before, for a miracle, a last-minute reprieve, anything. 
And her prayers surely were answered. For there, between his legs,
once again, just as before, Captain Walter Skinner was as limp as a
swabbie's mop-head. He wrapped his hand around his uncooperative
member, shocked and disbelieving the betrayal of his own body. 

Captain Skinner threw back his head and emitted a roar such as the
entire ship had never heard. His blazing, accusing eyes suddenly
pinned Scully up against the bedpost, as he snarled at her with
furious virulence, "Witch! Sorceress! You have unmanned me, yet
again! Daughter of Satan! Whore of Hades! I shall have my revenge
against you, once and for all. You shall rue this day, milady bitch.
I vow, you shall!" And with that last curse spit into her pale,
frightened face, his hand wrapped bruisingly about her slender wrist,
Skinner dragged Scully from the bed and across the room, where his
large, booted foot kicked at the wooden door several times. 

The bolt outside snapped; with one last, mighty kick he sent the
door crashing open, and he pulled her helplessly protesting body out
into the galley, and up to the above deck, through the masses of
still-brawling crewmen and right up to the railing of the foredeck,
flinging her against the hard tangle of ropes there, as he vowed,

"Now, milady, let us see if a witch floats or drowns!" 

He grabbed at her with hands as piercing as a predator bird's deadly
talons and lifted her up, to throw her onto the roiling, raging seas.
Her screams and cries for mercy, and for Mulder, rang throughout the
tossing ship: 

"MULDER! I NEED YOUR HELP! MULDER!!!"
 
>> 7 

Mulder raced around the corner to see Scully and the Captain locked
in a terrible struggle. She clung desperately to the tangle of ropes
at the foot of the mast, clawing frantically at Skinner whenever she
could free one hand or the other. He was pulling her away from the
mast toward the rail, and he was rapidly gaining the upper hand. The
tattered ribbons of Scully's lacy chemise fluttered, incongruously
festive, as she strained to free herself. 

In that awful first split-second that Mulder watched, frozen,
riveted, she bit furiously at the hand Skinner had clamped over her
mouth. Skinner howled in rage and pain, and slapped her cheek hard
with his bloodied hand. 

The shock of it brought Mulder to his senses, and he sprang forward.
He thrust himself between the combatants and pushed the Captain back,
shouting, "Stop! Stop -- Captain, what are you doing? Unhand her!" 

"Unhand her! Unhand her? What, Mulder -- do you think to protect my
costly investment?" Skinner roared, red-faced. "I tell you, she is a
sorceress. A witch! It was my coin that was paid for her, and damn
it, if I wish to see my own property thrown to the sharks, then it
shall be so done!" 

"I am no sorceress," Scully hissed, "and you are no man! If you were
able to do even one of the vile things you proposed to do to me, no
doubt you would never consider tossing me into the sea. If you are
but half a man, it is through no fault of mine!" 

With a wordless roar, Skinner flung Mulder aside and rushed at
Scully again, and she shrieked as loudly as she could. Men were
starting to come above decks, drawn by the commotion. They began to
crowd around, their lanterns casting an unearthly light on the scene.

They muttered among themselves, and a few laughed. 

Mulder was upon the Captain before he had time to think. He
purposefully slammed his fist into Skinner's wounded shoulder, and
ducked just in time to miss the wild punch the Captain reflexively
threw with his good hand. Scully, loosed now from Skinner's grasp,
did not run, but instead rained furious blows upon him with her
fists, and Mulder took advantage of Skinner's surprise to get in a
few good punches of his own. 

"Look at 'er!" went up an approving catcall from the group of
watching pirates. "She's a spitfire, she is -- these red'eads, they
always are!" Men hooted and clapped in agreement, but the laughter
began to die away as they divined the deadly nature of the struggle
before them. 

Mulder and Skinner were locked in an awful wrestling match. Blood
from his earlier injury stained the shoulder of Skinner's shirt;
blood trickled from Mulder's nose where Skinner had hit him in an
unguarded second. Scully still scrambled along with the two men,
getting in such blows as she could, unable to bear the sight of
Mulder's bloodied face. They rolled and thrashed their way closer and
closer to the ship's rail, and the now-silent crowd of men followed,
waiting like vultures to descend on the weaker when he should fall. 

All at once Skinner changed his tactic. He snaked a hand out to
grasp a fistful of Scully's red hair, and dragged her screaming into
the thick of the fray. Mulder leaped for her, but the Captain's well-
placed boot at his knee sent him sprawling, and gave Skinner the
moment he needed to pin Scully against the rail. He glared
triumphantly at Mulder, who'd sprung to his feet, and now stood at
bay, panting, his eyes glancing anxiously from Skinner's face to
Scully's and back. 

"So!" snarled Skinner, "I begin to see, Lieutenant. I think you want
this red-headed bitch for yourself, don't you?" He pulled at Scully's
hair and her head jerked back. She gritted her teeth at the pain, but
her wide blue eyes never left Mulder's face. 

"Let her go," Mulder said in a low, cold voice. "Just let her go,
and we'll not mention this night, Captain, ever again." 

Skinner gave a bark of harsh, incredulous laughter. "And who are you
to tell me what to do? I command you. This is my ship, and this -- "
with another tug at Scully's hair -- "is my wench, to do with as I
will. And I tell you, she was a bad purchase, money ill-spent. She is
a witch and a sorceress, and she'll be food for the sharks!" 

Scully wriggled furiously against Skinner's grasp. "Do you know why
he calls me a sorceress?" she cried, loudly enough for all to hear.
"Because he cannot do a man's duty by me, and he thinks I have
unmanned him!" 

A murmuring had begun in the crowd behind him, and Mulder risked a
glance over his shoulder at the faces of the men. "Tis truth!" he
shouted. His voice rose. "Twice he has been to her bed and twice he
has failed -- and he would blame her, and throw her into the sea!" 

A silence fell over the assembled men, and then a cackle arose at
the back of the group. "I tell ye, a wench like that would make a man
of anyone!" A wave of soft, uneasy laughter went through the crowd. 

Mulder turned back to the captain and saw the shock and rage written
on his face. "Mulder!" Skinner gasped. "You -- Why, Mulder? Why now?" 

"Because I'll not stand by and see her used this way!" he snarled.
Someone slipped forward out of the crowd and pressed a sword into his
hand, and he raised it slowly. "Let Scully go, Sir, or I shall free
her by whatever means you make necessary." 

"I trusted you," Skinner said slowly, "Mulder -- this is ... mutiny." 

Mulder shrugged. "Call it what you will, but unhand her now. This is
the last time I shall ask." He made a small, threatening gesture with
the sword. "Sir. Now." 

Scully saw Mulder shifting his weight almost imperceptibly on the
balls of his feet, and at the same time realized that Skinner's grip
on the fistful of her hair had loosened. She chose that instant to
duck and to thrust her elbow as hard as she could into his
midsection. She heard him grunt in surprised pain and saw Mulder leap
forward to take advantage of the moment, and as she dropped to the
floor and rolled away she saw the whole crowd of men descending upon
Skinner like a pack of wolves scenting defeat in their old leader and
going in for the kill. 

Scully cringed against the bulkhead, cowering, listening, afraid to
look. There was a terrible commotion, shouting and the ringing of
swords, and at last a man's desperate scream -- she could not tell
whose -- and a distant splash. The men's voices were savage and
triumphant. 

Suddenly a rough hand seized her arm and pulled her to her feet. She
was dragged out into the light, into the center of the circle of wild
men, and the man who held her wrist threw her down onto the deck and
shouted, "Now, mates -- We'll see if she's indeed a sorceress! I've
ten gold doubloons that say she'll not unman *me* -- Who'll take my
bet? I'll prove it now, before you all!" 

"And I'll prove myself when you've done!" cried another voice. "Aye,
and I so shall we all, by turns -- what say you, mates?" added a
third. Loud, raucous laughter erupted, and Scully looked around for a
means of escape, but the crowd was all around her, and she saw no way
out. 

The first man stepped forward and reached for his belt buckle, but
before he could even begin to open it, Mulder thrust himself through
the crowd, and the tip of his rapier flashed out and laid open the
man's breeches from hip to knee. Blood welled up from the razor-thin
cut along his thigh. A heavy silence fell over the crowd. 

Mulder stood over Scully, one tall black boot on either side of her
body. His voice was eerily quiet; none had ever heard him speak so,
and they all stepped back uneasily. "Anyone who lays so much as a
finger upon this woman shall indeed be unmanned. Not by sorcery, but
by my own sword." His eyes were dark and his countenance grim; blood
ran from a cut on his cheekbone and smeared his collar. "This ship is
mine now, and so is this woman. Mine. Is that clear to every man
here?" 

He looked slowly from one man to another, surveying their faces. One
by one, each man dropped his eyes when Mulder's gaze searched his
face. "Aye, sir," someone murmured, and the rest began to assent.
"Aye." "Aye, Captain Mulder." "As you will, sir." 

"Good," Mulder said slowly, satisfied. "Now get back to your duties.
I'll not have the Piper Maru yawing all over the sea because the
jackals who crew her are busy slavering over some poor gel." 

The men shuffled away and dispersed. Mulder swung one long leg over
Scully and crouched down beside her. He reached out and stroked her
cheek with one gentle hand. "Scully," he breathed, "my dear one, my
darling. I'm so sorry. Are you --? Will you be alright?" 

She sat up slowly and he put his strong arms around her, drawing her
close. She laid her head against his chest and began to weep softly;
she could, now that it was over, now that he was here, now that her
beloved Mulder was safe, and was holding her. He cradled her in his
embrace, and rocked her slowly, whispering words of love, and the
moon shone down on the two figures on the deck of the ship on the
wide, wide sea. 
 

EPISODE TWO, PART ONE

<< 8

In a dank little tavern called the Little Ale'inn on the island of
Cuncan, a woman was cleaning up in the early-evening lull. The late-
afternoon customers had left, and the nighttime ones had not come in
yet, and her master had gone down to the harbor to bargain for
whatever liquor might have come in on the ship they'd seen that day.
She had the place to herself.  She mopped the nasty, greasy bar with
a nasty, greasy rag. It didn't do much good, but the lights in the
tavern were low, and their clientele weren't the kind to pay much
attention anyway. She pushed the rag around in slow, idle circles.
Her mind was a thousand miles away.
  
'Fowl Di,' they called her, but as she wiped up the bar she was
remembering her younger days, before the war, when they'd called her
by her real name - Diana. She'd had plenty of handsome young men
then, back when she had all her teeth. Back then she'd had what could
be passed off under dim lighting as good looks. The war - the war had
changed all that.    

Di leaned across the bar to wipe at an unidentifiable scrap of
something on the other edge, and her bosom made a hollow thunking
sound as it hit the wood. Ah, yes - that had been the worst of it.
She had thought more than once that it would have been better to lose
an arm in the war, as her master had done, rather than to have lost
her bosom.    

That was how she had met her master, Alex Krycek. Sometimes she
thought of him as her friend, but other times she wasn't sure. They
had met on the voyage as they crossed the ocean together on Admiral
Spender's ship, the Ardent, at the end of the war. Seeing that Krycek
had only one arm, she had befriended him; when he found out what had
happened to her, he tried to return the favor.    

Krycek eked out a living carving and whittling; he'd paid for his
passage on the Ardent by making her captain a new pegleg during the
journey. The sailors used to come down at night and sit, talking and
smoking, watching him hold the pegleg in the hook that he wore for
his left hand, carving with his right. When he'd finished Admiral
Spender's leg, he'd offered to whittle a pair of oaken falsies for
Di.   
 
She glanced down at them, her hand pausing on the bar. Certainly,
they were as fine a pair of titties now as they'd been, years 
ago.  But they were more like Krycek's idea of a perfect pair
than they were like the ones she'd lost. They were pert and upright
and almost conical, and rather large. If he hadn't thoughtfully
hollowed them out a little they would have given her a backache. That
was why they made that familiar hollow thunk whenever she bumped them
into anything.    

Di shook her head and sighed and went back to mopping the bar, and
reflected again on what a small world it was. She had never told
Krycek that she knew the man he blamed for the loss of his arm, the
man who'd served alongside him in Her Majesty's Navy, the man he'd
railed at and sworn for all these years to avenge himself on. She had
never told him that this was the man she had thought of ever since
the war. She had longed for him since the first moment she'd seen
him, and when she'd finally bedded him, he'd caught that unfortunate
case of scabies from her, and then gone off to sea before she could
apologize.    

No, it was water under the bridge; there was no use mentioning it.
Her life wasn't so bad here - she had a steady job, and a roof over
her head, and Krycek didn't begrudge her the few extra pence she made
in the back room with the drunken sailors who'd heard the rumors
about her infamous falsies and wanted to sample the rest of the
merchandise as well.    

No, she decided again, turning away from the bar. There'd be no
point in ever again mentioning the name of Fox Mulder.               
   
                                         
~~~~~~~~~~~

Under a bright blue sky, echoed in the blue, blue ocean below, a
ship rode the crested waves gently, new sails trimmed neatly and the
gleam of fresh paint sparkling white and clean.  The Piper Maru was
looking much improved - an improvement mirrored in the attitudes of
the crew who worked her decks.  Ragged still, a bit; these rough
sailors... but content of spirit as never before.  With three solid
square meals under their belts every day, and better pay - stopping
more often into ports exotic and new, able to slake their thirst for
rum and women more often than ever before - these men were happier,
healthier and actually cheerful as they toiled.  And this amazing
transformation owed itself to their new Captain...

Who was, at this very moment, standing under the hot sun on above-
deck, holding the love of his life in his strong arms, and kissing
her quite senseless.  

"Oh, dearest love... Mulder... nay, you cannot!"  Lady Dana Scully
pressed against the hard chest of Captain Fox Mulder; eyes dazed with
a combination of passion and fear; attempting to stave off his lusty
caresses, even as she found herself straining closer to the flame. 
He had his face buried in her scented neck, mouth open against her
soft skin; his tongue ravenously tasting her; one hand held her hips
pressed against his raging erection, while the other cupped the sweet
weight of her breast, so lovingly outlined by the form-fitting blue
embroidered brocade of her gown.  She was shuddering with the need
his wild kisses had awoken in her soul - but she could not, would not
allow this completion. Somehow she must make him understand.

Mulder drew in a harsh breath, as he slowly lifted his head and
gazed into his Scully's eyes... damp with tears of mingled pleasure
and panic; he cursed himself for his callow behavior, and wrapped his
arms comfortingly around her, cradling her to his heart.  He had
caused his darling to weep.   His contrition knew no bounds.  Cupping
her lovely face in trembling hands, Mulder looked deep into her eyes,
then covered her cheeks with tiny, apologetic kisses as he whispered
to her.

"My love, my Scully... please, forgive me!  I have forgotten myself,
yet again. I cannot help it, dearest - when I am near you I lose my
sanity completely; the pounding of my heart makes me deaf against
everything except your bounty; I cannot get enough of you!" He held
her tightly, allowing her to feel the accelerated beating of his
heart.  Taking one tiny hand in his much-larger one, he pressed it to
his chest, naked beneath the crisp linen shirt he wore, open almost
to his waist.  "Feel me, Dearest - feel how much I want you, need
you!"  

Dana shuddered at the feel of his hot skin, and moaned silently,
leaning into his chest and pressing rosy lips to the heated flesh. 
She tasted his skin, the feel of it divine against her tongue - and
Mulder gave one mighty groan of desire and gently pushed her away; it
took all his strength to do so.  Gasping in mingled frustration and
desire herself, Dana raised glazed eyes to his, and laid her hand on
his warm, beard-stubbled cheek.

"Oh, Mulder... I want nothing more than the right to lie in your
arms every night, learning the delights of your strong body, but we
cannot, yet.  It is against my faith, Mulder. This raging lust I feel
for you is a sin in God's eye - even though to me it feels so right. 
I tell myself that nothing this wonderful should be wrong... yet I
know it is, dearest.  We cannot allow ourselves to be tempted any
further, Mulder - not until we marry."  

Mulder's eyes widened at her breathless declaration.  Married --!  

His face must have shown his sudden panic, for Dana smiled a little,
and kissed his cheek.  "Is the thought of wedding me so foreign, so
distasteful to you, my lord?  Surely you see this as a natural
conclusion to our love and devotion - Mulder?"  She placed a finger
underneath his chin, forcing his gaze to meet hers... only to tremble
anew at the depth of love and want in his beautiful hazel eyes. 
Their gazes locked as they cupped each other's faces, reaffirming
silently their commitment to each other.  

Mulder spoke softly, reverently to his lady.  "Scully... I would
want nothing more from this lifetime, than to become your husband,
and the father of your children.  But my love -" his eyes closed
briefly, as if fighting back tears - "My love, I am, for all intents
and purposes, a pirate.  Oh, I am an officer of His Majesty's Navy,
and I am proud to claim that title, but a pirate as well, thanks to
my past association with Skinner.  I have pirated these high seas
long enough to acquire a reputation, and I am a wanted man somewhere
in this wide world; of that I am quite sure.  What sort of life could
I offer you, my love?  Nothing secure, nothing guaranteed!  You
should leave me, Scully; you should get as far away from me as you
can!  Go, be a Lady... be someone's Lady while you still can."  

His impassioned diatribe was halted by her soft palm pressing
against his lips.  "I can't.  I won't.  Mulder, I'll be that Lady,
but my place is here with you now. This life that I have been exposed
to, whatever you call it... it is your life.  You hold me in your
hand, Mulder - ever since that first fateful day upon the auction
block, my course was set.  And this ship, your ship, Mulder -and your
crew - mayhap they need us, both.  How many other lives can we save,
together?  How much can I prove, to myself and to my odious brother
Wee Willy-Poop, that I am strong, and unconquerable?"  

She reached for his hand, clasped it tightly in hers, tugging on it
a bit, and smiled faintly.  "Mulder, if I leave you, go back to
Ireland and to my brother's dominance and cruelty... he wins."    And
Dana Scully stared hard into the eyes of her beloved, and he smiled
down at her, just a little; still worried, but knowing the rightness
of them, together.  They wound their arms around each other and held
on tightly, there on the polished deck, with the sun beating down
upon their heads and the wind in their faces.  

"Very well, Scully - I concede.  I love you too deeply to try
dissuading you further.  So, tell me..." he smiled down into her
glorious eyes, "Tell me, what sort of wedding does my Lady desire?"  

She dimpled up at him, and stroked his cheek so lovingly.  "A
Catholic wedding, Mulder."

<< 9

The heat of the afternoon sun made the sand almost painful to walk
upon, and Alex been waiting for almost an hour, the thin, worn soles
of his tattered boots no protection from the burning ground.  He
shaded his hand against the low glare of the sunset, and watched as a
ship, large and with full sails still billowing, moved closer and
closer to the shore.  It looked like... but nay, it couldn't be, for
that particular lady wasn't due into harbor for several more weeks,
and Alex Krycek was not looking forward to the day it finally docked.
He really hoped today was not his unlucky day.

Alexendrokovski Krycek was a nomad, of sorts; never having called
any one place his home.  Found wandering in the dirty streets of
Tsankva Kvorkis when just a small tot, he had lived hand to mouth
amongst the whores and derelicts who frequented the docks of the tiny
Russian seaside burg.  Sometimes the whores, painted of face and with
large, soiled breasts, took pity on the rail-thin child, and would
give him scraps of dry, stale bread and dregs of wine from their
evening meals.  

The foul-mouthed sailors would frequently kick him out of their way
when they chanced upon him, begging in a high, childish voice, in
front of the doxy-quarters down on Vee Lu Svenk; he would stumble to
his ragged knees, tears springing from his large, dark eyes, as they
laughed coarsely and swore at him.  One of the whores would then pick
him up, and cradle him to one of many sweaty, yet comforting bosoms,
and rock him, crooning to him, calling him a brave little man for not
screaming from the pain.  Before the age of four, Alex had broken
every one of his little ribs, had endured several cuts from filthy
daggers and had broken both arms.  Every fight, every cruelty
inflicted upon his innocent head just served to make him stronger,
more of a scrapper... tougher to kill.  

By the age of ten, Alex could fight as well as any of the meanest
swabbies who swaggered along the dock and spat their tobacco juice on
the rocky beach.  He had learned how to steal and filch purses from
the few gents who were hapless enough to lose their way, fresh off
the touring ships when they came in for supplies and such. These men
were easy to spot with their snowy cravats and breeches of clean
velvet; clutching their hats in one hand and a clove-studded orange
in the other, to help ward off the harbor stench.  Alex cut his
thieving teeth on these unfortunate fops, learning to snatch and run,
quick as lightning.  

He had to fight to keep his hard-won treasures from the same gaggle
of unwashed sailors who'd kicked and beaten him when he was younger;
as he grew tall and strong (and very adept at fighting with knives),
the sailors learned to leave him alone... for the young man Alex
Krycek was not to be trifled with.  The only humanity in those filthy
streets safe from his marauding wrath was the whores who frequented
the corners, the docks and every available tavern.  These women had
been kind to Alex, essentially the only mother-figures he'd ever
known - and Alex was unfailingly polite and kind to them, for he'd
never forgotten their coarse but warm comfort when he was an injured,
bleeding and hungry little boy.  

Perhaps that was why he'd taken pity on Fowl Di, the bar wench he'd
met on the Ardent so long ago.  None would talk to the poor woman,
staring at her flattened chest with horror... not even wishing to
look upon her pockmarked face, for she'd been infected several times
with the dreaded Whore's Sores, which traveled from sailor to sailor
like wildfire and left deep holes upon the skin after the sores
popped, drained and healed.  It was said Di's last case of sores was
so bad, she'd actually lost her titties. They'd become infested with
the sores and had simply rotted off her body.  She had almost died of
the raging fever, and Alex never did find out the true story, nor did
he care.  Fowl Di was what she was though no fault of her own - just
as Alex had become.  He and Di actually became friends.

Now, Alex watched the huge ship as it moved closer and closer; he'd
thought it was the Georgetown, just back from a round of trading in
the Indies; he'd promised Di a length of Indian cotton, to make
herself a decent gown.  But this was not the Georgetown, it would
seem - this ship looked more like the Piper Maru, Skinner's ship.
This far away, it was still hard to tell. 

Alex stood his ground in the still-sizzling sand of Cuncan, and
nodded slowly to himself. It didn't really matter, he supposed,
whether he bought the cotton today; the Georgetown would be back soon
enough, and the money he'd make from the fine rum he could get from
Skinner might mean he could buy a little better kind of fabric for
Di. Alex turned and started toward the harbor. 

His mood improved further as he neared the busy docks. Skinner's rum
was by no means the cheapest, but for all the man drove a hard
bargain, it was still a good buy -- it was always so potent that Alex
could water it down significantly without a single complaint from a
customer. By the time he came to the Piper Maru, Alex was smiling,
and he found himself actually looking forward to the inevitable
haggling over the price. 

His smile turned to an expression of consternation when he took a
better look at the ship that bobbed gently in the water at the end of
the dock. It must be the Piper Maru -- yes, that was the same
intricately-carved dragon's head at the bowsprit, eyes ablaze,
nostrils flared... but there had been changes. The rigging all looked
new; the sails were crisply white -- where were the bold red slashes
that had been blazoned across them? And the flag -- Skinner had
always taken a devilish glee in the overlarge Jolly Roger he had
liked to fly at the very top of the mainmast, its grinning skull and
crossed bones proclaiming without doubt the nature of the ship, and
practically daring the men of Her Majesty's navy to try to best her.
Many times had Alex's old crony Admiral C.G.B. Spender skirmished
with Captain Skinner, and many were the self-aggrandizing tales told
by the rough and dangerous crew, around Krycek's tavern late into the
evening. 

Alex squinted up into the sun at the flag that flew in the Jolly
Roger's place, and tried to make sense of it. It was a plain black
banner, bearing the single letter "X" in a bold circle. He worried
his lower lip with his teeth. This could bode no good, he thought,
and wondered at the same time how he might learn more without
actually approaching the ship. 

He looked around, but saw no familiar faces. Where was Bowman, the
navigator? Or Manners, the quartermaster? Alex faded into the crowd,
becoming invisible, as he had learned to in his childhood, and
slipped closer to the Piper Maru. As he studied the ship, he saw
something that made him narrow his eyes and stare openly. Coming to
the top of the ramp, preparing to disembark from the ship, was a
woman. This in itself was not unusual; Skinner nearly always had a
tasty morsel on board to occupy himself between raids. What had
caught his eye was the woman herself. She was petite and dainty, but
bore herself regally; she was dressed in a kind of finery almost
unimaginable in this little harbor town -- a dark blue brocade, rich
with embroidery, riding low on her shoulders, nipping in at her
delicate waist. A lacy shawl covered her milk-white shoulders, and
only served to better frame her creamy bosom, rising above the
plunging neckline of the gown. Her luxurious red-gold hair was piled
high upon her head like a crown of flame. 

Alex sucked in his breath sharply. Skinner had outdone himself this
time. He watched as the beautiful woman stepped onto the ramp, and
saw that she was flanked by two men, one short and stout and
bespectacled, the second tall and lanky, with long yellow hair and a
craggy, forbidding face. Yes, Skinner knew the worth of what he had --
and was wisely keeping her well-guarded. Alex watched as she
descended the ramp, her chaperones at her side, and disappeared into
the crowd.

Krycek's curiosity grew by leaps and bounds. He looked around again
to see someone who might tell him more; his eyes came to rest on a
young boy just coming down the ramp, carrying a few small bundles. As
Alex watched, he set the bundles down next to a larger trunk. When
the child turned back toward the ramp, Alex was standing before him. 

"Good morning, young man," Alex said, smiling. "I'm Alex. What's
your name?" 

"Gilligan, sir, Vince Gilligan. But the crew all call me Gilly." 

"Have you come in on the Piper Maru? I know her -- she's a fine
ship." 

"Oh, aye, that she is, sir," said the child. Alex drew a coin out of
his pocket, slowly, and saw with satisfaction that the boy glanced
down and took notice. Alex toyed with the coin, not offering it to
the child, and yet making it plain that it might still change hands. 

"So, my young man," he asked, "where has she been sailing, this fine
ship? For I am a tradesman, and interested in her wares. Mayhap she
is carrying cargo that will suit my needs." 

"Why, I have only been on board her this past month, sir, so I
cannot tell you more than that." At Krycek's raised eyebrow he went
on, "My family, sir -- we were on a ship that foundered in a storm,
and began to take on water. Most of the lives on board were lost. A
few of us clung to the last bits of the wreckage for a few days. But
finally, just when all hope seemed lost, the Piper Maru chanced
across us, and the Captain rescued us, and has brought us here, where
we may find other ships to take us home. He has even given us coin to
book our passage." 

"I see," Alex said slowly, trying to imagine what could have brought
about such a show of generosity from Skinner. He wondered if the
boy's family was well-to-do, and whether there had been some sort of
exchange that the boy had not been privy to. "He is a good man, then,
the captain...?" 

The child beamed. "Oh, yes, sir! He is a fine man. And his missus is
so kind, too -- she has been teaching me my letters and my sums, all
the way here. I like them both so very much!" 

His missus! Krycek almost frowned in surprise, and caught himself
just in time. A suspicion began to form in his mind. "And what does
the Captain's missus look like, my boy?" he asked. 

"She's a pretty lady, sir, with red hair, and eyes as blue as the
sky. Captain Mulder says that Miss Scully is the prettiest lady on
all the seas, and I think he is right." 

Captain Mul -- 

"Here, my boy," Krycek said, abruptly holding the coin out to the
child, "I thank you for the tale." He turned on his heel and strode
away, leaving the surprised boy staring after him. 

~~~~~~~~~~

<< 10

Inside the Little Ale'inn, the air was much cooler, albeit stale
with last night's ale and tobacco fumes; but Di was used to the
stench.  She knew it permeated her skin and her hair, but she had
grown so accustomed to it, and besides, all their customers reeked of
the smell.  This afternoon, however, the odor was especially strong;
there had been a marathon whist session the night before, with a
throng of sailors egging on the two remaining players.  Krycek loved
these standing-room-only nights of games, and drinking; he brought in
a tidy sum after such events.  

Last night had been no different, and Alex had bounded out the door
fairly early this morning, patting Di on her rump and winking at her,
promising her a length of fine indian cotton, should the Georgetown
come into port.  He had asked her what color she preferred, knowing
with a smile she would reply, "Oh, Master Alex, it doesn't matter to
me none, you know that!  Just having new cloth is more than I could
hope for." 

When he had returned a few hours later, Di was just coming in from
cleaning out the pigeon coop Krycek kept behind the tavern. It was
another unpleasant, smelly job, but she knew Alex was the only man in
all the nearby islands to keep messenger pigeons, and she had seen
many times over how valuable they could be as a means of contacting
the world outside the little island. Several times, these pigeons and
the messages they carried had helped to avert trouble. 

As she opened the back door, Di had heard Krycek directing the young
man who'd brought the great kegs of rum to the tavern. "Over here,
behind the bar -- yes, right there. That'll be fine." 

"Master Alex?" 

"Di," he said, with a sigh, turning to her. "I'm sorry -- it wasn't
the Georgetown that docked today; it was the Piper Maru. I've no
cloth for you after all." He patted the top of the nearest keg. "But
we have some of that excellent rum, now, so by the time the
Georgetown comes our way, we may be able to buy you twice as much,
eh?" 

"Ah, you're right. We always do well on Captain Skinner's rum --
that we do," she replied, but Alex's face darkened at her words. He
reached over and pulled a barstool toward him, and slowly sat down. 

"There's been a change at the helm of that ship, Di," he said
thoughtfully. "I dealt with a new man today for the rum -- called
himself Byers. John Byers. He seemed a pleasant, easy sort of fellow,
though I'll warrant I paid the same sum for these three kegs that I
would have to Skinner's old quartermaster Manners." 

Di frowned a little. "But... is Captain Skinner not her master,
anymore? What could have happened? Why, it's been years since anyone
dared even to try him." 

Krycek shook his head. "I heard a little of the story, here and
there, but not enough to put all the pieces together. And I want the
rest of the tale, because I think the man who usurped that ship is
someone I've a score to settle with." He looked meaningfully at the
steel hook that protruded from the end of his sleeve. "I invited the
man Byers to come here and sample that good rum, and told him his
Captain was welcome as well. If he's the man I'm thinking of,
then..."  His voice trailed off. Diana, seeing the determined set of
his mouth, felt a wave of mingled excitement and apprehension wash
over her. She knew whom it was that Alex held responsible for the
loss of his arm -- but what could that man have to do any longer with
the Piper Maru? Or, for that matter -- with her?

Di wiped down the bar with the cleanest rag she could find, and set
out mugs for ale and rum.  Outside the sun hung low in the sky; it
would set soon and then the men would come, rowdy as ever, demanding
their warm rum and setting up the whist games again.  Sailors would
stagger in from the docked ships in the harbor, having begun their
drinking marathon on deck and continuing in the cozy tavern.  

Some of the sailors would come to her, eager to strike a deal of an
hour or so of her time. Only a handful of unattached women lived on 
the island. Although Di was certainly nothing to look at, she was 
kind to the sailors and took very good care of them, either in front 
of a mug of ale or behind the dingy curtains of her little room.  
She sighed gustily, and dropped the soiled rag into a cracked 
earthen bowl filled with grimy water.  

Propping her elbow on the sticky bar counter, she wondered for the
hundredth time if her life would ever be more than a smoky bar and a
sailor's callused hand somewhere on her body.  Di shook her head in
self-disgust, and finished setting up the rest of the mugs.  As she
bent down to retrieve the storeroom key from underneath the counter,
knowing she would have to bring out another crock of ale, the door
opened noisily, blowing in a gust of sea breeze and the smell of
spicy citrus and cinnamon.  

Di paused in mid-squat, sniffing the air.  That smell - she knew
that smell.  Citrus and cinnamon... Once, long ago, she'd lain in a
rumpled bed next to a man who smelled of citrus and cinnamon; she'd
curled herself against him as he slept, and her hand had caressed him
lovingly -- 

Mulder.  Fox Mulder had always smelled of citrus and cinnamon; it
was his own special cologne, made for him in the West Indies years
ago when he first crewed the Piper Maru and the ship had docked there
for supplies.  

Mulder... here?  Impossible. It could not be!  Di crouched behind
the counter, afraid to straighten up and see for herself who'd just
come through the door.  She stayed down and out of sight, listening
to see if she could recognize the voices. Two of them, one deeper
than the other, both voices smooth and cultured, amazingly similar in
pitch and tenor.  

"Seems to be deserted... thought this was the only tavern in town?" 
John Byers looked around the empty room, noting the stacked mugs on
the counter and the tallowed candles in their sconces on the dark
walls.  "Someone must be here, for the sconces have been lit and the
door was unlocked. Mayhap they are in a storeroom somewhere, fetching
supplies."  

He shrugged and flopped into the nearest chair; next to him, Fox
Mulder sank into an adjoining chair and rubbed at his weary face.  It
had been a long day, but they were finally at port - and he was now
an engaged man.  He grinned to himself; Byers noted the wide smile,
and slapped Mulder on the back.  "You are one lucky devil, Captain...
I hope you realize that."  

Mulder nodded, smiling still; he reached out a strong hand and
clasped his friend's shoulder. "I am indeed, Byers - do not think I
am unaware of it!  Lucky beyond belief..." He trailed off, staring
into space, seeing naught but the enchanting face of his beloved
Dana, as she had last appeared to him:  standing on the gangplank of
the Piper Maru, red hair glinting in the sun, a smile of pure
loveliness on her face and eyes brighter than the sky. He sighed.

And behind the counter, Di heard his voice - and his sigh - and her
heart began to pound hard against her oaken chest, for she knew that
voice and that sigh.  Combined with that intoxicating smell, it could
be none other than the man who still haunted her dreams after all
this time.  

Fox Mulder, in this tavern.  She still dreamed of him often,
sometimes every night in a weeks-span.  Still remembered the feel of
his taut, smooth skin, and the strength of his man-root as it had
buried itself into her eager body again and again.  Gentle but rough,
tender yet demanding - tireless in his need and in his lust.  A
stallion under the covers, and a true gentleman outside the
boudoir... such a man!  Di had to see him; had to be sure.  She dared
a quick peek over the scarred counter.

Oh Merciful Heavens!  It was he - it was Fox.  Seated only a few
feet away from where she crouched in trembling awareness; long legs
stretched out before him, clad in tight buff breeches and polished
black hessians; dark blue waistcoat fitting his wide shoulders to
perfection, white linen shirt open at his tanned throat... smiling at
his companion, who was also quite a nice-looking fellow, but could
never begin to compare to her darling Fox. 

Di began to rise, up off her knees, fully prepared to fling herself
over the counter and into his arms - then she froze, and looked down
at herself in complete dismay.  She was a wreck - a complete and
utter wreck.  Her hair hung in her eyes, greasy from lack of a proper
cleansing and brushing; her gown was soiled down the front and
stained with ale and rum and sweat, torn on one shoulder from the
rough handling of last eve's only paying customer.  She'd fallen into
bed exhausted, not bothering to undress.

If ever there needed to be a time when Di looked and smelled her
very best, it was at this fortunate moment in her life... for a hardy
wind and Lady Fortune herself had seen fit to sail her Mulder back to
her. Di wanted nothing more than to wallow in that good fortune.  But
first, she needed to clean herself up.

Staying low behind the bar, she crept soundlessly into the back room
and wasted not a moment; ripped off the soiled gown and hurriedly
splashed herself with toilet water, raking her hair up into a quick
and sloppy chignon as she struggled into the first clean gown she
could dig out of her steamer trunk.  Within five minutes she was as
presentable as possible and smelled a good sight better, although
underneath the coating of lilac toilet water the sweat and ale was
discernible. But there wasn't a thing she could do about it. 
Pressing one work-roughened hand to her fluttering stomach, Di pulled
the shabby curtain aside, and approached her destiny.

Byers spotted her first, and gave her a shy smile; she smiled back
in his general direction, her eyes locked onto the form of the only
man in the world for her, sitting so relaxed and at ease in the
scarred chair.  Mulder had been staring out the darkened window,
wondering when he should return to the ship and to his Scully, for
surely her nightly toilette would be completed by now, and he would
go to her stateroom, and have a leisurely supper with her... then
spend the rest of the evening planning a future; dreaming dreams, and
kissing her until they both fair exploded.

A small noise near the bar drew his attention away from his reverie,
and he turned his head to glance at the woman standing next to the
wooden counter.  Dark hair piled haphazardly atop her head; faded
blue gown, clean but wrinkled here and there; sparkling brown eyes in
a tired, pockmarked face, showing traces of the prettiness that would
have been apparent many years and many men ago.  He had seen this
woman countless times, in countless ports; slopping ale to sailors
and assorted drunks; cleaning up vomit and urine from overflowing
slop buckets, dodging hands with no coin in them and allowing a
padded pocket a few liberties. Yes, he'd seen his share of this kind
of woman.

Except this particular woman did look familiar to him... he stared
at her, hard.  Yes, he did know her. He dredged through his brain and
pulled a name out of the air; stood up slowly and addressed her.  

"Diana, is that you?"  

She nodded eagerly, one tear falling from her eye, moving swiftly
toward him as he held out a hand to her, a smile forming on his
handsome features.  She reached him in an instant, bypassed the hand
and threw herself into his arms; in her joy forgetting completely
about her oaken titties and how they might feel to someone who knew
nothing of the circumstances surrounding such an odd appendage.  

His arms closed around her slowly, and he gave her a hesitant hug;
bewildered at her familiarity but accepting without question her need
to be held.  She smelled... odd, he decided; sweaty and perfumed and
decidedly stale with rum - but after all, she was a bar-maid, and as
such took on the scents and smells of her trade.   And her bosom;
strange.  Something very strange. And with a start of shock, Mulder
realized what it was.  He remembered a sailor on the Piper, bragging
about bedding a wench with oaken titties and how they had repulsed
him and yet excited him at the same time. 

Mulder looked down at the woman in his arms and his eyes filled with
pity. What had happened to her, he wondered, as he held her gently
and felt her tears against his throat.  The Diana he'd known had been
a handsome woman; a bit thin from too few meals, but nicely rounded
and her face had more than a few traces of beauty.  She'd always had
nice eyes and a sweet smile, but now her eyes were faded, and her
face drawn and creased - her body much too bony and her hands rough
and scratchy from years of harsh soap.  And her breasts... Mulder
couldn't even begin to fathom what may have happened to her in the
past, for her to lose her bosom.   

He'd known her years ago, when he was a callow, youthful and eager
lieutenant and she was the 'older woman' who took him to bed and
eased his hot blood with a body well-used but still supple and firm. 
He held her and let her cry all over him, and pondered sadly the
harshness of the world on a woman alone; no man to care for her and
in such dire need of money and food that she'd lie with swine to
gather a few coins to rub together.

He was so thankful he'd found his Scully, before a fate such as this
could have befallen her, and stolen the bounty of her youth and
beauty, and innocence.  So thankful... so anxious to get back to his
ship and see her, tell her - reaffirm his love for her, and his need.
For now, however, there was a woman who needed comfort, and no small
amount of it, and Fox Mulder was ever the gentleman.  

So he held Di and spoke gently to her, kind words she'd not heard in
so very long; inquiring about her health and her well-being, as if he
really did care; which he did, of course... but not in the manner for
which her need was the strongest.  He brought her over to his table
and bade her sit; dried her teary eyes with a linen handkerchief that
was softer than her skin.  She dabbed at her eyes and restrained
herself from blowing her nose on such silky cloth, also forcing
herself not to wipe her nose against the sleeve of her gown.  Di was
no lady, but Fox Mulder was a gentleman through and through; she'd
not bring him down to her level by exercising her baser instincts in
his presence.

to be continued!


EPISODE TWO, PART TWO

<< 11

Lady Dana Scully stroked a boar's hair brush through her glossy
flaming locks, and with half-closed eyes thought of her love.

It had been the most wondrous day. They'd spent the morning planning
and scheming a wedding, stealing kisses and caresses as they plotted.
Mulder had pressed a sweet kiss upon her honeyed lips with each plan
they'd agreed upon; after the second or third kiss they'd found
themselves agreeing upon the most ridiculously outrageous ideas, just
to have an excuse to kiss.  

She'd asked for roses and lilacs to wear in her hair; Mulder had
countered with hibiscus, remarking upon the ease of finding the scent-
heavy flower, which grew wild on the island.  An agreement made, they
had kissed with leashed passion, exploring each other's mouths
tenderly.  Then Mulder had declared his desire to be married in puce-
colored breeches, with broad purple stripes; Scully had been suitably
horrified and had countered with her wish to see him in his formal
white dress breeches.  

"They mold themselves so cunningly to your, um... strength, my
love." And her eyelashes had fluttered at him in exaggerated appeal;
Mulder had hooted aloud with delighted laughter and had agreed
instantly; then his strong arms had wound about her tiny waist, and
pulled her into his hard chest, covering her smiling lips hungrily;
giving up all pretense of polite discourse as they'd fondled each
other with increasing abandonment, and kissed until they were both
fair unconscious.   

Mulder had been aflame with longing and boundless lust, trembling
hands cupping her sweet breasts, lips stamping a trail of possessive
kisses across her dainty jawline and down one creamy shoulder until
he had reached a luscious point, hidden underneath the blue of her
gown.  He had gasped at the feel of that berry-sweet morsel under his
fingertips, and had tugged at the shoulder of her gown, exposing the
tender nub to his hot gaze, and then to his even hotter mouth.  Dana
had shuddered with sweet longing as his lips closed over her nipple,
alternately pulling and then licking at it with his silky-rough
tongue until she thought she'd go mad with the wanting of him. 

Now, Dana shuddered anew at the remembrance of the passion-soaked
moment; how she'd cried out with the feel of his hard suckling of her
breast, fighting to keep her head and hating to deny him the ease of
her body.  But she wanted their first time together to be perfect...
she wanted the honor of marital bliss to cover both of them, ere they
consummate their sacred vows.  She'd pushed him away, eyes glittering
with unshed tears as Mulder, damning himself to perdition for making
her weep once more, held her pressed tightly to his shaky frame and
begged her forgiveness again and again. 'Twas a small boon to grant;
she loved him too much to be angry with him for actions which she
knew could not be helped, nor controlled, by either of them.  

Dana sighed, and set down her brush; he'd be here soon, and they
would share a light repast and finalize their plans for the wedding
ceremony... and then there would be the sweetest, most drugging
kisses, exchanged with heated passion... her head swam with the need, 
and the desire.  Dana lay back upon the wide satin-covered bed, and 
dared to touch her soft breasts with her own slender fingers, 
imagining they were the hands of her love - feeling with wicked need 
the almost overpowering stir of her deepest womanly ache, for him... 
for her Mulder.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Alex Krycek held his favorite pigeon in his hand, and thought about
what he'd discovered this night, simply by asking a few well-worded
questions.

He now knew for certain the identity of the Piper Maru's new Captain
- and his fury and desire for revenge had never been stronger than at
the moment when the Piper's swabbie Byers had unwittingly uttered Fox
Mulder's name.  Krycek had been half expecting it, if the truth be
told; had suspected as much when he'd first spoken to that boy Gilly,
who'd been unloading from the Piper.  

Captain Fox Mulder!  The man who'd caused him to lose his arm.  His
enemy.  Krycek had sworn an oath to kill Fox Mulder, should their
paths ever cross again, and now it seemed his chance was finally at
hand.  Fox Mulder was docked here on the island, preparing for a
wedding, according to Byers.  Krycek had returned to the tavern in
time to speak to the swabbie, who'd stayed behind to have one last
mug of warmed rum before heading back to his post.  Apparently Mulder
had already departed for the ship, no doubt eager to return to the
arms of the luscious red-haired beauty who Alex had spied earlier.  

Mulder's intended... the loveliest woman Alex had ever seen.  A
woman such as that could keep a man warm and sated for the rest of
his God-given days on earth. It would be a shame to see a woman so
beautiful laid low as a widow, so soon after her wedding vows.  She'd
be desolate. She'd need comforting, to be sure.  Alex smiled at the
thought - he could be persuaded to be the comforter of the Lady
Scully, with little effort.  

He stroked the little pigeon once more, and set it on a small perch;
adjusted the tiny missive strapped to its leg.  This pigeon was
trained to fly from the island to wherever the great ship Ardent
happened to be a-sail - and Alex knew its Captain would come running
with full canvas flapping, if he knew the Piper Maru was this
accessible.  Hopefully, the Ardent wasn't so very far away and could
make port quickly, upon its captain receiving this most vital
missive.  Admiral Spender hated the Piper Maru; had been searching
for it for quite a while.  Spender had a score to settle with its
Captain, and quite a lot of purloined booty to lift from its well-
padded storerooms.  Krycek smiled again, and set the pigeon loose,
watching its upward progress into the night sky.  "Fly straight and
true, my little friend.  I am counting on you to deliver my most
important missive of all.  Do not fail me..."  As he continued to
watch, Alex could have sworn he saw the bird dip its wing as if in
acknowledgment of his entreaty.

<< 12

The Ardent was a huge ship, larger than most frigates and fitted
with extra sails.  Its owner, Admiral C.G.B. Spender, was one of the
few higher officers in Her Majesty's Royal Navy who actually owned
his own ship.  Spender never failed to remind his crew at any given
moment - usually when he was angry at them and was wont to threaten
them in some way - that the Ardent belonged to him and thus he could
make them walk the plank for any sort of misdemeanor, should they
displease him in any way.  Consequently his crew obeyed him
stringently, but they despised him, even as they feared him. 
Considering the quality of the crew in question, their fear was all
the more indicative of the man himself; the man who controlled the
Ardent, and their lives.

CGB Spender was a tall man, with a slight paunch and yellowed,
unhealthy skin; unhealthy from the copious amounts of tobacco he
smoked in his pipe, constantly lighting it and sucking the acrid
smoke deep into his lungs.  The tobacco was specially blended for him
and always ready for him, whenever he stopped at Port Du Morlee', on
the Mediterranean island of Salarno.  Thick, yellowish-green smoke
would ring his craggy head as he puffed away, and the stench of the
tobacco permeated every nook and cranny of the huge ship.  

His crew - hardened criminals for the most part, although they
played at being officers of the Royal Navy - cringed whenever Spender
spoke to them, not just because they feared him but also because of
his putrid breath.  Many of them were in the habit of carrying around
clove-studded oranges, which they held to their noses in a vain
attempt to reduce the odiferous smoke.  Spender was not offended by
their antics; in fact, when he was feeling particularly buggery, he
would take their oranges away from them and then force them to stand
still whilst he breathed directly into their faces.  If they vomited
as a result of their weakness, they were slapped in irons as a
punishment and chained to the side of the ship for hours.  Spender's
crew thus actually became infamous for their ability to hold their
vomit endlessly.

Spender had hand-picked his crew from the hapless dregs of the
islands of which he was wont to dock.  To say they were rough men
would be to put forth an understatement. There was Junior Yeoman
Modell. Rob was his name, but no one would ever have dared to address
him so informally.  He was Modell to some and "The Shover" to others,
depending upon their rank (and physical strength).  

Recruited by Spender in the West Indies, Modell was obsessed with
the idea of bending the minds of the human race to do his bidding,
and his will.  Handsome and articulate, he was always dressed
immaculately in his yeoman whites, and would become irrationally
infuriated whenever another crew-mate touched his spotless uniform,
or behaved in a clumsy manner close to his person, threatening to
spill upon, smudge, stain or otherwise maim his uniform.  Ordinarily
the crew would have delighted in torturing the yeoman, just to watch
him erupt... except that when Modell did spew his nasty venom on a
hapless crew mate, they would usually die.  For Modell had perfected
that ability -- to force the human mind to perform his bidding,
simply by staring at them, and thinking about the way in which he
wanted them to hurt themselves.  Of the fortunate few who were
allowed to see another sunset, upon being asked where Modell had
disappeared to - after inflicting his form of terror upon them - they
would simply stare blankly into space, and murmur, "He had to go."  

Modell's immediate superior was Senior Yeoman Pfaster.  Donnie his
name; the sweet nickname given to him by his sainted mother, these
many years dead in her grave.  Donnie wore about his neck a chain
woven of his mother's hair, and studded with her fingernails, which
he had removed from her fingers upon her death.  Considering his
mother wasn't  completely dead when he removed them, however... it
was understandable why his "sainted" mother screamed and cursed his
rotten soul to Hell, as he was busy prying off her nails.  Donnie had
solved that small annoyance by drowning his mother's weakened body in
a copper tub of icy water; then he gently washed her hair with rose-
scented soap, pulled it out by the roots and wove himself a chain to
wear about his neck.  Oftentimes he would pause in his daily task,
and stroke the chain gently, a dreamy look upon his face.  When his
crew-mates witnessed this moment of reverie, they would usually run
in the other direction, as Donnie had once or twice attempted to
remove hair in a subversive manner; sneaking up behind them as they
toiled, and yanking on their locks.  After the last attempt, every
man jack crew had his hair shaven off - and so that small temptation
was removed.  It didn't stop Yeoman Pfaster from trying to remove
their fingernails, however, at night when they lay abed.  Recruited
from the Hawaiian island of WakiWaki - rescued from disembowelment
for trying to remove the hair of the Chief's number one daughter,
Sweetbread Blossom - Pfaster had found a home on the Ardent.  The
rest of the crew would have liked to see him run away from said home.

Ensign duties were assumed by Edward Jerse, a handsome and
personable lunatic whom Spender recruited on the far coast of
Cornwall.  Ensign Jerse was the Ardent's record-keeper, having been
employed as a merchant banker in Cornwall.  Possessed of a higher
intelligence than the average ensign, Jerse was nonetheless as
pudding-pated as they came.  Tattoos covered his arms and his strong
shoulders; a dizzying variety of tattoos which at first had
fascinated the other crew. Until they realized that Jerse was
convinced his tattoos had lives of their own, which they played out
on his hapless body with irritating regularity.  

To keep his 'live' tattoos from exercising such mundane daily
routines as holding 'town meetings' and 'village dances' complete
with music - which he claimed they were prone to do when he slept - 
Jerse frequently did himself bodily injury with fire, hot coals and
sharp knives.  When the instruments of his self-infliction became too
much for the rest of the crew to bear, they forced Spender to
restrict Jerse to the lower quarters, where the great stores of
foodstuffs, pilfered booty and other such supplies were kept.  The
arrangement worked quite well, with Jerse at home amongst his
responsibilities, and the crew at last undisturbed by his habitual
wounding... except sometimes, late at night, when a crew-mate could
swear he heard the sound of a squeeze-box, playing a waltz.

Far down in lowest quarters, lived Crewman Eugene Tooms.  Tooms was
the ship's vermin killer.  Rats were a problem on any ship, and even
a large, well-appointed ship such as the Ardent was not immune. 
Tooms was very successful at his task for one very good reason:  he
craved, and lived off, the livers of all the rats he caught.  Tooms
had been recruited in the Bavarian town of Hammerschmitzel, where
Spender had found him keeping the sewers vermin-free. Spender had
bought him, taken him on board and tossed him into the bowels of the
lowest quarters.  Within three days, nary a rat could be found, and
Tooms was lying in a corner of the dank galley, his mouth covered in
yellow bile, and satisfyingly bloated from his grisly repast.  The
rest of the crew, curious to see for themselves their new oddity of a
crew-mate, took one glance at the slumbering Tooms and ran for upper
deck.  After that, Tooms was on his own.

On this particular day, very early in the morning, the Ardent cut
through the foaming waves with ease, sails billowing full in the
breeze and crew scrambling to keep the huge ship moving swiftly. 
Spender was impatient to be at his next planned port; it was rumored
he'd found a new quartermaster to replace the one that Crewman Tooms
had murdered.  Spender had cursed from one end of the ship to the
other, when the discovery had been made.  Good and loyal
quartermasters were hard to come by, and Van Blundht had been one of
the best.  

Deceptively strong and intelligent, fiercely loyal to Spender, Van
Blundht was worth his weight in gold, for he had the inexplicable
ability to rearrange his features in such a way as to take on the
identity of anyone with whom he came into contact; this ability
enabled him to perform some amazing raids on the well-protected
hoards of goods and other necessities of port, wherever the Ardent
docked.  Van Blundht would simply sidle up to the storeroom doors,
observe the keeper of the keys and by arranging his features would
take on the countenance of that keeper.  He would then knock the
keeper unconscious, take his keys and unlock the doors, instructing
the keeper's own lackeys to load the goods into the Ardent's large
storerooms.  Usually no one ever questioned the keeper, when doling
out the coffers, and thus the great ship amassed mounds of goods and
rarities, from all over the world.  

But Van Blundht had made the mistake of venturing down into the
bowels of the ship, his natural curiosity getting the better of him,
wanting to see for himself the odd crewmate Tooms.  And he saw,
indeed... right before Tooms, having eaten every rat's liver he could
find and still hungry, had leapt upon the rather slow-moving Van
Blundht, and had made a meal of his nice, large liver.  

Now the Ardent flew across the water, and Spender stood at the helm
of his ship, puffing away on his acrid tobacco and watching the
reflection of the bright sun upon the sea.  His anger, at having to
replace the valuable Van Blundht, was great, but not great enough to
be willing to give up Crewman Tooms, for the nasty little liver-
muncher had cleared his ship of all vermin, and for that talent he
was worth keeping.  Spender was willing to look for another
quartermaster, and in fact, was entertaining the idea of asking his
old friend Alex Krycek to assume that duty.  He could use a man such
as Krycek - even with one arm, the Russian was tough and quite
formidable.  

Smiling to himself, Spender turned awkwardly away from the foaming
wake of the sea, his pegleg less than steady beneath him, just in
time to see a carrier pigeon land with unerring accuracy upon the
rail near him.  A carrier pigeon... Spender knew of only one user of
such messengers: his old friend Krycek.  Odd that the tiny bird
should land on his ship at the exact same moment that Krycek would
cross his mind. But as Spender reached out a hand to grasp the
minuscule leather pouch tied to its leg, his pet parrot Polly, having
flown from its perch at stern to light upon its master's shoulder,
began to squawk in furious jealousy at having to share Spender's
favor.  

The pigeon, spooked by the angry parrot, abruptly took to its wings
and flew directly into the surprised face of Yeoman Pfaster, who
immediately grabbed at it, yelling, "Ahoy!  Fresh pigeon for supper,
Mateys!"  

Two of the upper deck swabbies, upon hearing the word 'fresh,'
whooped and began to chase the little bird, who flew erratically
around in circles, trying to escape their eager grasp.  At last
Pfaster, taller and more dexterous than the rest, reached out a long
arm as the bird barreled past, and caught it.  The tiny pouch was
torn off its leg as Pfaster made ready to wring its little neck...
just as their Admiral roared at them to drop the poor bird or face
walking the plank.  

"I'll have the man's head who tries to harm that bird!  Drop it,
Yeoman, else face my considerable wrath!"  Five clumsy steps forward
and Spender was nose to nose with Pfaster, puffing his fury and
acrimoniously fetid breath into the yeoman's suddenly greenish-pale
face.  Pfaster loosed the bird from nerveless fingers; the tiny
creature flew off, just as the poor yeoman keeled over from the
unholy stench of his Admiral's breath, and vomited on the deck floor.
The deadly point of Spender's pegleg kicked him aside as he bent to
retrieve the tiny missive that had been attached to the bird's leg. 
Carefully he unfurled it; held it close to his face and read it - 

Only to fling it down again, cursing foully, as he turned on one
heel and limped over to the stairs leading to below-deck, bellowing,
"MODELL!  Reset the course!  We sail for the isle of Cuncan, this
very day!" And to himself, softly, "I have a score to settle, and a
Captain to collect..."

<< 13

Di stood at the grimy window that looked out onto the main street,
such as it was; early in the afternoon and it was already bustling
with life.  She took up a grimy rag, dipped it in a bucket of water
and rubbed the wet rag on a bit of lye soap, trying not to notice how
the acidic soap made her hands raw and rough.  "Tisn't as if anyone's
going to hold my hand," she thought to herself, as she soaped up the
cloth and applied the foam to the lower window, taking off a few
layers of smoky residue.  She'd begun wiping the rest of the suds
from the window, when a sort of intuition made her glance up... and
she froze in place, heart beating fair out of her poor body.

Fox Mulder stood in the street, right in front of her rounded eyes. 
Di dropped the rag upon the floor, one wet hand going to her wooden
chest, not able to feel her heart pounding itself silly against the
oaken tittles, but knowing it was.  Her eyes drank him in hungrily.

He looked wondrous, he did... even more handsome than he'd appeared
to her, several nights before. Clad in a wine colored waistcoat and
pale grey breeches, which fit his muscular legs to perfection, calf-
high polished hessian boots and a snowy shirt and vest, cravat
intricately tied - holding his tricorn in his hands.  His dark hair
tossed about in the sea breeze, face tanned and eyes almost green in
the bright sunlight.  Di had ne'er seen a more tasty sight.  

God, to be held -naked - in those strong arms once more... what a
monumental difference from the sweaty, diseased embraces of the
sailors she was forced to endure, just for the bit of coin they
flipped her!  To taste those full, wide lips of his again, instead of
the wet slobbering of her average customer, all over her shrinking
body, in the dank darkness of her tiny room.  

To be able to walk about on his finely-tailored arm, out in public,
out in the street where all the sailors and general rabble of this
Godforsaken town could see them, and acknowledge her elevated status,
as a lady instead of a worn-out whore with raw hands and wooden
breasts.  Di sighed gustily... mayhap her Fox had come back this
morn, for a reason?  Mayhap for her?

Her face brightened considerably; had he longed for her, thought
about her these past nights aboard his fine ship, sleeping in his
spacious stateroom?  Had he pictured her there, in his bed, snuggled
in his arms among lush bed linens and feather pillows? Was that why
he had come back today; dare she think it was for her?  

Well, why not? Hadn't she made him happy, once?  Hadn't she spent a
considerable amount of her time with him; caressing him, kissing
him... loving him?  Once... and it could be that way again!  Di grew
more and more excited, just imagining her darling Fox coming back
ashore, just for her.

Oh, Lord - once again she was a mess!  She needed to get ready;
needed to put on a clean gown, try to achieve some semblance of style
to her matted hair which still bore the pins from the messy chignon
she'd made of it from several days past.  Needed to try sponging the
prior evening's sweat and ale stains from her skin. Di hurried to the
tiny back room where she slept, tugging at her apron as she pulled
the ragged curtains shut and dug into her steamer trunk for another
decent gown.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Out on the dusty street, Captain Fox Mulder pressed a snowy white
handkerchief to his damp forehead.  It was hot in the sun, but he was
a man in love, and as such the burning on his head from the bright
rays above was as nothing compared to the burning of his heart.  Even
so, Mulder set his tricorn over his dark, breeze-tossed hair as he
waited for his dearest Scully to arrive, escorted by two of the
faithful Lone Swabbies.  His unlikely friends on board his ship and
now, more than ever, his most trusted crew.  They'd proven invaluable
as both companions and guardians to Lady Dana Scully.   His business
in town completed, Mulder prepared to walk from whence he came, eager
to meet up with the unlikely trio.

But before he could take more than two steps, a tinkling voice
called his name... and he swung around, a huge smile lighting his
face and flaming in his eyes as he spied his love, running toward
him; Frohike and Langly struggling to keep up.  He held out his arms
as Lady Dana Scully leapt into his embrace.  He swung her around in a
dizzy circle there in the bright sunlight, and his tricorn fell to
the ground as he laughed joyfully.  He covered her still-smiling
mouth with his, suddenly ravenous for a taste of her sweet nectar;
kissing her deeply and at length.  Frohike and Langly politely turned
their backs on the two lovers, and pretended to find the rutted
street highly fascinating.

"Mulder, my love... put me down!  I grow dizzy... Mulder!"  Smiling
giddily, Dana pushed at the strong chest of her beloved, affording
precious little space between them, and squealing anew at the feel of
his warm lips tickling at her sensitive neck temptingly revealed by
the low-cut gown, lace shawl trailing on the ground.  Mulder nuzzled
her once more, breathing in her heady perfume, which owed naught to
artifice. Her unique scent belonged to her and her alone; he had
privately dubbed it ScullyScent; wishing nothing more from his life
than the privilege of wallowing in her fragrance for the rest of his
days.  

He raised his head and regarded her sparkling eyes and enchanting,
glowing face.  He loved her so; was fortunate indeed to have her by
his side. He voiced his thoughts aloud, and watched in rapt
fascination as her cheeks blushed an even deeper shade of rose.  She
ducked her head, burying her heated face against the strong column of
his neck.  

"Oh, Mulder... my adoration knows no bounds. 'Tis I who am
fortunate!  For you have saved me, in every way possible, you have
saved me.  You have restored my faith in humanity; you have given me
the strength of your beliefs!" 

His impassioned kiss interrupted her loving declaration, and he
whispered against her lips.  "Tis you, dearest Scully, who have saved
me - you kept me honest - you've made me a whole person, my darling.
I owe you everything..." Once more he seized her luscious mouth with
his, bending her over his arm and kissing her with every ounce of
pent-up passion in his soul.

And across the dusty street, Di ran out of her tiny room, fastening
the last few buttons of a faded but clean cotton gown; her face
scrubbed and her hair hastily pinned up on her head. Only to stop
abruptly, almost running into the still streaked window of the bar,
as her wide, shocked eyes took in the scene being played out in front
of the Little Ale'Inn.  

Fox Mulder, her endless obsession - holding a woman in his arms,
kissing her passionately.  A stunningly beautiful woman with flaming
red-gold hair, porcelain pale skin which had the gleam of silk about
it; wearing a gloriously flattering gown of deep gold, covered with
intricate embroidery that shimmered and sparkled in the bright
sunlight. Her shoulders rose above the low neckline of the dress, and
her eyes were closed, her lips being devoured by the man for whom Di
would have given her life, to kiss, in just that way... out in the
public eye for all to see.  

And as she stared and the tears shimmering in her eyes began to
spill over and run down her rough cheeks, Di leaned a bit far, there
at the window; a morbid need to see her pain laid bare in the
street... and her oaken tittles bumped against the window, emitting a
dull thunk on the glass, echoing the ache in her heart; in her soul. 
She threw back her head and wailed; the messy chignon on her head
coming loose and shielding her ravaged face, swishing against her
tears.

<< 14

They made their way down the long narrow street in the afternoon
sun, oblivious to the crowds around them, to the sights and smells
and sounds of the little harbor town, so caught up were they in each
other. 

"Scully, my dear," Mulder said teasingly, gazing fondly down at her,
"tell me more about this wedding you want. How large a hall shall we
need? Will you have many maids to attend you? How many trunks will
your trousseau require? The hold of the Piper Maru is only so large,
you know." 

"Oh, Mulder. Once there was a day when I would have said I'd need a
great church and a huge hall, and a hundred trunks." She tucked her
arm further through his. "Now, my love, I know better. All I shall
need is you, my darling, and a man of God to pronounce us man and
wife. The rest matters not, so long as I have you." 

"I am very glad to hear you say that," he answered. As they had been
speaking, they had passed out of the most populous part of the little
town; the houses grew farther apart, and the road dwindled to a
narrower path, shallow ruts worn along its edges from the little
donkey-and goat-carts that went up and down to the markets. Mulder
paused outside a wooden gate set into a spare hedgerow, and turned
Scully toward him. 

"Here we are, Scully," he said. "'Twas not only for trade that I set
the Piper Maru on her course for this island. I knew from my last few
visits that there was a good man here, a priest -- a Godly man who
told me he felt called to come here, late in life, to minister to the
rough men of the seas who might otherwise never hear the word of God.
This," and he held his hand out toward the little building a few
yards behind the hedge, "is the Roman Catholic Mission of the Blessed
Saint Dana the Enigmatic." 

Scully's mouth dropped open in surprise, and one little hand flew up
to cover it. She hurried to the gate and looked excitedly at the
humble whitewashed house with the wooden cross mounted at the peak of
the roof. In the yard, a statue of the saint stood in the center of a
small, well-tended garden; a few chickens scratched and pecked at the
bare-swept earth outside the church's front door. 

"Oh! Oh, Mulder!" Scully cried in delight, whirling around again to
face him. "She is the saint my mother named me for. It's wonderful --
it's perfect! It's been such a long time since I have been able to go
to a church. How shall I ever be able to thank you?" 

In reply, Mulder dropped to one knee, right there by the roadside in
the warm sunshine. He produced from his pocket a small box, and from
that, a ring. He reached up to take Scully's hand in his own. 

"I will be amply thanked, my darling," he said softly, "if you will
accept this ring, and come with me now into that church, and become
my wife." 

Scully was speechless with joy. All she could manage to do was to
fling herself into Mulder's arms, nearly knocking him down in the
process. He laughed aloud as he struggled to stay upright. 

"Scully! I hope that means 'yes' -- and have a care, my dearest one.
I don't want to drop the ring!" He got to his feet, and set Scully
carefully down again. 

"Yes, Mulder. Oh, yes!" She stretched up on her tiptoes to kiss his
cheek. "Yes, let's go inside and meet the priest." They went through
the gate and entered the yard hand in hand. The chickens scurried out
of their way as they approached.  Mulder knocked at the door of the
little church. From inside a voice called out in a rich Irish brogue.
"Come in, do come in. The Lord's house is always open!" 

Mulder glanced down at Scully's face. She was glowing, her eyes
sparkling; she looked as happy as a child on Christmas morning. He
couldn't help smiling along with her as he pushed the door open wide
and ushered her inside. As the door closed behind them, Mulder
respectfully reached up and removed his tricorn hat. 

The interior of the liitle church was plain, but neatly kept. A
large wooden cross hung on the back wall; before it stood a simple
altar, draped with a snowy white cloth. Candles flickered in colored
glass votives on two tables behind and to either side of the altar.  
As Mulder and Scully proceeded up the aisle between the rows of
benches that served as pews, an elderly man in a priest's cassock
pushed the drapery aside from a doorway in the back of the church and
peered out. He smiled broadly when he recognized his visitor, and
came forward, holding out his hand in greeting. "Ah, Lieutenant
Mulder! You've come back, have you? 'Tis the Lord Himself who's
called you, my lad!" he exclaimed. 

Mulder shook the old priest's hand. "And a good day to you, Father.
It's good to see you again." 

"How are you, son? And how is your Captain?" The priest smiled and
turned toward Scully. "And who is this lovely lass you've brought to
God's house this fine day?" 

"I -- I captain the Piper Maru now, Father," Mulder said a little
uncomfortably, adding quickly, "but never mind that. This is Lady
Dana Scully -- my fiancee. We were hoping..." 

"Lady Dana Scully," the priest interrupted, his eyes narrowing. "I
am so pleased to meet you. But tell me, my dear. Are you related to
the Scullys of County Quant, in Ireland, where I myself was born so
many years ago?" 

"Why... Why, yes," Scully answered wonderingly. "My father was Lord
William Scully, of QuantiCove, and my mother -- " 

"Aye, she was Margaret. I should have known!" the old priest cried,
reaching out to clasp her hands in his own. "You are very like her,
lass. You'd naught remember me, but I'm Father McCue, who baptized
you when you were but a wee babe in your mother's arms!"   

Scully could only gasp in surprise. "Father McCue! Yes, I do
remember you teaching me my catechism when I was just a little girl!"
Tears sprang to her great blue eyes, and she flung her arms around
the old priest's neck. "My mother said you'd gone to sea, to the
mission field. I never thought to see you again!" 

"There, there, my dear lass," Father McCue said soothingly, patting
her shoulder. "The Lord works in mysterious ways. 'Tis a miracle,
'tis a miracle, to be sure. God be praised!" 

Mulder was beaming as he witnessed the touching reunion between his
darling Scully and the old priest.  He'd ne'er thought there'd be a
connection between these two, although as Irish as they both were, he
might have guessed.  A happy coincidence, to be sure.  He stood to
one side and gave them their joyous moment, but glanced at the sky as
if to gauge the angle of the sun.  He didn't have a lot of time for
tarrying, and was desperate to bind Scully to him lawfully before the
sun set that day.  So thinking, Mulder reached out one hand and
cupped his beloved's shoulder, gaining her attention.

At her smiling inquiry, he shrugged and said regretfully, "It grows
late, dearest.  I am thrilled that you and the good Father have found
each other after so many years, but it is important that we return to
the ship soon."

Father McCue waved aside the apologetic look Mulder sent him.  "Of
course, of course!  You are affianced, you say?  Then you'd be
wanting to seal your vow with the sacrament of marriage.  I can
surely perform the ceremony, yes indeed!  I should be able to post
the banns beginning tomorrow, and --"

"No, Father.  You don't understand.  Lady Scully and I wish to be
married this very day!  I sail within a week at most, and likely
sooner.  I wish to protect her with my name, unimpressive as it might
be, and all of my earthly possessions, as soon as possible!  For you
and I know only too well how many dangers one can find in the world,
and my life as a sea captain is not without more than a few of those
dangers.  If something should happen to me, I want my beloved to be
protected and cared for."

"Oh, Mulder.  Your hand in marriage is plenty for me!  I care not
for what you possess."  Scully gazed up at him with her heart in her
eyes, imploring him to believe...

"Well, now.  This presents a bit of a problem, Captain Mulder."  The
old priest rubbed at his chin with thick fingers as he pondered the
situation.  He looked at the two standing in front of him, holding
hands, obviously so very much in love. If the darling child had been
aboard the young Captain's ship for any length of time, then her
reputation would have been compromised irregardless of the many men
who served the Piper Maru.  Unless there was also a woman, in some
sort of serving capacity, aship as well --

But when he delicately posed the question to Mulder, the only
response he got was a shake of the head.  Father McCue's concern
grew, and being a frank and earnest man, he wasted no time expressing
that concern.

Mulder and Scully were dismayed at the implications being outlined
by the kindly, well-meaning priest.  Scully's reputation, possibly in
tatters?  Unacceptable!  And yet...

"Well, wouldn't it then be of highest importance that we marry, and
as soon as we can?  In that manner, Lady Scully's reputation will not
suffer an hour longer."  It made perfect sense to Mulder, and yet
Scully's eyes dropped suddenly, but not before he saw the
consternation in their lovely blue depths.  The good Father also
seemed perturbed.

"Well, my son, it's not quite as cut-and-dried as that.  I suppose
it's too much to hope, that you be Catholic?"  Father McCue was
sorely tempted to hold his breath and cross his fingers as a child
might do.

"No.  I am afraid not, Father.  I follow no religion, much to my
great regret.  My mother and father, as far as I know, never had what
you call an affinity with the word of God.  I suppose you could label
me Protestant, at best."  Mulder found himself beginning to worry as
well, when faced with the concern he saw in the priest's faded green
eyes.  Mayhap he wasn't a religious man, but he was well-read and
knew quite a bit about the Catholic religion.  He knew of its
constraints and its piousness.  And he knew enough of its base
strictness, to understand that a speedy marriage to Lady Dana Scully
might not be that easy to obtain...

Father McCue was thinking of all options.  Surely God was looking
kindly upon these two children, for ne'er in such a long while had he
seen a man and woman more meant to be together, than Captain Mulder
and his lady.  It was apparent in the way they looked upon each
other, their love and commitment plain to see.  In the way he could
tell they'd face the world, demanding only the truest truths from a
society already fraught with so many ills.  Fox Mulder was a good
man, this Father McCue knew without doubt.  And Lady Dana Scully came
from a family whose roots were strongly embedded in the Roman
Catholic faith.  If only there was a way --

"My son, would you be willing to embrace the Catholic religion? 
Would you be willing to convert?"  The old priest posed the question
without hesitation and was gratified at the younger man's ready reply.

"Of course, Father.  I would embrace it with all my heart and a soul
willing to find the necessary faith, ere it gain me my beloved's hand
in marriage."  Mulder clasped hands with Scully's and pressed her
fingers to his lips, kissing the soft skin ardently.  Scully couldn't
look away from the intensity she found in his hazel eyes.

Father McCue nodded decisively.  "Then this is what we shall do.  I
shall post the banns -- wait," he admonished, as both Mulder and
Scully started to raise protest, "Wait.  The banns must be posted. 
In this we have no leeway.  A legal license of marriage
is the only way a posting of the banns might be avoided.  But this is
a small and remote island and we have no court here.  We would have
to send away to England for the license and that could take months.

"But the banns will only restrict you for three weeks.  That is not
very long, my children.  Surely you can stay in port a fortnight past
your original plans, Captain Mulder... when it means gaining your
heart's desire!  And this way I can begin your catechism as well.  I
can have you ready to be baptized and then confirmed into the
Catholic faith, before three weeks' time.  Normally it takes longer,
but I sense in you a man of high intelligence.  I wager you will soak
up your catechism like the proverbial sponge.  What say you?  Will
you accept my direction and allow me to set your course?"

Mulder looked at Scully, his eyes desperate for her to understand
his urgency. She looked back at him, blue eyes just as desperate. 
Three weeks -!  It was an eternity.  It was intolerable.

It was the only way, this she knew, to belong to her love in the
proper manner.  She was devout in her Catholicism.  She could not go
against the teachings of the Church, neither could she marry a man
who was not of her religion.  Father McCue was offering her all she
wanted, needed.  But they'd have to wait...

"Mulder..."  Her voice begged him to understand and to accept. 
Slowly he nodded, and she slumped in relief.

"All right, Father.  I will wait.  Post your banns, and Lady Scully
and I will make our preparations.  Tell me when you require me for my
lessons, and I will be here, eager to learn.  But hear me well: I
mean no disrespect, but I cannot wait one day past three weeks."

Father McCue nodded, well-satisfied with the young buck's
willingness to do right by his beloved.  He'd make a good Catholic,
and a good husband for the dainty Dana.  McCue knew he could do no
less for the daughter of one of County Quant's most respected
families.

"I will post the first bann today.  And, Captain?  You must engage a
lady chaperone for your betrothed. 'Tisn't fitting that a child of
her tender breeding should be attended by only rough men, day after
day!  It so happens that I know of a gentlewoman who will fit your
needs quite well.  She is of an age, well-spoken and educated, and I
am sure would happily and competently fulfill her duties as a lady's
chaperone and companion.  May I contact her for you?"  The wily old
priest included both of them in his query for permission.

Scully sighed, once, and then mentally kissed her freedom goodbye. 
She well knew the consequences of having a chaperone; she'd been
chafed by that particular restriction for all of her life.  But it
mattered not in the greater scheme of things, as all that she agreed
to, now, would afford her a swifter and smoother transition from
untried maid to the wife of Fox Mulder.  She nodded her assent, and
Mulder mirrored her action, albeit more reluctantly.

Father McCue beamed.  "Excellent!  I will contact her today and send
her over to your ship, post-haste!  Her name is Marita Covarrubias. 
A Russian lass, I believe.  Delightful young woman."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~      

to be concluded in Episode Three!

(unfinished)