My Big Fat Supernatural Honeymoon

ROMAN HOLIDAY OR SPQ-ARRRRRR Rachel Caine

In My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding, Cecilia Lockhart met her perfect match in an undead pirate captain. But even in calm seas, the course of true love never does run smooth…

Boston, September

HONESTLY IF SHE'D KNOWN THAT HER WEDDING WAS going to become the media event of the entire eastern seaboard, Cecilia would have gotten a better haircut. And a faster getaway limo, preferably one driven by a NASCAR star.

"Almost there," the limo driver said reassuringly as Cecilia clung to the arm of her groom and looked anxiously out the smoked windows at the flanking phalanx of news vans, reporters hanging out of car windows screaming questions, and bright popping strobes. "I can see the barricades."

The barriers were pulled aside, and the limo sailed sleekly through, coming to a flawless stop in a parking lot surrounded by marked police cars, all flashing their lights. No sirens, thankfully. Cecilia breathed a sigh of relief. She was pretty sure that the last black SUV to peel off pursuit had held Larry King and Oprah.

Cecilia looked at her groom, and hoped she didn't look as terrified as she felt. "That was—extreme," she said. Liam Lockhart—Captain Liam Lockhart—smiled.

"Lass, you've sailed with dead men, broken curses, and married a pirate," he said. "You might want to redefine how you measure an extreme."

He had a point. She studied him in the relative quiet of the limousine, and he looked back, perfectly calm. In the six months or so since they'd sailed the eighteenth-century pirate ship Sweet Mourning—Liam's ship—back into Boston Harbor and created a media firestorm, Liam had adapted to the modern world well in some ways, and not at all in others. He'd cut his hair, for example; it was a neat salt-and-pepper style, not exactly modern and not exactly antique, either. His wedding suit, however, was definitely a throwback—a fantastic black brocade coat and trousers made along the lines of what he'd been wearing when they met, only much cleaner and without the slashes, bullet holes, and various stains.

He was not conventionally handsome, maybe, but sharply intelligent, with black eyes deep and secret as the sea and a lovely kissable mouth. All in all, Liam looked utterly fantastic, and it gave Cecilia a goosebump-raising shiver of delight to see the sparkle of the gold ring on his left hand.

We're married. Not exactly a match made in heaven, a formerly cursed pirate and a slightly plain, too-round corporate wage slave who'd spent most of her not-quite-thirty years cultivating a fluorescent light tan in an office cubicle.

But when he looked at her, she felt like a goddess.

Liam lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it, mouth warm and gentle on her fingers. "In your own time, my love," he said. "No hurry."

"I'm ready," she lied with a smile, and he opened the door. He emerged first, then handed her out with the kind of flourish and elegance that she'd seen before only at Renaissance faires. On the other side of the press barricades, the cameras were eating it up. She was too terrified even to glance at the roaring crowd, but the pulse of strobes was so constant, it was like an extra sun.

Liam squeezed her hand, held her gaze, and winked. He bent close, put his lips to her ear, and said, "It'll be over soon. And then we'll have our leisure."

Cecilia fussed a little with her full silk skirts—a copy of a period wedding pattern from the eighteenth century, including a fiercely tied corset that had somehow managed to give her a dainty figure—and took his proffered arm to sweep past the rows of police officers standing at the barricades, heading for the wedding reception.

The Sweet Mourning loomed at the end of the dock, a massive ship with her sails currently lashed down, though Cecilia could see men swarming up into the rigging like spiders.

"That's odd," Liam said. "Should be an honor guard ready on the docks for our arrival." He pulled an elegant gold pocketwatch—his own—from his coat and checked it, frowning. "We're in good time, but not early."

With every step closer to the ship, Cecilia felt a tingle of foreboding building to an outright shiver. The crew was moving at a frantic pace on deck. Liam speeded up the pace, taking long strides in his polished black boots, and Cecilia had to hustle faster, with one hand holding her veil on her head. The guests wouldn't be far behind, although getting through security would delay them considerably, not to mention all the traffic.

The passenger ramp didn't lower for her, even when Liam shouted out a command. He cursed under his breath and gestured at the rope ladder hanging from the side of the massive ship.

"Climb?" she asked. "In this dress? Are you kidding?"

He wasn't. Her ascent wasn't nearly so graceful as his, and she was very relieved when he reached down to lift her the rest of the way and set her gently on the deck. The lift was performed one-handed. Liam was lean, but fearfully strong—cabled steel in those muscles.

Liam hadn't said anything about missing his ship, but she could see the change in him now, the brightness in eyes she hadn't even noticed had dulled, the subtle energy that ran through him. This was his home, not the apartment they'd gotten for him near the harbor. Liam Lockhart belonged here, on this deck—not on land, with her. Just for a second, she felt as though she was about to cry. This is where he's happy. It made her feel small, and second place.

Liam didn't notice. He'd been frowning and sweeping the decks with a captain's critical eye, and now he sent her a quick look of apology, and moved away from her to bellow, "Mr. Argyle, what the devil is going on here? Argyle!"

Cecilia realized belatedly that the supplies for the reception were piled in an untidy mess toward the bow—catering tables, tablecloths, punch bowls, silver cups, streamers, battery-powered party lights, speakers for the music. There were also people cowering there as well. Catering staff. The DJ. The wedding photographer.

As she stared in horror, a huge banner that read CONGRATULATIONS CAPTAIN AND MRS. LOCKHART fluttered from its place between the masts to the decks, was grabbed by two sailors, and flung onto the pile of reception debris.

Cecilia gasped as a pair of strange hands closed around her from behind. "Beg pardon, ma'am," said a rough voice. She struggled, but that was about as much good as fighting the tide; he simply put his arms around her, lifted her off the ground, and carried her off.

"Let go!" she screamed, and tried to twist to see Liam. She heard a clash of steel, and shouting. "Liam!"

"Quiet," her captor growled, and clapped a hand over her mouth as he hurried her down the darkened hallway, kicked open the door to the captain's cabin, and dumped her inside. "You've caused enough trouble already."

She fell to her hands and knees, twisted around, and glared back at him. He was a smallish man, compact and muscular, with wild dark hair and slightly mad eyes, arcane-looking tattoos crawling in a blue ring around his throat and down his chest.

In other words, scary.

"Stay here, witch," he ordered, and slammed the door on her. She tried the handle as soon as she heard his footsteps thump away, but of course, it was locked.

Perfect. Just perfect.

In the corner of the room, Cecilia spotted her blue suitcases—delivered ahead of time, thankfully—and charged for them. She skipped past the lovely going-away outfit and went for the blue jeans and comfortable white shirt at the bottom of the stack of clothing. She'd brought her own boots this time, and found a thick pirate-style belt in one of Liam's chests to finish out the ensemble.

Taking off the cute wedding lingerie would take too long. She left the white lacy underthings and topped it with more practical clothing, including the boots and belt, and began investigating the room for weapons. She'd found a dagger and was considering a cutlass when she heard the approach of a mob in full roar, noise that dumped a chill like cold water down her spine. It was coming down the hall.

The door rattled, then banged open, and Liam and Argyle charged inside. Mr. Argyle—a small, neat man with a Napoleonic haircut and Ben Franklin-style spectacles, primly dressed in a lobster-red eighteenth-century coat, white shirt, and black trousers, all sparkling new and clean—bobbed his head apologetically toward her as he shot the bolts on the door. "Ma'am," he said. "Felicitations on the happy day. Apologies for the general disaster."

Liam was ransacking the sea chests and coming up with weapons. A deadly looking double-edged knife. A six-shot revolver. A semiautomatic pistol, brand new. Liam caught the look she sent him, and shrugged half-apologetically. "Always be prepared."

"That's the Boy Scouts, not the pirates!" she said.

"Where do you think they got it from, lass?"

The roaring was loud now, right outside. Hammering started on the door. Argyle backed away from it toward them, his eyes cool and focused behind the spectacles as he held a pistol at the ready.

"Mr. Argyle," Liam said.

"Sir."

"What the sodding devil is going on?"

"Aye, well—"Argyle sent him a brief apologetic look. "I think the pink floral tablecloths were the last straw. But they've been muttering for months now, about how you've been bewitched again, about how devil-ridden this modern world is. I can't even convince most that the television box isn't some demonic spirit—"

A particularly loud bang on the door. Cecilia saw the wood shiver.

"Shortened version, Mr. Argyle, if you please," Liam said without a trace of alarm. Cecilia picked up another dagger from the pile Liam had amassed and jammed it firmly against her side, at an easy angle for a draw. "I don't think the door will hold for the epic tale."

Mr. Argyle nodded. "Mutiny, Captain. They're determined to take the ship out now, without delay."

"Well, it's not the first time that's happened," Liam said coolly. He ejected the magazine on the automatic he held, checked it, and slipped it back in with smooth efficiency.

"Respects, sir, it's the first time that we risk more than a temporary inconvenience," Argyle said. "Being mortal and all now." He sighed. "At least I convinced them to put the caterers and party staff safely on the docks. But they're taking the ship out, like it or not. I think the reception's off."

"There was no call for any of this. I'd have listened to them. I always listen."

Argyle looked briefly chagrined. "Aye. But—you must admit, sir, you've been a changed man, these last few months. And I've been no help to you. I admit, this modern world is a fair shiny place to my eyes; I failed to see how bad their morale was getting. My fault, Captain." He hesitated a moment, then said, "But perhaps it's a good thing, begging your pardon. They're pirates, black to the heart, the most of them. They don't belong out there, wolves among sheep. Better we keep them on the water where they can be watched."

"We can discuss it if we live," Liam said, and glanced at Cecilia, as if he'd suddenly remembered she was there. "My love, I'll need you out of the way. If the boys blame you for bewitching me, it's best not to give them your presence to glower at. Spark to powder."

"But—what are you going to do?"

Liam exchanged another look with his first mate, then turned toward the door. "Take back my command."

Cecilia nodded and withdrew to the farthest reaches, next to the stern window where the incoming glare would conceal her best. The cabin door shivered under a fusillade of banging.

"Here we go," Argyle muttered.

Liam reached the door, shot the bolt, and opened it, roaring, "Silence, the lot of you!" The impact was considerable. The crowd of men in the hall, fierce and brutal as they were, automatically stopped in the face of his rage, and there was a second of stillness. Liam stepped into it without a pause. "What the bloody hell are you playing at? Mutiny? Who stands for you? Come forward!"

There was a hesitation, and then one of the men stepped out. The same one who'd laid hands on Cecilia and hustled her into the cabin. "Josiah," Liam said, with a nod. "State your business."

"Captain," the man said. He had a low voice, a little rough, and he sounded firm but nervous. "The boys, we're in agreement. No more delays. This place, it's bewitched. We need clear sea air." Josiah's throat worked uncomfortably, and he sent a glance to a tall, thin, gawky man standing near him—a sharp, strong face, big eyes—who gave an encouraging nod. "You know it's true, sir. The men will go mad in this place. Best we put the witch over the side, like we done before, and—"

Liam, quick as a striking snake, put a cutlass at Josiah's throat, the point just tickling his Adam's apple. There was a collective intake of breath. Josiah didn't move.

"You're talking about my wife, Josiah Walker," Liam said softly. "Best think again, and well, before you continue."

Josiah clearly realized there was no good coming of that particular course, so he changed the conversational tack. "We'll not allow these mincing whoresons you call modern men to wander our ship and mock us, no matter what the excuse. We've had enough. Sir."

Liam lowered the sword and delivered a hard blow across Josiah's face, sending the man reeling into the arms of the other men in the doorway. "Have you," he almost hissed. "So have I. I wouldn't wish any of you on the modern world. You're a disgrace to the mothers who bore you."

Walker squared his shoulders and raised his chin, almost daring Liam to take another swing at it. "Been said before, sir. I'm sorry I called your woman a witch, but she brought us to this. And she has to go if we aim to live as we should. She's done her work—broke the curse—and that's done with her, aye?"

Walker's voice rose in a half question. He was nearly pleading, but his stare was still hard and direct, and Liam's was in no way softer.

"No," he said. It was almost a purr, deep in his throat. "And you put your hands on my woman under the penalty of a death you'd not wish on a rabid dog. Are we clear, Mr. Walker?"

Neither of them blinked. The other sailors murmured and jostled; Cecilia, heart pounding, palms sweating, faint of breath, could hear the tone of it rising, turning darker again. Liam had set them back on their heels for a while, but he was losing it quickly, and it was all because of her.

"Wait," Cecilia blurted, and stepped out of her shadows. To her surprise, they did; all of the mutineers, even Josiah Walker, paused in midmutter to shift their attention to her. "It's our honeymoon. You wouldn't kill me on the day of my wedding, would you?"

Walker frowned. Another man leaned in to say, "The wench has a point. That would be bad luck."

"Worse than having a woman on board?" Walker snorted. "This woman?"

Cecilia took a deep breath and plunged. "What if Captain Lockhart agrees to take the ship out for a period of—oh, I don't know, a month? Call it a honeymoon cruise. Then you put us back ashore, and go on about your business, if you still feel the same way. And we forget about the reception. I'll promise to keep out of your way." She gave them all a sudden grin. "Not that I expect you'll see either me or your captain much."

That woke a deep rumble of appreciative chuckling from the crew. Even Walker was forced into a slightly less vexed expression. "Well," he allowed, "that might do. Might do."

Liam deliberately relaxed, banishing his anger with an effort of sheer will. "Then as long as you all clear my cabin and let me get about the job of welcoming my new bride, you're all free to set sail, or to dive to Davy Jones for all I care."

A relieved sigh went through the men, and through Argyle as well. He'd been prepared to back Liam's play, of course, but Cecilia could see that defying the crew would have gone against his better judgment.

Liam turned toward Cecilia, just for a second, eyes burning into hers, and she forced a slight smile. He lifted her hands to his lips and kissed them. "Forgive me for leaving you," he said. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

And they all filed out, leaving her alone in the captain's cabin. After fidgeting for a while, Cecilia turned to the corner where Liam's hammock normally swayed. It was gone.

In its place was a luxurious feather bed, pristine and white, covered with fragrant red rose petals.

"Oh," she whispered, and tears stung her eyes. "Oh, Liam." It was a lovely thing.

She stretched out on it, feeling cold and lonely, listening to the thump of the crew's footsteps above her.

I should have brought a book, she thought.

Well, it was her honeymoon. Who'd have thought she'd need one?

SHE WOKE UP TO A RATTLE AT THE door, and it banged open to admit a man almost hidden beneath a massive silver tray, loaded down with an elaborate tea service. He staggered under the strain and expertly found his balance when the ship rocked and tilted.

When he lowered it, Cecilia was surprised to see it was Liam, and he was smiling.

"Good morning, love. We're well under way." Liam poured a cup of tea, added milk and sugar in the measures he already knew she liked, and handed over the delicate china. She sat on the edge of the bed and listened, nodding occasionally, as he told her details about where they were nautically in the world, what his plans were for the voyage, and all she could really understand of it was the light in his eyes, the lilt of pleasure in his voice. Although she loved seeing that in him, it also made her horribly uncertain. I'm not good for him. This is what's good for him. If I take him away from this… Maybe the crew was right. Maybe the best thing would have been to slip quietly away in Boston and let them go on without her.

Liam stopped talking and put his cup aside. She glanced down at her own and was surprised to find it empty; she'd sipped it without even noticing the taste, although she'd always enjoyed cream tea.

When she looked up, he was standing in front of her, and he reached down to take the china from her fingers and place it carefully back on the tray. "Biscuit?" he asked, with the blandest possible tone. There were cookies on the tray. Oreos, her favorite. She nearly laughed out loud.

"No, thank you," she said. "Liam—"

He didn't waste time with another polite question, and before she could finish the sentence, he was next to her, capturing her lips with his. The kiss was a fierce, lovely thing, far different from the gentle one he'd given her at the wedding; this was a pirate's kiss, demanding surrender, and she felt her entire body give a joyous answer. When he let her up for breath, it was like rising lazily from a deep, skin-warm sea. She wanted to dive right back in.

Liam pulled back, and Cecilia shivered in response to the look on his face. She'd never had anybody stare at her in quite that way—and then a rush of heat flared up from her toes to melt her into a liquid, gorgeously decadent feeling of utter abandon. Oh.

Cecilia pushed him back onto the bed, then stood up and slowly unbuttoned her white shirt. It slipped off her shoulders and fluttered to the carpets, leaving only the fragile lace bra. The blue jeans were just as easy. Liam's breath left him in a rush.

"Permission to come aboard, sir," she said, and sat astride him. It was a long, damp, aching kiss, trembling with potential and need, and Liam's hands went around her to push her back, just a tiny bit.

"Lass," Liam murmured, "I'm not a gentleman. I wasn't born one, I wasn't made one, and the circumstances of my life haven't encouraged me to—"

She shut him up with a finger across his lips. "If I'd wanted a gentleman, I wouldn't have fallen in love with a pirate," she said. "Not even one with kind eyes."

He pulled back, frowning at her. "I do not have kind eyes."

"You do when you look at me." She took a deep breath. "If you're trying to warn me that you won't be a good, gentle lover, I think you're underestimating yourself," she said.

He captured her hands and held them tightly. Hers were stubby, small, and pale; his were large, square, darkened by sun, and heavily scarred. He didn't look up from his inspection of their differences as he said, "I'm saying that you are no doubt used to the refined ways of modern men who make a study of women, who understand how to—"

"Liam." She raised his chin with a finger under his chin. "If modern men have ever made a study of women, it's the first I've ever heard of it. If you think that I'm going to be comparing you to all my previous lovers, well, don't, because that's a list that includes two men, one of whom was a mistake, and one of whom was an awful mistake. And neither one of them gave a damn about how I felt during the process anyway."

Liam looked flummoxed. Appalled, even. "You mean, with all the magazines and writings and all of the visual—instruction—" He'd found the pay-per-view channels in his apartment. "—there is not a higher understanding of how to please—"

"Not a bit," she said.

He seemed completely relieved, and she had to stifle a laugh that she knew would be completely inappropriate. "So they weren't meant to be instructive."

"Did you watch the porn? Accuracy, not its strong suit."

He slid his palms up her arms, a warm glide of flesh. "Of course I watched it, my dear. I'm no Puritan."

"Prove it."

He slipped his hands under the thin lace bra, slowly, watching her face without blinking. He didn't restrain a smile when she let out a gasp, and it was one of his full, charming smiles, with a razor-thin edge of darkness—the kind that, she imagined, had spontaneously brought several women in his lifetime to shed their inhibitions.

Not a problem. She seemed to have left hers on shore, anyway.

"I've been thinking about this for hours," he said, and his voice was low, barely audible over the creak of timbers and rush of the sea. "There's a question I've been wanting to ask you, Cecilia. It's important."

"Yes?" Her voice came out almost calmly.

He put his lips very close to her ear. "Do you prefer the left side of the bed, or right?"

She laughed out loud, unable to stop herself. "Right side."

"Ahhh," he sighed regretfully. "That'd be a problem, then, lass, as I like the right side of the bed."

"Only one solution," she replied, straight-faced.

"Dice? A game of cards? Pistols at dawn?"

She kissed him, slowly and deeply. He groaned low in his throat, and pulled her closer.

"One of us has to be on top," she mumbled into his mouth. "I'll let you go first."

Under Liam's black trousers he wore, of all things, Joe Boxer briefs. With red lipstick prints. She stared. He shrugged. "Argyle advised me," he said, sounding faintly unsure. "All right?"

She smothered a laugh. "So long as they come off, I'm fine."

They did. Her lace top was also disposed of, though they took good time to enjoy the journey. It took a timeless, sunlit eternity for him to work his way from the relatively safe territory of her collarbones, nibbling down in slow, steady kisses, to her breasts. She couldn't keep herself from pulling in as much as her lungs could hold, arching toward him, desperate to have those clever, clever lips do more, go farther.

Oh, and they did. They definitely did. And it took a deliciously long time.

Liam paused for breath, looked up at her, and drew his fingertips in a slow, hot line down over her stomach, straight down. "Pace yourself, lass," he said, with a grin that took her breath away. "We've leagues to go yet." He hooked his fingers in the thin elastic band of the triangle of lace that pretended to be panties. "And plenty of territory left to explore. We've not even made landfall yet…"

She heard a distant shout. Liam's smile vanished, and he turned his head, frowning. She hadn't made out any words, but evidently he had. He rolled off her, and roared, "God's blood, lads, we'd better be bloody sinking!"

She heard a kind of shrieking hiss, getting rapidly louder. He grabbed her and rolled her hard off the bed, thumping them both to the carpet between the bed and the cabin wall, an instant before something hit the stern of the ship so hard, it felt like a giant hand shaking the massive vessel. The mullioned window exploded in a shower of glass shards and lethal shrapnel.

By the time she blinked, Liam, stark naked, was already up on his feet, cursing with a bitter violence all the more alarming because he was doing it in a whisper. He shook broken glass from his trousers and stepped into them, not bothering with the fancy underwear, even while he asked, "All right?"

She nodded mutely, swallowed, and managed to say, "What's happening?" She could hear the alarm bells ringing on deck, running feet above her head, and felt the ship heel over hard enough to send her rolling against the wall. Evasive maneuvers.

"Bloody bad timing, at the very least," he said, and bent to give her a quick kiss. "Get dressed. If we're boarded, give a good account of yourself, you're the captain's wife now."

She gave him a shaky salute. "Aye aye, sir."

He eyed her with longing and great regret, touched his forehead in a casual salute, and dashed for the door.

Cecilia quickly dressed and armed herself with whatever was left over from his quick exit—a dagger, a spare cutlass, and a spare pistol. She checked. Fully loaded.

"I am not hiding in the corner," she said. That was a safe enough declaration; there was nobody to argue with her about it, at least not yet. She left the cabin and went down the narrow hall, blinking as she emerged into the bright shimmer of sunlight on deck.

The sails had been piled on, and the Sweet Mourning was cutting through the water at an incredible pace, flying like a bird. The rigging crew were on the masts and yardarms. Up on the quarterdeck, Liam was at the wheel, with Argyle leaning on the railing.

"She's got speed on us!" Argyle shouted. Cecilia ran to to the side to lean out for a look; behind them, far in the white wake, she saw another ship advancing on them. It was smaller, with a enormous single square mainsail, wider than it was tall, and a much smaller triangular sail at the prow. The design was thin and long, and somehow it put her in mind of a shark, the way it cut cleanly through the water. Argyle was right, it was frighteningly fast. Even though they had the advantage of more canvas, the other ship was rapidly gaining. "She's coming within range again! 'Ware cannon!"

Cecilia watched, wide-eyed, as a black dot traveled across the blue sky, grew in size, and ended its trajectory with a shattering crash amidships. It sent fragments spraying in every direction. Some of the shards had fallen near her feet, and she saw they were glazed pottery, not metal.

They were throwing pots?

And then a thick, greenish liquid that had splashed in a broad swath across the deck caught fire, an eerie flickering flame that took on a hellish intensity in less than a breath.

"Greek fire!" Argyle shouted from the quarterdeck. "No water! Smother it! Move!"

She got out of the way of a stampede of sailors carrying spare canvas, who began putting out the fire.

"Mrs. Lockhart!" Argyle bellowed. He no longer sounded friendly, or amused. "If you must expose yourself to every danger that presents, at least do so up here!"

She blinked, saw Liam and Argyle staring at her with identical expressions of disapproval.

"We'll discuss who wears the pants later," Liam said once she was on deck. "Argyle. Is it that damned madman Salvius?"

Argyle answered, and retrieved a spyglass from his pocket, studied the ship for a second, then passed the glass to his captain. "Aye. It's the Aquila."

Liam flattened the spyglass with a snap and handed it back, no expression visible on his face at all. Someone from the crow's nest, far above, called out, " 'Ware ballista!" and Cecilia shaded her eyes to see something that looked like a massive, oversized spear arcing toward them. It hit toward the bow, ripping through wood like butter.

"That'll be a week in port," Argyle said with a sigh. "Hell and damnation."

"He's playing with us," Liam said, even as he spun the wheel, and the Sweet Mourning responded with another rapid change of course. "Any sign he's preparing to use his fire cannon?"

"Not as yet," Argyle said. "If he does, there's little enough we can do about it."

The other ship glided smoothly up to their port side, close enough that Cecilia could see the elegant long lines of her form, and three banks of holes that were too small to be cannon ports—oar holes? There were men swarming the deck, most dressed in simple sun-faded tunics, but also a lot kitted out in armor.

One man stood alone toward the curved fishtail at the stern, muscular legs spread for stability. He was broad and sturdy, dressed in a splendid set of Roman-era armor, complete to shining helmet with a vivid crimson brush. The tunic underneath the armor was bloodred, and he glittered in the sun like some dangerously invincible god.

The Roman captain—what else could he be?—faced them as the two ships drew even with each other, and inclined his head. "Captain Lockhart," he said, in a voice loud enough to carry over a melee-filled battlefield, never mind a short span of water. "Well met on favoring seas."

"Better never met at all, you garlic-eating bastard," Liam shouted back. "What the devil are you playing at, Salvius?"

Salvius advanced to the rail of the ship, put both hands on it, and stared across at Liam. No, Cecilia realized with a shock, he was staring at her.

Liam realized it too. "What do you want, Roman?"

"Word travels," Salvius said. "I heard it from the Dutchman's own mouth that you'd broken free of your curse."

"So you came to gawp?" Liam said. "To put ballista holes in my deck for sport? To settle old grudges?"

Salvius unexpectedly grinned, showing a broad expanse of strong, if browning, teeth. "I like to see miracles for my own eyes. And now that I have—" He nodded sharply to another armored soldier, who shouted something to the men on the Aquila's deck.

" 'Ware arpax!" someone cried on the Sweet Mourning, and a massive bridge snapped up, as if spring-loaded, from the deck of the Roman ship, wide enough that two or three men could walk abreast on it. One end was fastened to the deck of that ship with some kind of hinges; the other had a lethal-looking bronze beaklike hook on the end, and it crashed down on the Sweet Mourning's railing, splintering it, and dug deep into the wood of the deck, locking the two ships together.

And Roman sailors and soldiers began pouring across the bridge, roaring out a battle cry.

Cecilia pulled her pistol and cutlass. The pirates—her pirates—were already shouting and rallying to meet the invasion.

Captain Salvius hadn't moved from where he stood, still watching the three of them on the quarterdeck. His face was weathered, ageless, and very hard.

"As you said, Captain, your men are mortal now," he said. "Mine aren't. Stand them down, Liam. There's no need for deaths."

"I could send you to the bottom with a broadside. Short range. No misses."

"You could," Salvius said, and grinned. "For all the good it'd do you. By all means, waste the shot and powder, if you've an excess."

Liam made no reply for a few seconds, and then, "What terms?"

"Throw down arms and none of you will be harmed. I'll release you to sail off as clean as you please, once I have what I want."

Down on the decks, men were fighting, but Cecilia realized with a chill that they were also being hurt, maybe dying. She could see blood streaking the decks, and the Romans, despite being shot and stabbed, continued to press ahead with their attack. They would win. There was no other possibility.

Liam knew that too; she could see it in the stiff, angry set of his shoulders. He clasped his hands behind his back.

"And what is it you want, Salvius?"

Salvius shook his head. "After you throw down arms and give your surrender."

Argyle took hold of his captain's arm. "Don't," he said. "We can shake them. We've done it before."

"We've done it when we were invulnerable to shot and steel," Liam said. "We've done it when the Mourning had the devil's wind at her back and healed herself from the wounds she took in battle. We can't do it now."

They stared at each other, and then Liam shook off his first mate's hand. He took in a deep breath and said, "The ship is yours. You have my parole. Call off your sea wolves." And he put his cutlass and pistol down on the deck.

Salvius gestured to another uniformed Roman standing nearby, who gave some blasts on a shrill whistle; the attacking Roman sailors and soldiers backed off, giving the crew of the Sweet Mourning time to pull together in a defensive line and drag their wounded and dead out of the way.

"Throw down your arms, men," Liam shouted. "Do it now!"

Cutlasses, daggers, and pistols rained to the decking, some reluctantly. Cecilia realized she was still clutching hers, and forced herself to bend and lay them on the wood.

When she straightened, Argyle was still holding on to his, and Liam was facing him, sober and steady. "It's an order, damn you." Liam's voice unexpectedly softened. "Duncan. Put aside your weapons. I swear, I will not let him take you aboard that ship."

Argyle finally nodded, one sharp, convulsive nod, but his eyes were still wild and strange. He let his sword and pistol fall and assumed a stoic parade rest, as did Liam, as Captain Salvius moved through the crew of his own ship and crossed the temporary wooden bridge—the arpax?—and stepped onto the deck of the Sweet Mourning. He advanced toward the stern of the ship, sandaled feet thumping on the wood in confident strides, and his red cloak billowed behind him like a flag.

When the Roman stepped onto the quarterdeck, he smiled, and turned toward Cecilia.

"I am Aulus Salvius Lupus," he said. "I have the honor to be trierarch of the Roman vessel Aquila. And you would be… ?"

She licked her lips and tasted salt, either from sweat or sea spray. "Cecilia Lockhart. Wife of Captain Lockhart."

"Wife?" Salvius cut a look toward Lockhart. "Indeed. My congratulations. And how long since the happy day?"

"One," she sighed.

"Ah, that's good. Then he won't miss you much," Salvius said, and nodded to his second in command, who simply grabbed Cecilia, pinned her arms to her sides, and shoved her into the midst of a wedge of Romans, who closed ranks around her. "These are my terms, Liam. The witch goes with us, and I leave the rest of your crew untouched."

The color drained from Liam's face, leaving him as white and hard as bone. "Aulus," he said, low in his throat, "if you don't release her now, this will go badly. Very badly."

"I agree," Salvius said pleasantly. "Very badly indeed, for you. I'd rather not wash the decks with your blood, Liam, but one way or another, I'm having your witch."

Liam kept his calm, somehow. "Why?"

Salvius shrugged. "Profit. I expect the Dutchman will be along, soon enough, and Mad Peg, and all the rest, sniffing around for some hope of being freed of their eternal and well-deserved damnation. She's a valuable commodity." His voice hardened to ice and glass. "So don't stand in my way."

Liam looked at him as if he'd gone mad, or sprouted horns. "Commodity? What the devil do you mean?"

"She's a curse-breaking witch."

"She's not!"

"She broke yours, didn't she?"

"It was—" Liam controlled himself with difficulty. "It was an accident, you fool!"

Salvius shrugged. "Still." His smile widened, and grew chilling. "I'll try to keep her chaste and untouched until she's back in your loving arms. Unless of course she proves as difficult to control as your fine first mate, there. In which case I shall have to use persuasion."

Liam, without a sound, calmly bent, picked up his cutlass from the deck, and rammed it home in a gap of Salvius's armor with a savagery that took Cecilia's breath away.

Argyle grabbed Liam and dragged him back. Salvius looked down at the sword, driven to the hilt against his side, and pulled it out with a smooth, slow motion. Blood slicked its surface, but he showed no sign of pain. He tossed the cutlass to Liam, who caught it deftly out of the air and brought it immediately to guard. "Just for that, you can't have the witch back at all. I'll sell her to the Dutchman, or whoever else pays the best price for her services. Whatever those services may prove to be in the end is none of my affair."

Argyle had pinned Liam's arms behind him and was holding on with leverage and his full strength, whispering in the man's ear. Cecilia tried to struggle free, but the hands holding her were big, capable, and far too strong.

Aulus Salvius Lupus led the way back across the bridge of the arpax himself, and Cecilia found herself carried along like luggage. The massed smell of sweat, leather, and metal was almost overwhelming, and when she could catch a breath of sharp salt air, she was grateful.

She was dumped without ceremony by her guards so suddenly that, combined with the violent pitch-and-roll of the Roman ship, she fell face forward, catching herself at the last minute with her hands on sun-warm wood.

"Tie her to the mast," Salvius said. "Up arpax and rig for sail."

"Sir." The soldier closest to her saluted with his fist over his heart and repeated the order at top volume; two men grabbed her, lashed her tightly to the huge mast, and left her there as they went about their business. The Aquila's boarding ramp creaked up, drawn by ropes and pulleys, and the ship pulled away from Liam's and heeled over, heading south with the wind. The speed was incredible—supernatural, as if the Aquila was driven by nuclear-powered engines. Something Liam had said came back to her: the devil's wind.

The Sweet Mourning fell behind quickly.

Facing Cecilia, about a dozen feet away, was a very curious thing: a large marble statue of a woman—a goddess, maybe—with curling upswept hair and a beautiful, empty face, her arms outstretched as if reaching for the sun. It was a beautiful piece of work, so lifelike, Cecilia could almost feel the whisper of the breeze that ruffled its draperies—elegantly rendered, almost lifelike…

… and then the stone eyes blinked.

It's the sun, Cecilia thought, and looked away. It wasn't. When she returned her attention to the statue, it was staring at her. Cecilia had been sure there were blank ovals in the face before, but now they were eyes. Blue eyes, the milky color of sea-blue chalcedony. Not quite… real.

The statue didn't speak, or move. It just… stared.

Cecilia became gradually aware of someone else nearby, an island of stillness in a sea of moving sailors. Captain Salvius. He stood, legs apart, feet braced, arms folded. Staring hard at the statue.

"What is this thing?" Cecilia blurted.

"Ah, you should be honored. Not every day you meet a genuine goddess," he said. "Her name is Larentina." He walked to the statue and caressed its cheek with one blunt fingertip. "Have you missed me, my love? Yes, of course you have. You see, I have to speak for Larentina because cruel Jupiter tore her tongue out for speaking ill of his romantic adventures." The statue closed her eyes, as if determined to shut him out. "Jupiter, now there's a god a man can respect, eh?"

"I don't understand. She's a statue."

"Well, yes, now. Larentina came here to exact revenge over the sacking of her temples and raping of her virgin priestesses. Goddesses. So sensitive." Salvius tapped his grubby fingernails against her flawless white bosom. "Didn't turn out quite the way she expected, I dare say. Larentina's our luck. So long as we have her, death can't touch us. Even the gods have to let us do as we please." He faced Cecilia squarely; she thought she'd never seen a man with eyes like those, light gray and as empty as polar ice.

She drew in a steadying breath. "Are you sure you don't want me to break your curse?"

Salvius laughed. "Break all the other curses as you like, for all those sniveling fools like your precious Lockhart. Me and my men, we'll still be a power on Neptune's breast when the rest of you are gone whining to your graves. It's not a curse to us, woman. It's tactics."

He stalked away in a flutter of his bloodred cape, and Cecilia let out her breath in a slow, shaky sigh. She was facing toward the fishtail stern of the Aquila; over the curving coil of tail, she saw billowing sails. The Sweet Mourning was making her best speed to follow, but they were rapidly falling behind.

"Liam," she whispered. The world dissolved in sharp jagged colors as her eyes flooded with tears, and she bent her head and felt the pressure of panic weighing down on her.

No, she thought, and got hold of herself. Liam wouldn't panic. Neither will I.

As she shifted uncomfortably against the tight ropes, she felt her thick piratical metal belt buckle catch and hold against the hemp looped around her waist.

Was it even possible?…

Gritting her teeth, Cecilia began moving her hips back and forth, concealing it among the dips and lunges of the ship, and sawed at the rope.

This is going to hurt, some part of her complained. And she told it, Shut up and shimmy.

WHEN SHE FINALLY STOPPED, IT WAS BECAUSE SHE absolutely had to—her stomach and hip muscles simply refused to move another twitch. It felt like she'd been pounded in the stomach with a croquet mallet. She could see fraying in the rope where it had abraded against the belt buckle, but she couldn't tell from her angle whether it was enough. Probably not. Should have gone to the gym more, she thought dismally. A wave lashed over the side of the ship and splashed her arms, and the ropes. Not good. The wetter the ropes became, the tighter and stiffer they were when dry. Not that she really had any plan of what to do even if the ropes parted, barring diving over the side and swimming for Liam's ship. But being free had to have more options available than being tied. Nobody paid the slightest attention to her. She'd become aware of thirst some hours ago, and now it was getting to be a real problem. Her mouth felt like cotton, and even with the occasional splashed wave, she was simmering in the sun, which was only partly blocked by the sail billowing and booming overhead.

The sailors had water. She watched them dip it out of buckets set on deck, and stopped licking her salty lips when she realized she wasn't getting seawater, but blood.

The wind failed as night began to fall, turning the sky rich cobalt blue sprinkled with silver stars. Above her, the sails luffed and abruptly, the Aquila began to slow its knifelike progress through the water. Salvius frowned and looked up at the skies. Clear and cloudless. Even the waves felt unnaturally flat; the boat was hardly pitching at all now.

"Oars out!" someone roared from behind her. "Best speed!"

Cecilia heard the order echoed, over and over, growing fainter each time. Across from her, the statue's eyes had opened again, and for an instant, Cecilia could have sworn that the marble face took on a tinge of color. That the lips tried to move. But then it faded, and it was just a statue with eerily animated eyes, staring at her as if she was supposed to do something.

Which she couldn't, of course. Could she?

On the distant horizon, she thought she could still see the white flutter of sails. Liam wouldn't give up. She couldn't afford to, either. Cecilia tried moving against the rope again. It hurt a lot, but panic was a white-hot bubble inside her now, and she couldn't be helpless like this, she couldn't.

A strand of rope parted. She felt it go, and was barely able to restrain a sob of relief—but that was only one strand of the twist, and there were more to go.

I'm not going to make it, she thought, and felt tears trickle down her face. I'm going to die.

The statue's eyes opened and focused on her, and she heard it say, quite clearly, Free me and live.

"Uh—" Cecilia sniffled and tried to clear her throat. "I don't know how to do that."

You do, the voice whispered, faint and cold. You will.

The Aquila began to glide forward again, and she heard the rhythmic splash of oars driving it, along with the regular heartbeat of a drum.

"Captain Salvius!" Cecilia croaked. He turned toward her. "What's going on?"

Salvius stalked up to her, full speed, grabbed her by the chin and slammed her head back against the mast. "If you ever talk to me again without my permission, I'll have you screaming," he said flatly. "My bed's been cold for months."

She believed him, and it terrified her. She thought about Liam, about the rose-covered bed in his cabin, waiting for a night that might never come. About the gentle, fierce light of love in his eyes.

There was nothing at all in Salvius's eyes except calculation. She knew instinctively that if she showed him fear, weakness, it was all over.

So she smiled. "I can't imagine why," she said. "You're so charming and kind. The girls must be lining up to have a turn."

His teeth bared—strong, square teeth, surprisingly straight, considering that dental science hadn't exactly been advanced in his day. "When I tell you to hold your tongue, hold it, or you'll experience what our lovely Larentina did when Jupiter was displeased with her prattling."

From the bow of the ship, someone called out, "Sail, two points to starboard!"

Salvius didn't even look. "I expected him. That will be Ned Low and the Withered Rose," he said. "Well, this will either be good business or bad, but either way, my lovely witch, you'll be in someone's bed this evening. You'd better pray that Low makes his usual pathetic show of force, then bids small, and that the bed you're in is mine in the end. Low's hard on his wenches."

Whereas you're a great catch, Cecilia thought, but had sense enough not to say. Quite. "Another cursed ship? Is there a factory?"

Salvius smiled, apparently amused by her defiance now. Almost indulgent. "Some of us are cursed by witches, some by gods, some by their own ill luck. The only thing we have in common is eternity. But the Withered Rose is in a class by herself. You'll see."

Salvius went to see to preparations. The Aquila struggled against the flat sea, banks of oars propelling her sluggishly through the water, but the fast-approaching vessel seemed to be running under gale-force winds.

As the ship neared, Cecilia began to see details, and wished she hadn't. It was built along similar lines to the Sweet Mourning, but that was where the resemblance ended. Tattered rotting sails and bodies, some skeletons, dangled gruesomely from the yardarms like macabre wind chimes. The only sound it made, as it came frighteningly closer, was a hiss as it cut the water like a knife.

It suddenly slackened its pace as it pulled near the Aquila. A wave of stench floated across the open water, thick and green and fetid, and Cecilia struggled not to breathe. The Mourning had been scary in the beginning, but this was—this was something beyond that. Beyond just cursed.

This ship was damned.

There was something very creepy about the crew of the Withered Rose too. They seemed to be unnaturally still at their posts. Cecilia's eyes were drawn to a solitary man in the bow of the ship, draped on the rotting figurehead's shoulder. He looked young—very young. Somehow, she'd been expecting someone of Liam's age, or Salvius's. But Ned Low—if that was him, and somehow she was sure it was—looked as if he'd barely seen his twentieth year. And he was very, very pretty.

"Young, isn't he?" Salvius asked, unexpectedly at her shoulder. "Old in all things vile, though. Some seek after evil, some are born prodigies. Edward Low was fathered by Pluto's cold member, and no doubt of it. You've been very unlucky if he's first to the table."

More goading. Cecilia tried to ignore it. She tensed as Salvius's hand touched her cheek, and felt the ropes creak. She tested them, but they didn't break.

"Well met on favoring seas," the young man on board the Withered Rose called. He had a rich, aristocratic English accent, reeking of insincerity. "How nice to see you again. Oh, do tell your poor slaves to leave off the oars. You're not going anywhere, you know that."

"My poor slaves need the exercise," Salvius said. "State your business, Captain Low, before I lose my temper."

Low laughed, and it was a gentle, evil sort of sound that had a lot in common with the reek of decomposition still drifting like fog from his ship. "My business? Captain, I am no crass merchant, I do not have business. I have—interests. And I heard you have something that could be of interest to me."

"I'd sell you my left nut for a decent price," Salvius said, and grinned with all his teeth.

"Tempting, dear man, but no, I already have a perfect set of my own which you, despite your best efforts, have yet to take from me. No, my interest is in a woman." Low's gaze fixed on Cecilia, and she deeply, deeply wished it hadn't. "That one would do nicely."

"Not for sale."

"But everything on the Aquila is for sale," Low pouted. "Don't be cruel, Salvius. It doesn't become you nearly so well as it does me."

"I said the witch is not for sale."

Low's eyebrows rose. "Witch, is she? Well, then. Even better. I've been shopping for one of those for a long time. They go bad so quickly, like unsalted meat."

Cecilia threw a frantic glance toward the stern. Far in the distance, she could see the dim outline of a ship. The Sweet Mourning was following, but it was too far away. Much too far.

Low laughed at something Salvius said in Latin. "Language, Captain," he chided. A plank was being put across from the Withered Rose to the Aquila by two silent, shadowy crewmen, and Low uncoiled himself from his catlike pose on the figurehead and glided to the railing. He leaped flat-footed up onto the narrow plank. It was unnatural, the way he balanced, and as he got closer Cecilia realized that there was a lot more unnatural about him. For one thing, he had a kind of black glow to him, a shadow clinging to him like a gray veil. For another, he moved like nothing human she'd ever seen, all boneless grace. Tigers moved like that.

And then she saw his face clearly, and her breath locked in her throat, because his eyes were clouded with white cataracts. The eyes of a corpse, in the face of an angel.

"Hmmm," Low said. He stalked around her, examining her far too closely for any comfort. "I suppose she might do. How much?"

"Ten thousand pieces of gold."

"Far too rich for my poor coffers."

"Then get off my ship," Salvius said pleasantly. "Maggot-meat."

"Your skills at salesmanship are second to none," Low drawled. "Is she virgin?"

"No idea. Want to check?"

They both looked at her thoughtfully. Cecilia's eyes widened. "I'm not!" she yelped. "I'm the wife of Captain Liam Lockhart, and I'm—"

Low took a sudden step toward her, and those pallid eyes glowed. He didn't say a word to her, but she couldn't breathe, couldn't speak for the dreadful weight of fear that crashed in on her.

"Well," Low said to Salvius, "I suppose I might be able to manage the price. Throw in a couple of slaves. I'm getting peckish."

"Need every hand I have."

"Oh, bollocks, Aulus, you can grab slaves anywhere, and I know you use them up regularly. A couple of juicy ones won't be missed." He flicked an elegant, pale, dismissive hand at the Roman.

"One slave."

"Agreed." Salvius snapped his fingers, and shouts passed along the length of the ship. Someone pulled up an iron grating, and after a short delay, a pallid, filthy specimen dressed in a tattered loincloth was pulled up and dragged to be presented to Captain Low.

"Perfect," Low said, and reached out to lay a hand on the slave's shoulder, a creepily friendly sort of gesture.

Salvius struck it away with the flat of his sword. "Take your pleasures on board your own ship, not mine," he barked. "You two, take him over to the Rose."

He speared a couple of his soldiers with a stare, who then reluctantly took hold of the slave and marched him to the narrow plank. He tottered unevenly across to the other ship.

"Poor bastard," Salvius said without any real emotion. "Very well. That was a good-faith gift. I'll see my gold now, Captain."

Low's milky eyes went half-closed, and Cecilia thought she saw a spasm of anger go through him, quickly gone. But he held up his hand in graceful surrender. "Very well," he said. "I'll go assemble the payment. But don't think to cheat me, my antique friend. You know what I do to those who don't hold their bargains."

Salvius nodded once, sharply. Low turned and glided across the deck, to the plank. He crossed without pause or misstep, perfectly balanced, and leapt lightly down on board the Withered Rose.

Salvius cursed under his breath. At least, Cecilia assumed it was profanity; it was Latin, and it sounded far too vicious to be anything else. He paced, back and forth, and the statue's blind blue eyes followed him with so much intensity that Cecilia could almost feel the hatred.

"What happens if he touches you?" she asked Salvius. He glanced over at her, and a corner of his hard, thin mouth curled.

"If you're wise, you'll try very hard never to find out," he said.

She heard the thud of boots on the plank between the two ships, and looked up to see that Captain Low was returning. Another man was with him, struggling under the weight of a heavy chest green and slimy with mold. They were both shrouded in shadows, and Cecilia couldn't get a clear look at the second man's face.

Low stepped onto the deck of the Aquila and took in a deep breath with evident satisfaction. "It's a tidy ship you run, I'll give you that, Salvius," he said, and waved at his sailor, who grunted and let the heavy wooden trunk thump to the deck. Cecilia felt the weighty impact through the soles of her feet. "As you asked. Now, I'll take my goods."

Salvius didn't move. He stared on at the other man, chin lowered, eyes fierce and wolflike in the dying sunlight. "Open it," he said. "I'll see the gold first."

Cecilia pulled in a breath and pressed against the ropes. She felt the one she'd been working on give… slightly.

Not enough.

Low's man opened the chest, and the Roman soldiers and sailors nearest to it to catch a glimpse let out an approving murmur as the thick glow of gold caught the sunset. "Stir it," Salvius said. "To be sure it's gold all through, and not your dinner leavings."

Low pulled his cutlass and stirred the gold, then reached down and pulled handfuls from the bottom, letting coins slip carelessly from his fingers on the way up. "Agreed?"

Salvius seemed to think about it for a long, uneasy moment, and then nodded. Two of his own soldiers grabbed the treasure dragged it out of the way, put it next to the statue, and stood at rigid guard.

Edward Low strolled slowly toward Cecilia. His dead eyes were the color of moonlight. He flicked his long fingers against the frayed part at her waist, smiling. "So nearly there, little witch," he said. "And so far away."

She turned her face away as he swung his cutlass, fast as a lightning strike; she felt it bite through the ropes and into the mast not more than a half inch from her arm. The bindings slacked, and she staggered as its support was removed.

She tripped over the mess of falling rope and almost pitched forward into Low's waiting arms. A hand pulled her aside at the last instant, and she caught a flash of steel, Roman red, and armor.

Salvius. "I said it before. Pleasure yourself on your own ship," he said flatly, and drew his sword as Low advanced on him. Low grabbed the sword in one hand as Salvius stabbed, and the entire blade turned first a sickly green, then brown… then just dissolved in the Roman's hand.

"Careful," Low said. "Someone might be hurt, Captain."

Salvius was pinned against the side of the ship. Low put those pale, destroying hands on either side of him on the rail of the ship, which turned a withered ancient gray, like old bone, and began to dissolve into wormy dust. He leaned forward, putting his face very close to the Roman captain's.

Salvius didn't blink, or flinch, but Cecilia saw it cost him a superhuman effort.

Low laughed, deep in his throat. "Don't toy with me," he said softly. "You wouldn't like how I play." He turned to Cecilia, moonstone eyes glowing. "Time's up, kitten," he said. "I'd take your arm like a gentleman, but the results would be—unpleasant, as you've seen." He nodded to the plank, and the creaking, rotten shape of the Withered Rose beyond. "On your own, or be carried by my man. Or rot here."

Salvius cleared his throat. "He means that last literally, girl. I've seen him reduce a man to maggots and bones in seconds. Don't test him."

"Conscience?" Low asked mockingly. "From a man who's fed children to the sharks rather than bear the price of their grain? Salvius. You have no higher ground on which to stand." He made a gesture, as if he intended to put his hand on Cecilia's shoulder; she instinctively flinched away, and he drove her relentlessly toward the plank.

And to her surprise, he winked.

She nearly fell, she was so shocked by it, and yelped when hands closed around her arms from behind and lifted her neatly up onto the boarding plank. Low's shadow-sailor who'd carried the chest—only his hands felt oddly familiar. Cecilia turned and peered at him, trying to see underneath the disguising smoke, and caught a glimpse of his dark, sparkling eyes.

"Shhhh," Liam warned her. "No time. We need a way to stop Salvius. Do you know of one?"

"Why ask me?" she whispered back fiercely. "I was a prisoner!"

"Aye, but an observant one. Resourceful. Well?"

"The statue," she said. "I think it's the statue—he said it kept death from taking him."

Captain Low, who'd been listening closely from where he stood just a foot away, still on the deck of the Aquila, nodded and moved back toward Captain Salvius. "One more thing, my lovely," he said, and lunged past Salvius to lay both his hands flat on the stone breasts of the marble statue. "A, very nice. Fine piece of work."

The stone vibrated, cracked, and exploded into white dusty powder and chunks of stone, and left…

… a goddess. Tall, slender, with hair as red as the sunset glaring behind her, and milky blue eyes and marble-fair complexion. She was dressed in flowing, night-black draperies, and as Low stepped back from her she took in a deep breath, let it out, and fastened her merciless gaze on Captain Salvius. Chaos broke out-men screaming, wailing, some throwing themselves to the deck and begging for mercy.

Not Salvius, though. He stood and faced her as she came toward him.

Liam grabbed Cecilia and hustled her across the plank, yelling over his shoulder, "Ned! Damn you, don't dally!"

But Captain Low wasn't hurrying. He was watching the goddess Larentina as she reached out to tap her cool white fingers on Salvius's forehead.

He fell to his knees, swayed, and went down hard. Face down.

"Ned!" Liam yelled again. "She'll take you too!"

"Yes," he said calmly. "I'm considering it."

Larentina advanced on him. Low raised his eyebrows.

"Reconsidering, actually." Low backed away, leapt onto the plank, and ran lightly across it to drop onto the rotting, filthy deck of his ship next to where Cecilia stood with Liam's arms around her. Low pulled the plank away from the Aquila and let it splash into the water—it was already rotting from the touch of his hands. He leaned on the filthy railing and watched Larentina stalk the decks of the Aquila, relentless and beautiful, sending the crew to their long-delayed and no doubt well-earned deaths.

Larentina paused in her killing to look sharply across at them, and Cecilia felt a chill as if death were passing its shroud over her face.

But in its wake, she felt oddly restored. Her crippling thirst was gone. So were her aches, pains, sunburns, and when she licked her lips, she found them damp and supple.

"I think I'm in love," Ned Low sighed, and then shook his head. "Too clever by half, our friend Salvius. Not to mention careless. But I suppose he had to keep her close, or he'd have lost control."

The Aquila was sinking, rolling drunkenly in a sea that was suddenly churning with waves. And sharks. Cecilia turned away from the sight and buried her face in Liam's chest, and he wrapped her tightly in his arms.

She felt the wind snap the threadbare sails of the Withered Rose taut, and the gruesome ornamental skeletons dangling from the yardarms clinked their macabre music. Ned Low was watching her and Liam, not the wreck of the Aquila.

"I'll take you back to your ship," Low said. "As we agreed. Then we're squared, Lockhart. The next time I catch you in my grip, you'll rot like the rest. You and the witch." He hesitated, then said, "Unless she really can break curses, that is." It was half a question.

"No," Cecilia said. "I'm not a witch. Sorry."

"Ah," he said, and shrugged. His lovely young face smiled, but the dead man in his eyes didn't. "Pity."

Low made a languid gesture. Up on the deserted quarterdeck, the wheel turned, and the Withered Rose heeled over in a course change, making for the distant speck of sail that was the Sweet Mourning.

A fresh sea breeze blew over the deck, temporarily washing away the filthy stench, and tattering Liam's clinging shadows. Cecilia looked down at herself; she was wreathed in the stuff too, like a damp fog. She tried fanning it away, but it seemed to have a mind of its own. "Ignore it," Liam said. "It's when it disappears you have to worry. That's when Ned decides to make sport of you." He sounded grim, and his eyes were dark and haunted. He cupped his hands around her face. "Cecilia. I'm sorry it took so long. Ned's no easy mark and nobody's ally."

"Then why did he help you?"

Liam took in a deep breath. "I struck a bargain. It was the only way to get to you. Salvius's ship was too fast. Ned Low was the closest rescue I could find."

Oh no. "What did you promise?"

"Nothing I can't afford to lose."

Oh, Cecilia doubted that.

THE WITHERED ROSE GLIDED UP TO A BECALMED Sweet Mourning just as true darkness fell over the sea. The Mourning had lamps burning on board, giving the whole ship a party-barge atmosphere that left Cecilia with a sense of tremendous, knee-weakening relief.

She couldn't wait to be off this filthy, diseased scow.

Mr. Argyle was at the railing, holding a lantern, his narrow, clever face tense and anxious. "The Aquila?" he asked.

"Historical," Liam called back. "Coming aboard!"

Low sat at his ease and watched indifferently as Liam escorted Cecilia across the boarding plank and safely onto the deck of their own vessel. The crew closed around them protectively—amazing, considering a day ago they'd been willing to toss her over the side.

Maybe they just hated Edward Low that much.

She reached back for Liam, but he wasn't there. He was still standing on the boarding plank, looking at her, and while her dark shadows had blown free the moment she'd stepped on board the Sweet Mourning, his still writhed around him like toxic smoke.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice sounded choked and odd. "I'm so sorry, Cecilia. I love you."

And he turned and went back to the Withered Rose.

"No!" she screamed, and lunged for the boarding plank. Liam grabbed it from the far end and shoved; it was still fastened on the Sweet Mourning, so it banged loudly against the wooden hull as it fell. "Liam, come back!"

Argyle was holding her still. "Lass," he said somberly, "he can't. Ned Low's price. One had to stay, and he's made the choice. He wouldn't let anyone else do it for him. I tried. God's witness, I tried."

On board the other ship, Edward Low uncoiled himself from his perch and slipped down to walk to where Liam stood at the railing. He leaned casually against it, staring at Cecilia, and his moonstone eyes looked like twin moons reflecting the firelight.

"Do you believe in salvation?" he asked her.

She wasn't in the mood for his banter. "Let Liam go! Please!"

"All that binds him here is his honor," Low said. "But that's as strong as chain, for him. I ask you again, little witch, do you believe in salvation?"

"Yes!" She choked on the word, and a frantic sense of terror. "Please. I'd help you if I could. I really would."

He studied her gravely. "I believe you would," he said. "Although I'd never deserve it."

"I'm not your judge. Please."

Low glanced sideways at Liam. "Your witch bargains hard," he said. "I'll hold you to your word, Lockhart. One year of service on the Rose."

One year? Cecilia's heart turned to ice in her chest. She'd barely been able to stand an hour. What that would be like…

"I'll stand by my word."

"I know you will. You're a man of honor." Low put a mocking stress on the last word. "I never said when your service would commence, Captain."

Liam didn't move.

Edward Low rolled his eyes. "Leave, fool. I'm giving you parole. I'll decide when to collect my debt."

Liam's wrapping of shadow blew away, and Cecilia caught her breath and squeezed Argyle's hands in hers. Liam looked startled, and grim. "I suppose I should thank you."

"Don't," Low said soberly. "I expect to see full service from you. Just not today."

He made another of those eerie underwater gestures, and the fallen boarding plank rose up of its own accord and fastened back between the two ships. The ocean went as smooth and dark as painted glass.

Liam crossed over, dropped over on the deck of the Sweet Mourning, and Low reached out to put his hand on the plank stretched between them. It warped, molded, rotted, and fell away into dust and fragments into the waiting sea.

A devil's wind filled the sails of the Withered Rose, and the dark ship glided away into the night, silhouetted against the stars, and then gone without a sound. Low might have raised a hand in farewell, but it was just a shadowy impression, quickly vanished.

Liam let out a slow breath and closed his eyes. "You're an idiot," Cecilia said.

He nodded. "I know."

"I love you."

"And so you should," he said. "At great length."

THE CREW THREW A PARTY FOR THEM—IMPROMPTU feasts of cold smoked ham and canned pineapple and rum. Lots of rum. Their version of an apology for the ruined wedding reception. Cecilia had just enough food to sustain her, and enough rum to settle her nerves. Someone started up a hornpipe, and there was a spontaneous effort at a jig, which Cecilia gamely tried at the urging of the crew. When she stopped, breathless and glowing from effort, she saw Liam looking at her with dark intensity from the other side of the crowd.

"I think I'll retire for the evening," Cecilia said as she passed him. "Join me?"

Liam let a torturous second or two go by, then pushed away from the rail. "Aye," he said. "I suppose I might."

He was kissing her well before they reached the cabin—in the hallway, in fact, up against the wooden wall, perilously close to the tilting lantern. He kicked the cabin door open and pulled her inside, already unfastening her belt and leaving it in a pile on the floor as he walked her relentlessly back, toward the bed. Her shirt marked another step, and his joined it. Boots next. Trousers.

By the time they reached the bed itself, they were naked and warm and entirely consumed with tastes and touches and not at all with thought. Liam's hands slid around Cecilia's head, combing through her thick short hair, and he devoured her mouth in hungry, desperate kisses with all the feverish energy of lightning striking.

When he pulled back, Cecilia found herself shaking, panting, and very close to heaven. In the firelight, Liam's skin was the color of hot caramel, twice as sweet to the taste—burned darker on his forearms and hands and face, a true man of the sea.

"Maybe we ought to wait," Cecilia said. Lockhart's eyes widened.

"Wait?" he echoed, and she smiled wickedly.

"Something's bound to interrupt us."

Liam held up one finger, stepped back and turned to the door to bellow, "Mr. Argyle!"

The cabin door opened just a crack. "Aye, Captain?"

"You'll guarantee our privacy this time?"

"Oh, aye, sir. Totally guaranteed." And the door shut with a clank of metal.

"See?" Liam said. "Problem solved."

"Except that your first mate is listening right outside the door, Liam. I don't call that privacy."

Liam seemed honestly surprised. "Well, then, we'll have to be quiet, then, won't we?"

His kiss completely derailed her objections. The lovemaking was like a dream, waves hitting the shore, sleek and salty and irresistible. Cecilia floated in the currents, anchored only by his body, the sharp nip of his teeth on her neck, the electric-hot press of his hands.

In the end, there was nothing in the least quiet about it, but Cecilia quite forgot to worry about that.

"Ah, that's the way to mark the passing hours," Liam said drowsily, stroking her hair as they lay twined together in an untidy heap on the disordered bed. "One day down."

"Aye aye, Captain." She smiled against his chest. "And forever to go."

Rachel Caine is the author of the popular Weather Warden series, the sixth installment of which Thin Air was released in August 2007. She also writes a young adult series, Morganville Vampires, with the third book, Midnight Alley, scheduled for an October 2007 release. In addition, Rachel has written paranormal romantic suspense for Silhouette, including Devil's Bargain, Devil's Due, and the recently released Athena Force novel Line of Sight.

Visit her Web site: www.rachelcaine.com.

My Space: www.myspace.com/rachelcaine.