My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding

Dead Man's Chest Rachel Caine

“Now this," Ian Taylor said with satisfaction, surveying the ship bobbing just outside of the harbor, "is what I call an adventure?' He turned a blinding grin on his wife-to-be as he patted her hand. He had to hunt for it; it only wrapped partly around his well-muscled forearm. "It's going to be amazing. Better than any church wedding, eh?"

She looked up at him, speechless. He stood six feet, five inches to her dumpy five-foot-four and had the kind of rippling, tanned body usually only seen onstage in gay strip clubs. Silky blond hair. Impos­sibly white, even teeth. Big blue eyes.

And he was—unbelievably—a romance-novel cover model.

For a woman whose self-image most often involved the words "mousy" and "short," meeting Ian had been like being run down by the speeding Love Train. Ian had knocked her off her feet (literally, with a shopping cart to her midsection), and upon reviving her in the parking lot of the local Wal-Mart, he'd set about seducing her by wearing ruffled poet shirts and declaiming flowery compliments.

Their romance—two months along, yesterday—had been one big, rose-colored dream, and she kept waiting to wake up. But the dream was starting to take on a surreal edge of panic, and all Cecilia could finally sum up in response to Ian's enthusiasm was a wan smile and a quiet, "It looks great."

She supposed it did, if you were a romance-cover heroine. When Ian had mentioned the surprise, she'd been thinking with desperate optimism of a cruise ship. Something like a floating city, with beauty shops and bowling alleys and seven ballroom-sized dining rooms. (She'd done considerable last-minute research.)

The huge ship bobbing like a cork was, in true Ian fashion, not a boring old honeymoon cruise ship. No, this was straight out of some sweeping pirate tale, with towering masts and yo-ho-ho on a dead man's chest. It was even flying a pirate flag. Cute.

"When—" She tried to banish the squeak from her voice. "When do we—" Drown. Yes, sink and drown, arrrrrr, matey. "Sail?"

"Sail?" Ian echoed, and picked her up to whirl her around in a nauseating spiral. "Within the hour, Cess! Isn't that wonderful?"

It was a measure of how overwhelmed she was that she hadn't complained about that damn nickname. Cess. Ugh. Cecilia, if you please, she imagined herself saying coolly, like those heroines in the novels, as she pulled her shoulders straight and cowed him with an imperious gaze.

Of course, none of those women would have gotten themselves into a fix like this in the first place.

Cecilia squeezed her eyes shut and clung for dear life until Ian, and the world in general, stopped whirling. Well, at least she had manly thews to which she could cling. Hadn't had those, a couple of months ago. Hadn't had anything at all but herself.

Ah, some traitorous part of her heart sighed, hadn't that just been the life?

With shock, she realized what he'd just said. SAIL? Within the hour?!

She must have made some squeak of protest. Ian, hair blowing in cornsilk waves on the wind, shirt billowing romantically, looked down at her. "Trust me," he said. "You're going to love this." Somehow, he managed to get her down the boardwalk, mostly by bum's-rushing her with an arm around her shoulders. Terror ren­dered her effectively mute and manageable.

"There she is, Cess. Isn't she beautiful?"

She supposed, in a scary piratical way. The ship was anchored out in the harbor, riding the waves, its skeletal spires draped with ropes like cobwebs in the mist. The day was clouding over and fog boiling in from the ocean. Perfect. Well, maybe she could use it to slip away.

She'd just taken the first sidle in that direction when Ian pulled her into a smothering embrace. She tried for that square-shouldered dignity she'd been imagining earlier. "Ian, we can't do this. It's impossible."

"Can't? What do you mean? You said you'd marry me, didn't you?"

Well. . . yes. She had. But it had been one of those yes, of course, someday things, not a yes, God, drag me to the docks and throw me on a pi­rate ship thing.

"Ian, listen to me," she said. "I really can't—"

She paused, because Ian had been walking her toward the edge of the wooden pier, and suddenly there was nothing between her and the greasy, slippery water except his arm and about an inch of foothold. Her voice locked tight in her throat.

Out in the growing mist, she heard the rhythmic splash of oars.

Tell him. Tell him you can't marry him. TELL HIM!

She opened her mouth to do it, and a boat glided out of the gray fog. A black, glossy boat with six men at the oars and another stand­ing straight as a pike with his arms folded. Clearly the man in charge. Pirate in charge. Whatever.

Well, Cecilia thought numbly, you couldn't say Ian didn't go in for authenticity. She'd never in her life seen a more likely brigand. Sun-browned skin. A mass of coiling dark hair shot with gray, the lot barely contained by some braids to either side and a battered tricorn hat. He wasn't tall—not as tall as Ian, certainly—and wore a heavy, antique-style coat with corroded brass buttons and fraying bullion on the sleeves. Faded and sea stained.

His eyes were fierce and dark, and under a bristle of mustache and goatee she couldn't see any expression at all. For all she could tell, he was about to draw that frightening-looking cutlass at his belt and de­mand that she stand and deliver.

"Ah," Ian said. "Captain Lockhart. May I present my wife-to-be, Cecilia Welles?"

Captain Lockhart flicked that impenetrable glance from her to Ian and then back. "If you must," he said, in the most dismissive tone she'd ever heard.

She'd been about to turn around and bolt, but that did it. It came to her in a blinding, angry rush, exactly why she was doing this. She'd found the perfect man, and there was no reason, no reason at all, not to see this for the incredible lucky break it was. She'd be stu­pid to turn away. Some other woman would be all over Ian like spray-on tan the second she did.

Cecilia squared her shoulders and fixed the ragged pirate with the glare she wasn't capable of aiming at Ian. "Yes," she said. "He must. Is this our ride?"

Captain Lockhart clasped his hands behind his back and easily rocked with the waves that battered the small boat. His face re­mained bland. "No horses," he said.

"What?"

"Not a ride, love. No horses."

She felt an obscure sense of satisfaction at having provoked even that much reaction. "Our . . . conveyance." That was a good romance-novel word. "Conveyance." She saw a sudden, startling flash of teeth.

"Aye," he said. "It's a conveyance, if you're not too particular about your terms. Get in, if you're getting. Tide's about to turn."

Ian jumped into the boat with a solid thump and swung Cecilia in before she could suck in breath to protest.

Too late. She sat and clung to the side convulsively as it lurched in the waves. The left-side oarsmen pushed off from the pier, and the boat began a hideous rocking motion. "Ian, wait! Isn't—isn't anybody else coming? Your family? My friends? We should have witnesses. ..."

Ian patted her shoulder. "Captain Lockhart and his men will sign all of the necessary papers, Cess." She shivered, damp and miserable in her thin T-shirt and blue jeans. "See? I told you it'd be a surprise."

Captain Lockhart cast her a look, raised an expressive eyebrow, and turned to watch the unseen horizon as they rowed into the mist.

The ship was called Sweet Mourning. Cecilia knew that, because she saw the name on the stern as they rowed toward it. If she'd thought the ship was big before, well, it was enormous. And she had to admit, she felt a thrill when the black glossy mountain of a hull appeared out of the fog. The sails were down, neatly tied to the crosspieces— yardarms?—and men up in the webs of rigging swarmed like spiders.

Captain Lockhart's oarsmen maneuvered the boat next to the gi­gantic bouncing hull of the ship, and a contraption that looked like a worn wooden swing came over the railing to hang at the level of the boat. "Right," Ian said cheerfully. "In you go, Cess."

Before she could, once and for all, tell him to stop calling her that, he grabbed her around the waist and settled her in the swing.

"Heave!" Lockhart bellowed, which was offensive, really—and then she was rising into the air. She grabbed for the ropes. Within five feet, the mist closed in, and she could barely see the boat below; in ten, she might as well have been alone in the fog, suspended like a puppet from a giant's finger.

And then she heard the squeal of pulleys and the creak of rope, and a shadow leaned over the rail and hauled the swing over the side. Her feet hit the deck with a thump. She promptly lost her balance in the dip of a wave and grabbed for the first available hold.

It was the fraying collar of Captain Lockhart's coat. She stared at him in numbed surprise as he distastefully pried her fingers loose and settled her back on balance.

"How did you get here first?" she demanded.

"Climbed," he said, and nodded toward a knotted rope thrown over the rail. It was creaking with strain. Sure enough, the top of Ian's head appeared, and then his reddened face. Captain Lockhart hadn't even broken a sweat. "Now, there's work to be done on deck. You and your"—his eyes flicked toward Ian, who was clambering over the railing—"your intended can wait up on the quarterdeck."

"I have no idea what that means."

Lockhart grabbed her by the arm, spun her around, and pointed over her shoulder through the thick forest of masts and ropes, up a ladder to a second level. A huge black wheel was revealed by an eddy in the mist. "Quarterdeck," he said, and gave her a push. She glared after him, furious, but he dismissed her and moved on. Ian was there to grab her when she stumbled again. The whole ship seemed to be lurching violently from one wave to the next.

"Isn't this grand?" Ian enthused, panting. "She's an East Indiaman. You'll never see a bigger sailing ship, Cess. Nothing like her has sailed the seas for a hundred years, at least."

"Lovely," she said. "Look, he said—"

"Normally there'd be about three hundred men on board, but I was told they run with fewer, since they're not really taking on cargo." Ian, on a roll, ignored her. "Funny story, how I found—"

"Ian, the captain said—"

"Funny story, how I found the ship, but I was at this pub, and—"

"I told you to get to the quarterdeck!" Captain Lockhart's bellow. The deck was suddenly awash with sailors boiling out of hatchways—a blur of sun-blackened faces, scars, disfigurements. She doubted any of them had bathed in months, and from what she could see of their bare, calloused feet, they'd spent more than half their lives shoeless. She fought her way out of the mob and reached the ladder and scrambled up to the relative sanity of the quarterdeck. Ian was right behind her, broad as a wall. She was grateful for that, because for the third impossible time Captain Lockhart was ahead of them, standing at a military parade rest in his shabby, water-stained coat. He rode the waves with feline grace.

"How did you—," she blurted.

He gave her a sad shake of his head, and watched as another wave sent her reeling. "Mr. Argyle, weigh anchor and take us out."

"Aye, Cap'n," said a small man standing behind him, resplendent in a blaring red coat marred by at least three blackened holes in the breast. He had a Napoleonic haircut, fussy little spectacles, and he looked rather sweet until he began bellowing like a foghorn. "Richards! Weigh the anchor! Topsails, Mr. Simonds, today, or I'll see you kissing the mast tomorrow!"

A heavy, vibrating clank echoed through the fog, and the ship groaned like a living thing. Repeated commands echoed from one end of the ship to the other, growing distant in the mist. Cecilia clung to the railing and listened to the creak of ropes and the sudden snap of canvas.

She was suddenly sickly aware that her life was totally out of control.

Captain Lockhart had his hands on the massive oversized wheel, moving it by small increments. Steering by feel, she supposed; she couldn't see a damn thing, but his dark eyes never wavered from some distant spot in the mist. Maybe he had an earpiece under that wig. Maybe someone was hiding belowdecks with radar to guide him out. Yes, that must be it. Otherwise . . . No. She wasn't going to think about some actor sailing them blind out of a harbor.

Canvas creaked, and she felt a sudden surge of acceleration. Lock­hart's face relaxed into something that almost looked like a grin. His fingers caressed the wheel gently, and he shot a glance to the small man standing next to him.

"East-sou'east, Mr. Argyle. I leave her in your hands." He let go of the wheel, and Argyle stepped quickly up to grab it. "I'll see our . . . guests ... to their quarters."

"Aye, sir," Argyle said, stone-faced.

Lockhart descended, agile as a monkey, to the main deck and threw open a door between the two ladders. Cecilia, following, slipped on the wet decking despite her sneakers. "Get rid of the fancy slippers," Lockhart said. "Bare feet's best. Wouldn't want you going overboard, now, would we?"

The words were bland, but the men working nearby laughed. Ce­cilia swallowed hard and remembered her resolve. She drew herself up straight and looked Lockhart in the eye.

"I'm sure you wouldn't, Captain," she said, which wasn't exactly the comeback of the year, but it was, after all, her first attempt. "That wouldn't be a great advertisement for your cruise line, would it?"

"Cruise line?" Lockhart echoed, and slowly smiled. "Ah. Yes. Of course."

The cabin was a closet. Well. . . not quite a closet, maybe. It had two chancy-looking hammocks, a nice porcelain sink and pitcher, an oil lamp hanging from a safety hook, and a closed pot in the corner on the floor. There were also two outfits laid out on the bed— something true to the period, so far as her inexperienced eye could tell. Ian's was composed of a nice blue coat, a frilled white shirt, and some gray trousers. Knee boots.

Well, at least Ian's looked like some approximation of Lord of the Manor. Hers came from Central Tavern Wench Casting.

"Oh, hell, no," she muttered, holding up the low-cut shirt and bodice. "Ian, no way am I wearing this!—Ian?"

There was a thumping out in the corridor, and then Ian squeezed through the door, long hair straggling around his face. She'd never actually seen him look messy before. He tried to straighten up, bumped his head on the wooden ceiling, and cursed, glaring at the rafters.

Lockhart's lips twitched. "Argyle will fetch you later," he said. "Be dressed."

He slammed the door, and metal rattled. Cecilia, curious, went to it and tried the handle.

It didn't turn. She tried harder. "Ian! Ian, he's locked us in!"

"Probably stuck," Ian said grumpily. "Sea air."

"No, seriously. It's locked." She braced one foot on the wall and yanked until it felt like her shoulder muscles might snap, then sub­sided, panting.

Ian was holding the pot that had been in the corner. It was a nice one, white enamel, with painted flowers. "Why is there a pot under the bed? What are we supposed to cook?"

She had to laugh when she explained the uses of a chamber pot. Authenticity. She suspected he hadn't wanted quite that much.

And then . . . nothing happened. For what seemed like hours. Noth­ing to do, no television, no books, nobody but Ian to talk to, and she was afraid to admit it, but that was losing its charms. She tried out the hammock. It was surprisingly comfortable, and in fact, the sway­ing motion combined with Ian's monotonous pacing sent her right off into a doze.

She woke up with a start when the door rattled again and banged open. Mr. Argyle, still in his fire-engine red coat with its burnt holes over the breast, looked in.

"Bother. You were told to get dressed," he said. "Captain expects you looking proper. Hop to it, then."

He slammed the door again. She sat up, realized that there was no graceful way to get out of a hammock, and nearly ended up on her butt on the floor. Ian grabbed her arm to hold her upright, and she blinked at him in surprise.

Ian was all togged out, and on him, it looked . . . breathtaking. Most things did, though. He flashed a blindingly confident grin. "Better get ready, Cess. I think they mean it."

She looked at the tangle of clothing at the end of the bunk. The long pink-and-white striped skirt wasn't too horrible, but the tight-lacing black bodice was downright terrifying. She was staring at it miserably when the door banged open again. This time it was Lock­hart, flanked by Argyle.

Lockhart sighed and turned to Argyle. "I told you to get her dressed."

"Aye, sir, well—"

"Next time I see her in men's trousers, Argyle, you'll be the one wearing the dress."

"Aye, sir," Argyle said, and touched his forehead. "Sorry, sir."

Lockhart dismissed it and focused on her. "Well then, Miss Welles. Do you intend to be wed in breeches?"

"Will I—what?" She clutched the bodice tight in both hands. "Um . . . ?"

"Be wed," he said, very clearly enunciating the words. "Mar­ried. Joined in sacred union. Tie the knot. Become one flesh, so help ye God."

"I don't—what, you mean now? Right now?"

Ian, who was cautiously settled on the edge of one of the ham­mocks, frowned. "What's wrong with now?"

"Well—" Nothing, she supposed, except that she felt ice-cold at the prospect, barely able to control her shaking knees. "All right." She tried raising her head. It made her feel seasick again, and she hastily tucked her chin back in a less exposed position. "Um ... I think I'd like to change, in that case. Please leave me, gentlemen."

"Leave?" Lockhart raised an eyebrow. "Aye. Five minutes, and then you're coming out; dressed or naked is all the same to me."

He banged the door back shut. Cecilia, openmouthed, stared af­ter him.

"Maybe you'd better get dressed, Cess," Ian said. "Sounds like he means what he says."

"You, too," she said. "Please. Out?" She wasn't used to giving him orders, and it sounded more like a plea. Or maybe a question.

But after a few seconds, he sighed. "Women," he said, and went to the door. To her surprise, it opened right up, and he ducked out. She heard the sound of male chuckles. Great. So much for chivalry, or gallantry, or whatever it was.

In five minutes, she was struggling with the ties. She overflowed the low-cut, tightly laced black bodice by a considerable margin—a lot more than most wedding consultants would have considered suit­able, she was sure. The striped pink and white skirts were heavier than she'd thought, but they felt. . . nice. Almost formal. At least with the bodice laced tightly, she had an excuse for feeling faint and being short of breath.

This time, it didn't surprise her when the door banged open again. Lockhart, who'd been meaning to deliver some cutting re­mark, paused and actually blinked. Even the dry Mr. Argyle cast a significantly surprised look at her.

Lockhart cleared his throat. "Good enough, I suppose. Out with you, and let's be quick about it."

He stepped away, and she sailed through the open door, attempt­ing regal and missing it by tripping on the fabric of her heavy skirts. Ian and Argyle were already halfway down the corridor. She felt a hot blush of shame and knew Lockhart would be sneering at her. She kept her chin up, somehow. That was a major victory.

Outside on the deck, a dizzying breath of sea air swept over her. It ruffled her hair and made her weak at the knees. Fresh, cool, misty air. She hadn't realized how starved she was for it until it slid over her skin. Spending a few hours in that cabin had been worse than a week penned up in her cubicle at work.

Lockhart jostled her elbow impatiently, and as she moved farther onto the open deck, she looked up . . . and fell in love. Magic, she thought numbly. This is what magic looks like. It wasn't the ship, or the quaintly costumed pirates. It was the sky. Stars spilled thick and diamond-hard overhead, veiled here and there by a silver net of mist—more stars than she'd ever seen in her life. The moon was a breathtaking, pure crescent of silver-white, so bright it burned. And the sea—a vast, mesmerizing net of glints and sparks and liquid silver. Cold and beautiful.

"You locked us in," she said. She meant it to be accusatory, but there was something so beautiful about the night that she couldn't even begin to be angry.

"Ah, well, I'd prefer to define it as 'kept you out of my way,'" Lockhart said. She couldn't tell if he was mocking her or not. "The sea's a treacherous bitch, but she's a looker when she's in the mood." His low, dark-honey voice turned unexpectedly rough. "Like most women, I'd suppose. Best move on now. Don't keep your true love waiting."

A whole audience had assembled—the whole crew, maybe, or as many as could be spared—and she edged past the men nervously and considered the issue of the ladder leading up to the quarterdeck. Not a problem in pants. Big problem in skirts.

Ian, resplendent as a lost prince in his finery, struck a bold pose at the top of the ladder. Wind billowed his frock coat and feathered the lace at his throat, and his hair spilled out like a silk flag. Very romantic.

He didn't offer to help her up.

She climbed fast, trying to keep her skirts as tight around her legs as possible. She settled herself breathlessly, and Ian moved away after a perfunctory peck on the cheek.

A hand closed over hers as she lurched for balance. Not Ian's big, strong hand—this one was darker, sinewy, rougher, and had never seen a manicure in its entire existence. She looked up into Captain Lockhart's face, and for a second she saw something odd there. A kind of searching regret, something that brought him into real focus for the first time not as a parody or an archetype in tattered clothing but a man. He placed her hand over his arm, in an old-world gentle­manly way, and walked her to her husband-to-be.

The comparison was inevitable. Ian had a carefully sculpted body, courtesy of personal trainers. A tan delivered weekly at the best salon in the city. Fine, gorgeous hair that required more maintenance than Cecilia's entire (mostly nonexistent) beauty regimen. He was pol­ished and buffed and engineered into every woman's fantasy, and as he smiled at Cecilia she felt the doubts that had been growing in her mind spread like an oil slick to her heart.

Lockhart placed her chilled fingers in Ian's and then held out his right hand. Argyle hastily stepped forward and put his small book into it. Lockhart opened it, squinted at the pages, turned it around, and made a show of flipping until he found the appropriate passage.

"Right," he said, and cleared his throat. "Ian Taylor, do you take this woman as your lawfully wedded wife, et cetera?"

" 'Et cetera'?" Ian repeated blankly, and then, "Er, yes. Sure. I do."

Lockhart was already moving on before the last syllable was out of Ian's mouth. "Right. Cecilia Welles, think you carefully: Do you take this man, Ian Taylor, as your lawfully wedded husband, giving him power and authority over your worldly goods as well as your earthly body, until death do you part?"

She was no expert, but she was pretty sure that most marriage cer­emonies weren't that sinister. Lockhart's dark eyes seemed to see everything—all the doubt, the fear, the horrible lack of self-confidence that had led her to this terrible, unhappy moment.

I hate oceans. I hate boats. I hate pirates.

I hate Ian.

I hate myself. That's the real problem.

"I do," she heard herself whisper.

Lockhart's eyes widened just a fraction, but then his face went en­tirely still. "Ah. Then ye be a wedded woman, Mistress Taylor," he said, and tossed the book over his shoulder at Mr. Argyle. "God pre­serve you."

Argyle fumbled the book out of the air, tsked over a bent page, and carefully stowed the book in a pocket of his coat. Lockhart threw his arms wide for a metaphorical embrace of his crew watching below. "That's it! Finished! Back to work, you scurvy dogs!"

The sailors muttered. She found herself clinging to Ian's warm hand for more than just moral support. The sails creaked, banners cracked in the fresh, cool wind, and the moon seemed eerie now, not beautiful. The constant hissing rush of the sea made her feel faint.

"He didn't say, 'You may kiss the bride,' but I'll take the liberty anyway," Ian said, and grabbed her in a bruising embrace and kissed her, all wet lips and slick teeth, and she tried to struggle away, but he seemed to think that was funny, somehow. Even when he pulled back, he held on to her with her feet flailing uselessly for the deck. "Captain Lockhart!"

Lockhart turned, hands clasped behind his back. The momentary humanity Cecilia had seen was gone like a pebble dropped in the ocean. "Your servant."

"I'll need the paperwork you promised. With witness signatures."

"Yes, of course." His lips parted in that surprisingly white smile. "Witnesses. Aye, Mr. Argyle, you'd swear these two were wed, wouldn't you?"

"Completely legal," Argyle said.

"Completely," Lockhart agreed. "All that remains is for you to consummate your sacred union as you see fit."

"Absolutely," Ian said. He moved to the railing and sat Cecilia roughly on the thin wooden support. She grabbed for his broad shoulders, then his lapels, as the ship heaved again. He gave her a slow, entirely unpleasant smile. "You never got it, did you?"

"What?"

He pulled a letter out of his pocket. "One thing about working at the post office, you come across all kinds of great stuff. For instance, this one—from Mr. Tom Carruthers, Attorney-at-Law." He un­folded it. " 'To Miss Cecilia Welles, I regret to inform you of the re­cent passing of your aunt Nancy Welles Paulson, who died after a short illness . . .' yadda yadda . . . ah! Here's the good part. 'Please call me to discuss the details of your estate.' Estate, Cess. Two-point-four million, and as your widower, I'm entitled to the whole thing. Tragic honeymoon accident. I'll bet I end up getting so much sympathy tail after the funeral."

And he pitched her over the railing.

She screamed on the way down—all the way—and hit the water with a breath-stealing smack. Cold. She flailed, was slapped in the face by a wave, and then another, before she could suck in a gasp. Salt water burned in her throat and eyes. She choked, coughed, and got a cold mouthful of sea spray. It felt like there were hands on her ankles, hands dragging her down, and she couldn't feel anything below her neck but pressure and cold. . . .

Her head slid under the next wave. When she fought back to the surface, there was someone standing up on the top deck of the pass­ing ship, looking down at her. Tricorn hat. A mass of dark hair. A tat­tered antique coat.

She didn't even know why she did it, but she lifted a hand to him.

Please.

The next wave buried her. The pressure of air in her lungs turned stale and useless, and she let it dribble out in pretty silver bubbles, a part of her escaping even though the rest was sinking into the dark. ...

And then there was a viselike grip on her arm, and she was hauled to the surface. Moonlight exploded pale in her eyes. Captain Lock­hart, seal-sleek, hatless and coatless, turned her on her back. "Stay still," he ordered her. "Don't fight me!''

He clapped an arm as unyielding as an iron bar under her breasts and swam like a dolphin—but it wasn't going to be enough. The ship was pulling away, leaving them in its wide, silvery wake.

He couldn't swim forever, could he?

He didn't need to. The sails suddenly luffed, flapped, and slumped into pools of canvas on the yardarms. Shouts echoed over the water, and a rope ladder hit the water with a smack nearby and clattered against the black-painted hull.

Ian was now at the tall railing, leaning over. She couldn't really make out his face, only the broad details, but he didn't look happy. "You were supposed to let her drown!" he yelled down at Lockhart. "I paid you, you bastard! I paid you good hard cash—"

Lockhart waved a hand and shouted. "Mr. Argyle!"

"Aye, sir!" floated back the reply.

"Belay that noise!"

"Aye-aye, sir!"

Argyle bashed Ian smartly over the head and hauled him away. Cecilia screamed, not so much in fright as in surprise at the efficient way it was done.

"Best thing for it, really," Lockhart said, and bared his teeth in a broad white grin. "No refunds. Now climb, lass. It's too dark for me to look up your skirts."

Screaming wasn't doing her any good.

Cecilia shouted and battered at the bolted door, to absolutely no avail. If she'd thought being rescued meant that she had some kind of status, she'd been dead wrong. As soon as Lockhart had set foot on deck, he'd had her tossed into a lightless black hold. It smelled of rotten fish and moldy bread, and didn't even have the meager crea­ture comfort of a hammock like her guest quarters. And to add in­sult to injury, a few minutes later another limp body was tossed inside, groaning. Ian. Oh, joy. They might not let her drown, but they probably wouldn't care if Ian finished the job for them.

The ocean's bounce seemed to be getting worse. She clutched her head as the ship leaped weightless, then crashed down into a trough . . . then rose . . . and fell. . . .

Ian groaned feebly, and she heard him scrabbling around as the door was bolted shut again behind him. No light, so she couldn't see him, but she could imagine how miserable he looked. "Oh God," he moaned. "I think I have a skull fracture."

"Then die already," she said. "I wish they'd shot you. With . . . with great big musket balls."

"Cess—"

"Don't call me Cess!" she yelled furiously. It was easier when she couldn't see him. "This is all your fault! I can't believe you tried to kill me!"

"Now, um, Cecilia—" More fumbling noises. Oh God, he was coming her way. "It was a mistake, that's all. You're just. . . con­fused, and—"

"I'm not the one with a skull fracture, Fabio. Now, let me see if I got this straight: You found the letter while you were working at the post office, and you intercepted it and decided to what? Seduce me? Marry me and then do away with me?"

"Um—"

"On a pirate ship? What are you, crazy? What kind of plan is that?"

"It's not a real pirate ship! It's . . . just an act."

"Who told you that?" she demanded furiously.

"Well... a guy at the docks—"

"Let me guess: some shifty-looking guy at the docks? Were you looking for a honeymoon cruise or body disposal?" She was scream­ing at him now, and she didn't care. She felt around and found some­thing rolling on the floor. A filthy, ancient potato, it felt like. She hefted it in her right hand.

"It's not like that; it's just—um—look, I can explain."

She pelted the potato at the sound of his voice and sidestepped his lunge. She tripped over a box, went sprawling in a tangle of wet skirts, and his weight landed awkwardly on top of her.

Oh, damn.

"Oh, Cess . . . ilia, I just don't know what I—it was just tempo­rary insanity, I swear; I don't know what happened. ... I lost my grip on you. ... It was an accident!"

She slapped him. He pinned her hands to the deck. "I want a di­vorce!" she shouted.

"Fine! We split the money fifty-fifty!"

"I don't have any money, you idiot!" she shouted, right in his face. "And I don't have an aunt Nancy!"

There was a long, ringing silence.

"You don't have an Aunt Nancy?"

"No."

"Then you didn't inherit two million dollars?"

"Not a chance."

"But it was addressed to—"

"The wrong Cecilia."

A long pause. "Oh."

"I can't believe I ever thought that somebody like you would— could—did you ever like me at all?"

"Well," he said judiciously, "I'd have probably taken you to bed at least once, you know. Things just got. . . out of hand."

She was hunting around for something hard enough to give him a real skull fracture but froze at the metallic clatter of latches. The door—hatch?—swung open and she was blinded with a lantern's glare.

"You," said a male voice. "Lass. Out with you."

She swallowed hard and started to get up, but suddenly Ian was there between her and the light. "Wait! You can't leave me here!"

Her eyes were adjusting to the dazzle, and she picked out the gleam of fussy spectacles perched on a narrow nose, short graying hair, and a deadly-looking pistol being pressed to Ian's temple. Mr. Argyle, her hero.

"Can and will. Come on, me laddie, you're too pretty to die. Fetch a good price at some of our less savory ports of call, I expect." He nodded toward Cecilia. "Let's go, then."

Cecilia edged around Ian to step out into the larger darkened cabin. Even short as she was, she had to duck to pass under the low beams. The main crew quarters were partly filled with men sitting at trestle tables, knotting ropes, mending shirts, drinking. They eyed her as she passed, with varying degrees of sinister leering.

"Up," Argyle said, and prodded her with his pistol. She climbed.

Outside, it was dark and breathtakingly clear. Argyle hustled her through the now-familiar black door and down the corridor. Instead of taking the left-hand door, he opened the right, and ushered her through.

She blinked and paused a couple of steps in, because it looked as if she'd stepped off of the ship and into an elaborate manor house. Fine tables, linens, candles, hung from clever brackets that tilted with the motion of the ship. Thick carpet underfoot.

There were seven men seated at the table. Dinner, it seemed, had just ended. Plates were empty, serving dishes ravaged, and the only things filled were crystal glasses. Filled, emptied, and filled again be­fore she'd managed to cross the long room with Mr. Argyle at her side.

"The wee lass," Argyle said, unnecessarily. They'd already looked up, and she was the focus of seven sets of assessing male eyes. The most disconcerting were Captain Lockhart's, because he seemed to see nothing in particular that appealed. "Or shall we say, the soon-to-be widow?"

"Sit," the captain said, and kicked out a chair. Or tried. His boot missed it by an inch. He aimed with great concentration and suc­ceeded in thumping it ass-over-cushion to the carpet. "Damn."

"I've seen this movie," Cecilia blurted. "This is where you leer at me and tell me that food doesn't satisfy you, and you turn into zom­bies in the moonlight. Right?"

There was a long, surprised silence, and then they roared drunk­enly with laughter. Argyle—sober, monkish Mr. Argyle—laughed so hard he reeled into the paneled wall. "Now, lassie," Argyle gasped, "does it look to you as if food doesn't satisfy this lot? They've done their level best to lick the shine from the plates! The best part of our cargo's food and drink!"

"Zombies in the moonlight!" roared a lop-eared fellow near Lockhart's left elbow. "Zounds, that's rich. . . . What the devil is a zombie?"

"From the Caribbean," Lockhart said contemplatively. He was decidedly not laughing. "Means the walking dead."

The laughter cut off abruptly. In the odd silence, Cecilia clumsily bent down and set the chair upright again and let herself sink into it, because she wasn't sure her trembling knees would hold her. It had been a long, long day.

"Zombies," Argyle repeated blankly. "Well. I do stand corrected."

After a cutting glance around the table, Lockhart reached for the bottle and poured the crystal glass in front of Cecilia's empty plate to the brim.

"Drink up," he said.

"No, thank you."

"You need it. Not every day you get married and murdered," he said, and leaned his chair back precariously on two legs. She waited for him to tip straight over backward. It wasn't possible to keep a chair balanced with the constant gyrations of the damn ship, espe­cially as drunk as he was. "Excuse me. Nearly murdered."

She waited, breathless. He stared back, the chair gently moving back and forth, never quite off center, never quite still.

She slowly reached for the glass and sipped, then coughed. Good British rum, burning a wide path down her throat. Argyle rapped the table and nodded his appreciation. "Braw lass," he said. "Fill her glass, Jacks."

Lockhart's neighbor cheerfully obliged, his face mottled red as he chuckled. Someone started up a drinking song, and Argyle took it up with a startlingly clear tenor voice; at the chorus, everyone lifted a glass, even Lockhart. She hastily followed suit.

There were several refrains and quite a lot of choruses. Lockhart, she noticed, only raised his glass and touched it to his lips. She tried, but the ship kept deceiving her with its dips and swirls, and the liquor spilled either over her or into her mouth, and one way or an­other, she was getting mightily drunk. Not to mention sticky.

"A bit of business," Argyle said once the song was over and glasses were being refilled. "What about the lad, Cap'n?"

Lockhart shrugged. "Over the side, I suppose. No great loss to anyone."

Argyle looked sad. "Could've fetched a pretty penny for him, back in the good times. Sold him in Tortuga—"

"Tortuga's gone soft," Lockhart said. "So's every damn port in the world, even Singapore. We'll never get a profit out of his pretty hide. Might as well save ourselves the bread and aggravation."

"Wait!" Cecilia blurted, alarmed. "You're . . . you're talking about—"

"Pitching your would-be killer over the side," Argyle said. "You don't have to thank us."

"No!"

"No?" He looked momentarily nonplussed, and then downed his rum and slapped the table in comprehension. "Ah! You want to put a musket ball through his black heart first! Done, lassie! A fine piece of vengeance!"

"No! No, of course I don't! I want—"

Lockhart raised one ironic eyebrow. "Drink first," he said. "I never negotiate with a dry throat."

She got most of it down in long gulps, choked, and swayed. She was getting used to the up-and-down lurch of the ship, she decided. Like riding a horse. Or a cowboy. Oh, dear. The pirates howled their ap­proval and downed their own rum. "Another round!" Argyle shouted.

Lockhart, who hadn't taken a single drink, suddenly crashed all four legs of his chair to the deck, causing an instant and precariously sober silence. "Everybody out," he said. He didn't raise his voice, but all of the other men shoved their chairs back and took their leave. Cecilia tried, but Lockhart reached out to place two long fingers on her wrist to press it to the table. She froze. "Not you." He exerted no pressure, but she couldn't find the strength to get up.

In seconds, the cabin was empty except for the two of them. Lockhart let go of her wrist and rested his elbow on the table.

"Well," he said. "You're set on mercy for your would-be killer?"

"Yes," she said. The room lurched, and she swayed with it. Well, this wasn't so difficult after all, now, was it? She was on a pirate ship, aye, avast, and all that crap. "Yes, I'd like you to ... to ... let him go."

"That's what we're going to do, Mistress Taylor. Let him go. If he sinks, well, that's purely a flaw of character."

"Hey! I'm not married!" She got her thoughts back on track with an effort. "And no fair dumping him in the middle of the osh . . . osh—"

"Ocean."

" 'Zackly."

"An island, perhaps? Something . . . harsh. With hostile natives. Possibly cannibals."

She considered it. It did have an appeal. "No cannibals. But everything else is okay."

He cocked his head slowly to one side. "Then my felicitations, Miss Welles. Consider yourself divorced. Of course, you'd be far more unattached if you'd let us put a musket ball in his back."

The room spun. Were they caught in a whirlpool? She pressed her hands flat against the table and tried to hold steady, but the damned boat turned over and her legs went to warm jelly and all of a sudden she toppled.

And when she caught her breath, she was sitting in Captain Lock­hart's lap.

Apart from a very slight widening of his eyes, he didn't move. She sucked in a deep breath, and the smell of him washed through her— sharp male sweat, old rum, clothes worn too long without more than an opportune rainstorm. The coat puffed out an aroma of patchouli. Her left hand was braced on Lockhart's chest, and she felt his muscles tensing pleasantly under the thin cloth of his shirt.

He slowly tilted his head, keeping his gaze steady and level on hers. "Yon Ian's a pretty, empty-headed fool, and no match for a woman of your . . . potential. You should have known that."

She let loose of the table to make a grand sweeping gesture with her right hand, which made her sway alarmingly on the captain's lap. "Potential," she said. "Right. I have loads of that. A dead-end job, no money, no friends . . . and Ian, he was just so—"

"Pretty?" Lockhart supplied dryly.

"Considerate!"

Lockhart smiled slowly. "Oh, aye," he said. "We offered to make sure you were dead before he tossed you overboard, for a bit extra, but he'd have none of that. Very considerate of his pocketbook, your husband-to-be. It was a considerable savings to let you drown."

Heat rushed over her—physical, sticky, painful—and she thought for a miserable second that she would simply pass out. Oh, Ian . . .

"Cecilia," Lockhart said quietly. It was the first time he'd called her by her name, "He meant to have you dead, one way or another. Be sure of that."

She pulled her hand back from his chest, and sure enough, the ship's next lurch sent her head and balance spinning. The world spi­raled away in a hiss of gray sparkles, and she slid sideways toward the lurching deck.

He caught her, both arms around her, and she was in a very inde­cent position for a woman who just, well, tonight had been saying yes to a different man altogether, but in the candle's glow his eyes were unguarded and dark and lovely, and she buried her fingers in the still-damp curl of his hair and kissed him.

After a second of surprise, his lips moved, molding into hers, still cool from the water, and she put her arms around his neck and moaned into his mouth and, My God, you're drunk, she told herself, but it wasn't really the rum; the rum just let her forget about all the reasons why this was a very, very bad idea.

It was a long, silent, slow kiss. Not full of energy, like Ian's kisses. . . full of promises. Full of restraint and the tantalizing taste of some vibrating mad energy she could feel inside of Lockhart, tin­gling under the skin.

And then she felt him lurch, as if he'd been stabbed in the guts, and tremors went through every muscle of his body. Nearly a seizure. He dumped her off his lap and stood up himself so sud­denly that his chair toppled to the deck with a crash. She swayed, disoriented.

"What. . . ?"

Lockhart grabbed her by the elbow and rushed her across the room. Mr. Argyle, rubbing his chest and looking shaken, snapped to attention as Lockhart threw the compartment's door open.

"Take her," Lockhart said roughly.

Argyle blinked, as if this was not at all what he'd been expecting. "Captain—"

"Take her!" Lockhart roared. He was white-faced, shaking, and there was a bitter fire in his eyes she couldn't even begin to under­stand.

He thrust her into Argyle's arms, crowded past, and was gone.

"Well," Argyle said slowly. "You do make an impression, don't you? In you go." He opened her cabin door.

"Wait," she said, and put one hand flat on his coat, right over the three black-edged holes.

His eyes went wider. "You're a forward sort of lass, aren't you?"

She barely noticed the words, because something was slowly pen­etrating her rum-pickled brain.

She slid her hand down to Argyle's wrist. He watched curiously, eyes brilliant behind those Benjamin Franklin spectacles, as she turned his hand over and put two fingers on the pallid skin there, over the blue trace of veins.

"No pulse," she said. "He didn't have one, either."

Argyle silently moved the fabric of his coat aside. In the shirt be­neath, there were three matching black-edged holes. And beneath that, she could see the scars over his heart—closed, but not healed. Still fresh, but not bloodied.

"Sit down," Argyle said. "I suppose you'd best know everything."

She sat. He paced awhile, then perched nervously on the bed be­side her. When he finally started talking, it came in a low-voiced rush.

"Being a privateer was an honorable profession when it began, lass. We had a marque from the Crown to batten on the Frenchies and the Spanish. But things changed; royal favor moved on. Some claimed we'd put loyal English merchantmen on the bottom, and soon enough, we'd gone from privateers to pirates, with no chance to tell our side of it. We sailed out heroes, and sailed back con­demned men."

He paused, cleared his throat, and fixed his gaze on the deck be­tween his feet. "We put in to Jamaica, always a friend to us. Found the local governor had raided our homes, took all we owned. And for the officers—he hanged our families as thieves. Harsh times, lass. Very harsh."

She turned her head, shocked. He wasn't looking at her, and his face was set and grim.

"Captain Lockhart had a new wife," he said. "Much in love, he was. Came home in triumph to find her dangling, three days ripe. I lost my own two sons."

"Oh God," she whispered.

Argyle shook his head. "God was in no part of this. The gover­nor's wife was the one spreading the tales, pouring her evil poison into willing ears. She was the cap'n's lover once, but he turned from her, and she never forgot it. This was purely a petty woman's re­venge, and innocents died for it."

Cecilia couldn't seem to breathe. Argyle's tone was stripped bare of emotion, but she caught a ghost of the pain in it even so.

He was shaking his head slowly, lost in memory. "I tell you frankly, lass, we were like madmen, and we were out for blood. We fought our way to the governor's house, carried him and his wife away, and sailed out under fierce pursuit. Soon as we found a good deep spot and some decent-sized sharks, we chummed the waters and put out the plank." He let his shoulders rise and fall. "It wasna right, and we all knew it, but grief and anger can make men do vile things. Still, I'll never forget seeing that water bloom red, or stop hearing the screams. Even hers, for all she deserved no better."

Cecilia couldn't begin to speak. Argyle's voice continued dry and bleak, full of despair. "As she was on the plank, the witch called out a curse on us. A storm took us hard at midnight, and in the midst of it came an English ship, captained by the devil himself, I say. We had no chance. No chance at all. He took the ship straight down to hell."

"But. . ." She licked her lips. "But you're not—"

"Oh, we're dead all right, lassie. Every man jack among us. But we don't rest. Cursed to sail for eternity without rest, without the comfort of land or family. We'll never set foot at a port again. She made sure of that, when she put her curse on us."

Cecilia decided it must be the rum making her simultaneously dizzy and credulous. Sane people didn't believe things like this, did they? Sober people certainly wouldn't. "How long have you been . . . well. . ."

"Cursed?" he asked. "Far too long. Captain keeps us sailing, but there's not much heart left in us. We all ache for an end to it, if we were to put an honest face on things."

"Haven't you tried to break the . . ." She felt stupid even saying it. ". . . curse?"

"Oh, aye." Argyle turned his head and looked at her, then patted her hand with his cool, pale fingers. "We've tried everything, but when that dying witch called on the devil, she put the doom on us, no doubt about it." He considered Cecilia for a moment, then said, "Do you want to hear it? The words?"

Cecilia nodded. Argyle shut his eyes, and eerily, the voice that came out of his mouth wasn't his own at all—it was a woman's, high and thin and strange, quavering with fear and fury. "I curse you, Liam Lockhart, and through you, this ship and its crew. Your blood will lie cold in your veins before this night is done, and your heart will lie cold and silent in your chest. No home, no shelter, no com­fort, no port, no rest, for as long as love forsakes you as it has forsaken me. I lay my doom on you, and curse you all to hell."

He relaxed, let his breath out, and shivered. When his voice came again, it was his own—a little breathless, maybe. "Love," he said. "As if she knew anything of it. No, there's no breaking that kind of curse. But it's kind of you to think on it, lassie."

"But if you're not trying to break the curse, why . . . why take on me and Ian?"

"We stop to take on supplies, here and there. Must do. She cursed us to sail; she didn't say we had to starve." A smile lit up his face for a moment, and Cecilia thought that she'd like to see him smile more. Under better circumstances, and when she wasn't so drunk and vul­nerable. "It's terrible expensive even boarding rum and water, and precious little prizes to be taken. We board ships, and find 'em filled with black sludge, or foolish toys instead of real solid goods. No gold on these seas anymore, and precious few cargoes of any real worth. That's why we put out the word among other crews, like. That we'd take on passengers for money. We planned on robbing you and dumping you penniless in another port, but young Ian's proposal was sommat different."

"And you were just going to let him kill me."

"Cap'n considered anything that happened after he said the words were what you might call a domestic affair. I'm sorry, pet. But after all, we are pirates."

She sat, numbed and disoriented and drunk and cold, and for no reason she could put her finger on burst into tears.

Argyle tsked under his breath, shut the door, and locked her in.

"Lassie?"

Cecilia cracked hot, thick eyelids and wet her lips. She was still dressed, and wrapped in the rough woolen blanket as well. A chill had come on hard, in the middle of the night, and then she'd started sweating. Her head felt lighter than air.

She coughed rackingly when she tried to swallow.

"Holy Jesus!" Argyle said, and his cool hand felt her forehead. "You're ill, lass. Why did you not call out. . . ?"

She murmured something, but it must not have made any sense. Argyle's hand withdrew, and cool water bathed her face, then drib­bled into her parched mouth. "Easy, now. You've got an ague, no doubt about it. Most like from that ducking you took. Easy, lass. We'll see you through."

She dozed. When she woke, lantern light dazzled her eyes, and there was a hissed argument being conducted somewhere a few feet away. The sense of it escaped her, but it had something to do with pills, and she thought she recognized Ian's voice.

Someone forced her mouth open. It hurt. Water splashed in, and a pill that felt chokingly huge on her swollen tongue. "Swallow," she was ordered, and it was a voice she felt she should obey. Not Ian's. Never obey Ian again. Ian had . . . done something terrible—

She dreamed of someone whispering her name like a secret in a low, dark-honey voice.

The next time she woke, she felt weak but clear. Captain Lockhart was sitting in a chair beside her, balanced on two legs. He was read­ing a tattered, water-stained magazine that looked strangely familiar to her. Where in the hell had he gotten hold of a copy of Oprah's magazine? Granted, it looked a couple of years old. ...

For a moment she didn't think he'd realized her eyes were open, and then he said, "Argyle collects such things. Books and papers and the like. Takes them from the ships we . . . visit. Most of the crew don't like to look at them. Think such things must be witchcraft. I've only just gotten them used to the flying metal monsters."

He handed her a cup, and she drank convulsively. The water slid down, smooth as glass, and pooled like silver in her stomach. She managed a croak. "How long . . . ?"

"Three days since you last woke," Lockhart said. He reached into a bowl, wet a cloth, and wiped her forehead. "Can't say that your dearly beloved has been too distressed."

"Ian was here."

"Needed his opinion about some supplies we'd taken off a freighter a few years back. Anti-somethings."

"Antibiotics." The long word just about sapped her strength. Lockhart nodded and squeezed cool water from the cloth to dribble over her neck. "He helped?"

"Well, we did make it clear that if you failed to thrive, he'd be in­vestigating the bottom in short order. So he seemed motivated."

"Thank you."

Lockhart tossed the cloth back in the bowl. "Argyle's tended you. I'm only here while he takes his watch. I'm no kind of nursemaid."

"Doing it pretty well, though."

His eyes strayed, lightning fast, and came back to lock on hers. "Best pull up the blankets, Miss Welles. We've been at sea for some time without. . . outlets."

She looked down and realized that at some point someone—most likely Argyle—had stripped off her skirt and bodice and left her in the white chemise, with the drawstring neck gaping low. Dribbles of water had turned the fabric transparent. It clung to her breasts, clearly outlining the dark rings at their tips and tightening nipples.

"Oh," she whispered, and felt heat climb into her cheeks. Noth­ing like being sick to make you feel violated, and now this. . . . She fumbled ineffectively at the covers. After a hesitation, he reached over and pulled them to her shoulders. His fingers brushed her damp skin, and lingered.

She saw him wince suddenly, and hunch over, as if he'd taken a terrible blow to the guts.

"Captain?" she croaked, alarmed.

He held up a shaking hand and breathed, in and out, labored, ag­onized breaths. He leaned back in the chair and avoided her eyes for a few long moments, then stood. "We'll be near a port soon. I'll have Argyle row you out. No doubt you can make your own way from there. Women do have their clever ways."

"What?"

His voice turned rough. "If you're imagining anything's between us, put an end to girlish fancies. What happened before—well, rum was involved, and when rum goes in, sense goes out. I have no desire to burden myself with a doxy. You'll go ashore, or over the side."

She watched him leave, too stunned to protest. Every time she saw a flicker of something kind, he went out of his way to be insult­ing. Even for a pirate, he was rude.

He stopped in the doorway, facing away. As she watched, he clapped his battered tricorn hat back over his hair and turned so that a bare inch of his profile was exposed to her.

She didn't mean to apologize—didn't have any reason to, either!—but it just came out, unguarded. "I'm sorry," she said. "I keep offending you."

He flinched. "You mistake me. I offend myself."

It took another day to recover her voice fully and two more for her strength, but by nightfall she was on deck, strolling arm in arm with Argyle. From him she learned that Ian was back in the hold, for crimes that Mr. Argyle vaguely defined as "insubordination." Not too surprising.

Lockhart was a dark, silent presence on the quarterdeck, pacing in the moonlight. If he noticed her, he gave no sign; he hadn't been back to speak to her again. She had the feeling that if he had his own way, he'd put her ashore without another word of any kind. That made her furious, in a way that Ian's outright assault hadn't.

"I've been thinking," Argyle said. "About what you said. About the curse."

"What I said? Um . . . what did I say?"

"About breaking it. There's a possibility—" Argyle sucked in a deep breath and let it out in deliberately slow increments before fin­ishing the thought. "—a possibility that it could be done. The curse broken."

"How?"

Argyle cast her a sideways, cutting glance. "Love, obviously. For as long as love forsakes you, she said. But what if it doesn't?"

"I don't—oh, you've got to be kidding me."

"He's not cared about anyone or anything for a long, long time, lass. But he threw himself over the stern of the ship when you did no more than hold up a hand."

"You're crazy."

"Twice I've felt something coming over me—something like the shadow of death. I think it started with the cap'n, and you, there af­ter dinner."

When she'd been so drunk. When she'd kissed him. She felt a warm bloom inside that should have been shame, and wasn't, quite. "I—," she began.

"I don't need to know," he said, which was kind. "Doesn't matter what happened. Point is, we feel the ache of it every time he's near you. Makes the wounds twinge something awful." He unconsciously rubbed his chest, where the musket balls had pierced. She wondered if they were still in there, black pearls at the heart of a bony oyster.

"You all feel it? Everybody?"

"Every lad I've asked. Well, two of them lied, but I saw it in their eyes. The curse holds us all, and if it breaks, it breaks for all. She cursed him, and through him, us. The cap'n's the key."

"No wonder he's afraid, if he's hurting you all."

"Afraid?" Argyle laughed softly, sourly. "Nay, lassie. Not Liam Lockhart, not over causing his crew a wee bit of pain. He's a ship's master. Men suffer and die, and that's the way of the sea, and well he knows it. The point is, the pain means you're making him feel, warming his blood, and his heart."

"Breaking the curse."

"Aye." Argyle sighed. "Not that he'll ever let himself truly love you."

"What? Why not?"

"The harpy that doomed us dinna have a happy end in mind, in this world or the next. If he lets himself love, he might well break the curse—and likely the moment he does, we fall dead in our tracks, or turn to dust, or some such nasty bit of business. Captain Lockhart has two hundred crew on this ship, and he puts considerable store by that responsibility. Better half a life than none, he'd say."

"But if there's a chance it could save you, maybe I should talk to him—"

Argyle took her firmly by both arms, looking her straight in the eyes. "It's not for you to save us, lassie. Everyone saves themselves. Everyone. Look to your own skin, and don't you worry about—"

He winced suddenly, and looked around toward Captain Lockhart.

So did every sailor visible on the deck of the Sweet Mourning, an eerily orchestrated turning of heads.

Captain Lockhart was watching them, leaning on the rail. If he was in pain, there was no way to tell from this distance.

A sigh rattled uneasily out of Argyle's narrow chest, and he rubbed the area over his heart.

"He's jealous." That made her feel annoyed and flattered at once.

"Aye. Knew that already."

"Then why parade me around like this?"

"Had to be sure, didn't I? I've been doing a bit of thinking, too, lass, on behalf of the crew. Most don't find half a life to be worth liv­ing. Not if there's a chance of ending it. So I've a mind to . . . pro­voke a reaction."

"Does the captain know what you're doing?"

He let out a soft bark of laughter. "Conspiracies on a sailing ves­sel get you flogged, or worse. We're having a theoretical discussion, like two people of reason. Do you trust me?"

"Of course." She did, she found, crazy as that was.

"Then stand fast, for I'm about to betray a man I've served for close on three hundred years. For his own good, mind."

She was about to ask what the hell he was talking about when Ar­gyle yanked her forward and, quite firmly, kissed her.

He was clumsy, and she could tell his heart wasn't in it, but he made it quite a show. She stood shocked, wondering whether she ought to push him away, but it didn't matter. In the next heartbeat he was lurching away with both hands clutching his chest. He hit the rail and slid down to an awkward sitting position, panting. Cecilia lunged toward him and then hesitated. What was she supposed to do? Feel for a pulse? Take his temperature? How did you diagnose a dead man, anyway?

Under the red coat, she saw the grubby white shirt flower with fresh blood. Gouts of it. Argyle gasped in shallow breaths, color gone a pale, unsettling green. All around them, sailors groaned and slumped and fought back cries of pain.

"What did you do?" she cried, and grabbed Argyle's lapels to shake him. "Oh my God, what is this? What's happening?"

"Proof," he said, white to the lips. "Proof he loves you. You have to find a way, lass. Don't let him put you off the ship before you do. Break the curse. It's all on you now."

Lockhart was on the quarterdeck, clutching the rail. She saw his knees bend and then straighten with what must surely be a superhu­man effort. When his voice came, it sounded angry and ragged. "If you want the woman, Argyle, take her below and ride her proper. Get out of my sight, the both of you!"

Cecilia bolted up, furious and wild. "You're an unbelievable bas­tard!" she screamed. "He's your friend!"

Lockhart jumped down from the quarterdeck and stalked toward her, sinuous as a cat. If he was hurting—and he had to be, because Argyle was still white to the lips and panting with pain—he was hid­ing it under a mask of pure fury. "Woman, if you fancy rough trade with my crew, there should be a lottery. Wouldn't want anybody say­ing it wasn't fair."

Well, if Argyle had wanted to provoke a reaction, he'd certainly succeeded. She cast a tormented look down at Argyle, who was try­ing to say something. She read his lips in the moonlight. Finish it.

Lockhart was coming. She dodged around him, charged through the black door and down the narrow passage. She burst into her tiny cabin and slammed the door. Then slammed it again, just for the catharsis of it. "He's trying to save you!" she shouted. Slam. "You don't deserve him, you black-hearted, cold-blooded—"

"Bastard," Lockhart finished, cool and low, and caught the door on its last slam. "I did hear you the first time." She gasped and pulled back. "Mistress Taylor—"

"I'M NOT MARRIED!" she shouted, at the end of her patience. "You know, curse or no curse, I'll bet you've always been like this. A cold-blooded, vile little leech, feeding off of others. That's what a pi­rate is, a parasite—"

"You seem drawn to parasites," Lockhart observed, and set his shoulder against the doorway. "Young Master Taylor, for instance. But then, he must have other talents you enjoy."

She felt a blush burn across her face and down her throat. "I haven't. Not that it's any of your business!"

"Indeed not. Nor would I care."

"Yeah, well, you cared just now, didn't you? When Argyle had his tongue in my mouth?"

She wanted to take that back, but it was too late. Lockhart was raising that famously satirical eyebrow at her, intending to lock all of his anger and jealousy and emotion inside. She lunged up off the bed and came very close to touching him. "You cared. You damn well care right now, too."

Very close. He didn't move back. Each deep breath she took strained the seams of the bodice and crossed the narrow fraction of an inch between them. A bare whisper of a touch. Oh yeah, he was in pain. She could see it flickering in his eyes. There was fresh blood staining his shirt, and smeared dark across his faded blue coat. She heard the slow patter of drops as they splashed on the leather of his boots.

"You're killing us," he said. "You're as much a witch as that sea hag we put over the side."

"I certainly hope I am, because I curse you, too! I curse you to have what you want. Go on, condemn yourself to feel nothing, noth­ing, forever—"

He captured her face between his hands and stared into her eyes. "Too late to feel nothing. Whether you're a witch or a saint, I don't know, but you're . . . inside me—"

His knees gave way, and he hit the deck, gasping. Cecilia followed him down and caught him as he swayed. "I'm not a witch," she said. "I'm definitely not a saint. I'm just. . .just a dreamer. That's why I said yes to Ian. Because ... it was a dream come true."

"Argyle's a dreamer," Lockhart said. "He thinks ... it will all end well. . . but—" His breath caught hard. There was blood pouring out of the wound under his shirt, not just a trickle but a flood. He was dying, and it was because of her. "I'm not a dreamer, Cecilia."

She braced him on her lap, stroking his hair. This was too hard. Too much. Maybe half a life was better, maybe never having passion or love or life again would be all right, if only you didn't have to go through this. She never wanted to feel her heart come apart like this again.

He was bleeding, great gouts of it flooding hot across her lap. Time was running out. His dark eyes opened, wild and beautiful and full of warmth. Full of life. "Argyle tried to stop me, you know. She begged for mercy, but I wouldn't hear her, I made myself cold, so cold, and I watched the sharks—"

"Liam, stop it; just—look, I know what to do. I'll go. I'll take a boat and I'll leave—"

"You should have gone before you smiled."

"Liam—"

His eyes stayed open, but the pupils slowly relaxed, eclipsing the brown with black. A sky without moon or stars. She felt unnaturally calm, and everything seemed so bright, so sharp, so still. His long hair curled around her fingers, warm and intimate.

"You have to live," she told him. "It doesn't end this way. You have to live."

She let Ian out of the hold at dawn, because she needed him. It took more than two to sail a ship of this size, but at least the sails were still set, and after some trial and error, she found she could steer the ship into the wind. Her arms ached with the effort, but it kept her from thinking.

She'd waited all night for the fairy godmother to drop in, pro­nounce it all a terrible mistake, and wave her magic wand. But it wasn't a Disney movie after all. It was a story about a curse, and blood, and pain, and it wasn't going to end well.

Cecilia put Ian to work gathering up bodies.

"We should dump them overboard," he called up, panting, as he dragged another body to the port rail. He no longer looked elegant and princely. He looked fey and dirty and savage, and she didn't imagine she looked any better.

"No," she said. She wasn't giving them to the sharks. As Ian reached for Argyle, she snapped, "Don't touch him!"

"What, is he some personal friend, Cess?"

She pulled one of Lockhart's deadly-looking pistols from the makeshift leather belt wrapped around her waist. "I swear, if you call me Cess again . . ."

He held up filthy, bloody hands. "Right. Whatever, Captain." He put a lot of contempt into it, but she was the one with the pistols. She'd spent the night clearing away all of the weapons she could find and locking them away in Lockhart's cabin. She was wearing his tri­corn hat. It did a good job of keeping the sun off of her nose, and besides, it smelled like him, and she found that an odd comfort.

"Crazy bitch," Ian muttered. She fired the pistol, bracing it with both hands. The mule kick of it stung. She was aiming for him, but she missed, and it gouged an impressive chunk out of the railing next to him. "Hey!"

"Hey, what?" she challenged, and pulled the other gun. "Warning shot. Next time I see daylight through your chest. Be nice."

The sails flapped. She'd lost the wind. She put the pistol away and turned the wheel to find it again.

"Where are we going?"

"That way," she said, and nodded at the horizon. "Funny thing about the planet, it's round. Sooner or later, we'll hit land."

"Oh, great. Brilliant navigation. Here there be monsters." Ian swore and wiped his grimy forehead on an equally grimy sleeve.

"Just keep in mind that out of everybody on this ship, J like you the least."

They ate tough bread and salted beef in midafternoon, and drank enough water to fight off the sun's relentless glare. Nothing to talk about, except for Ian's periodic attempts to bait her into doing some­thing stupid. She was too numb to respond. She wanted to curl up somewhere and cry, but she couldn't. Lockhart wouldn't have ap­proved. Besides, she had to survive this. It had to mean something, in the end. It had to be . . . worth it. Worth that many dead men? You've got one hell of a price tag, honey.

As the sun moved toward the western edge of the sea, Ian ambled off toward the poop deck—aptly named—and came down the lad­der fast. "Cecilia!" he yelled. "There's a ship!"

"What? Where?" She turned, startled, and saw a small, iron gray freighter steaming toward them on the port side. "Oh my God!" Sal­vation. Civilization. Home. She felt tears burn, and then blinked them resolutely away. "Well, don't just stand there! Signal them!" Ian tore his shirt off and waved it energetically over his head, whooping.

This was it. This was how the story ended. Yo-ho-ho, and a float­ing ship of the damned. It didn't seem right. She'd left Lockhart be­low in her cabin, silent and pale, and she wanted to see him again. She wanted to hear him say her name in that low, caressing tone, the way she'd heard it when she was sick and lost. She wanted . . . wanted . . .

It came to her, finally, with the force of a sun bursting inside, that she wanted Liam Lockhart, in a way she'd never in her life wanted anyone else.

"I love you," she whispered, and the tears spilled over. "You evil pirate bastard. You can't leave me like this. I love you, do you hear me? I love you. And I know you can hear me. Being dead is not an excuse. Now wake up!"

She held her breath. Come on, fairy godmother, you dithering old biddy. . . .

The moment came, and went. A gust of wind whipped tears from Cecilia's eyes.

It was over. There was no magic, there was no happy ending, and she was going to get off this ship and go home and never, ever dream again.

"They're coming!" Ian yelled, and swarmed down the ladder. "Slow down or something! Hit the brakes!"

She turned the wheel and dumped the wind out of the sails, and the Sweet Mourning slowed to a hissing amble as the sun began to slip beneath the waves.

"Um, Cecilia?" Ian was backing away from the starboard rail. "Remember when you said there were still pirates out here?"

"Yeah?"

"You might have been right about that."

She rushed over to take a look. Yep, pirates. Not the quaintly cos­tumed kind. These were modern killers, at least twenty or thirty men armed to the teeth with modern weaponry. And worse, they looked like they knew exactly what they were doing as they lined up at the rail, grinning and gesturing.

"Maybe we should run," Ian said. "We're fast, right?"

"With a crew! The two of us are not a crew!"

A hail of gunfire erupted from the other ship. She ducked. Ian hit the deck. Bullets gouged chunks from wood, and she felt flying splinters cut her arm.

She lunged up, grabbed the wheel, and steered for the wind. Ian screamed as the deck heeled sharply and bodies rolled into him. Mr. Argyle slid sideways along the rail, and out of the corner of her eye Cecilia saw Argyle's hand grab the rail. That's it. I've gone totally around the bend. As she was debating it, Argyle raised his head and prodded at his chest with trembling fingers.

"Christ," he said faintly. "That was fucking unpleasant. Remind me not to kiss you again."

"Argyle!" She fairly shrieked it, and waved both arms over her head. "Yesssssss! Thank you!"

He waved shakily and stood up. "Don't thank me, lass; I've only—" He threw himself flat as another volley of gunfire raked the ship. "What the hell have you got us into?"

"Pirates!" she yelled.

The pile of bodies Ian had made was squirming, men cursing one another in round, ripe accents as they fought to sit up. Argyle grabbed the nearest man and shook him by the shoulder. "Get in the rigging!" Argyle shouted, and favored a few more with kicks and foghorn-volume curses. "Come on, you sons of whores; we have fighting to do!—Fuck me, where's my pistols?"

Oh God, she'd locked them all away. "Take the wheel!" she shouted, and let go. More bullets whizzed past her as she ducked down the left-hand ladder. Argyle swarmed up the right. She pounded down the corridor to her cabin, fumbling with the massive iron ring of keys from Argyle's coat pocket.

Hands slid around her waist, picked her up, and set her aside. Brown, scarred fingers plucked the ring from her grasp, expertly parsed the choices, and unlocked the door.

Captain Lockhart looked her up and down, and his sun-browned face split into a wide, piratical grin. "That's my hat," he said, and re­claimed it. "Not to mention a few more things I want."

He put an arm around her waist and pulled her close. She gasped. "Um, Captain ... I don't think we have time for—"

Lockhart's grin turned sharply seductive, and he liberated the pis­tols from her belt. Took his time about it, too. She remembered to breathe when her ribs started to ache.

"You'll need to reload," she said. "I shot at Ian."

"Ah. Hit him?"

"Missed."

"Pity." Lockhart unbuckled the leather belt from around her waist. "You make a fierce little wench, Cecilia, but then, I did tell you, you had potential." He buckled on the sword, added the pistols, and kissed her. Brisk and efficient and warm, so warm.

"Wait," she said, and caught his arm when he moved to duck back down the corridor. "You're alive, right?"

"Aye," he said. "Mortal. And that means I can die, lass. Good tim­ing, eh? Bring more guns."

"Well," Argyle sighed regretfully, "we were a bit out of practice. Haven't had a decent fight in decades, really. It was over too soon."

He poured a tot of rum into a crystal glass and handed it across the table. Cecilia accepted it and knocked it back.

"All together and drown the devil!" Argyle grinned and slopped more liquor into the glasses. "We'll make a pirate of you yet, lass."

"I wish you'd warned me about the cannons," she sighed.

"Don't be daft," Mr. Jacks said, his portly face red with drink. "Only managed one decent barrage. Didn't even get in a good broadside. Only the larboard guns. We carry fifty-four, you know. Haven't had to use more than a dozen in years."

Cecilia shuddered, remembering that metal freighter—with no battleship armor—taking the full force of the cannonballs. "They didn't have a chance," she said.

"Regrets, lass? You saw the holds of that ship," Argyle reminded her, and cut himself a slice of pineapple with his dirk. "They barely made an effort to rinse out the blood from their last massacre. Mind you, you should never let blood sit like that for long; it raises a terri­ble stink. Always clean up after yourself."

"I'll remember," she said faintly.

"Unsanitary bastards," he said, and bit into the pineapple. "Damn fine produce, though."

Another dirk speared the unfortunate pineapple and moved it to an empty place. Cecilia looked over her shoulder just as Lockhart dropped into his chair beside her. "It's done," he said. "We're on course for Boston Harbor. Though what you mean to do when we get there—"

"Go ashore," she said. "Use my ATM card. Buy some cute shoes. Get married."

Argyle froze in midmotion. So, across the table from him, did Ian, who choked on a mouthful of rum. Mr. Simonds cheerfully slapped him on the back, hard enough to leave hand-sized bruises, while her former fiance coughed. "Easy, lad; she don't mean you," he said. "Ain't you relieved?"

Lockhart rocked his chair back on two legs and balanced. "Got a plan, do you, Miss Welles?"

"A pretty good one, as a matter of fact. And Ian, you're going to love this—it's even profitable."

He stopped coughing. "Yeah?"

"See, when we sail this ship into Boston Harbor and these men walk off this ship, it's going to raise some questions, right? Serious questions."

"Absolutely," he said. "Like, who are they and where did they come from."

"Two hundred men out of the past," Cecilia said. "Everybody will want to know their story."

"Yes," Ian said slowly, and then leaned forward to stare at her. "Yes! Everybody! My God, think of the possibilities: book deals, movie deals, pricey talk show appearances, merchandising—" The light went out in his face, and he slumped back into his chair. "Damn. No way is anybody going to buy this stupid curse story, though. We're all going to end up in the loony bin."

The pirates growled. Growled. "They'll take me to one of those hellpits when they pry my pistol out of my cold, dead hand," Argyle said. "I've seen what happens in madhouses."

"Well, it's better now," Cecilia said quickly. "Not that I've got personal knowledge of, you know, the mental health industry, but—"

"I'm not getting shut in any Bedlam!" Jacks said, and drank more rum. There was a chorus of "Ayes!" and glasses lifted around the table.

Lockhart sighed and sent her a private look. "Sorry, lass. No church weddings in your future, it seems."

"Well . . . not if we tell the whole truth ... but . . ."

"But?"

She took a deep breath. "Nobody believes in curses anymore. Ian's right about that. But there's something they do believe in—or want to, anyway. They may think we're crazy, but they won't be measuring us for straitjackets, just laughing."

Argyle leaned elbows on the linen tablecloth, eyes bright. "Tell us, lass."

"There's only three things you need to remember. One: The last thing you remember, you were sailing out from Bermuda."

"Simple enough."

"Two, and this is important, there was a bright white light—"

"Oh! I get it!" Ian yelled. "Bermuda Triangle! Right! And what the hell, throw in some little gray alien guys, too. Give it some local color. Oh, I'm going to get so rich with this story—" Another growl from the pirates. He gulped. "I mean, straight fifteen percent. Stan­dard commission."

"Ten," Lockhart growled.

"Ten's good. Ten's fabulous." Ian gulped rum. The pirate sitting next to him filled his glass to the brim.

"Three," Lockhart said.

"Three percent? Mercenary bastard," Ian muttered.

Lockhart quelled him with a look, then turned a seditious smile toward Cecilia. "You said three things, love. One, Bermuda. Two, bright white light. Three . . . ?"

"Three . . ." She reached out, grabbed the arm of his chair, and thumped all four feet back to the deck. He slid forward, off balance, and she kissed him, to the appreciative table slaps of the other men.

"Now, you see, I like three," he said, pulling back just enough to get the words out. "I think I like three a great deal. Though I could do with more research."

"Well then, four things," she amended, and settled her arms around his neck. "We get married before you go on Oprah, because after that, you won't be able to fight the girls off with a cutlass."

There was a short, considering silence around the table.

"Oprah," Argyle said, and toasted her. "I like the sound of that."

RACHEL CAINE is the author of the Weather Warden series, the latest of which is Firestorm (book 5). She also writes romance for the Sil­houette Bombshell line (most recently Devil's Bargain and Devil's Due), as well as short fiction and nonfiction when time and sanity permit. She prefers her personal details to remain alluringly mysteri­ous, but her Web site is www.rachelcaine.com, and we have it on good authority that she can be bribed with chocolate.