My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (11 page)

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 lowcut 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 fireengine 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 pinkandwhite striped skirt wasn't too horrible, but the tightlacing 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 Iwhat?" 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'twhat, 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 icecold 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 lowcut, tightly laced black bodice by a considerable margina 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 diamondhard overhead, veiled here and there by a silver net of mistmore stars than she'd ever seen in her life. The moon was a breathtaking, pure crescent of silverwhite, 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, darkhoney 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 sparedand 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 handthis 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 oldworld gentlemanly way, and walked her to her husbandtobe.

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 everythingall the doubt, the fear, the horrible lack of selfconfidence 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 onefrom Mr. Tom Carruthers, AttorneyatLaw." 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 poin tfour 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 downall the wayand hit the water with a breathstealing 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, sealsleek, 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 dolphinbut 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 blackpainted 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!"