My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding (13 page)

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 whitefaced, 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 blackedged 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 rumpickled 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 blackedged holes. And beneath that, she could see the scars over his heartclosed, 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 lowvoiced 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 officershe 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 decentsized 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 allit 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 owna 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, darkhoney 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, waterstained 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. Antisomethings."

"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 someonemost likely Argylehad 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 beforewell, 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 apologizedidn'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'toh, 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 mesomething 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.