My Big Fat Supernatural Wedding Page 8

  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, disfigurem
ents. 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.