24. The Morning After
THE MORNING AFTER
Cecily had never been drunk before, but she’d gotten drunk enough to wake up with an aching head and questions about the decisions she’d made last night.
Were they wrong? Not really.
Regrettable? Perhaps.
Did she remember everything that led up to them? Absolutely not. But as she sat in bed and stared at the gold band on her fourth finger, broken bits of memory came back to her in time with the incessant pounding in her skull.
Drinking with Jack on the secluded beach, speaking so quietly, so closely that their lips brushed until kissing and whispering became one.
She remembered telling him he was her home, and then she’d gotten relatively emphatic about forever.
They’d heard church bells, and after a lot more rum, they’d stumbled from the beach hand-in-hand, determined that nothing would ever separate them.
She’d been happy and insisted this decision was right and utterly needed, but also a little funny because Drunk Cecily knew Sober Cecily wouldn’t find it very funny at all. And Sober Cecily would be too good, pious, and far too uptight to make such a choice.
Drunk Cecily was right, but at least she’d kept her clothes on. Her skirt was on the floor, as were her vest and knives, but her shirt and pants remained in place, if not a little rumpled.
Jack stirred beside her in the bed that was only meant for one.
At some point in the night, he’d lost his shirt, which she’d loved.
His skin had been smooth beneath her hands as she ran them over his muscled chest, the planes of his stomach, and his strong back while they’d kissed and giggled, and then tumbled into his bed.
Her mouth went dry at the memory.
Jack yawned, his tattoo stark against his muscled bicep as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. Then his hand dropped to his lap. He blinked. Looked up at her through tired, bloodshot eyes. Said, “Hello.” He surveyed her sitting beneath the sheets, and added, “You’re in my bed.”
“Our bed,” she muttered.
His gaze dipped to her hand, which she still held in front of her. Then he lifted his own and noted the matching ring. “Oh.” He stared for a moment, then said blearily, “We married.” He looked at her. “Did we marry?”
She scratched her aching head. Her hair was hopelessly tangled—thanks to Jack, if hazy memory served. “Did you point a gun at a priest?”
He pushed himself up, his hair hanging in eyes as he squinted, trying to recall the night before. “Did I?”
She remembered a gun and a priest and the way he’d paled inside the sanctuary doors when Jack held the weapon aloft and commanded with a laugh, “Marry us or damn us to sin.”
With her arms locked around his waist, Drunk Cecily had giggled because she knew the gun wouldn’t go off. Even Drunk Jack wasn’t terrible enough to shoot a priest. Sober Jack would never have pulled the gun on a man of God in the first place.
The priest had noted they were pirates—at least, Jack was. Cecily looked as pretty as a disheveled rose. He’d led them to a smaller, separate chapel and married them there, and she remembered the way his voice had wavered, like he thought they’d shoot him if he got one word wrong.
Hungover Jack groaned and scrubbed his hands over his face. “Oh Lord, I threatened a priest.” When he opened his eyes, he promptly narrowed them at her. “You’re smiling. Why are you smiling?”
“Do you not like my smile?” She studied her ring again.
Drunkenly marrying a man she’d tried to kill a little over a day ago wasn’t something she’d necessarily qualify as recommendable, but she couldn’t help that her face didn’t agree.
Hungover Cecily was more closely allied with the drunk one, and a smile was the only response she could muster.
“I like it plenty,” he said, yawning again. “But if you hadn’t realized, you’re a filthy Copson now, and I’m wondering how that might affect your mood.”
Something in her sparkled, and she wondered if she might still be drunk. “I don’t think it’s filthy anymore.”
As a matter of fact, she loved it. Cecily Copson—her name. Jack’s name. As much as she’d loved her father’s, her husband’s was feared, and she wouldn’t need a knife or a sword to scare people off—she’d only need two syllables.
Copson.
Jack seemed to be waiting for more of a negative reaction. Cecily didn’t have one to give him.
“Compared to the others on the Fortuna,” she said, “I think we showed a great deal of restraint.” As it was, they’d known each other for nearly a month, as opposed to the hour the other pirates had waited before pairing off.
Jack snorted. “That’s something to be proud of.
Back in London, I’d see nobles marry in even less time, and they have horridly ugly affairs for couples who’d hardly even met.
Every time, I’d praise God for my lot in life.
I always enjoy doing better than high-society snobs.
” His gaze fell to her neck, his brow furrowing. “Fay gave you her necklace?”
“Did she?” Cecily touched her throat, and surely enough, she felt Fay’s emerald turtle.
Then she remembered. She and Jack had been hurrying across the beach, chasing the distant sound of church bells.
Fay had caught her hand and tugged her close, whispering, “Take heart, friend. Have courage for all that is to come,” as she looped her necklace around Cecily’s throat.
Fay had pressed a kiss to her cheek and then swept away.
“I suppose she did,” Cecily said, her head pounding anew. She shook away the image. It had felt so much like a goodbye.
“You’re a bit pale,” he said, his fingers skimming lightly over her jaw. “Does your head hurt?”
In response to his question, her head gave another vicious throb, forcing her to squint. “It does.”
In a move that was far more agile than a hungover man ought to be capable of, he heaved himself up and climbed over her, practically vaulting off the bed.
She noted with some relief that he still wore his pants, but they hung low enough to reveal the v of his hips.
As he straightened and started across the room, a folded square of paper fell out of one pocket.
She was about to tell him about it when he stretched his arms over his head, the muscles in his tan back rippling with the movement—
“Close your mouth,” he said without turning around.
She snapped it shut. “It wasn’t open,” she replied snidely.
Jack only laughed, opened a drawer, and began rifling around. He pulled out a small blue bottle and returned to hand it to her. “Here.”
“What is it?” She looked for a label and found none.
“A tonic.”
“What’s in it?” She looked up at him—or tried to. Her eyes caught on his chiseled torso and stayed there.
He only said, “Do you want to feel like shit all day?”
She looked at the bottle again as though words might appear to tell her what she was about to consume. “Where’d you get it?”
“I made it.” He knelt next to the bed. “For hangovers. It’s a necessity in Tortuga.”
“You don’t look like you feel like shit.”
“Oh, I feel like shit, but waking to a wife in my bed was quite sobering.” He nudged her hand that held the bottle, the gold band glinting on his finger. “Drink. It’ll help.”
Wife. She’d married Jack. And he was taking care of her while she suffered through her first hangover.
Her smile appeared again of its own volition, and she uncorked the bottle and took a sip.
“More,” he said the moment she ripped it away from her mouth.
“It’s awful!” She covered her lips with the back of her hand, trying not to gag. “It tastes like boiled cabbage.”
“It is boiled cabbage.” His grin was far too amused for how bad he claimed to feel. “It’ll help. Trust me.”
She grimaced, lowering her hand as she grumbled, “You’re lucky you’re handsome.” When the tonic hit her tongue this time, she drank it. When she’d had all she could bear, she shivered against the taste and handed it back. “It’s not just boiled cabbage.”
“No, it’s also eggs, raisins, ambergris, and—”
“Shut it.” She buried her face in her hands. “I’m already nauseous.”
“It won’t sound so disgusting when the headache abates.” He caressed the side of her head as he stood, sending butterflies tumbling against her roiling stomach in a way that was oddly soothing.
Peeking from between her fingers, her gaze moved back to the paper on the floor. “You dropped that,” she said, lowering one hand to point.
Jack stopped and bent to pick it up. With the blue bottle balanced in one hand, he unfolded it. Then froze. His lips parted on a sharp exhale.
“Jack?”
He glanced at her, eyes wide and lips parted in shock as though he’d seen a ghost. With a blink, the expression vanished, and he was his casual self once again.
“Marriage certificate,” he said, folding it tightly and slipping it back into his pocket. “I’m surprised we were given one.”
How odd. Was he not as pleased as she was? Of course, she was still surprised and a little unsure, but not unhappy. Perhaps Jack had thought it was mere silliness until finding legal evidence of their matrimony.
“We can get it annulled, if you want,” she said, sounding cool and unbothered even though it would bother her very much if he agreed. “It’s not like we consummated—”
“It’s not that.” He forced a smile. “I don’t mind that. I suppose I lost my balance when I bent down, and then I thought of cabbage and ambergris and now my stomach is turned.” He lifted the bottle and downed everything left inside.
She didn’t believe him. “I won’t force you to honor a drunk decision.” Even as she said it, her heart keened at the suggestion that he might change his mind about her.
He set the empty bottle on the dresser, then returned to her, kneeling again.
“I’d tell you if I didn’t want this.” He took her left hand in his, entwining their fingers so their wedding bands shone between them.
“Marriage wasn’t my immediate intention with you, but it was an intention.
I didn’t say so explicitly, but I didn’t hide it either. ”
“I know. But I understand if you’re still deciding.”
He stared at their linked hands. “I had already decided. I didn’t want to rush your decision.”
“I supposed this might happen sooner or later,” Cecily said, surprised as shyness began creeping in. “What’s so bad about sooner?”
She would have married Oliver for less than she felt for Jack—and she’d been eager to. Though there were other things that made a marriage good besides passion, she didn’t doubt Jack. They’d certainly fight—oh, they’d surely have grand quarrels—but he’d fight for her too. And she for him.
No, marrying sooner wasn’t bad at all.
The edge of his mouth tightened. “There were just a few things I’d wanted to tell you before—”
A knock interrupted. “Jack!” Greyson called through the door.
Sighing, Jack rose and went to open it.
“We gotta get to Robin’s,” Greyson said without preamble as another knock echoed from down the hall. “Soon as we can.”
“Cecily?” Hester’s voice drifted from next door.
Cecily cursed silently, her body flushing.
Her marriage was still new enough to be shocking to herself—she hadn’t even begun to consider anyone else knowing about it.
Surely they’d be pleased, but perhaps that should come after both she and Jack had time to get used to the idea.
“What’s the rush?” Jack asked Greyson. More knocking.
“Robin’s dying,” Greyson told him. “Copson’s there and feelin’ ugly about it.”
“Cecily,” Hester called again, knocking louder.
“Cecily’s not in there,” Jack said, leaning into the hall. The knocking ceased. The silence grew heavy.
Then Hester swore. Her footsteps pounded closer, but Jack swung the door shut so his body blocked her view into the room.
“Cecily!” Hester chortled. “You had better be properly married, or I don’t know you at all, you strait-laced, pious—” She cut off with a gasp, and Cecily assumed Hester had seen Jack’s ring.
“Shiiiit,” Greyson said. An edge entered his voice. “Your father know?”
Cecily found herself almost echoing Greyson’s swear. No matter about their friends finding out they were married—but Copson?
“No,” Jack said firmly. “And he won’t till I find a time to tell him properly.”
A gruff laugh. “Aye,” Greyson said. “Best get yourselves there fast, though.”
“We’ll be there,” Jack said as Cecily swung out of the bed. Ignoring her skirt and knives on the floor, she padded to the chest of drawers and pulled out one of Jack’s shirts with longer sleeves and a higher neck. “Give us a minute.”
Hester began to say, “That shouldn’t be nearly long enough—”
Jack shut the door. Cecily had shrugged into his shirt and was adjusting the hem when he turned around.
Shadows darkened his eyes. “My father,” he said slowly.
Thankfully, her head wasn’t throbbing as badly anymore, leaving room to contemplate the awful man she’d now count as her father-in-law. “He’s going to hate this.”
“He certainly won’t be pleased,” Jack supposed with wry twist of his mouth.
“How will you tell him?” Because she’d be damned if she were the one to do it. She valued her life far more than that.
Jack came to her and pushed a strand of hair out of her face. He touched her often, now that he could, and each brush of his skin made her heart kick like it was the first time she’d ever been touched at all.
“Plainly,” he said. “But perhaps on another day when he’s bound to be in a better mood.”
She reached for her ring. “Should I take this off?”
He caught her hand, stilling her fingers. “No. We have nothing to hide. We just won’t offer until the time is right. Besides, he’s unlikely to notice.”
Good. She didn’t want to take it off anyway.
He pulled her hand closer, bringing it to his chest. “And Cecily?”
She met his gaze.
“While he may not be easily convinced of things, I also won’t be swayed,” he assured her. “It’s important to me that you know that, because he is going to say we are fools. He’s going to be unkind, but I am not afraid or doubtful. You are worth it to me.”
Behind his eyes, she could see the fears he’d told her about the night before—that she might resent him. His father would not make it easy for either of them.
But Cecily had nothing else, nor did she want anyone other than Jack.
“You’re worth it to me too,” she said. Copson scared her, to be sure, but she could face him with Jack by her side. The captain’s animosity wouldn’t be anything new.
There had been tension in Jack’s shoulders, which she only noticed when they finally relaxed. “Good,” he replied. Without letting go of her hand, his attention fell to her shirt. Then he met her gaze again, his eyes questioning. “Is that my shirt?”
“Mine didn’t have sleeves,” she said without apology. “Or much of anything. You don’t mind, do you?”
He studied her for a moment, then broke into a slight smile. “I don’t mind,” he finally said, and his thumb stroked over the ring on her finger. “Have anything you like of mine.”