Page 103 of The Worst of Them

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?”