Page 107 of The Worst of Them

The captain shook his head. “Bastard.”

Robin coughed and sucked in a ragged breath. He’d opened his eyes and now glared at Copson. “You’re the devil—I’ll give yeh nothin’!”

Copson’s eyes narrowed. “You’ll wish I was the devil once you meet him,” he said, his accent so clean that the threat sounded like music against Robin’s rough words.

A hacking laugh. The old man’s eyes roved, then pinned on Cecily at the door. Copson followed his gaze.

The glare Copson leveled at her was cold enough to rival his son’s, but she faced him like a particularly brave mouse cornered by a cat, as though to say, I know you can kill me, but I’ll bite back if I must.

Her knives were hidden to keep from drawing his attention to anything worthy of his spite, but they bolstered her courage to look him in the eye.

Across the room, Robin’s dry lips twisted into a grin as he noted the way Copson looked at her. He lifted his shaking hand to point a gnarled finger. “Y-you,” he said to Cecily. “I’ll sp-speak to you.”

Copson began to speak, to command her, but Robin’s voice grew stronger.

“Alone,” the old man barked.

“No,” Copson ground out.

Robin smiled, revealing worn yellow teeth. “You’re a fool,” he croaked, and he rolled his head back and forth. “Fool. Fool. Fool. You’ll never know a damn thing.”

“Let her,” Jack said to his father, ever the stoic first mate. “She’ll tell you what he says.” He looked at her over his shoulder. “Will you?”

Cecily cringed under the attention, at the responsibility suddenly thrust upon her in a conflict that had nothing to do with her. But with three pairs of eyes on her, each from a man who was powerful in his own right, she wondered if speaking with Robin might give her some kind of power. More than she already had as the Copson heir’s wife.

Heart in her throat, she nodded.

Copson pursed his lips, on the verge of objecting. Then the old man coughed again, and this time it sounded worse.

“Fine,” the captain finally spat. He pushed past Cecily, retreating into the hall.

Jack followed a step behind, his hand grazing hers as he passed. “I won’t be far,” he whispered.

As soon as the door shut behind them, Cecily took a deep breath. The air was thick with impending death as Robin stared at her, his grating breaths loud enough to reach her.

Her father had sounded like that before he passed, and her insides twisted with vivid memories of sitting at his bedside, holding his hand, and praying and praying and praying he’d live.

She didn’t want to be anywhere near those memories or that death again. But regardless of how evil Robin might be, she didn’t think anyone should die alone, surrounded by people with hateful intentions.

And because she didn’t know him, perhaps she could find it in herself to provide a mercy by virtue of being unable to fairly judge him.

Steeling herself, she pulled a chair to his bedside and settled into it.

“You look nervous, lass,” Robin wheezed. “Is that for Copson or because you look upon a dying man?”

“I don’t fear death, sir.” She kept her voice low so as to not disturb whatever grim angel waited to take this man’s life.

“It be Copson, then,” Robin said.

“I don’t fear him either, though he certainly doesn’t like me.”

His chuckle was so hoarse that, at first, she mistook it for a gag. “If he doesn’t like you, it means you’re likely right.”

He coughed harder, and she grabbed his hand without thinking. It wasn’t like how her father had died, but it sounded close enough that her pulse quickened as familiar dread began to rise. Though logic knew the difference, her heart couldn’t discern so well.

Robin went on bitterly, “Copsons get drunk on revenge—they think of nothing else. So I’ll do him this last disservice and tell you what he wants to know.” His eyes were clear as he met her gaze. “But you mustn’t be foolish with it. You mustn’t give him everything he wants.”

What a cunning suggestion, and exactly what she’d hoped for. She leaned forward. “I swear not to squander it. Tell me whatever you wish, then be at peace.”