Page 113 of The Worst of Them

CROSSED COPSONS

Cecily didn’t remember when she’d gone to her little home. She hadn’t intended to, having made up her mind to wait all night for Hein to return or to wreak havoc on the first guard who entered her cell.

For the first time, her little home was not where she wanted to be, as trouble had managed to follow her there from the waking world. She had never been angry here, but her cup trembled in its saucer enough that she had to set it down. And no matter how much she twisted her mind and searched the rooms for Jack, she could not make him appear.

Surely dawn was near. Hein had not returned.

She’d been so damn foolish for falling into Morgyn’s trap, and now she would be left here in Tortuga, and Jack’s father would force him to get on the ship and sail away with promises that he could find someone more suitable.

Cecily stood. Her skirts did not swish, as she was wearing the same pants and shirt she’d had on when she was arrested.

Foolish, she thought to herself as she paced. So bloody foolish. If she managed to get out of this, if she made it back to the ship, she would kill Morgyn.

Where is my wife?

Cecily jolted to a stop, her head snapping toward the door.

Tell me where she is.

Jack’s voice echoed through the house, pitched with fury and reaching her from a world away. It was real—not concocted by a strong imagination. A scream split the quiet, but Cecily was already sprinting from the parlor, down the hall, through the foyer, out the door, into the courtyard⁠—

The jail cell was cast in gray from the coming sunrise. Another pained cry came from down the hall, but Jack was here, his ruthless voice like a song of salvation.

“Which door?” he demanded.

“Jack,” Cecily called, but her voice was a bare whisper, worn raw from screaming. The straw slithered against the floor as she pushed herself to her feet.

“Try them all,” came Frederick’s voice, which was drowned out by a shriek. Then he snapped, “Killian, just kill him and be done!”

A key shoved in the lock, turned, and the door swung away. Jack stood on the threshold with a lantern in hand and wrath buried deep in the hard lines of his face.

He was across the cell in two strides, catching her as she threw herself into his arms. She sucked in breath after breath, filling her lungs with the scent of him—the outdoors, sun, ocean, freedom.

Tears ran down her cheeks and seeped into his vest as dark blots. The last time she’d been in a cell, no one had come for her. No one had known. And for as prepared as she’d been to fight her way out, to save herself yet again, this time she had Jack.

He had come for her.

“Lord, Cecily,” he said, holding her tightly. “I have you.”

She clung to him as he pulled her from the cell and toward the front of the jail.

“It’s nearly dawn,” said Frederick. He stood in the middle of a room filled with dust and smoke from where the front door had been blown off. The coppery tang of blood hung in the air, and Killian lingered off to the side, absently cleaning a knife. Frederick extended his hand to drop four throwing knives, mostly clean but still flecked with blood, into Jack’s palm. Then he held out a bag that Cecily recognized as her own. Where they’d found it, she didn’t know.

Jack slung it over his shoulder. “He won’t leave without me,” he said in a voice colder than she’d ever heard. His eyes cut to her coat hanging on a hook. He snatched it off the wall and shoved it into the bag with the rest of her stolen possessions.

Frederick looked at Cecily, his eyes sad. “I’ll see you again.”

“Tell them I said goodbye,” she whispered to him, thinking of Fay and Maria. She touched the pendant at her throat—Fay had already known that was the last time they’d see each other for now. Whether she’d foreseen this ordeal, Cecily couldn’t be sure. But it soothed her to know that she had friends who were aware of her, who would look for her, and still others who would tear apart a building and its guards to free her.

They had saved her. They had saved her. And not one of them would say she was unworthy of it.

Tears poured down her cheeks.

“To hell with Tortuga,” Jack spat, and with his arm still tight around her, they stepped out of the gaping, smoking hole that was once the jail’s entrance.

The early morning air was cool and heavy with moisture, carrying the scent of tropical flowers. Jack didn’t let her go, keeping her tucked securely against his side as they made for the docks.

“Hector.” She cleared her throat, hoping her voice might come stronger than it did.