Page 119 of The Worst of Them

Another pause. Her shyness and nerves had almost faded entirely as they took each other in. Nakedness didn’t seem so terrifying when he already knew her. She didn’t have to confess or apologize or justify herself or her body before him, and it was a relief not to do so. Jack suited her, and she couldn’t imagine having fought for so long and so hard and gone to prison and committed unspeakable sins for anyone less worthy.

No one was more worthy of her than Jack.

It gave her the courage to take a half step closer, gazing up at him through her lashes in invitation. His hands returned to her hips, one thumb dipping into the top of her trousers.

“Are you still sure?” he asked, his voice a low rumble from his chest into hers. “It’s not too late.”

From the easy confidence in his eyes, he knew she wouldn’t say no.

She hooked a finger into the front of his pants hanging low on his hips. Her heart jumped to her throat in response to her own bravery. “I’ll only ever want you,” she replied. “Forever.”

His hands slipped down a little farther, his thumbs pushing against her pants. Her body flushed with heat, her face blazing with it as he drew her into another kiss and relieved her of the last of her clothes.

That night, there was not one part of her that he did not see. He loved all of it, all of her, and she returned it in kind.

In Jack’s arms, beneath his loving hands and careful lips, Cecily burned like a candle, a fire, a living flame. He was good to her and showed her pleasure, and then he made her one with him, easing her through the pain of it before sending her tumbling madly into bliss.

29

CHICKEN SHIT

“You look different,” Hester said, her hand halfway under a surprisingly calm chicken. The crew had picked up several in Tortuga, as well as a goat, which they kept in a coop and a pen with a large porthole that allowed the animals fresh air and sunlight. Eggs and milk would be a welcome addition in the galley, and so would the eventual meat.

“Am I carrying myself differently?” Cecily asked, quietly pleased while she milked the goat. After a childhood among villagers and farmers, doing so now was pleasantly nostalgic.

“I meant your hair,” Hester chuckled, setting an egg into a basket she’d padded with an old shirt. “But yes, I suppose that too.”

Cecily smiled to herself. She wore her hair down today and delighted every time the black strands brushed her cheeks or fell into her eyes because when she saw it, she remembered it all finally hung straight. “Jack fixed it last night.”

He had asked her about it while they laid in bed, their legs still tangled. The lantern burned low, and Jack was running his fingers through her unbound hair when he made the quiet offer. He’d said he often cut his own hair and some of the others’, so he could do a decent job of fixing what had been done to her in prison, if she wanted.

She wasn’t eager to lose any length she’d grown, but she hated the harsh cut of it even more. So a few minutes later, she’d sat in one of the chairs while he snipped the ends with a pair of shears, taking off only enough to make it even. When he handed her a mirror, all evidence of a laughing guard removing her braid was gone.

She’d been so happy that she pushed him back into bed and made love to him again. She was clumsy and odd, but Jack hadn’t minded. In fact, he had left a love bite over her collarbone where the farthest purple edge refused to hide beneath her shirt.

When Hester’s gaze landed on it, she smirked. But instead of teasing, she said, “You seem like you’re finally you. More you than you were before.” Then she paused to stare longer, her smile widening in that way that made Cecily feel more like a younger sister than a friend.

She was surprised at how much of herself still existed. Prison hadn’t killed her spirit or soul after all, and now she was simply more. Her edges were sharper and always would be, but parts of her were still soft, and it was okay that they were.

She could be both, and it was good.

It wasn’t just her, either. When they’d first boarded this ship, she hadn’t thought love was possible for herself or her friend, but now a bracelet circled Hester’s wrist, which Greyson had made from a thin chain, some wire, and a hammer to hold the stones he’d found in the governor’s house.

Greyson loved Hester, and she loved him, and Cecily felt joy for them in a way she hadn’t been capable of for a very long time.

When they finished with the animals, they took the eggs and milk to Stede, then Hester wound her arm through Cecily’s as they made their way to the main deck, Cecily toting a bucket of animal refuse in her other hand. When they reached the open air, Cecily peeled off to dump the scat into the sea.

The sun was high and bright, and a cool breeze dampened the summer heat. High above the deck, Jack hung in the rigging, his brows pinched in concentration as he untangled ropes that the wind had knotted together. The sun brought out the gold in his hair, and if Cecily were more romantic, she might’ve said he looked like some celestial god.

As it was, she was merely afflicted by being newly in love and was certain this sudden propensity for girlish giggling would abate soon enough.

Greyson stood below the rigging, calling up advice that sounded more like taunting. Jack returned a rather crude insult, but Greyson only barked a laugh.

Cecily set the bucket down, conscious of every knife Jack had given her now strapped to her body, proudly within view. They glinted on her thigh and her belt, in her boots, at her waist, and were hidden in her sleeves. His mother’s sword hung at her hip, and if anyone still doubted who she was to the pirate prince, there was the small bruise that didn’t quite manage to hide beneath her collar.

And it seemed they did know, as none of the women had bothered her—or hardly dared to even look at her. All except for Susan, who had offered a small, apologetic smile this morning. Cecily had kindly returned it.

“Power suits you, Miss Shoard.”