Page 155 of The Worst of Them

“For you,” he said as he plopped it into her hands. “From Copson.”

Her jaw clenched. She considered hurling it at him, or maybe throwing him to the deck and forcing the coins down his throat one by one. But he wasn’t her enemy, and he didn’t deserve her punishment. Copson did, and she’d save all her enmity and rage for when she saw him again.

Because she would see him again.

With nothing but the clothes on her back, a ring on her finger, and what was surely an obscene amount of money, Cecily stepped onto English soil for the first time in six months. And as she returned to the homeland that had rejected and executed her, her bleeding heart patched itself up with staunch determination.

Hours spent in silence had given her time to plan. She would find Jack in his lofty world where Copson was so sure she didn’t belong. And once she was there, she would prove just how well she could fit. Not only would she make herself a place in this glittering life of manners and wealth—she fully intended to rule it.

37

THE WORST OF HIM

Jack woke.

It struck him as odd, this awakening, because it felt wrong, like he’d slept through something important. Usually Jack was very careful, always mindful of his duties and the people who relied on him, like his father, his family, his crew, Cecily⁠—

He bolted upright, heart pounding. Cecily.

His gaze snapped to the porthole. The sky was near afternoon, and hours had passed since he’d spoken to her last. He’d waited for her, but he’d fallen asleep.

Hours.

Where was Cecily? Surely she’d come, found him asleep, and simply chosen not to wake him. But she’d looked as tired as he was and would have come to bed long before noon. As he wasn’t a particularly deep sleeper, he wouldn’t have missed her climbing into bed with him.

Maybe she’d forced herself to stay awake with the day crew, but even as the thought came, his gut roiled with disagreement, telling him with a sickening plunge that he was wrong.

Throwing himself out of bed, he left the room, moving quickly through the ship while his stomach churned. He wouldn’t panic yet, or even worry. It was simply mild concern over his missing wife. She’d been known to curl up in odd places.

That was it. She had fallen asleep in a bucket or perched on a mast, and he’d find her somewhere ridiculous and scold her for forsaking the perfectly good pillow next to his.

Cecily was not around the galley, neither was she in the crew’s quarters or the gun deck. When he’d finished looking through all the decks, he made his way to the brig and swept the entire ship again.

She wasn’t there.

Greyson and Hester were on the main deck, lounging and talking with some of the newer pirates. Apprehension appeared in the sailors’ eyes at his approach, and he assumed he must look hellish. By now he was beginning to worry, and worry made him mean.

Really, everything made him mean, but Greyson was used to it.

“Jack,” he said with nonchalance.

“Where’s Cecily?” The question was as sharp as a demand, even though he hadn’t meant it that way.

Greyson scanned the deck as though he might find her, then frowned. “I dunno.”

Jack’s attention snapped to Hester. “Have you seen her?”

Lips pursed into a frown, Hester shook her head. “I assumed she was with you. Did you search for her?” Hester looked around, the worry in her expression enough to make his stomach drop to his feet.

“Of course I searched for her,” he said, a surge of panic turning his voice to steel.

“Jack,” Greyson warned, and Jack knew he’d been too sharp. An apology—probably also to be delivered harshly—rose to his lips, but Hester cut him off.

“Last I saw her was this morning. She apologized for letting Jonah take the tide stones.”

Jack spun on his heel, the world tilting as he scanned every face, every silhouette on deck. None of them were her. He took a deep breath and tried to sense her presence like a trail of ice down his neck.

Nothing.