Page 25 of The Worst of Them

The sky was light, but the sun hadn’t risen, leaving a few stars in the west. Glaring at the first mate standing over her, she grumbled, “Give me a knife and I won’t.”

“I won’t give you a knife, and you’ll sleep where you’re meant to.” He jerked his chin to the drums. “Get up.”

She wasn’t careful when she began removing the ash from the first drum. Anticipating the breeze, she let it carry some of the dust toward Jack. He ducked his head against the assault and shook out his hair when it abated. Then he edged past her to stand upwind, knocking the bucket with his foot to send a puff of dust into her face.

She sputtered it away. “Thank you, Jack,” she said, mindful of sounding nice.

“Thank you, Cecily,” he replied with every bit of derision they both felt for each other.

Ignoring his presence was easier as pirates began lumbering onto the deck. She was tending to the final drum when the captain gave the order to weigh anchor, and Jack left her to go hoist the sails with the others. For a few blissful minutes, she was free of him, only minding the wood she placed into the fire.

Then she made the mistake of looking up.

Jack’s coat was gone, and he had rolled up his shirtsleeves despite the morning chill, revealing the cords of muscle in his forearms as he heaved the halyard line to raise the main sail.

There was no struggle in his movements, only raw strength as he braced his powerful body against the weight of the canvas at the end of the rope. Strands of sun-gilded hair fell into his eyes—then those eyes were on her, and she heard his question from yesterday as though he whispered it in her ear.

Have I made you uncomfortable?

The last bit of wood fell out of her hand and into the fire, and she hissed as a splinter lodged itself in her index finger. She dug the bit of offending wood from her skin, then held her bleeding finger to her lips.

She was determined not to look at him again, but found herself doing so anyway as the wind pressed his linen shirt to the hard lines of his shoulders, his chest, his torso⁠—

Cecily turned her back.

But of course, there was no ignoring him completely. When the ship was finally moving and the pirates set to different tasks, Jack came to her, his sleeves still rolled up and his hair still hanging in his face. He pushed it back, and his gaze went to her mouth, darkening with something like dissatisfaction.

“What,” she demanded, ignoring the breeze obsessively ruffling his shirt against him.

“There’s blood on your teeth.”

She still held the splinter in her other hand and took the opportunity to flick it at him. “It suits me, doesn’t it?”

As though his composure hung by a thread, he took a deep breath and remained silent long enough to make her uncomfortable.

She assumed this was purposeful.

“I have work to do,” he finally said. “Nothing adequate for a half-starved girl.”

“I won’t stop you.” It would be nice to be free of him. If he was busy, he couldn’t stare at her all day.

“No, you won’t. You’ll be well occupied.” He headed for the lower decks. “Follow me.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth as Jack led her deeper into the ship, two decks down to where the galley sat at the stern. Inside was a small, older man whose quick hands chopped and stirred and minded steaming pots on a large stove.

“Give her something to do,” Jack said to the cook. “But keep an eye on her. If she swipes a knife, I’ll throw you overboard right after her.” Then he turned to Cecily. “We like Stede. Show him your sharp tongue and I’ll cut the forked thing out of your mouth.”

She quietly hissed at him as he walked out.

“Mornin’,” Stede said.

While Cecily assumed most pirates weren’t worth the dirt on their shoes, Stede had a different air about him. He seemed harmless—almost grandfatherly with his short stature and weathered hands. Though none of this was reason to trust a person, she was surrounded by enough potential weapons that she could offer a smile. “Morning.”

He scratched his short, pepper-gray beard with gnarled fingers and said in a gravelly voice, “Sounds like you’re good with a knife?”

“Quite.”

He nodded to a chair and a low table covered in a pile of dusty potatoes. “S’pose I can put you on the chopping, then.” He reached for a blade, paused, then grabbed a duller one, passing it to her handle-first. Smiling shyly, he said, “Don’t give the first mate reason to throw me overboard.”