Page 45 of The Worst of Them

Jack noticed the way she stared at the money—of course he did—and assured her Copson would pay them when they disembarked. She eagerly anticipated it.

She also began to eagerly anticipate her time with him.

Now that they weren’t vying for each other’s demise, Cecily realized she actually liked Jack, and she wasn’t sure what to do with this. At first, she tried to remind herself that he was dangerous, though each day she had fewer reasons as to why—most of them stolen by the knife hidden in her pocket and the sword he gave her in the afternoons. Each time he handed the weapon over, he glanced at her lips, as though her smile were payment for the weapon.

It was a price she was willing to pay, especially when he smiled in return.

But as friendly as they grew, and as amiable as their conversations were, they spoke of nothing very important, lest they break their truce.

In the midst of all this, she found herself mulling through new wonderings—how happy could she be? Could she laugh every day? Would she ever be so satisfied and safe that she wouldn’t need to carry a sword? Though she doubted she could ever return to being the girl she once was, such a reality didn’t seem so far away after all the quiet hours she’d spent plotting her way to the little home in her head.

As they neared the Caribbean, the air grew warmer and islands appeared along the horizon, mere dots of green rising above clear blue waters. Excitement grew thick in the air as the crew prepared the ship to dock the next day. Jack canceled afternoon training and joined Cecily on the main deck as she tried to work out a complicated attack he’d nearly beaten her with two days before—nearly.

She used to pick things up so quickly, but her body had changed. Though she had more energy now, she was still gangly and weak in many ways, and it took more time to develop movements that had once come easily.

Regardless, their sparring was the most fun she’d had in a long while. The only wins she and Jack had achieved against each other happened when Cecily once tripped over an uneven board in the deck, and again when Jack was distracted by an errant shout. Cecily won a second time when she let her hand drift over Jack’s back as she passed behind him, which was a gamble on whether he still found her lovely and if she could use it to her benefit.

She was pleased to find he did and she could.

Jack had responded in kind, his fingers brushing her waist when she came too close. Her breath had caught at his touch, she’d lost focus, and then stumbled into another loss.

For now, they were still tied, and learning this move would ensure it stayed that way.

“Almost,” Jack said, advancing through the steps as her opponent. “Keep your heel planted.”

“Blasted heel,” she grumbled, bouncing on her toes. “My father always said the same. Plant your heels, Cecily. Mind your feet.” To her surprise, she smiled at the memory.

Her heart beat a little faster when Jack grinned back. She looked away and drew in a long breath to calm it.

She had never fallen for anyone before, and while she hadn’t fallen for Jack, she didn’t imagine it would be hard. She had begun to notice things that challenged her original judgment of his character—like the way the crew respected and feared him as much as their captain, or that he always helped those who needed it. He worked tirelessly alongside his crew, sometimes putting in longer hours and more work than they did to assure the ship ran smoothly.

It didn’t change who he was. He was still sharp and shrewd, but for good reason. Stede had told the truth—Jack was devoted. It made him a force to be reckoned with, and he was very good at his job.

And while his job seemed to demand him everywhere around the ship, it was harder to ignore his presence. She felt it like a flame, like she might close her eyes, spin in a circle, and point to where he was based on whatever side of her felt like it was melting from a vicious lick of heat.

Perhaps it should have unsettled her, but it didn’t.

The wind snagged a loose strand of hair from her short braid and threw it over her face. She grabbed it and tucked it behind her ear before raising her sword again.

“You were close with your father?” Jack asked, though it came out more like a statement. He raised his blade to ward off her attack as she spun through the move a little faster.

“We were the best of friends,” she said over their ringing swords, surprised again as the words didn’t rip into her grief. Instead, there was a budding sense of life where her father’s death had left her so hollow, as though sharing her memories brought him back in some small way. “We only had each other, and he was as devoted as a father could be.”

She completed the move, but it still wasn’t right. Stepping back, she shook out her arm, willing muscle memory to iron out the kinks in her swordplay.

“He taught you well,” Jack said.

“He didn’t have much else to give but this.” She lifted the sword a little, like all the knowledge and talent he’d passed on to her was within the weapon. “He worked hard, and whatever time he had left over was for me. We sparred every day so long as the sun was in the sky. When it wasn’t, he’d teach me to make little knives. Our table was covered in nicks and scratches from when I used to be clumsy.”

“Ah,” Jack said. “That’s how you made a shiv so well.”

She eyed the long cut on his face, still red and healing, and swallowed the apology that rose to her lips. “The shiv was decent.”

His smirks weren’t so snarky, now that the two of them were more like friends. “So he taught you swordplay and to make knives. Did he teach you anything else? Maces, lances, bayonets?”

Her murders remained unacknowledged, and she supposed his refusal to bring them up made him a gentleman.

“No,” she said. “He did try to make me proper. He used what little money we had to buy me lessons or even a new dress every year or so. And he taught me to be polite and speak well because he said it could earn me favor where money couldn’t.”