Page 74 of The Worst of Them

Yes, a quick, easy break would be good in the long run.

Maria handed over the rum, and Cecily lifted it to her lips. After two long swallows, she gave it to Hester and laid back in the sand, her head spinning. Conversation enveloped her, turning into a dim hum as she entered her little home and sat in her parlor, wearing blue, her hair done in an elegant twist.

The sky was the same at her home as it was in Tortuga, fading to pinks and reds with spots of purple above the clouds. She let herself forget about Copson’s threat and Hein. As the quiet settled, she could convince herself that there was no pain, no thoughts, and there was no Jack⁠—

“You’re not asleep.”

Cecily’s eyes snapped open. The sky had darkened to indigo, though the horizon still glowed with fire as the sun prepared to disappear beneath the water. Her friends were gone—they’d all stripped down to their underthings and thrown themselves into the waves.

Only Jack remained on the beach, having moved to sit next to her. He watched the others, his face grim, the fading light touching the scar on his cheek. Over a month had passed since she’d given it to him, and she knew it would never heal right. He’d likely live with it forever.

Good, she thought, because at least she’d destroyed him in some small way after all he had done to her.

“You,” he grumbled under his breath, “are one of the most stubborn, aggravating people I know.”

She pushed herself up. Her head swam from the rum, but not nearly enough to prepare her for a conversation with Jack. “Because I wasn’t sleeping?”

“Because it’s been three weeks and you still haven’t asked about the sword.” His knees were spread and tented before him, his arms hanging off them. “I’d thought you would have gotten over it by now, but you’re stubborn and it’s irritating.”

She narrowed her eyes. “I don’t care, you know.”

“Clearly you did care,” he said. “Or else you never would’ve brought it up in the first place, and it bothers me to think you’re upset about it when it’s so easily explained.”

Though they hadn’t spoken in weeks, he sounded no less irritated with her now than he had the last time they’d talked. It stoked the ire that set its claws in her lungs and squeezed.

“I’m not upset,” Cecily said. “And even if I were, I don’t see why it should bother you. I thought we were fine. I thought neither of us was bothered at all.”

“Is that so?” His glare bored into the water where laughter rang out, the sound so at odds with the dark animosity that settled over the two of them. “Well, I’m bothered, Cecily. I wanted to be friends with you.”

She braced her hands in the sand behind her. There was no such thing as being friends with Jack—not for her.

“I still have half a mind to try,” he went on. “Though why I even care for something so futile is beyond me.”

She sighed. “Did you come over here just to insult me?”

“Yes,” he said. “Because I’m sick of your silence. You didn’t let me explain myself, and I’m tired of watching you like everyone, even damn Hector Hein, who you’ve somehow charmed into having at your beck and call⁠—”

“It’s for the heist.”

He barked a single bitter laugh. “It’s not for the heist. He’s not that generous.”

The edge of her mouth lifted. “Careful, Jack. You sound jealous.”

He inhaled deeply, composing himself. “You didn’t let me explain,” he said again, his voice lower. “So now I will, and you’ll listen because I’m very nearly sick of you too.”

Her brows pinched. “Excuse me⁠—”

“The sword belonged to my mother. My father bought it for her, not because she knew how to use it, but because she thought it was elegant. She never held it, but she liked to look at it.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. After he’d insulted her, she didn’t want to entertain his explanations with questions. She shouldn’t care—she didn’t care…but surely there was no harm in one question if she would eventually leave and forget him forever.

She asked slowly, “Where is she now?”

“Dead.” The word fell like a rock—simple, clean, succinct. “She passed fifteen years ago, and my father let me have the sword when she died. It had never been used. Not until I handed it to you.”

“Why?” She’d allow herself this one last curiosity, but no more.

“I knew you’d like it. It’s an exceptional sword, and if anyone could fully appreciate its value, it’s you.” He lifted one shoulder, and his voice softened. “And it did make you smile, but my reasons for wanting your happiness weren’t entirely selfish. It was unfair that you were thrown in prison for something so awful, and after all you’ve gone through, even at my own hand, I saw an easy way to make you happy. So damn me, but I didn’t think much of it beyond that.” His was only a foot away from her, the dying light drawing fire and shadow over the planes of his face, and lining his lips with gold.