6. The Watcher and the Watched
THE WATCHER AND THE WATCHED
Jack’s astuteness ruined Cecily’s day, and it seemed he knew it.
He spoke to her little after that, and only to give her odd jobs—scrubbing decks, untangling a pile of rope, adding wood to the fires. But even with so much to occupy her, the hours crawled, made slower by dread that was entirely his fault.
She had never wanted to be known as a murderer. If no one knew, she could almost forget it ever happened, and she wouldn’t have to carry the truth of it on her shriveled, broken heart.
Being known as a prostitute was easier, despite how much she hated it.
It was only a lie someone else told about her, one she didn’t bother to correct.
Someone else had struck her name from all of England’s records.
Someone else had put her on a boat to a colony with a new conviction that claimed she was a whore.
It was all someone else’s fault, and being blamed for a crime she never committed didn’t hurt as much as having to live with the one she had.
Most days she even liked to pretend that prostitution was all she was guilty of, because a lie couldn’t crush her like shame would.
She had never wanted to kill anyone. She’d never intended to, save for the day she met Morgyn.
As the day progressed, she watched everyone else, terrified they might guess it as easily as Jack had. While her hands worked, her eyes moved, flicking from pirate to prisoner, to the captain at the quarterdeck, to Jack.
The first mate was always watching her. Even when she didn’t look at him, his attention hung around her like a fog, and she tried not to show she was shaken.
Really, it shouldn’t have been an issue; like he’d said, there were plenty of murderers here, so what did it matter if she was?
It mattered to her. To be known by her crime would make it real. The memories would be right there, waiting to remind her of the day she’d damned herself. She could smell the smoke and feel the glass in her palm. She could hear the screams and crackling fire and blood…
She began counting the ropes in the rigging to force her mind into forgetting.
And if Morgyn knew…God, once she learned of Cecily’s crime, she’d know Cecily had hidden it for a reason and use it to torture her.
There were scores left to settle, and Morgyn would remember that eventually.
Then she’d scheme and bend wills against Cecily in such a way that the pirates would never realize their opinions had been made for them.
This was how Morgyn had survived for so long as a fraud.
She understood the currency of social power and wielded it like a sword.
Most men missed the complexity, unable to see past the false smiles and giggling because to them, power was merely power.
To these women, this lot of Bridewell criminals who had formed their own system of prison politics, it was won by subtleties, opinions, and safety in numbers.
Soft things, it would seem, until they were used to control and manipulate.
When Morgyn finally decided she wanted Cecily dead, she’d have dozens of hands ready and willing to do her bidding, and the articles would protect her because they didn’t account for her brand of dominance.
But as the day progressed, she realized she’d have time to find ways around this as the other women were thoroughly distracted by the rugged, happy men who’d saved them.
She heard most of them referring to one another as “husband” or “wife,” the matter of which was made official by whatever agreements they’d made among themselves the night before and sealed with eager consummations.
It was enough to constitute a marriage for them, and Cecily couldn’t judge so harshly when the women had achieved the very thing she sought by her own means—protection.
This included Morgyn, who filled her time with a man named Fiero, a smart, if not obvious choice for her.
She usually aligned herself with whatever physical power she lacked, and Fiero was the biggest man Cecily had ever seen.
She wondered if he was the jealous type, and if he’d scorn Morgyn’s famously wavering loyalties.
Maybe he wouldn’t care—or perhaps he’d break her neck, and then Cecily wouldn’t have to worry about any unsettled debts.
She barely had time to get excited at the thought before Jack’s voice interrupted.
“Keep staring daggers at everyone and they’ll really start to like you.” He came to stand in front of her, blocking her view of most of the deck.
“Oh, good,” Cecily said, deadpan. “God knows I crave their approval.”
A familiar laugh caught her attention, followed by a low chortle. Both Cecily and Jack turned as Hester emerged from the lower decks on Greyson’s arm, both of them looking gleeful.
Jack’s scowl mirrored Cecily’s own, so she wiped her expression and told him, “Keep staring daggers at the two of them. I’m sure they’ll really love that.”
Annoyance twisted his face. “Stop glaring. You’ll disturb the crew.”
She laughed because she couldn’t help but glare and hardly knew she was doing it. “Aye, sir,” she said, and for a moment, she thought he might stab her with one of his lovely little knives.
She didn’t mind the tasks he gave her to do, even when the rest of the crew finished their jobs and started reading or playing cards or flirting.
She actually preferred staying busy, as it made it easier to forget the loneliness nipping at her heels and the fear that breathed down her neck.
No one mentioned her crime, so she assumed Jack had kept her secret.
But how long would that remain true?
That night, she settled in her corner of the crew’s quarters, though, once again, rest wouldn’t come until she snuck to the main deck. And once she relaxed, she escaped to her little home and fell into peaceful sleep.
Cecily jerked awake when Jack kicked her boot at dawn.
“You shouldn’t sleep out here,” he said.
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.”