8. The Lowest Rise
THE LOWEST RISE
An hour later, Cecily still broiled with indignation as she mended the edge of what was beginning to feel like a never-ending sail.
The needle stabbed through the canvas, glinting in the midday sun and keeping pace with her spinning thoughts that spiraled from Hester and kindness back to how utterly close she’d come to spitting out her deepest shame.
In that moment she’d been so sure that there was power in revealing herself as the monster she’d been accused of being.
The women on this ship had all fought for their lives in different ways, but only Cecily had gone further and done worse.
Only Cecily had faced death and welcomed it.
And Cecily, of all of them, had the least to lose because she knew what it was to despise her own life.
It had to count for something.
In that, she wasn’t so afraid of Morgyn torturing her with it. In fact…now she might want Morgyn to know, and she could purposefully and loudly acknowledge her shattered soul for just a little while.
What was a week or so in the face of a lifetime?
Cecily rested her hands in her lap and tipped her head back against the mast. Closing her eyes, she faced her little home.
The version of herself who lived here was good and right, locked away in a fantasy she would do anything to protect.
Maybe a temporary betrayal of her broken heart would be worth it for solace and respect—just until she got herself to somewhere better.
With a deep sigh, she opened her eyes to sea and sunlight. A cool spring breeze kissed her cheeks, and she had just settled into acceptance when a bell began shrilling.
The crew burst into motion so suddenly that Cecily dropped her sewing and pitched herself off the crate, instinctively reaching for her shiv before remembering, yet again, it wasn’t there.
Scowling she whipped her head around to see what had made everyone so frantic as they retrieved weapons and shouted to one another.
The Fortuna Royale quickly approached another ship, their sails billowing as they tried to flee. It was useless to run from Copson, and they likely knew it. And Cecily—she’d signed away her service to this infamous pirate and agreed to everything that came with it. Even…
A sword. She’d get to hold a sword again, and despite what she’d be expected to do with it—kill and steal, which she saw no way out of—she was eager for the familiarity a blade would bring, and looked around the deck as though one might appear there, waiting for her.
The bell kept ringing, and Copson shouted orders. As gunners descended to their cannons, Jack emerged from the lower decks.
Though she hadn’t seen him leave the quarterdeck earlier, she noticed him now solely for how differently he moved from the rest of the crew—with calm confidence rather than excited frenzy, like a shark through a school of fish.
When he broke through the crush of sailors, her lips parted.
He’d removed his coat, revealing his muscular body strapped with weapons. Three daggers were belted to his thigh, their handguards flashing in the sun, and a sword hung from his hip. More knives were hidden in his vest, the small metal hilts glinting along his ribs.
Her heart sputtered, her cheeks warmed, and her breath came as a small pant as heat curled low in her belly.
She tore her eyes away, flushed and utterly horrified. He was a criminal, she reminded herself. A nightmare, her jailer, and terrible—terribly handsome—
A quiet swear tore from her. It was lack of sleep that made her this way, coupled with the sight of all those knives and—
“Awful lot of curses today. Not very pious of you.”
She didn’t lift her gaze as Jack came to stand in front of her, which left her staring at the daggers strapped to his thigh. It did nothing to help her flush.
“We’re raiding a merchant ship,” he said. “You’ll stay here until we’re ready to move loot.”
Her head jerked up. “What? Why?”
She wasn’t sure what she expected, but staying back felt like another punishment, a way she hadn’t won any trust, and there would be no weapon for her any time soon.
“Because I so enjoy arguing with you about it,” he said tersely, adjusting a leather vambrace on his forearm that held yet another knife. Her traitorous attention lingered on his strong hands for a beat too long before she forced herself to look away.
If she couldn’t get the steel she wanted, at least she’d still get paid. “Alright then. I’ll wait here while you murder so I can rob. Doesn’t sound so difficult.”
Jack’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s always difficult with you.”
“Do you even have enough men to raid a ship?” she asked. A decent portion of those preparing to fight were former prisoners who looked overly eager to handle weapons they surely had little idea of how to use. “I assure you the women here have never held more than a kitchen knife.”
“Oh?” His brows rose, his tone bright with curiosity. “What’s wrong with kitchen knives?”
“They’re not…” Her head cocked. Was he mocking her? “They’re not civilized in a fight.”
He barked a laugh, eyes shining with spiteful mirth. “Says the girl who turned a chicken bone into a shiv.”
Ah, yes. He was indeed mocking her.
She shot him a loathsome glower. “You’ll kill half these people if you rush them into battle so unprepared.”
“A merchant ship will have a few guards at most,” he assured her. “Nothing half a crew can’t handle.”
“You can’t—”
“You’re not the most astute listener, are you?
” He pinned her with a frosty look. “Fraught winter. Lost ship. Low morale. We haven’t got much, and it’s well over a week until we reach Tortuga.
” He pointed to the merchant ship. “There’s fresh food and water on that ship, and enough money to please our crew. ”
“Your crew can’t be pleased if they’re dead.”
Something flickered in his eyes—a hint of agreement? When he spoke next, most of the bite had left his tone. “Captain’s orders.”
She might have asked what manner of evil had earned such unwavering loyalty, but then Greyson lumbered over with two massive axes strapped to his back. Cecily pursed her lips and tamped down her ire at seeing so many sharp things and having none herself.
Greyson noticed it too. “No weapons for your girl, Jack?” he asked.
“If she were my girl,” Jack replied coolly, “she’d be armed to the teeth.”
Her previous frustration turned leaden. Armed to the teeth…
She swallowed back an indignant huff. Why did this have to be so difficult?
She didn’t want to give anything to Jack, and she wouldn’t.
Somewhere out there was a man who was more deserving of everything she hadn’t already given away, a small, odd kind of dowry of righteousness that was quickly dwindling.
But armed to the teeth?
Men had often looked at her with desire without her inviting them to do so—how hard could it be to render Jack stupid enough for her that he’d hand over a knife without expecting anything she wasn’t willing to give in return?
“She’s got good aim,” Greyson said, eyeing the cut on Jack’s face, and Cecily could have snorted and bade him to tell Morgyn that. “Give her a sword.”
“Absolutely not,” Jack said.
“Jack’s worried I’ll stab him,” Cecily said. “Can’t imagine why he’d think I want to.”
“Ah,” said Greyson, then glanced to her. “Sorry.”
They were catching up to the other ship, their distant shouts drifting over the wind. With a final nod to Jack, Greyson headed for the bow where Hester waited with a pair of meat cleavers.
Kitchen utensils. Honestly.
Jack made to follow, but Cecily reached for his arm before she could allow herself to think better of it. He tensed under her hand but didn’t pull away.
His bicep was warm beneath her fingers, his skin radiating delicious heat through his sleeve. Her pulse quickened as she slid her hand up, stroking her thumb over a band of muscle.
If he didn’t kill her for touching him, she’d flirt with him and see if she might worm her way into his good graces enough to snag one of those knives off him.
He stared down at her, unblinking. So near to his direct gaze, her blush came easily.
“What,” he snapped, but if she wasn’t mistaken, his breath hitched slightly, and the faintest shade of pink spread over the smooth planes of his hard expression.
Interesting.
She didn’t hate this. And she hated that she didn’t hate this, but it would certainly make things easier. Her pulse spiked as she drew closer and asked softly, “Do you want me, Jack?”
His eyes widened, and then his lips curled into a slow, dangerous grin.
In the same whisper, he replied, “Oh, Cecily…if only I could trust you with anything but gutting fish and sewing sails.” He leaned in, close enough for her to feel the heat radiating from his body and smell his clean, briny scent.
When he spoke, his breath brushed her cheek. “Though probably not even then.”
She released her hold and matched his smile, even as her insides shivered with something not entirely unpleasant. “Worth a try.”
“Is this because of what I said?” He stepped away, toward where the rest of the crew waited by the rail. “If you want a weapon, give me any reason to trust you with one.”
She folded her arms. “Offer’s open,” she said, attempting her best impression of Morgyn. Disgust coiled in her gut. “In case you change your mind.”
He turned, walking backward. The pinkness had faded from his cheeks. “Who’s manipulating now? I’m no fool.”
She raised one eyebrow like Hester did when she was being lewd. “I could make you into one.”
Rolling his eyes, Jack turned his back on her. Her smile immediately fell into a grimace. She’d never really flirted before, even with Oliver, and she didn’t imagine she was particularly skilled. After all, her only examples were the other prisoners, and this was how they did it.
But there had to be a less obvious method. Jack didn’t seem like the type to be interested in simpering or overtly insistent women. She was neither, which might have been in her favor were it not for the matter of their mutual dislike.