11. The Long Truce
THE LONG TRUCE
Her truce with Jack lasted until they reached Tortuga.
They settled into an easy routine, one she came to be grateful for after so little had been easy. Each morning, they woke early and tended to the ashes. Cecily pulled them from the drums and Jack tipped them into the ocean, and in the afternoon, they’d meet again to train a portion of the crew.
Of course, Jack still gave her tasks according to Copson’s order, but he didn’t seem intent to work her hard, particularly as they began spending more time sparring together—just the two of them.
She said she craved the practice and would spar with anyone. He said he was bored because Greyson was off with his wife and he may as well.
Neither of them admitted that they enjoyed themselves.
As the Fortuna Royale sailed along a trade route, they eventually came upon another merchant ship.
Cecily was allowed to keep her sword as they raided it, and afterward, she marveled at the chests of gold and silver the pirates lugged back to Copson’s ship.
A few handfuls of it would be enough to buy her the future she dreamed of.
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.”
Jack listened carefully, blue eyes intent. She might’ve said he was glaring had she not known he was focused. He looked like that often—deep in thought, but not lost in it.
“Sometimes he traveled,” she said. “He’d visit smiths and merchants to teach them or learn what they knew.
No matter where he went, he always brought me.
We didn’t even have a carriage—just a rickety little wagon and a mule.
” Another laugh escaped, unbidden. “I thought I was a proper gentlewoman, and I was so proud. Even in a baron’s home, I always acted like I was just as good.
Just as worthy as any man with a title, because we were Shoards, and we were the best, especially when it came to blades. ”
“I’d believe that,” Jack said. “I’ve met few as good as you.”
“Few are as good as I was,” Cecily said, “and no one was as good as my father.”
“As good as you were?”
She reveled in his compliment before saying with a thread of humor, “There weren’t many opportunities to practice in prison.”
“You’ve caught up quickly, I think. You are…” His voice trailed off, that deeply thoughtful look returning. She wondered if he noticed how he leaned a bit closer, if it was purposeful. He loomed over her, his face close enough that she’d only have to rise on her toes—
He swallowed and stepped away. “Go again,” he said thickly. “Keep your heel down.”
Steeling herself, she forced herself to breathe before launching into the flurry of moves, aiming to keep her heel anchored—
Jack lightly smacked her leg with the flat of his sword. “Heel.”
Cecily cursed.
“A baron’s home,” Jack said with interest, and his voice was back to normal. “You were among nobility?”
“A noble.” Even now, she couldn’t help but feel important as she said it. “My father was friends with Baron Stinton, and his son and I got into such trouble as children. We were engaged, but then…”
There was the pain—a small, thorny bloom of anger near the bottom of her stomach. She looked down at her sword to hide the ice she was sure lingered in her eyes. “My cousin got to me before I could get to Oliver.”
“Did you love him?”
Her gaze flicked up. Jack’s expression held only calmness with an edge of interest while her heart threw itself into the back of her ribs.
“I loved him as a friend,” she said. She wouldn’t have known romance if it bit her on the elbow, but that had never mattered to her—to either of them. “But it might’ve been different. With time.”
Jack adjusted his grip on his sword, his question matter-of-fact. “Will you go back to him?”
She looked to the east. Almost everything in her tugged toward a life beyond this, but now there was a corner of her heart that didn’t pull that way.