17. For What It’s Worth #3
“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.
“Blame me for it if you want,” Jack continued. “My father does. I never intended to manipulate you, but I let Copson believe it because it’s what he expects. And I don’t take the time to convince him of anything unless I feel it’s worth the effort.”
She didn’t think of how long it must have taken to convince his father to let her go free in Tortuga. “The knife,” she said. “You manipulated me with that.”
“We made a deal because I needed you to sleep in the crew’s quarters, and I’d do it again if I had to. You are difficult, Cecily, and you would’ve been more so by drawing attention.”
She gave an angry huff. “I—”
“Do you deny it? I dare you. Deny being difficult, and I’ll give you a hundred reasons why you’re wrong.”
“I won’t deny it,” she replied with the same gruffness. “I know your reasons, and they’re fine. I’m only nineteen and I’m already a tragedy—do you begrudge my being difficult? Or prickly. Or frigid. A snake.”
“No, I begrudge you none of it.”
“You sound like you do.”
“I sound like I wish you’d realize I’m not trying to make your life hell. And I think you should know that by now. I’ve left you alone these past weeks and watched you have a grand time with my friends—your friends.” His gaze burned into her. “When do I get to be your friend too?”
She scrubbed her hands over her face. They could never be friends. If they were, she’d fall in love. And if she fell for him, she would never be good enough—and she would never know home or peace if she subjected herself to a life of striving.
“You can’t ignore me forever,” he said. “And I can’t ignore you. It’s too much effort to not at least be civil.”
“We can’t even be civil now,” she pointed out. “Well, you can’t. I can hardly get a word in edgewise.”
He threw up his hands. After a moment of quiet, he said, “I explained the sword. I apologized three weeks ago—for everything, I’d assumed, but probably not enough.”
“I haven’t apologized.” She splayed her fingers in the soft sand. “Why would you want to be friends with me?”
“Because even though I’ve said otherwise, I don’t think you’re a prickly, frigid snake. I know you’re not. You’re actually rather likable when you’re not trying to cut me.”
“I hear people like your cut. Especially the ladies.” Damn her to hell as the last part came out with an edge that sounded an awful lot like jealousy.
“Ladies.” He scoffed. “Do you like what you did to my face?”
When she didn’t answer, Jack pulled a knife from his vest and turned it over in his fingers. “Where did you go?” he asked. “When you looked like you were sleeping—you didn’t even stir when they asked you to go to the water.”
“I didn’t go anywhere.”
He stared at her for a long moment, then jerked his chin to the waves. “Come to the water.”
“I’m not taking my clothes off in front of you all,” she said, glancing at her pants.
“Then leave them on and come anyway.”
She pulled her knees to her chest. “No.”
Jack sighed and stood. “Stubborn.”
“Pious,” she corrected without looking at him. Her heart leaped into her throat as his scabbards, holsters, and belts landed next to her, followed by his shirt.
“I seem to recall you throwing yourself into the ocean fully clothed,” he said.
“I seem to recall being on a filthy ship and manhandled—”
“Of course. Always back to that.” He sauntered off, and Cecily fought to control her blush at the sight of his bare back, the way the muscle flowed over his strong shoulders and dipped along his spine. The tattoo on his shoulder, the shape of his torso—
He turned around, and she burned every shade of red as he walked backward, the swath of his chest exposed, the plane of his flat stomach narrowing to his hips.
She’d seen his body in the inn that morning three weeks ago, but now he put it on display as though to tempt her, torture her further, and ruin her for every other man because he was beautiful, positively arresting, and she didn’t imagine anyone else could ever compare.
It felt intentional, like he wanted to burn the image of himself into her brain simply by standing there, relieved of all his weapons but still a weapon himself because she couldn’t help but stare—and want.
And maybe she was young and na?ve because surely there were other, better men she would think were just as handsome, just as beautiful, but Jack had taken every piece of her heart.
Every. Bloody. Piece.
She wanted to kill him. Genuinely, without remorse, she wanted to slit his gorgeous throat. After all she’d struggled with being a murderer, she was surprised how little she cared when it came to Jack.
“I’m trying, Cecily,” he said, his expression serious. “I’m trying to make it less difficult for both of us.” Then he turned and jogged to the waves, leaving her alone on the beach.
She surveyed the weapons beside her. Upon reconsideration, she was sure Copson had been bluffing to scare her into compliance, and Hester would be fine with Greyson and Jack to protect her. And if Jack came after Cecily, she would deal with him then.
She made her decision then.
With one last glance toward the waves, Cecily pushed to her feet and strode into the haunted forest.
And then she ran.