18. Killing Copson #2
Jack was afraid for her. Like he cared so much. Like she had so much power that she could scare him—this man who terrified everyone and had nothing to fear.
Scare him, like she mattered. Make him worry, as though she were more than the aggravating girl he’d been forced to mind.
And yet he would not let her go. He would not leave her be. He would insult her then beg for friendship and chase her all the way here, to the heart of Tortuga into a den of Spanish soldiers who he would break and kill if only to speak with her.
But she was not good enough for him.
Hein had drawn his sword half way out of its scabbard and angled it toward her, so she didn’t have to reach far to grab it. As she pulled it free with a loud ring, he mumbled, “Peleen y follen ya.”
Jack fell back as Cecily moved around the table, his hand going to his own sword. “Going to fight me?” he taunted. “Fine, then. Let’s fight, since doing anything else with you is so damn impossible.”
The bartender shouted as Cecily swung for Jack with a ragged scream. Jack stepped out of the way, his sword sailing for her neck. She ducked, twirling around a table filled with patrons and reaching for her dagger as she rounded the other side and strode back toward Jack.
When he saw the blade she’d purchased three weeks ago, his expression twisted with scorn. “What an impressive feat that you’ve kept it hidden for so long.”
She swung her sword again, only for him to parry.
A dagger had appeared in his hand too, and he swiped for her stomach while her arm was still raised.
She blocked with her knife, unhooked her sword from his, and threw herself into a flurry of jabs and swipes he easily countered and returned until she spun away.
“I haven’t had the chance to use it yet,” she panted, flipping the dagger through the air and catching it by the hilt. “How delightful it’ll be to christen it with your blood.”
“Get out!” the bartender roared as patrons scrambled to the edges of the room, drinks in hand. Hein remained seated, idly spinning his empty glass.
Jack kicked a table out of his way, sending it careening into another to clear the floor in the middle of the tavern. He opened his arms wide in challenge. “Go ahead and try.”
She ran for him, thrusting her sword at his neck, his arm, his abdomen, jabbing with her elbow when she got close enough and swinging her dagger for his face. He blocked and ducked, turned and repaid her efforts in kind, slicing for her throat, her eyes, her heart.
A man approached, knife in hand, his eyes trailing Cecily. Jack shoved her away after another successful parry, turned his sword on the man, and growled, “She’s mine. Touch her, you die.”
Cecily said, “Perhaps you could use the help, Jack.”
“If anyone gets to kill you,” he said, breathless, “it’s me, for all I’ve endured at your hand.”
He leaped for her, striking a blow to her sword that nearly threw her off balance. She planted her heel and threw him back, pushing him toward the wall. But then he lunged, sank to the floor, and slid past her, aiming for her knees. She jumped, pulling her limbs beyond his reach.
The bartender was beside himself, but didn’t dare come out from behind the counter.
Jack rose to his feet. “You exhaust me,” he groused. “Annoy me. Infuriate me.”
“Then be rid of me,” she said. “Throw one of your pretty little knives at my throat.”
“No.” He spun his sword. “When I kill you, it’ll be with the weapon you fancy yourself to be such a master at wielding.”
She spun her blade as well, mimicking him as they prowled around one another through the open space—and oh how she burned. From alcohol, from rage, from glee.
They moved for each other, and with a flurry of complicated footwork and clashing swords, Cecily perfectly executed the move she’d learned from Jack weeks ago. Her heel stayed on the ground, her power carried her through, and she thrust—
And found nothing.
Jack appeared behind her. He gripped her arm, spun her, then shoved her back into the stone wall. As his forearm pinned her shoulders, she lodged the sharp edge of her dagger against his neck at the same time his blade kissed her throat.
All she had to do was drag the knife through his flesh and he’d be dead. Nicely, perfectly dead. Then she’d be free.
But she didn’t.
He didn’t.
They stood there, glaring, their knives pressed to each other’s jugulars, their hands steady as they held each other on the precipice of death. But her body had stopped obeying. Her blood sang, her entire being flooded with heat as his breath caressed her parted lips.
Jack’s gaze dropped from her eyes to her mouth. Their chests heaved, but then he let out a short, shallow breath, like a sigh—but not at all a resignation.
She didn’t know who moved first. Maybe they moved at the same time, but suddenly there was no more space between them as their lips crashed together. Her eyes slipped closed and his knife was gone, his hand on her waist, the other on the back of her neck, pulling her flush against him.
“Finally,” came Hein’s groan from across the room.
“Drop the knife,” Jack grumbled against her mouth. Her fingers relaxed, and the dagger fell. Distantly, she heard Hein’s sword clatter to the floor with it.
And she was being kissed.
Her hands fisted in his shirt, anchoring him to her. Hard lines of muscle pressed against her knuckles, and her heart kicked into a rhythm that stole her sense and left her with nothing but the feeling of him—
Jack parted her lips, drawing her deeper, kissing her harder, like he needed it, needed her as badly as she needed him. She gasped, filling her lungs with his warm breath, and the last bits of ice melted from her heart as she finally surrendered it to him.
It had been his for weeks, and she was a fool for trying to make it any other way.
She would have been content to stay here, eager to forget everything around her, but he broke away. Her eyes opened. The malice had vanished from his gaze, but a dangerous spark remained.
“You’re mine,” he said. Then to the bartender’s delight, Jack grabbed her hand and hauled her out the door.