Page 101 of The Worst of Them

Smiling to herself, she nestled her head in the crook of his neck. Beside them, the water gently lapped against the shore, white foam crawling forward then sliding back toward the ocean. Her eyes began to drift shut, feeling content and…

Home.

For the second time tonight, the feeling came unbidden, washing through her slowly, like the waves mere feet away. She imagined what it would be like to think this—Jack—could be home.

The idea felt good beyond a simple feeling. It was an essence, a state of being she’d been chasing since her arrest. It held her now, wrapped around her as though waiting for her to accept it in spite of all she thought she wanted.

She was happy and light, and a home sounded perfect in whatever form she managed to find it.

Even if it wasn’t the perfect little home in her head.

“Yesterday,” Jack said, his face next to hers, “when you looked like you were sleeping on the beach…where did you go?”

She slipped her fingers out from beneath his and began tracing idle circles over the back of his hand. As she put words to images and ideas, all the feelings that had inspired her for so long, she wondered if he might think her mad for inventing an entirely different life in her head that felt as real as the one she lived.

“You don’t have to tell me,” Jack said when her silence stretched.

“It’s not that, it’s…” She drew in a deep breath and slowly released it. “You may tease me for many things, but you may never tease me for this. No matter if I irritate you, no matter if you hate me.”

He nodded, his heartbeat quickening against her back. “I won’t.”

“You swear?”

His breath caressed the side of her face. “I swear.”

Again, she fell silent, her heart kicking in time with Jack’s. “My little home,” she finally admitted. “A house I built…in my head…” She bit her lip, feeling silly as she said it aloud for the first time. “After I was sent to Bridewell, it was the only way I could live. I made myself a place where all is perfect and beautiful, and I am perfectly myself. I know every inch of every room, each piece of furniture, the pictures on the walls, the flowers in the vases…” Her finger moved faster over his hand. “Do you think I’m insane?”

He flipped his hand to catch her fingers in his, stilling their anxious movements. “No. If it’s how you survived so long, it must be a very powerful part of you.” He brushed his lips over her ear. “Tell me more.”

Settling deeper into him, she closed her eyes, pictured her home, and began to speak, telling him about the front door, the footman, and the foyer with its vase, filled today with dozens of red roses and the silvery leaves of dusty miller. She described the hallway and how the light streamed through the windows in her lavender parlor, and then she lingered in the gardens with its birds and butterflies.

She told him about tea and tiny sandwiches, her gowns, and the ribbons in her long, lovely hair. By the time she finished, she was calm and content.

Jack had said nothing while she spoke, happy to sit in polite silence. In that silence, they lingered long enough that she’d nearly fallen asleep.

Until Jack muttered, “I can get you a house.”

Cecily opened her eyes, doubting that she’d heard correctly. Perhaps she’d dreamed it.

She twisted, craning her neck to look at him. “What?”

“I can get you a house like that.”

She shook her head, clearing the fog of sleep to ascertain if she really was dreaming or if he spoke in jest. But he’d promised not to tease her, which left her asking, “How?”

“I told you I’m to inherit a legacy,” he told her succinctly. “I can get you a home.”

A long moment passed, in which she merely stared at him. Then a laugh burst from her. “Have you been trying all night to tell me that you’re wealthy?”

Marching her into a lady’s bedroom and being unimpressed. Calling it small, showing her riches—Jack wasn’t an obvious man, but she might have listened a little closer to his offhanded remarks and thought more of them.

“My family’s not destitute,” he said. “I’ve been at sea for years, with nothing and nobody to spend my money on.” He shrugged. “It accumulates.”

Her blood rushed, pulse quickening for excitement or trepidation, a swirl of feelings that moved too fast for her sloshing mind to grasp one, let alone the many.

Was he offering something? Was he promising or showing off? Her smile flickered, unsure. When his face offered no answers, she set her palm against his chest to feel his heart beating only slightly slower than her own.

“Alright,” she said. “So you could get me a home. What about you? Where would you be if I were in this house you can afford?”