Page 22 of The Worst of Them

“Why do you need it?” Jack asked. “To protect yourself?”

She didn’t answer.

“To feel protected, maybe?”

Cecily scooped ashes and ignored him.

“What if I made you sleep in my quarters?” he asked with false brightness. “You could curl up in the corner like a cat.”

She stiffened. “Then I’d show you how I can make a shiv out of a lot more than a bone.”

He laughed darkly. “I don’t doubt it.”

Shutting the little door, she imagined gold and a home all her own. She held on to the thought as she padded to the side of the ship to dump the ashes. With Hester occupied, Jack was her only option for meaningful company. But they would have to dock eventually, and she could put up with him for a short time, even if he set her teeth to grinding.

It was better than prison, she reminded herself. Anything was better than prison.

She moved to the next drum and sank behind it, blocking her view of Jack. He let her work in silence, and it wasn’t until she was on the fifth and final drum that he spoke again.

“How does a pious girl like you end up as a prostitute?”

She nearly dropped the trowel as the label—prostitute—raked over her flesh.

If he had asked her about the other women, he’d no doubt asked them about her. Of course they would say she was a prostitute; that’s all they knew, and they’d have no qualms sharing it.

Jack couldn’t see her from where she crouched, so she took a moment to compose herself before answering, “I’m not a prostitute.” Her voice was calmer than she felt, and she was grateful for it.

Jack appeared over the top of the drum to peer down at her. “But you made such a stink about being bought and sold and what have you. I supposed it made sense.”

“I was never a prostitute.” She slammed the door, rose, and returned to the rail, fighting the urge to chuck the entire bucket off the ship as she dumped the ash into the water. The wind caught a few stray ashes and tossed them back at her face, and she turned her head and held her breath against the onslaught.

Jack’s gaze burned over the back of her neck, but when she turned to him, he didn’t look at her with hunger or judgment. There was no hint of desire or cruel intentions.

He just…looked at her.

The shock of it dulled the steel in her voice as she asked, “Who told you such things?”

“Morgyn.”

This time, she did drop the bucket. It clattered to the deck before she could hurl it at him.

“Ah, don’t get upset,” he said, and his smile was all teeth. “You told me such interesting things about her—I wondered what she might have to say about you. She actually seems a bit scared of you, which I found surprising after you told me none of the women had any reason to be.”

Terror and rage told her to put this man down for good. But it wouldn’t be possible—he was covered in tiny, hidden blades and she had nothing but impulse and hatred, and those didn’t kill nearly as fast.

She would shut him up another way.

“Are you really so gullible?” she asked instead. “You can’t believe a word Morgyn says. She’ll do and say anything to win your favor.”

“And what about you?” He spoke casually, like they were having a lovely conversation over tea. “Suppose you were desperate. Would you do and say anything?”

She stared, silenced by his question. He considered her for a long time—long enough to make her feel naked and flayed, which only made her heart beat louder.

Then he asked quietly, “How does a murderess get sent to the Americas?”

A breeze passed between them. She blinked, turned her head like a songbird watching a serpent.

Well, Jack Copson was a smart bastard. She added that to her list of reasons to hate him.