Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)

“Joss, you’re behaving—”

“I’m behaving as the captain of this ship, Gray. If you don’t start affording me the respect that deserves, I’ll order you below.” The voice sank deeper still. “And if you dare contradict me in front of my crew, I’ll throw your arse in the brig.”

A burst of spray hit Sophia’s face again, startling her eyes open. With droplets of seawater clinging to her eyelashes, she slowly rotated her neck until the two brothers came into focus.

The men glared at each other, and the fog swirling around them took on the charged heat of steam. Apparently, the Grayson brothers shared no more affection than Sophia and her sister did.

The captain turned toward the ship’s bow, calling, “Mr. Brackett!”

A third man joined them. The fog and spray obscured the features of his face, but Sophia could see he was tall and lean, standing ramrod straight despite the waves.

“Mr. Brackett,” said the captain, “see that all passengers”—he shot another glance at his fuming brother—“are returned to their cabins. Furl the topsails and prepare to drop anchor.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Mr. Brackett strode forward, sharp cheekbones and blade-thin nose slicing through the fog. He began barking orders, and the crew exploded into activity.

“Come along then, Miss Turner.” Stubb took her elbow and urged her toward the companionway hatch. They crossed the deck in a lurching gait as the waves rolled beneath.

Once they were safely below, Stubb left her alone, only to return a few moments later with a bucket threaded over his arm. Behind him followed another of the sailors—an impossibly tall and broad-shouldered black man whose size required him to nearly double over and turn sideways just to thread his body through the compartment entry.

“Levi ’ere will be putting up the deadlights.” Stubb tilted his hoary crown toward the black man as he bent to lash the chair legs to the table’s bolted base.

“Deadlights?” Just the sound of the word left Sophia cold, and she braced herself against the table to receive its meaning.

“Shutters for the cabin windows,” the steward explained. “To keep out the storm and sea.”

Levi nudged past her, squeezing into her berth. He carried a circular plate, drilled ’round with screw holes.

Stubb passed the bucket to Sophia. “You’re like to have need of this.”

She looked down at the leather pail. “Am I to bail out the seawater, then?”

Stubb cackled with laughter. “Levi! The lovely miss thinks she’ll be put to work, bailing out the bilge!” Levi made no reply as he emerged from her berth, but Stubb laughed twice as loudly to compensate. “Nay, miss. If we take on some sea, there’s a pump in the hold.”

“Then why the bucket?” Sophia asked. The ship dropped suddenly, and her stomach rolled with it. “Oh. That.”

“Now don’t be worried about the waves, miss. Save your concerns for the lightning.”

“Lightning?” She didn’t like the sound of that.

“Aye. Strange things occur when lightning strikes a ship. That electric fluid bounces all through the hull, and woe to the sailor caught holding a bit of metal.” Stubb fluffed his whiskers. “What do you think turned this beard of mine to white?” He flashed a toothless grin. “Had me a whole set of gold teeth. All melted to slag.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am not,” the steward said, though he threw Sophia a sly wink. “Just ask Levi here. He won’t speak a word to contradict me.”

Neither would he speak a word to support you, she surmised. The black man hadn’t broken his silence since entering. But arms crossed and face stony, he looked capable of supporting the London Bridge.

“Don’t you know?” the old man continued. “That’s why they call me Stubb. Before the lightning struck, I used to have a wooden leg.”

“A wooden …” Sophia stared at the steward’s bare, furred feet for a moment before Stubb broke into loud, toothless laughter.

“No, don’t worry yerself about a little blow like this one, miss,” Stubb said, backing his way out of the cabin. “We’ll come through it fine.”