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

Gray seethed with anger.

Having been ordered belowdecks in such insulting fashion, he thundered his way down to the gentlemen’s cabin. Once inside his tiny berth, he wrestled out of his coat. Between the cramped size of the room and the rolling of the ship, the experience was like tumbling a chambermaid in a closet, only far less pleasurable. One particularly impatient yank on his sleeve earned him bloodied knuckles when his fist banged the low ceiling. When he’d ordered the Aphrodite converted to accommodate passengers, the builder had given him an option. Did he want four gentlemen’s cabins, similar to the ladies’? Or would he prefer to squeeze six smaller berths into the same space?

Gray’s answer? Six, of course. No question about it. Two extra beds meant two extra fares. He hadn’t dreamed he’d one day occupy one of these cramped berths.

Six feet of angry man, lashed into a five-foot bunk, in the midst of a howling gale—it wasn’t a recipe for a good night’s sleep. Gray craved the space and comfort of his former quarters aboard the Aphrodite—the captain’s cabin. But as his brother had so officiously pointed out, Gray wasn

’t the captain of this ship anymore.

Throw his arse in the brig, had Joss threatened? Gray tossed indignantly, his chest straining against the ropes that held him in the child-sized bed. The ship’s brig didn’t sound so bad right now. He’d put up with a few iron bars, the rancid bilgewater and rats, if it meant he could stretch his legs properly. Hell, this room was so damned small, he couldn’t even get his blasted boots off.

He kicked the wall of his berth, no doubt scuffing the shine on his new Hessians. He hated the cursed things anyway. They pinched his feet. Why the devil he’d thought it a brilliant notion to get all dandified for this voyage, Gray couldn’t remember. Just who was he trying to impress? Stubb?

No, not Stubb.

Bel. It was all for Bel.

Gray couldn’t forget the way she’d looked at him when he’d left last year. The disappointment welling in those big eyes, as dark and doleful as any medieval icon’s. Hadn’t she learned by then to stop expecting so damned much of him? He’d never lived up to his little sister’s ideal. He wasn’t sure any man could.

But now Gray could show her he’d changed. As much as it was within his power to change, at any rate. He’d given up the reckless, albeit far more entertaining, life of a privateer and become a successful tradesman. The owner of a shipping concern, with two new vessels in construction besides the Aphrodite, and investors lining up to back more. Able to offer her a home in London, a comfortable life, whatever else she might desire. Bel might have preferred he grow a conscience, rather than build a fortune. But Gray knew better than to waste his time. If a scoundrel like him had any hope of Heaven, it rested solely on the strength of Isabel Grayson’s prayers.

Prayer wouldn’t help him tonight. From Gray’s experience, the best ward against seasickness was to turn one’s mind to sin.

Surprising, then, that his thoughts drifted to Miss Turner. He thought he’d outgrown admiring her sort, those delicate English roses. Give him an exotic orchid. A voluptuous woman with unbound hair and bold, dark eyes, who knew what she was about. Girlish blushes, demure smiles—they’d lost their allure for Gray years ago.

But still he thought of her. He could no more rid his mind of her than command the storm to cease. Tossing fitfully in his bunk, he recalled her near-breakable beauty, her delicate scent. And the feel of her body pressed against his for those few seconds in the rowboat. Not just the enticing sensation of her soft, pillowy br**sts flattening against his chest, but beneath them, a pulse racing like a bird’s, pounding against his torso through all those layers of womanly flesh and wool. As if something caged inside her was clamoring for escape. Begging him to set it free. It was then he discovered an unhappy consequence to all his tossing and turning. One of the ropes binding him to his bed had drifted south—and now cinched his body at a most unfortunate latitude.

Damn it to hell.

He undid the ropes and wrestled out of the bed. What the devil was happening to him? His little brother had him confined to his cabin. A prim governess had him tied in knots. And worst—he’d been off the sea so long, he was losing his instincts. Joss had been right; the storm was growing violent.

Arms braced against either side of the corridor, Gray made his way from the gentlemen’s cabin to the companionway. He needed to see the storm for himself, judge how the ship’s new rigging and spars were weathering the gale.