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

But when he reached the stairs, his plans changed. There was a girl in his way.

Miss Turner stood perched on the third rung of the ladder, straining on tiptoe to peek through the half-open hatch. Had Gray been the superstitious sort, he might have thought her a ghost. Her fingers were white, delicate webs where she clutched the handle of the hatch with one hand and the ladder with the other. Flashes of luminous beauty alternated with darkness. Each fork of lightning illuminated her finely wrought features and the droplets of spray clinging to her hair and eyelashes.

No, she wasn’t a ghost. But she was a vision just the same.

“Miss Turner,” he said, bracing one shoulder against the wall. She didn’t turn around.

Gray cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Turner.”

Now she startled, nearly losing her grip on the ladder. “Mr. Grayson. I …”

Her voice caught, and she dabbed her face with her sleeve. “I wanted to see the storm.”

“And how do you find it?”

“Wet.”

Gray chuckled, surprised.

“And beautiful,” she continued, as another bolt of lightning threw her features into relief. “Out here on the water, with no solid land beneath—it’s so different. As though there’s no boundary between sky and sea, and we’re simply at Nature’s mercy. It’s so wild and gothic.”

“It’s dangerous, is what it is.”

“Yes, precisely.” Another bright flash revealed the curve of a smile. Gray frowned. What was she doing, smiling at him in a storm? Sending electric pulses through his blood with each glimpse of her pale, haunting beauty? She ought to be huddled in her bunk, fearing for her life. He crossed the small space in one stride, gripping the ladder with one hand and offering her the other, to assist her descent. “Wise passengers wait out a storm in their berths.”

“Do they?” she whispered, taking his hand. “What does that make us, then?”

Now this, this was danger. He didn’t miss the coy lilt in her voice, nor the tremor of her rain-dampened shoulders, an unconscious shiver that all but begged for his embrace. No, she didn’t even realize the invitation she’d made, but the signs were unmistakable to Gray. He’d seen this reaction, many times before, and he knew better than to be flattered by it. It was nothing more than instinct.

Any port in a storm.

“It doesn’t make us anything,” he said, helping her down. The feel of her chilled, slender fingers in his triggered all manner of instincts. “It makes me a concerned investor. And it makes you a girl with an overactive imagination. Go back to your berth.”

The lightning had ceased, but her eyes sparked with a fire all their own.

“But I—”

“You’re not safe here.” He wrenched open the door to the ladies’ cabin and waved her through it. “Go to bed, Miss Turner.”

Yes, go to bed, he thought, as she wordlessly swept through the door and he drew it shut behind her. Go to your bed, before I sweep you off tomine.

CHAPTER FOUR

Sophia woke with a start, alone and disoriented in the dark. Her pulse responded first, pumping panic through her veins at a furious rate. She pressed her hand to her heart, and her fingers curled around her purse. Awareness returned in a dizzy rush.

A faint silvery glow leaked under the door of her berth. It was morning. And if it was morning, that must mean she’d survived the night. She turned onto her side. Every muscle screamed with pain. Her skirt and cloak were still heavy with damp, resisting her feeble attempts to rise. Perhaps she didn’t need to move, after all.

Oh, but she did. She drew a deep breath, then wished she could spit it out. The air was thick with humidity and rank with the odors of sickness and bilge. She slid from her bunk, ignoring the protestations of her aching limbs, and flung open the door of her berth.

She lunged for the staircase, scrambling up on her hands and knees. A salty breeze nipped at her ears as she emerged headfirst into the gray dawn. She inhaled a deep, bracing breath of fresh air. The thought of returning below held no appeal whatsoever. Yet neither could she remain like this, head and neck protruding from a hole in the deck, like some species of seafaring marmot.

She climbed abovedecks and struggled into an upright position, planting her feet in a wide stance to buffer the ship’s rolling. Sophia closed her eyes. Either the ship was caught in a whirl pool, or her head was spinning like a top. She looked toward the nearest rail—only five paces away, perhaps six. Beyond it, the English coastline appeared to teeter on a fulcrum. She bowed her head, focused her gaze on the deck beneath her, and took one step. Two.

Then the deck pitched suddenly, and her locked knees buckled. She was falling, spinning, out of control.

She was caught.