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

“Steady there.” Two large hands gripped her elbows. Her fingers instinctively closed over two strong arms. Sophia barely had time to register the feel of superfine wool and hard muscle beneath her fingertips, a brief instant to catch a glimpse of two gray-green eyes.

And then she vomited all over two slightly scuffed, tassel-topped Hessians.

“I …” She coughed and sputtered. Mr. Grayson’s iron grip on her elbows refused to relax, preventing her from turning away. “Sir … Release me, I beg you.”

“Absolutely not. You’re not steady on your feet. This way, then.” He guided her sideways, nudging her to take small steps and twirl slightly right

—the most mortifying waltz Sophia had ever endured. He backed her against a small crate. “Sit down.”

She obeyed, sinking onto the rough wooden slats gratefully. Still holding her fast by the elbows, he crouched before her. She could not bear to meet his eyes.

“Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll come back presently.”

Oh, please don’t. Sophia cringed as his soiled boots carried him away. The instant his footsteps faded, she pulled a handkerchief from her cloak and wiped her brow. She willed her head to stop spinning, so she could rise to her feet unaided and make her escape. But he was too fast for her. Within the space of two minutes, he was back, boots rinsed—with seawater, she supposed—and steaming tankard in hand.

“Drink this.” He wrapped her trembling hands around the tankard. Delicious warmth prickled through her chilled fingers.

“What is it?”

“Tea, with treacle and lemon. And a touch of rum.” When she merely stared at the drink, he added, “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”

Sophia raised the mug to her lips and sipped carefully. Fragrant steam warmed her from the inside out. The syrupy sweetness coated her throat, masking the bitter taste of bile. She sipped again. “Thank you,” she finally managed, keeping her eyes trained on the liquid sloshing in the tankard. “I’m … I’m sorry about your boots.”

He laughed. “You should be sorry.” He crouched beside her. Sophia stubbornly stared into her tankard. “I despise these boots,” he continued. “I’d just been contemplating yanking them off my feet and tossing them overboard. But now it seems I’ll have to keep them.” Surprise tugged her gaze up to his. He grinned. “For sentimental reasons.”

Don’t do it, she told herself. Don’t smile back.

Too late.

“Mr. Grayson …”

“Please.” His elbow nudged her thigh. An accident? He did not apologize.

“After that, I believe you can call me Gray.”

His gaze sparked—a hint of silver flashing in murky green—and Sophia became suddenly, painfully aware of the picture she must present. Soiled, wrinkled dress still damp at the hem, flax-colored hair teased loose from its pins. The pale, wan complexion of illness.

And yet …

His eyes did not merely skim her surface. Instead, they focused some distance beneath her stained garments, plumbing the depths of her appearance in a most disconcerting way.

Despite the chill, a light sheen of perspiration bloomed over her thighs.

“Mr. Grayson. I thank you for the tea.” Sophia shifted the tankard to one hand and shook out the handkerchief she’d kept in her palm. A sudden puff of wind wrenched it from her grasp.

His hand darted out, and he caught the fluttering scrap of white effortlessly, as though it were a dove trained to fly to his hand. Sophia reached for it. “Once again, I thank you.”

He whisked it out of her grasp. “Save your thanks. I haven’t given it back.”

He fingered the eyelet trim. “Perhaps I’ll decide to keep it. For sentimental reasons.”

It came to her so easily, the flirtatious response. He had only to look at her, and her caution collapsed in the flick of a fan. “You shouldn’t tease, Mr. Grayson. It isn’t at all charitable.”

“Ah, but I’m a tradesman. I’m interested in profit, not charity. And I asked you to call me Gray.” He leaned closer, and now—at this diminished distance—Sophia would have sworn his eyes were not green at all, but a pale blue.

Piercing blue.

“You have money, don’t you?”

Her mouth went dry. He knew. From the handkerchief? It must be too fine, too embellished. Obviously it belonged to a lady of wealth. Curse it. If only Sophia had had more time to plan her escape, she would have managed a better disguise. It had been difficult enough to leave her painstakingly selected trousseau behind and take only her everyday linens.

She hadn’t had time to assemble a coarser wardrobe, nor even any notion of where the poorer classes shopped.

“I beg your pardon?” Her fingers tightened around the rapidly cooling tankard.

“Money. You do have money, don’t you? You never paid your fare yesterday. It’s six pounds, eight. If you haven’t the coin, I’ll have no choice but to hold you for ransom once we reach Tortola.”