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

Exquisite.

A raucous cheer announced young Davy’s success, and Gray looked up to the royal yard to see the square sail unfurling high above, like a handkerchief.

The loud clanging of the bell cut through the crew’s whoops and whistles. Mr. Brackett stood on the raised deck toward the ship’s stern, his expression forbidding. “This isn’t a circus, you louts! All hands back to work!”

The sailors returned to their duties, grumbling among themselves. If Gray couldn’t fault the officer for chasing the sailors back to work, at least he could make up for their absence by congratulating young Davy heartily on his descent.

“Well done, boy.” He clapped a hand on the youth’s trembling shoulder.

“You’ll be in the forecastle with the sailors soon enough. Perhaps by the time we cross the Tropic.”

“Thank you, sir.” The boy wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’m going to be sick, sir.”

Gray laughed and stepped back quickly. “Just do me a favor, boy. Spare my boots a second baptism.”

Stifling a nervous giggle, Miss Turner gave the boy a warm smile. “You’re very brave, Mr. Linnet.”

Gray observed the blanched, tight skin over her knuckles where she gripped the edges of her cloak. He knew she’d been sick with worry for the boy. Even now, she was struggling to mask her true emotions behind that gracious smile—because she understood, as Gray did, how important it was for Davy’s confidence, that he never see her fear.

But Gray saw it. He’d felt it, as she’d inched closer to him. Even now, she stood so close that their shadows bled together on the deck. Her vulnerability disarmed him, somehow; and that smile had him envying a fifteen-year-old green hand like he’d never envied a prince. Gray was seized by the absurd notion to climb the mast himself, just to bask in that warm approbation.

Davy lurched off toward the rail, and Gray laid a hand at the base of Miss Turner’s spine, turning her in the opposite direction. That lovely smile aside, she didn’t look too well herself. With a light yet firm touch, he ushered her up the steps onto the elevated deck at the helm. She made no protest. Damn, but she fit so perfectly under his palm. Gray imagined his hand could nearly span the width of her waist. He tested the idea, fanning his fingers over the small of her back. She shivered under his touch, but did not pull away.

In fact, she seemed to shrink closer.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “The lad came through it admirably. So did you.”

She wheeled to face him, those heavy woolen skirts swirling about his legs. A strange swell of protectiveness rose in his chest. Driven by some impulse he could no better understand than he could deny, Gray lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her fingers.

“Now,” he murmured, “what were we discussing?” For the life of him, he couldn’t hold a thought in his head.

“Paper. You … you still owe me two sheets of paper.”

“You still owe me six pounds, eight shillings,” he said softly. “Not to mention a new pair of boots. So I think you’re rather ahead.”

Indeed, Gray was losing ground fast. Those lovely eyes, her whisper-soft skin, the sweet scent that only grew more potent as the warmth between them built … If they stood like this much longer, he wouldn’t give tuppence for anything but gathering her in his arms, covering her lips with his, and ravaging that pert blossom of a mouth.

No, no. What was he thinking? One didn’t ravage an English rose of a governess. This was a girl who’d expect to be kissed sweetly. Chastely. Tenderly.

Hell. The word “chaste” wasn’t even in his vocabulary. And Gray didn’t do anything tenderly.

“Sweet, I hate to break it to you. But no matter how many sheets of paper you fill with letters home—there’s no mail coach stopping by.”

“No, it’s not for letters. You don’t understand.”

“So explain it to me.”

“I …” She looked up at him again, those big eyes searching his. There was a story behind that desperate gaze. One that wouldn’t fit on two sheets of paper, nor even two hundred, he supposed.

He squeezed her hand. Go on, some fool part of him urged. Tell meeverything.

She never had a chance.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Turner.” Joss stood at Gray’s shoulder, looking as though someone had mixed bilge-water into his tea. “I need a word with my brother, if I may.”