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

“Damn it, I wish one of these days you’d learn to trust me.”


His brother looked him in the eye. “Not half as much as I wish you’d give me a reason to.”

CHAPTER SIX

Sophia was hungry. Suddenly, ravenously hungry.

A near brush with disaster could do that to a woman.

She followed the stairs down into the belly of the ship. Hadn’t Stubb mentioned the galley was down here somewhere? She couldn’t remember where.

Pausing at the bottom of the stairs, she propped one hand on the ladder to steady herself. Her heart throbbed in her chest. The air was too thick. Her breaths were shallow, and she was faint with hunger.

She’d come so close to confessing everything.

If only he weren’t so infuriating and so solicitous, all at once. One or the other, she knew how to resist, but insolence and charm made a potent brew indeed. The way he’d soothed her concern with rough fingers, even as his words teased. The way he’d guided her with a light touch at the small of her back, kissed her fingers so tenderly … they could have been in an elegant ballroom, preparing to dance a quadrille.

By all evidence—his fine attire, cultured accent, proud bearing, the rare flash of politesse—Mr. Grayson was a man who could move in the highest echelons of English society, but delighted in doing just the reverse. For a moment, she’d thought: If she told him everything, perhaps he would understand.

Perhaps he was a runaway, too.

Foolish, foolish girl. He understood profit. He understood six pounds, eight shillings. Mr. Grayson was no different from any fortune-hungry suitor of the ton. Or for that matter, from even her own family. He looked at her and saw gold, tied up with a pretty bow. And she would give him his blasted gold and have done with him—just as soon as she had something to eat. Instead of turning left into the ladies’ cabin, Sophia went right. She emerged into a cabin quite similar to her own in appearance, but distinguished by the strong smell of goat. Holding her sleeve to her nose, she passed through the common area quickly and stepped through a door

on the opposite side.

“Shut the bloody door, then!” The voice thundered at her through a cloud of steam.

Sophia complied hastily.

A tall, lean black man stood over a pot of boiling water, carving chunks from a peeled potato with a large knife. “Not time for mess now, is it?” he said without looking up. “That’s six bells just sounded, and I ain’t so old as I can’t hear, nor so stupid as I can’t count. So off with you then, you greedy bastard, and come back in an hour.”

Sophia would have obeyed this request, but she was momentarily shocked immobile. No one, in all her twenty years of genteel privilege, had ever addressed her in such a coarse manner. Much less a Negro cook. She couldn’t quite name the sensation that overtook her. It wasn’t anger, or shame. It was more a sense of complete disorientation. As if God, in a fit of boredom, had thought it might be amusing to flip the globe on its ear. The cook flung the knife down and wiped his hands on an apron. “I told you, you can bugger off. You’re not getting nothing until—” He turned, saw Sophia, and froze.

They stood there, staring at each other, not speaking, until the pot boiled over.

“Bloody hell.” The cook grabbed an iron and wrenched open the stove, poking vigorously at the fire. Sparks shot out to mingle with the steam.

“I beg your pardon,” Sophia said. “I only hoped to ask for a bit of bread. Perhaps …” The cook swore again as he banged the stove shut, and she jumped. “Perhaps a drop of tea.”

“No, it’s I who must beg your pardon, miss.” He wiped his hands on his apron again, leaving dark smudges of soot. “Have a seat, Miss… ?”

“Miss Turner.”

“Have a seat then, Miss Turner.” He pulled a three-legged stool up to a square, butcher-block table and patted it with his hand. “I’m Gabriel.”

Sophia sat down quickly. It was a comfortable stool, and a comfortable space. A square little room, lined with cabinets and the stove to one side. Overhead, the ceiling hovered a foot or so above deck level, letting fresh air and sunlight in from all four sides. The aromas of cooking food had her stomach grumbling.

“I’ll fetch your bread and tea,” the man said. Now that he’d ceased swearing, the exotic cadence of his voice intrigued her. Unlike the sharp commands the seamen volleyed from rigging to deck, Gabriel’s speech was smooth and resonant. “I’m not accustomed to having passengers aboard.” He looked her over, and a white, toothy smile split his face. “For a moment there, I thought you were an angel, come to take me up to Heaven.”

She winced. “No, I’m not an angel.” She knew he meant to be conciliatory, but he may as well have called her a beetle, for all the pleasure that appellation conveyed. “I’m a governess.”