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

Sophia sipped her tea, amazed. She was the lone female passenger—the lone passenger, really—aboard a ship crewed entirely by men who might as well be pirates, except that they couldn’t be hanged. And Mr. Grayson, with his arrogant swagger and mercantile lust, was their erstwhile, unhangable pirate king.

Mercy.

She drained the rest of her tea in one long draught, capped with an audible swallow. “Thank you for the refreshment,” she said, rising to her feet. Blood rushed from her head, leaving her dizzy. The steam was suddenly too thick to breathe. “I … I believe I’ll go take some fresh air.”

As she hurried on deck, her mind was awhirl. All that time that Mr. Grayson had been touching her, teasing her … she’d been consorting with a pirate. If he had the slightest inkling that she carried hundreds of pounds beneath her stays, he’d surely stop at nothing to get it. And yet, she could not bid caution to overtake the gothic thrill. For Heaven’s sake, a pirate. She could be in danger, she admonished herself.

She could be plundered.

The possibility really ought to have frightened her more than it did. Perhaps she could not escape the man, but she had to tamp down this response he incited in her. There was only one thing for it. She would go to her cabin and sketch. Something simple, innocent. Rosebuds, apples, blocks of wood. Anything but him.

Then something fell to the deck with a loud thud, startling Sophia to a halt. It was a knotted length of rope, only a few feet long, and it had landed almost at her feet. A rather small object to have made such a noise. It must have fallen from high above.

Shading her eyes with her hand, Sophia craned her neck and looked upward. Davy Linnet descended the rigging hand over hand, like a monkey.

For all his nervousness earlier, he looked born to the ropes now. He landed at her feet in a graceful swoop. “Beg yer pardon, miss.” He picked up the offending coil and, flashing a shy smile, made an ungainly bow. Sophia graced him with her best debutante’s smile, gratified by the manner in which his pale cheeks colored when she did. At least someone on this ship knew how to treat a lady. “Mr. Linnet, I wonder if I might trouble you for a favor.”

The youth swallowed, his expression suddenly earnest. “Anything, miss. Anything.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Over the next few days, Gray found himself partnered in an absurd sort of quadrille. Miss Turner was always in his sights, but rarely within reach. And when their paths collided occasionally, as much by accident as by design, she quickly twirled away from him, to be lost in the dance once again. Just as well.

He learned the pattern of her activities. She came abovedecks shortly after breakfast, presumably to take some fresh air. Then she would disappear again, usually until the dogwatches in late afternoon. A sailor’s favorite time of day, the dogwatch—when work slowed and the sun hung low in the sky and dinner loomed hopefully on the horizon. It was the time of day when those who had pipes would play them, and those who had cards would gather ’round, and men with no talent for music or gambling might light a pipe instead. Only natural, then, that Miss Turner would be drawn to the deck at that hour, lured by the air of camaraderie and the sounds of laughter or song.

He couldn’t imagine how she passed her time between forenoon and dusk. What did ladies do with themselves on a transoceanic voyage?

Sewing? Reading? Gray himself grew itchy with idleness. He found little to do, save charting the latitude religiously and circling the deck, pausing to chat with the sailors now and then. Every once in a while, a sail might appear on the horizon. And, according to his right of whimsy as captain, Joss might or might not decide to hail the ship and let the carved goddess adorning the Aphrodite’s prow curtsy to a kindred figurehead. Odd, to watch the ships approach willingly now, rather than flee.

“Say!”

The shout drew Gray’s attention. A knot of sailors surrounded young Davy, who appeared as riled up as a fifteen-year-old green hand could get. Davy stood nose-to-chest with O’Shea, jabbing a finger into the Irishman’s chest. “Give it back then, you big, ugly—”

“Watch yer mouth there, boy! Mind who you’re talking to.” O’Shea gave him a half-strength push that sent Davy sprawling into Quinn, one of the new men. Quinn shouted in protest and threw a swift elbow, knocking Davy to the deck.

Gray strode over to join the group. A bit of good-natured hazing never hurt a new boy. He had to learn his place among the crew. But Gray had never countenanced cruelty on his ship. And this was, he reminded himself, still his ship. Wordlessly, he extended a hand to Davy and hauled him to his feet. The crewmen nudged one another, silencing the laughter.

“What’s the problem, O’Shea?” Gray knew better than to solicit Davy’s version of the conflict first. Shipboard hierarchy was sacred. The Irishman shrugged. “Boy’s got himself all worked up over a bit of paper.”

“Paper?” Gray laid a hand on Davy’s sleeve.