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

Sophia grasped the rope with both hands, and he showed her how to brace one foot on the bulwark and pull hand over hand, letting the rope fall in a neat coil at their feet.

“Ready to try it yerself?” he asked.

She nodded, and he released the rope.

“Ah!” Sophia gave a sharp cry as several yards of cable slid straight through her grip. The dolphin-fish was swifter than she’d expected, and stronger, too. Now she’d made matters worse by giving it more slack, more room to struggle.

“Shall I help you, miss?” the sailor asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll do.” Bracing her foot and tightening her grip, Sophia clenched her teeth and began to pull, arm over arm. For every arm-length of rope she pulled in, it seemed the dolphin-fish took three. What with all this thrashing, the fish would probably resemble mincemeat by the time she hauled it aboard.

But she would haul it aboard, if it was the last thing she did. And she would rejoice to see even minced fish on her plate tonight, instead of salt pork.

After a minute, the task seemed to grow easier, presumably because the fish grew weaker. But just when she thought she had it netted, the dolphin-fish made one last desperate surge for freedom, dragging her a few steps toward the bow. Her boot caught in the coiled rope, and she very nearly tripped. She managed to pull up, however, and regain control. Her efforts were rewarded with a rousing chorus of whistles and cheers.

“That’s the way, miss!”

“You’ve got ’im now!”

Slowly pivoting her head from one side to the other, Sophia realized she’d amassed quite an audience. Evidently her battle with the fish made for high entertainment. Ah, well. Let the men laugh. She was having fun, too. She smiled as she resumed pulling in the catch.

In fact, she was having the time of her life.

Jesus Christ. The chit was going to get herself killed.

From the stern, Gray looked on in disbelief as Miss Turner played tug-o-war with a fish and the crew watched with glee. What the hell were they thinking?

“What the hell are they thinking?” Joss came to Gray’s side. “Mr. Wiggins,” he ordered, “tell the men—”

“Don’t bother,” Gray called out, vaulting over the rail that separated helm and quarterdeck. “I’ll put a stop to it myself.”

Long strides carried him across the decking, while Gray tried to hold panic at bay. Devil take it, when had the Aphrodite become so damned long? Up at the bow, Miss Turner lost her footing, tripping over the coiled rope, and Gray very nearly lost his breakfast.

“Bloody idiots,” he muttered, as a prelude to the worse invectives running through his mind. Only a fool let a fish thrash at the end of a rope like that, churning up the froth, leaving a wake of blood and innards on the waves. It was a cretinous way to catch a fish, and a surefire method of attracting a—

“Shark!”

And from there on, it all went so fast. But so slowly, at the same time. Had the girl any common sense, she would have dropped the line at once. But she had no sense. She made no sense. She was a pale English rose of a governess, adrift in a watery wilderness, on her way to a grueling post on a godforsaken island, when any fool could have told her—a woman so lovely need never work for her keep.

Had the men around her any sense, they would have cut the rope immediately. But they were idiots, bloody shite-for-brains idiots, too entranced by the pretty girl in peril to reach for their knives. Had Gray his own knife, he would have drawn it. But he wasn’t wearing his knife, because he wasn’t the captain on this ship, was he? Nor an officer, nor even part of the crew. He was just a stupid, overdressed passenger who hadn’t strapped on a goddamned knife that morning because it might ruin the lines of his goddamned brand-new coat.

No, he didn’t have his knife. But he had his legs, powering him the remaining yards to the bow. He had his arms, lashing around Miss Turner just as the shark’s jaws snatched the dolphin-fish carcass and dragged it under the waves. And he had his voice, that authoritative tone of command. The voice that carried over storms, and gunfire, and howls of pain.

“Let go of the line.” He grabbed her forearms and shook them. Jesus, she’d been holding on to the thing for so long, her instinct was to tighten her fingers further. Precisely the wrong thing to do. As the shark lunged away, the cable streamed through her two-fisted grip, no doubt taking the skin of her palms along with it.

“Let it go!” he ordered. “Now!”

She did. Her shaking fingers were white; her palms were abraded and raw.

And damn it to hell, he stared at those ruined hands an instant too long. By the time Gray attempted to pull her back from the rail, the shark had spooled out several more yards of rope. The rope that lay coiled and tangled about her foot, that was.