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

“Don’t change the subject.”


I didn’t think I had. Her heartbeat pounded as he dressed her wounds, winding the bandage tightly around her palm. “I told you, I—”

“You told me you’d pay your fare that day, and you’ve been avoiding me ever since. I know why, Miss Turner.”

“You do?”

“I do.” He bandaged her other hand.

Oh, God. How much did he truly know? Should she stick with her old story? Invent a new one? Normally, Sophia could weave an entire web of lies with the same effortless talent of a spider spinning silk. But he’d always thrown her off balance, from their very first meeting, and now … now she was wounded and in pain, and he was caring for her so tenderly. And when she closed her eyes, she saw the angry, gaping maw of a shark—but she felt his arms around her, holding her fast. Protecting her. All she could think of was how right it felt, and how much she wanted to feel it again.

“You’ve been lying to me all along, haven’t you?”

She couldn’t answer. Her voice simply wouldn’t work.

“Look at you,” he said, his gaze running over her face. “Gone white as sailcloth. I knew it. You never intended to pay your fare. You don’t have a shilling to your name, do you?”

Sophia blinked at him. What to say? She needed to keep her money—which meant she needed to keep it secret. He was offering her a gift, with his ridiculous, wrongheaded, oh-so-male assumption. She would be a fool not to take it.

“Do you?” he repeated, his thumb tightening over her wrist. Casting her eyes to her lap, Sophia released a breathy, dramatic sigh.

“What will you do with me?”

“I don’t know what to do with you,” he said, his voice growing curt with anger again. “Deceitful little minx. I’m of half a mind to put you to work, milking the goats. But that’s out of the question with these hands, now isn’t it?” He curled and uncurled her fingers a few times, testing the bandage. “I’ll tell Stubb to change this twice a day. Can’t risk the wound going septic. And don’t use your hands for a few days, at least.”

“Don’t use my hands? I suppose you’re going to spoon-feed me, then?

Dress me? Bathe me?”

He inhaled slowly and closed his eyes. “Don’t use your hands much.” His eyes snapped open. “None of that sketching, for instance.”

She jerked her hands out of his grip. “You could slice off my hands and toss them to the sharks, and I wouldn’t stop sketching. I’d hold the pencil with my teeth if I had to. I’m an artist.”

“Really. I thought you were a governess.”

“Well, yes. I’m that, too.”

He packed up the medical kit, jamming items back in the box with barely controlled fury. “Then start behaving like one. A governess knows her place. Speaks when spoken to. Stays out of the damn way.”

Rising to his feet, he opened the drawer and threw the box back in. “From this point forward, you’re not to touch a sail, a pin, a rope, or so much as a damned splinter on this vessel. You’re not to speak to crewmen when they’re on watch. You’re forbidden to wander past the foremast, and you need to steer clear of the helm, as well.”

“So that leaves me doing what? Circling the quarterdeck?”

“Yes.” He slammed the drawer shut. “But only at designated times. Noon hour and the dogwatch. The rest of the day, you’ll remain in your cabin.”

Sophia leapt to her feet, incensed. She hadn’t fled one restrictive program of behavior, just to submit to another. “Who are you, to dictate where I can go, when I can go there, what I’m permitted to do? You’re not the captain of this ship.”

“Who am I?” He stalked toward her, until they stood toe-to-toe. Until his radiant male heat brought her blood to a boil, and she had to grab the table edge to keep from swaying toward him. “I’ll tell you who I am,” he growled.

“I’m a man who cares if you live or die, that’s who.”

Her knees melted. “Truly?”

“Truly. Because I may not be the captain, but I’m the investor. I’m the man you owe six pounds, eight. And now that I know you can’t pay your debts, I’m the man who knows he won’t see a bloody penny unless he delivers George Waltham a governess in one piece.”

Sophia glared at him. How did he keep doing this to her? Since the moment they’d met in that Gravesend tavern, there’d been an attraction between them unlike anything she’d ever known. She knew he had to feel it, too. But one minute, he was so tender and sensual; the next, so crass and calculating. Now he would reduce her life’s value to this cold, impersonal amount? At least back home, her worth had been measured in thousands of pounds, not in shillings.

“I see,” she said. “This is about six pounds, eight shillings. That’s the reason you’ve been watching me—”