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

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The stench of live goats had permeated the Aphrodite for weeks. Now, the more pleasing aroma of cooked goat battled for precedence. Gray found it a refreshing change, but the remaining livestock didn’t seem to agree. They bleated loudly in their berths, protesting the sudden decrease in their number.

Gray picked his way through the barn that had formerly been the gentlemen’s cabin, careful not to brush up against anything. He’d just bathed and dressed, and it wouldn’t do to show up at Christmas Eve dinner with goat dung on his boots.

He passed into the galley and was greeted by a cloud of fragrant steam. The exotic scent of spices mingled with the tang of roasting meat. Startled, Gabriel choked on a sip from a tankard. In the corner, Stubb quickly shoved something behind his back. The old men’s eyes shone with more than holiday merriment.

“Happy Christmas, Gray.” Gabriel extended the tankard to him. “Here. We poured you some wine.”

Gray waved it off with a chuckle. “That my new Madeira you’re sampling?”

Gabriel nodded as he downed another sip. “Thought I should taste it before you serve it to company. You know, to be certain it ain’t poisoned.”

He drained the mug and set it down with a smile. “No, sir. Not poisoned.”

“And the figs? The olives? The spices? I assume you checked them all, too? For caution’s sake, of course.”

“Of course,” Stubb said, pulling his own mug from behind his back and taking a healthy swallow. “Everyone knows you can’t trust a Portuguese trader.”

Gray laughed. He plucked an olive from a dish on the table and popped it into his mouth. Rich oil coated his tongue. “Did you find the crate easily enough?” he asked Stubb, reaching for another olive.

The old steward nodded. “It’s all laid out, just so. Candles, too.”

“Feels like Christmas proper.” Gabriel tilted his head. “Miss Turner even  gave me a gift.”

Gray followed the motion, squinting through the steam.

I’ll be damned.

A small canvas sat propped on the cabinet. Painted on it was a deceptively simple seascape. Masterful brushstrokes captured the swirling motion of the water and the dance of the breeze. Fading sunlight kissed the waves with brilliance.

And as was the case with all Miss Turner’s work, Gray found himself genuinely moved by it—not only by the painting’s beauty, but by the care that occasioned its creation. She’d given Gabriel a window for the galley, just as surely as if she’d cut a hole in the ship’s side and installed a pane of glass. She’d given him a gift, indeed.

Stubb said, “She made a sketch of Bailey for his wife. Now he’s fashioning her these little canvases from spare bits of wood and sailcloth.”

“Doesn’t Bailey have sails to mend?” he grumbled. “I’m not paying the man to make canvases.”

Gabriel shrugged, throwing him an offended look. “I just give the man his biscuit three times a day. I don’t keep track of how he spends his time.”

Gray knew he was being an ass, but he found it damned maddening, this constant assault of her artistry. These little scraps of beauty strewn about his ship. Dazzling his eyes, yanking him about with little tugs on his gut. Their collective effect left Gray feeling more than a bit resentful. But not so resentful that he’d ceased looking for them—hell, hoping to find them—in a manner that verged uncomfortably on habit.

Not that any of her sketches or paintings were for him. He turned to Stubb. “Did she give you a present, too?”

The man smiled through his grizzled beard. “Aye. It’s in steerage. Lovely little painting of a mermaid.”

“Good Lord.” Gray sanded his palm on his bearded jaw.

The steward picked up a wooden spoon and prodded Gray in the side.

“They’re waiting for you, you know. Get in there, so we can serve.”

Gray hurried through the passage before Stubb could prod him again. He traversed the small corridor of the officers’ berths and entered the captain’s cabin. The men rose as he entered, Joss at the head of the narrow table, flanked by the other officers.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. He nodded to  the men, then turned and made a bow to Miss Turner before sliding into the chair opposite.

Stripes.

Out of habit, Gray immediately noted the answer to his question. The persistent, ever-present question that plagued his days, popped into his mind whenever he saw her or anticipated seeing her. Which was nearly all of the time.