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

“Let’s hope it doesn’t last.”


The calm lasted for days. For all of Christmas Day, and all of Boxing Day, too. The idleness that began as a welcome holiday quickly became a hardship to all aboard the Aphrodite. By the third morning, the same men who’d spent Christmas singing and joking were sniping at one another and grumbling under their breath at every order. Without wind, there was little for them to do but mend the rigging and scrape the chains. Men’s equivalent of needlework, Sophia mused, eyeing the foot-long marlinespikes the sailors used to reeve and splice the lines. The crew had her sympathy. She’d always detested needlework.

The sky was cloudless, the air was listless, the men were restless. And above all, it was hot. Hotter than Sophia could ever have dreamed. The tropical air smothered her like a thick, woolen blanket.

With no breeze, the cabin became an oven. Sophia had no intention of staying inside. The men rigged an unused sail into a canopy, and she sat on a crate beneath it, fanning herself with her drawing board and sketching from time to time. Watching the mast’s shadow crawl across the dock. Sitting absolutely, perfectly still.

Mr. Grayson, by contrast, was in constant motion. He roamed between hold and deck, fore and aft, seemingly the most restless man aboard. Sophia hadn’t known what to expect, after their furtive exchange beneath the dinner table. She’d lain awake half that night, counting the bells that marked each half-hour. At first, sensual excitement clanged through her with each sharp ring. As hours passed, the buzzing pulses turned to pangs of trepidation. Then, as night gave way to morning, hollow disappointment reigned. Capricious, teasing man. Why hadn’t he come? Surely he couldn’t have desired any clearer invitation.

But he hadn’t appeared that night. Not the next morning, either. By the time she finally crossed paths with him the following afternoon, his mumbled “Merry Christmas” was the extent of their exchange. It seemed they were back to silence.

I don’t want you.

She tried to ignore the words echoing in her memory. They weren’t true, she told herself. She was an expert at deceit; she knew a lie when she heard one.

Still. What else to believe, when he avoided her thus?

Although he rarely spoke to her over the next two days, Sophia frequently overheard him speaking of her. Even these remarks were the tersest of commands: “Fetch Miss Turner more water,” or “See that her canopy doesn’t go slack.” She felt herself being tended, not unlike a goat. Fed, watered, sheltered. Perhaps she shouldn’t complain. Food, water, and shelter were all welcome things.

But Sophia was not livestock, and she had other, more profound needs. Needs he seemed intent on neglecting, the infuriating man. On their third morning of calm, Captain Grayson ordered the crew to put in the longboat. This order was met by loud grumbles and curses among the sailors.

“What is it?” Sophia asked as O’Shea stomped past.

“The captain’s ordering us to go out in the longboat and tow the ship. He’s hoping if we move around, we’ll find some wind. But rowing in this heat …”

The big Irishman squinted and wiped his brow with his forearm. “It’ll be a bitch.”

O’Shea walked off without even apologizing for his language. Sophia couldn’t blame him. She would be cursing, too, if she had to perform hard physical labor under this blistering sun.

The men took three shifts, each with one officer and four men out in the longboat, rowing with all their might for an hour to make little discernible progress. Sophia watched with sympathy, but also with fascination. While out on the longboat, the men removed their shirts, and she took the opportunity to make discreet sketches. Even from a distance, she could plainly see their cord-like muscles, their vivid scars and exotic tattoos. These men were a far cry from the languid Greek marbles she’d been taught to copy. They were imperfect, perspiring, striving, and most of all, real.

But soon the heat swamped even this diversion, as the pencil slipped from Sophia’s sweaty grasp and rolled away.

Drat.

She couldn’t be bothered to chase it.

One hour blurred into another after that. The men continued through their rotations, one crew rowing, the other overhauling rigging, the third at rest. Mr. Grayson had disappeared belowdecks.

Davy Linnet walked past, and Sophia perked. “Good afternoon, Davy,”

she said, smiling. Ever since the Tropic crossing, she’d made an extra effort to favor Davy in front of his crewmates. Even in this sweltering heat, courage deserved its reward.

“Good afternoon, Miss Turner.” He ducked his head to hide a shy grin.