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

“Well, then. What is your name?”


He crossed his arms over his chest. So this was her game, was it? Very well. If she wished to question him, he would answer. She was free to learn every vile, brutish thing about him. That would teach her to appeal to some imaginary sense of decency. “Benedict Adolphus Percival Grayson. The same as my father’s.”

“I thought you said there was only one woman permitted to address you by your Christian name.”

“And it’s still the truth. Don’t get excited, sweetheart. I’ve not given you leave to use it. You may, however, call me Gray.” Please, he added silently. She shook her head. “What is your age, Mr. Grayson?”

“I am two-and-thirty this coming year. Miss Turner.”

“From whence do you hail?”

Gray eased back in his chair. “I was born and raised on Tortola, as you know. The Grayson family tree is rooted in Wiltshire. My grandfather was a gentleman of some standing, and my father was his typically wayward second son. For his sins, which were legion, my father was exiled to Clarendon—that was the name of our plantation—to mend his dissolute ways.”

“And did he?”

“What do you think?” He reclined in his seat, propping one boot on the table between them.

A smile tugged at her lips. “How many siblings have you, Mr. Grayson?”

“In truth, I could not say. My father’s acknowledged children number three. I have one brother, whom you have met, and one sister, whom you have not. We are all of different mothers. So to answer your earlier question, it would seem the West Indies proved an ineffective remedy for dissolution.” He watched her for signs of shock or displeasure. Her brow, however, remained as placid as this godforsaken sea.

“I know your father is …”

“Dead.”

She cleared her throat. “Yes, dead. Is your mother still living?”

“No. She died when I was an infant. I’ve no memory of her at all.”

A single crease scored her forehead. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you?”

The words simply rolled off his tongue, uttered with no particular inflection or intent. But Miss Turner snapped to attention. Gray fought the urge to fidget under her scrutiny.

“Yes,” she said, a note of defiance in her voice. “I am sorry. It’s a tragic thing, to have no memory of your mother.”

Gray shrugged. “Better than having some memory of her, and feeling the pain of the loss.”

“Do you truly believe it’s better?”

He frowned and tugged at his ear.

“I didn’t think so.”

Gray put a hand on the armrest and shifted his weight. Perhaps allowing this interrogation hadn’t been such a brilliant idea after all. Miss Turner was supposed to be the one growing uncomfortable, not him.

“Brown or white?” She propped her chin in one hand and stared at him.

“Excuse me?”

“Bread, Mr. Grayson. Given a choice, do you take brown bread or white?”

He chuckled. “Brown, if there’s butter. If not, white.”

“Ale or grog?”

“Ale. Chased with brandy.” Not a bad idea, he thought, reaching into his coat for his flask. He unscrewed the cap and lifted it to his lips.

“Have you ever stolen anything, Mr. Grayson?”

He froze, looking at her over the flask. With deliberate slowness, he tipped it back until the fiery liquor spread down his throat. Then he wiped his mouth, recapped the flask, and replaced it carefully in his breast pocket.

“Of course.”

She tilted her head and raised one eyebrow, inviting him to elaborate.

“Where shall I begin? With the typical childhood petty thievery?

Pineapples, chickens, my father’s stickpin … I could go on for several minutes there. Shall I detail for you all the dozens of ships I’ve boarded, the boatloads of precious cargo I’ve seized? Privateering is sanctioned thievery, perhaps, but theft nonetheless.” He drummed one finger lightly on the tabletop. “I’ve made stealing a way of life, Miss Turner. I could go on about it for hours. How much elaboration do you care to hear?”

She paused a moment, considering. “You’re not ashamed to own to it, then. Your thievery.”

“In most cases, no. I’m not.”

“Then in some cases, you are? What is it you’re ashamed of stealing, Mr. Grayson?”

Gray wrestled with her clear, unwavering gaze. Dare he make the confession? It would serve his purpose well, expose him for the blackguard he was. The girl ought to know just what sort of man she regarded. Then maybe she’d cease looking at him with those trusting eyes, expecting things of him she had no right to expect. Expecting things he had no way or means of giving.

Dropping his gaze to the floor, he rubbed a thumb across his lower lip. “I stole my brother’s inheritance.” His own voice sounded strange, oddly hollow. His whole body felt oddly hollow. “Twice.”