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

Her eyes flew open. He pushed back and straightened until his dark hair swept the cabin ceiling. Sophia retreated slowly, her heart drumming in her breast. A sad, yet satisfied look came over his face as he folded his arms across his chest.

He meant to push her away. She understood it now. Telling her of the history with his brother, boasting about the countless women. And now, with this ruthless interrogation. This was the same man who had held her so tenderly not a half-hour ago, practically declared love for her in a moment of honest anger. The man who wanted her so fiercely, she could taste it on his breath. The man she desired so much, she ached for him, body and heart.

And now he was pushing her away. Using his sordid past to drive a wedge between them.

Well, Sophia had a sordid past of her own. Her sins might not have been as numerous or as salacious, but they were every bit as black as his. And she was not going to allow yet another man to paint her as some sort of perfect angel, above desire, too pure to touch.

She skirted the table, closing the distance between them. “We’re not finished.”

“Sweet, I think we were finished before we began.”

She shook her head, laying a hand on his arm. “You’ve more questions to ask me.”

His mouth quirked in a half-smile. Unfolding his arms, he caught her hand in his. Sophia wished that the glassy sea would roll beneath them, pitching her into his arms. But the calm held.

“Don’t try to tell me,” he said, tracing her fingers with his, “that these soft, delicate hands have committed theft.”

“But they have.”

“Of what? Ribbons? A bit of lace, perhaps?” He folded her fingers over her palm and returned her hand to her side. “Perhaps a few leaves of paper?”

“Paper of a sort.” Banknotes were paper, weren’t they?

“What ever your petty sins, sweet, I’m certain I could buy and sell them with the coin in my waistcoat pocket.”

He had no idea. Lowering her eyes, Sophia pressed her hand to the purse beneath her stays. True, the money was hers in name. But hadn’t it been nearly Toby’s, by rights? Even now, he could be bringing suit against her parents, demanding the dowry she’d denied him when she ran away. What she’d done … It wasn’t so very different from Mr. Grayson’s deceit. She’d stolen her own inheritance. “You’d be surprised at the cost of my sins.”

But before she could elaborate, he jabbed a finger under her chin, tilting her face to his. Just as quickly, his hand fell away. “Don’t tell me you’re married?”

Laughter bubbled up in her throat. “Of course not. No.” A surge of guilt chased the laughter away. She should have been married, by now. Still, she willed the smile to remain. Her laughter seemed to please him, as did her response. He began to look himself again, and Sophia inwardly rejoiced.

“How many sweethearts, then?”

“Many.”

His eyebrow quirked. “Don’t count the men aboard this ship.”

“Even without them …” She gave him a coquettish smile. “Still several.”

“And have there been lovers?”

The disdain in his voice, the smug curve of his lips … Sophia knew he expected her answer to be a prim denial. He would be wrong. She would not confirm his impression of her as untouched, innocent. He needed to understand that he was not beneath her. Nothing was beneath her, not theft, not deceit. Certainly not passion.

There was only one way to show him her true nature.

And that was to lie.

“Yes. One.”

He drew a sharp breath through his teeth. Sophia turned, taking two steps away. She clenched her fists until her fingernails bit into her palms, willing herself to be calm. After all, this was a lie she’d told many times before.

“But you look so surprised,” she began, glancing at Mr. Grayson over her shoulder. “I told you weeks ago about Gervais. My painting master, and my tutor in the art—”

“The art of passion,” he finished for her. He gave her a look of utter skepticism. “Yes, I remember. I didn’t believe you then, either.”

“It doesn’t matter whether or not you believe me,” she lied, sweeping across the cabin. “He was tall and lean and divinely handsome, with jet-black hair and silver eyes and long, sculpted fingers. And he loved me desperately.”

“Oh, they always do.”

“He loved me,” she insisted. “Desperately.” Brushing a lock of hair from her forehead, she continued, “Oh, but it wasn’t affection that drew us together. It was raw, animal passion.”

Chuckling, he crossed his arms over his chest. “Animal passion? What could you know of animal passion?”

She flushed under his bold gaze. This bit would not be difficult to fudge. Between the lessons of one wanton dairymaid and her proximity to this intensely attractive man, she’d gathered a thing or two about animal passion.

“It began with smoldering glances, exchanged across crowded rooms.”

Her fingers trailed along the tabletop as she sauntered toward him. “And then, little excuses to touch each other. Every brush of his skin on mine …”

She grazed a single fingertip against the back of his hand. “… made me shiver with longing.”