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

“I brought service for two.” Stubb plunked tin plates and serving dishes on the table. “All passengers are to take their meals in the ladies’ cabin until further notice. Captain’s orders.” The old man glanced at Gray. “The captain wants you both to stay belowdecks until we get our wind back. He’d said you’d understand, Gray.”


“Aye,” Mr. Grayson replied. “I understand.” He gave Sophia a guarded look. “But I’ll leave you to your dinner just the same.”

“You’re not hungry?” Stubb lifted the cover from a serving dish. At the smell of the salted-beef stew called lobscouse, Sophia’s empty stomach complained loudly.

“Miss Turner will better enjoy her meal without my presence,” Mr. Grayson said, backing toward the steerage passage. “As for me, I’ll hold till breakfast. I find I’ve little appetite this evening.”

Then he left. But not before flashing her one last searching, hungry glance.

Sophia smiled. He was a very poor liar.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Gray’s body complained at him all night long. His empty stomach groused, when he might have filled it at dinner. His joints protested the cramped hammock swaddling him, when he might have been sharing a soft mattress with an even softer companion. And of course there was the ever-present ache of unfulfilled lust in his groin.

But beyond all this, his mind was in turmoil, and his heart—his heart was unmoored completely. Wrenched free of its anchor and set adrift. He’d no idea how to secure it again.

She wasn’t a virgin.

So she claimed.

Don’t question it.

At last, with that one bit of information, everything about the girl made sense. The fine clothes, the cultured air, the governess post. The spark in her eyes, and the way she responded to his touch. The way she touched him. She understood passion; she knew what pleasure they could share. Still he passed the night alone.

Because she offered more than pleasure. She offered her heart. She offered trust. God, she’d practically thrust it upon him, and Gray didn’t want it. He had enough people to look after, and he’d already disappointed them all. It was only a matter of time before he’d fail her, too. Even so, by daybreak Gray had already washed and dressed. He sat on a crate, tapping his boot and fidgeting with his pocket watch until eight bells sounded for the forenoon watch. Breakfast time. He could ignore the needs of his stomach no longer. Neither could he ignore this other gnawing ache inside him—the need to see her.

He hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d say to the girl; as little as possible would be best. Gray fetched up a book, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the ladies’ cabin door.

The aroma of freshly brewed tea greeted him. Miss Turner stood over the table, arranging a half-dozen small pots next to the breakfast tray. After yesterday’s dramatic events and a restless night, it surprised Gray to see her standing there looking so … normal. Almost domestic. The knot of anxiety in his chest unraveled.

“Good morning.” Without looking up, she unscrewed the lid off one of the pots and dabbed at its contents with a fingertip.

“Are you planning to poison my tea?” Gray drew out a chair and sat down, plunking his book down on the table and helping himself to a biscuit.

“Nothing quite so dreadful.” She looked up at him, and the coquettish gleam in her eyes had him coughing around his mouthful of food. Yes, everything was as usual. The mere sight of her, so beautiful, so close—stole his very breath. Which left him completely unprepared for the words she spoke next. “I’m going to paint you.”

“Paint me?” Vivid, sensual memories flooded his mind. Her fingers threaded in his hair, her body pressed against his. Gray doubted she even remembered that night, drunk as she’d been. Of course, he couldn’t forget it.

“You don’t mind, do you? I need to practice, and it is something to pass the time.” Pushing aside a mug of tea, she began unfolding a small easel.

“Unless you had some other activity in mind?”

Gray cleared his throat and lowered his gaze to his book. He had many other activities in mind. “I had planned to read.”

“And so you still may.” She threaded her arms through the sleeves of a smock and tied it behind her back. “Just allow me enough time to rough in the outline of your features, and then you can read your book while I complete the rest.”

“I’m not certain …”

She set down a trio of brushes, lining them up from smallest to largest. “I’m running out of subjects, you see. I’ve sketched or painted nearly everyone else on the ship.”

“I’d noticed.”

She paused, staring hard at the brushes. “Had you?”

“Yes.”