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

“Are your things ready?” Gray asked, by way of greeting. Leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, he looked at the two trunks, packed and fastened shut. Sophia could sense him mentally weighing the baggage. He slumped further, his chest deflating with a slow exhalation. “Perhaps I’ll have Levi fetch them.”


Soot and dried blood streaked his face; shadows pooled under his eyes. He still wore the same bedraggled shirt and trousers, with the addition of an incongruently clean and tailored coat. Had it really been only yesterday morning, that he’d asked her permission to remove it? Indeed it had. Will Ishock you, he’d asked, if I remove my coat? The absurdity of such a question now, after all that had passed between them. Drunken laughter bubbled up inside her, but she kept it corked.

Since that morning, she’d thought up a hundred things to say to him when this moment arrived. She’d narrowed them to a handful of possibilities, depending on his demeanor when he appeared. The cutting retort, the gentle plea, the abject apology and indignant defense … they all melted like snowflakes on her tongue.

“Oh, Gray,” she said. “You must be so tired.”

“Aye.” The word was a ragged sigh, directed at his right boot. “I am.”

His gaze lifted to hers then, his eyes shining with all the vulnerability he was simply too fatigued to mask. She ached to hold him. And from the yearning plainly writ on his face, she could tell he ached to be held. Only pride—and two packed trunks—stood between them.

He straightened and reached for the smaller of the trunks. “Let’s go, then. It’ll be dark before long.”

The Kestrel’s jolly boat had been hoisted to the Aphrodite’s rail. It was a small craft, with two plank benches and a single pair of oars, not unlike the tiny rowboat that had conveyed her to the Aphrodite. Once Sophia and her trunks were deposited in the boat, Captain Grayson came by to offer words of farewell. She offered her hand, and he kissed it, making a smooth bow. The gesture surprised her. Sophia thought of him as so reserved and staid, in contrast to Gray. Apparently, the brothers shared a measure of charm, as well as their father’s ears.

“You’ve been very kind to me,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You’re not obliged to go. If you would prefer to remain aboard the Aphrodite, you’ve only to say the word.”

Gray appeared behind his brother. His look to Sophia sparked with unspoken challenge.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “I appreciate your concern, but Gray will look after me.”

The captain smiled. “I’m certain he will. Until Tortola, then.”

He bowed again and stepped aside so Gray could swing into the boat. The two men brushed shoulders in passing, in what Sophia assumed qualified as an acceptably masculine substitute for an embrace. How grateful she was to be female.

“What about the others?” Sophia asked, as the boat was lowered down to the sea. They sat facing each other on the two planks.

“Already aboard the Kestrel.”

“Even the goats?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice humorless.

The boat hit the water’s surface with a splash. A few shouts volleyed between Gray and the men above, and then the boat was loose, drifting quietly with the waves.

Gray reached for the oars. “We need to talk. Alone. And we may not have the chance once we’re aboard the Kestrel. I’ll be busy.”

“Then I’ll thank you now.”

“For what?”

“For Captain Mallory.”

“For hitting him, you mean?” He shook his head, looking off toward the horizon. “Save your thanks. I felt like hitting someone. He was convenient.”

“Oh.” Sophia searched the opposite horizon. Tears welled in her eyes again, much to her frustration.

“Jesus.” He pulled hard on the oars. “I never hit people. Look what you’ve done to me. This was supposed to be the voyage I go respectable. Instead, I’m throwing fists, seizing ships, defiling virgins …”

Wincing at his harsh tone, Sophia sniffed and shifted sideways on the plank. Abruptly, he dropped the oars and began to wrestle with his coat.

“Why are you doing this?” Despite her bruised feelings, she caught the edge of one coat sleeve and held it as his arm slid loose.

“Easier to row with no coat.” He wriggled free of the other sleeve.

“Gray.” She waited for him to meet her eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

He folded the coat and handed it to her. “Here.”

She stared at the bundle of wool. “What am I to do with it?”

“Sit on it,” he said, thrusting it toward her. “You must be … tender.” His gaze dropped briefly to her lap.

Sophia’s face burned. She was indeed tender, and the wooden plank was torture beneath her thin skirts, but the presumptive manner of his gesture piqued her pride. She crossed her arms and glared at the proffered coat. “I might have been a virgin, Gray, but I’ve never been a fool. I knew it would hurt, but I wanted it anyway.” She lifted her chin. “I knew you would hurt me.”