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

Gray stared at the plate. Then he stared at her. Which was a mistake. Because he was starving, and she looked … delicious.

The galley was steamy and hot, as galleys tend to be. A high flush painted her cheeks and throat. Loose wisps of hair frizzled to tight curls at her hairline. Tiny beads of perspiration glittered on her décolletage, where her br**sts pressed up like twin mounds of risen dough. Her skin glowed, and her eyes … God, her eyes positively sparkled. Plump lips curved in a self-satisfied, feline smile.

She had the look, the air—even the scent—of a recently-bedded, thoroughly-pleasured woman. And Gray’s senses were under siege. All the desire that he’d been forcing down for the past three days tore free. It raced hot through his veins, swelled in his groin.

He resented it, resented this power she had over him. This was why she needed to stay where he’d put her, out of sight.

“What are you doing?” he growled again. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m helping,” she bit out, her smile fading to a tight line. Her eyes dulled in the space of a blink, and she slung the plate onto the table. Gray slouched against the door and massaged his temples with one hand. Damn it, he was always the one to erase that smile from her face, douse that sparkle in her eyes. But he needed her to stay in that cabin. He could not look on her, be near her, think of her, and keep the Kestrel afloat at the same time. No red-blooded man could.

“Go back to your cabin.”

“No.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’ll go mad if I spend another day in that cabin, with no one to talk to and nothing to do.”

“Well, I’m sorry we’re not entertaining you sufficiently, but this isn’t a pleasure cruise. Find some other way to amuse yourself. Can’t you find something to occupy your mind?” He made an open-handed sweep through the steam. “Read a book.”

“I’ve only got one book. I’ve already read it.”

“Don’t tell me it’s the Bible.”

The corner of her mouth twitched. “It isn’t.”

He averted his gaze to the ceiling, blowing out an impatient breath. “Only one book,” he muttered. “What sort of lady makes an ocean crossing with only one book?”

“Not a governess.” Her voice held a challenge.

Gray refused the bait, electing for silence. Silence was all he could manage, with this anger slicing through him. It hurt. He kept his eyes trained on a cracked board above her head, working to keep his expression blank. What a fool he’d been, to believe her. To believe that something essential in him had changed, that he could find more than fleeting pleasure with a woman. That this perfect, delicate blossom of a lady, who knew all his deeds and misdeeds, would offer herself to him without hesitation. Deep inside, in some uncharted territory of his soul, he’d built a world on that moment when she came to him willingly, trustingly. Giving not just her body, but her heart.

Ha. She hadn’t even given him her name.

“Are you ever planning to talk to me?” she asked. “Don’t you have questions you want to ask?”

“Just one. Have you had your courses?”

“No. Not yet.”

“Then we’ve nothing further to discuss.”

“Not yet,” she said meaningfully.

In truth, Gray wasn’t certain how many answers he wanted, whether she carried his child or no. He knew he preferred silence to lies. It didn’t matter one whit to him who she was, or what she’d done. Whether or not she’d taken lovers before, whether she had six shillings or six thousand pounds. It mattered that she’d lied. That even with her arms around him, her lips pressed to his mouth, her tight, virgin body yielding to his—she had always been holding something back.

In those dark, solitary watches over the past three nights, it had driven him quietly mad, wondering just how much of her he’d ever seen, ever held. He’d opened himself to her completely, and she’d been lying to him since the moment they’d met. In all those days aboard the Aphrodite, was a single one of her smiles ever truly for him? What fraction of her heart had she revealed to him, in all their conversations? When he’d held her, caressed her, entered her—had he finally reached some layer of her being where the lies ended and the real woman began?

Gray didn’t even want to ask. Because he already knew the only answer that mattered. How much of her was his? Less than all. And therefore, not enough.

“Sketching.” He croaked the word. Clearing his throat, he continued, “Go to your cabin and draw, or paint. It kept you busy enough before.”

“I’ve tried. I can’t.”

“What, no more paper?”

“No more inspiration. I … I’ve lost my heart for it, I think.” With a shrug, she turned back to the stove and began stirring lazy figure eights in a bubbling pot. “Gray, be angry with me if you must. You’ve a right to be hurt.

Call me vile names, think all the vengeful thoughts you wish. But you must allow me to do this. I want to help.”