Surrender of a Siren

Sophia had the impulse to interrupt, to correct him. But she couldn’t. Guilt pinched in her chest. He’d just bared his life to her. Why hadn’t she the courage to do the same?



“What is your age, then?”



“I am twenty.” At least that was the truth.



“Twenty,” he repeated, in a tone of dismissal. “Only twenty. So young. What can you know of the world?”



“More than you would credit. What can you know of me, to draw such a conclusion?”



He swung around and leaned a hand on the table. “What can I know of you, indeed. How much of the world have you seen, then, Miss Turner?



From whence do you hail?”



He loomed over her, his bulk and strength intimidating. But the intensity in his eyes was more disquieting by far. “Kent.”



He laughed and stood erect again. “Oh, Miss Turner hails from the wilds of Kent, does she? Known for its savage garden parties, Kent. Are your parents living?”



“Yes, both.”



“Have you siblings?”



“One sister.”



“What a charming little family.” Sophia began to interject, but he spoke over her. “Brown bread or white?”



“White.”



“White bread. But of course. Nothing but the best for Miss Turner. I suppose I can skip the next question, as well. I’m well aware of your taste for rum.”



Sophia bristled at the malice in his voice, and the brutal way in which his hand sliced the air. “Actually, I prefer claret.”



“Claret.” He smirked. “Well, I’m sorry I cannot accommodate your tastes, Miss Turner, to offer you white bread and claret at every meal.”



“You know I’ve no such expectation.” Pressing her hands to the tabletop, she rose to her feet. “Why are you behaving in this fashion?”



He leaned over the table, placing his hands flat to mirror hers. “In what fashion would you like me to behave? I can’t be other than I am, sweetheart. You’ve known from the start, I’m no gentleman. I’m a liar, a thief, a libertine … and worse.” He leaned closer, and she swayed forward, as if pulled by a thread. His face was but a handsbreadth from hers. Close enough to kiss.



His gaze fell to her lips, his voice distilling to a rough whisper. “You say you have no expectation of white bread and claret? Sweet …” The word swirled over her lips, and Sophia’s eyes fluttered shut. “You would do well to form no expectations at all.”



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.”



He caught her wrist in his grip. Her breath caught in her throat.



“Well,” she said, “I’d imagine you know how the rest progressed.”



“I’d imagine I do.” He released her wrist, and something flickered in his eyes. The beginnings of belief. “So you’re telling me this is the reason you’re bound for Tortola, to become a governess. You were ruined.”



Sophia gave a tiny nod. How considerate of him, to do half the lying for her. Her words gained momentum, tumbled forth into the stagnant air. “We became too reckless. Once Gervais gave me a taste of paradise, nothing could keep us apart. I escaped my chaperone whenever I could, stole out to meet him in the middle of the night. The closets, the carriage house, even a hackney cab—our trysting knew no boundaries. Gervais even came to see me in Kent, during one of our house parties.”



“A house party?” He wagged a finger at her. “I knew you came from quality. I knew you were not bred to be a governess.”



She threw him a saucy look. “I was not bred to be a wanton, either. But so I became.”



“A wanton. You.”



Sophia searched her memory, mentally flipping through the chapters of The Book. Details, she told herself. Details would convince him.



“We agreed to meet in the stables. It was too risky for Gervais to be seen near the house. I stole a dairymaid’s costume and tucked all my hair under a straw cap with a wide brim. So long as I kept my head down, no one could recognize me. When I arrived in the stables, he startled me from behind the door. Without a word, he grabbed me up in his arms and carried me into the loft. There he had lit a dozen candles, and strewn rose petals and blankets over a bed of sweet-smelling hay.”



“A dozen lit candles in a stable full of dry hay? You’re lucky you survived the experience, sweetheart. You could have been tinder.”



Sophia raised her eyebrows and stiffened her posture. “Our love was an inferno. I thought I would go up in flames, so glorious was our pleasure that night.”



He covered his eyes with a hand and laughed, loud and long. “What a vivid romantic imagination you have.”



“It’s not imagination. I’m telling you the truth!” Panic gnawed at her stomach. If she couldn’t convince him now, she would certainly lose him. His opinion of her would be confirmed, and he’d only think her more naïve than ever. Desperate, she approached him steadily until they stood toe-to-toe. Perhaps physicality could persuade where words could not.



“Don’t you believe me?” Crossing her arms, she framed her bosom for his appraisal. His eyes took the bait. Then, in a choreographed fit of pique, she whirled away. Men preferred to give chase, Sophia knew. She might be a virgin, but she understood how to draw a man to her side. Her pounding heartbeat filled the humid silence. The room had grown dark. So curious here in the tropics, how night fell like a thunderclap. No lingering dusk, no mystic hour of twilight. Just light, and then dark.



“Rose petals.” His voice dropped, and she counted his slow footfalls as he moved to stand behind her. She felt his breath whispering against her nape, his gaze burning a trail along her neckline. Then he leaned in, hovering inches from her shoulder as he drew a slow, deep breath through his nose. A low, seductive growl rumbled from his throat and reverberated down her spine. “I believe the rose petals.”



Slowly, he brushed a wisp of hair from her shoulder. His finger never grazed her skin, but the sensation of the silken lock gliding over her neck had Sophia quivering. She shut her eyes, feeling the feather-light caress everywhere.



“Did you love him?” he asked. “This Gervais?”



The last question. She should have been expecting it, but it took her completely by surprise. “Yes, of course,” she blurted out, unthinking. She slowly turned to face him in the dark. Mr. Grayson battened his reaction before she could gauge it, but Sophia knew she’d made a misstep. If he’d been thinking of sharing her bed tonight, he was now thinking twice. How ironic, that there was nothing to cool a man’s ardor like the mention of love.