Surrender of a Siren

He had a point there. “I suppose we’re squared away then.”



“I suppose we are.”



“There’s nothing else I owe you?”



His eyes were ice. “Not a thing.”



But there is, she wanted to shout. I still owe you the truth, if only you’dcare enough to ask for it. If only you cared enough for me, to want toknow.



But he didn’t. He reached for the door.



“Wait,” he said. “There is one last thing.”



Sophia’s heart pounded as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a scrap of white fabric.



“There,” he said, unceremoniously casting it atop the pile of coins and notes and paper. “I’m bloody tired of carrying that around.”



And then he was gone, leaving Sophia to wrap her arms over her half-naked chest and stare numbly at what he’d discarded. A lace-trimmed handkerchief, embroidered with a neat S.H.



CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE



Gray left the cabin and went to work. He worked for days. He worked until he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. His life became flips of the hourglass, clangs of the bell—increments of time too brief to allow anxiety for the future or regrets about the past. It was simply, always now. He concentrated on the task of each moment: the sail that wanted reefing, the brace gone slack. Getting the Kestrel from the crest of one wave to the next.



All the while, a deep, insidious current pulled on his heart. Resentment, confusion, fear. Uncertainty, in all its most sinister forms. By sheer force of will, he kept it at bay. A mere hint of uncertainty was all it required to taint authority in irrevocable fashion.



But for all his intensity of purpose, a mere moment in her presence was all it required to scatter his wits completely—he feared, in irrevocable fashion. In the clang of a bell, Gray was undone.



“What are you doing?”



The words fired from his mouth, like a salvo of rifle shots. She flinched with each one. But great God, he felt under attack.



What the devil was she doing in the galley? The galley was not where she ought to be. She ought to be in the captain’s cabin, where she’d remained squirreled away for the past three days. Where he didn’t have to look at this exquisite face, breathe this intoxicating fragrance, suffer these small earthquakes in his chest that left him reeling in his boots whenever she drew near.



“I’m serving dinner.” She held out a deep wooden plate ladled with steaming chowder. “Are you always this late to mess?”



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 breasts 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.”



“I don’t need your help.”



“Yes, you do.” She ceased stirring and leveled the ladle at him, wielding it like a sword. “You’ve eight men on this ship, performing the work of a dozen. I hear everything from that cabin. Do you think I don’t know how hard you’re working? That you’re only resting every third watch, and sometimes not even that?”



Her voice lost its sharp edge, and she flung the ladle aside before wiping her brow with the back of her wrist. “If I run the galley, it frees Davy to stand a watch. If Davy’s able to stand watch, you can get more rest.”



Gray stared at her. He slowly shook his head. “Sweetheart—”



“Don’t.” Her voice tweaked. “Don’t call me that when you don’t mean it.”



“What am I to call you, then? Miss ‘Turner’? Jane?”



“You’re to call me Cook.” With an impatient gust of breath, she blew a wisp of hair from her face. “If I knew how to reef a sail or splice a line, you’d be chasing me down from the rigging right now. I can’t do a sailor’s work, but I can do this. I’ve spent every morning with Gabriel since the Aphrodite left England, and I know how to pound a piece of salt pork.”



“I can’t allow you to do this sort of menial labor.”



“You can’t expect me to sit idly by and read or sketch in that cabin while you’re working yourself to bones.” She grabbed a smaller spoon from a hook on the wall and thrust it at him, handle-first. “I made you food, and you’re going to eat it.”



He accepted the spoon. It was that, or accept a spoon to the skull. She kicked a stool toward him. “Now sit down.”



Gray gave in. He did need rest, and having Davy on deck would be a boon. And, his stomach reminded him loudly, he’d scarcely tasted more than a biscuit in days. He’d avoided her since they boarded this ship, but she’d sensed these things somehow—his fatigue, his hunger. She’d sensed something else as well. He’d been giving orders for three solid days, and he needed a bit of ordering around. Given a choice between eating and working, his duty as captain demanded that work take priority. She left him no choice, so he sat and ate.



Still, he couldn’t let her get away with it so easily. “If you’re the cook,” he said between mouthfuls, “I’m your captain. You can’t continue speaking to me that way.”



“You aren’t dressed like a captain.”



Gray looked down at his homespun tunic and the loose-fitting trousers cinched with a knotted cord. The clothes of a common seaman, borrowed from a sailor now dead. He hadn’t the luxury of fine attire on the Kestrel. With the ship so undermanned, he had to be everywhere—climbing the rigging, down in the hold.



“Don’t look apologetic. They suit you.” Her gaze glanced off his shoulders, then dropped to the floor. “But I see you’ve kept the detested boots.”



He shrugged, spooning up another bite of chowder. “I’ve broken them in now.”



“And here I hoped you were keeping them for sentimental reasons.”



She set a tankard of grog before him, the moment before he became aware of his own thirst. Gray reached for it, shaking his head. A long swallow of watered-down rum added fuel to his resentment. He’d allowed himself to become so transparent to her, while she remained an enigma to him. Her talents fit no logical pattern—sketching, painting, deceit, seduction, thievery … now the ability to pound biscuit and salted meat into a fair-tasting chowder? It was enough to make him abandon all hope of ever comprehending her.



Perhaps he never would. But it was another thought that had him hurrying through his food, desperate to put some distance between them. He might never understand her, Gray realized, but he could get dangerously accustomed to this other feeling.



Being understood.



“Just hold her steady, that’s it. Don’t lean too close, she might kick. Now firmly grasp her … her …”



Sophia was beginning to doubt the brilliance of this enterprise she’d suggested. She cleared her throat and affected a brisk, business-like tone.



“Her teat?”



“Er, yes.”



Thankfully, there was a brown-and-white nanny goat blocking her view of Davy’s face, but she could hear the fierce blush in his voice.