Surrender of a Siren

Page 45

She did not return his smile. “But Gray … what if I told you I don’t want to go to London, don’t want to play their little game?”
“Then I’d convince you otherwise.” Giving her his best devilish grin, he leaned in to kiss her.
She put a hand to his chest, stopping him. “What if I told you I can’t?”
“Of course you can.” He pressed a firm kiss to her lips, shushing her objections. “And you will, for me. I must ask it of you. After Bel’s settled and Joss assumes the partnership, then the world is ours to explore. But I have to see this through first, or …” He stroked her cheek. “Or I’ve done it all for nothing.”
She stared at him for a long moment. “Not for nothing, Gray. You did it for them. And no matter what occurs, I’m certain they know it.”
“I wish I had that certainty.”
“You may borrow mine.” She laid a hand on his cheek, her eyes dewy. “I’m certain they know how much you love them.”
For a moment, he feared she would cry. For a moment, he was mortally terrified that if she did, he would join her.
Then she cocked her head, and a knowing smile balanced out her poignant gaze. With a cheerful sniff, she straddled his lap and pushed back on his shoulders.
“Now.” The word was a promising murmur as she pushed him back against the bed. “Let me show you how much I love you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The dawn was cruel.
Sophia watched daylight creep across her beloved, stealing him from her with rosy fingers, one inch at a time. Sitting in the captain’s chair, legs folded under her shift, she regarded Gray as he slept. He lay prostrate on the bed, the linens twisted about his body, one forearm draped over his eyes. It was the same position he’d lain in all night, since their lovemaking sent him into sleep.
When his seed had filled her, she’d sent up a silent prayer that it would take root. If she conceived, all choice would be taken from her. She couldn’t leave him if she carried his child; she knew he wouldn’t leave her. He would be forced to reconsider his plans in London, but the joy of a child might mitigate his disappointment. Life would write a different ending for them than either had imagined, but it might have been a happy one. If only she’d conceived.
She’d held him inside her until she felt his gentle snores lifting his chest under hers. Then, leaving him to his well-earned rest, she rose quietly to perform her ablutions. And that was when she’d begun to bleed. An hour’s worth of silent, racking sobs later, Sophia curled into the chair and attempted to think.
Whatever was she going to do? How could she begin to tell Gray the truth? Perhaps she might start with that amusing tale of the red-faced bank clerk, how she’d charmed him into releasing five hundred pounds from her trust. She still suspected he’d have a good laugh at that. But then she would have to tell him the source of her remaining one hundred. That it had been won at cards, and a fair bit of it at the Duchess of Aldonbury’s own table. Should she tell Gray she’d been at school with his cousins? Stayed as a guest more than once in their family home? By now, Her Grace would have heard the sordid, albeit false, story of her elopement. She, like every other lady of the ton, would cut Sophia from her acquaintance as a matter of social necessity.
For Sophia, there could be no pretending, no adopting the role of a West Indian planter’s daughter. Even if she could stomach the thought of further deceit—and she was not certain she could, even for Gray—if ever she returned to London, she would be a pariah. Her ruin would be a contagion to anyone connected with her.
She knew she ought to tell Gray the truth. But once she did, all the choices would be his. He might insist on marrying her anyway, thereby destroying his sister’s prospects and his family’s tenuous respectability—everything he’d worked so hard, sacrificed so much to attain. Or … he might let her go.
Sophia buried her face in her hands. How could she tell him? How could she tell him what an inconstant, dishonest, scheming thing she had been, yet still make a claim on his honor? How could she force him to make this choice, between his love for his family and his promises to her?
How would she bear it if he chose them?
The irony of it all. If only she’d have been brave enough to stand up to her parents, to ask Toby to release her from their engagement instead of running away. There would have been scandal, to be sure, but she still would have received the occasional invitation from old friends. And perhaps next Season, she would have attended a ball, a mad crush of a debut, and locked gazes with a tall, broad-shouldered gentleman sporting a roguish smile and an intriguing scar on his chin.
Perhaps he would have asked her to dance.
The sunlight gilded that scar now, as well as the larger one on his chest. How she envied those scars, the indelible marks he bore for love. One for his brother, one for his sister. In some primitive way, Sophia wanted to mark him, too. He might never see it, never know it—but in her heart, he would always be hers.
Rifling quietly through her trunk, she located an inkwell and a small paintbrush. As she settled beside him on the bed, he stirred … but did not wake. Instead, he rolled onto his side, away from her. Perfect. Fortunately, Sophia had a deft touch and a steady hand. And Gray was exhausted and sleeping like the dead. She worked quickly, stealthily to create her mark. Just as she sat back to admire her sadly impermanent handiwork, footsteps pounded above and the cry rang out:
“Land ho!”
“There’s the Aphrodite,” Gray said, squeezed next to her in the jolly boat as a crewman rowed them toward Road Town. Of course, Gray had insisted she and her trunks be the first items taken ashore. He would not have left her behind.
He nodded toward his ship, moored on the other side of the harbor.
“Probably arrived a few days ago now, so they’ll be looking for our arrival. I wouldn’t be surprised to see Bel waiting on the dock.”
“I hope she is not there.” The words popped out. She ventured a glance at him, meeting with the expected frown.
“Why?” he asked. “I thought you looked forward to meeting her.”
“I do,” Sophia lied. “It’s just, I don’t feel ready, dressed like this. I should like to make a better first impression.”
Gray looked resplendent indeed this morning, fitted out in a crisp lawn shirt, dove-gray trousers, and a royal blue coat that barely contained his massive shoulders. He must have been saving the outfit for just this occasion, his triumphant homecoming. Sophia felt drab and common at his side, dressed in her beleaguered sprigged frock. She, too, had an item of truly splendid attire she might have worn. But the silk gown remained wrapped in tissue at the bottom of her trunk. If she was truly going to do this
—tell Gray the whole truth and give him a chance to let her go—well, to look that beautiful hardly seemed fair.
“Shall I introduce you as Jane, then?” He gave her a bemused look. “I can’t even think of you as Jane. It’s the wrong name for you entirely.”
Sophia’s hands curled into fists. He was giving her the perfect opportunity. She might as well do it now. “That’s because it’s not my name.”
His jaw tightened, and his thumb ceased stroking her palm. In an instant, a wall of ice had formed between them.
Sophia forced herself to speak. “It’s my middle name. You see, I … I …”
Her courage failed. “My family always used my middle name.”
His hard expression melted to a grin. “Another thing we have in common.”
He slid an arm about her waist, drawing her close.
Cursing her cowardice, Sophia leaned against him. Just the thought of it… telling him everything, watching him struggle to choose between her and his dreams … She felt her bonnet ribbons constricting about her throat, cutting off her air. Desperation tugged at her, urging her to flee. But this was not London. Tortola was so small, so un-crowded, so unfamiliar to her and known to Gray. From the boat she could see the settlement of Road Town rising up from the harbor like an amphitheater, all the largest buildings crowded near the water. People milled about the docks, nearly all of them shades of brown or ebony. How could a female, fair-skinned interloper like her possibly hope to disappear? Where would she turn, if he let her go?
The Walthams. She had this one connection. Perhaps they were still here. She could claim her acquaintance with Lucy. Better yet, she could claim to be Lucy. She still had the original letter, after all. His confident baritone caressed her ear. “Don’t be nervous. You’re beautiful. I’m so proud of you, I think my coat will burst from it.”
“It’s lovely here,” she said, wanting to change the subject.
“I suppose it is, to a newcomer. Though it’s only home for me.”
Sophia didn’t think she could ever greet such a sight with indifference, even after de cades. The lush, verdant island rimmed with white sand, set against a backdrop of azure sky … it would take her dozens of attempts to render these brilliant colors faithfully.
“Yes, there she is,” Gray said as they neared the dock. “I think she’s grown two inches since I saw her last.” Releasing Sophia’s waist, he cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Bel!”
A young woman stood on the dock. She wore no bonnet, but shielded her eyes with both hands. At Gray’s salute, she dropped one to her throat and raised the other in a wave.
From this distance, Sophia couldn’t judge whether Miss Grayson had her father’s ears, but her coloring was vastly different from either of her brothers’. She had olive skin and jet-black hair, so black it reflected a bluish gloss from the sky.
Heavens, Sophia thought as they docked. Miss Grayson was a true beauty. Hers was an exotic, medieval, operatic beauty—a beauty that radiated from within. The kind of beauty that inspired men to compose odes and wage wars, and inspired ladies to make unkind comments in retiring rooms. No wonder Gray would do anything for her.
How could Sophia ever withstand comparison to this creature? Drat. She should have worn the silk after all.
The young lady ran to meet their boat at the end of the dock. Her breathless greeting preempted any introductions. “Oh, thank God.” She gulped for air. “Thank God you’ve arrived. They’re coming for you, you know. They’ve already taken Joss.” Her hand fluttered like a bird’s wing.
“Dolly, there’s talk of hanging.”
Dear Lord, had she just said—
“Hanging?” Gray helped Sophia out of the boat, then bounded onto the dock. He took his sister by the shoulders. “Bel, calm down. Tell me what’s happened.”
Miss Grayson swallowed hard. “When Joss brought the Aphrodite in, that horrid man … the other captain—”
“Mallory,” Gray supplied impatiently.
“Yes, him. He went to the Vice Admiralty court and accused you of attacking him, taking his ship by force. They’ve put Joss in jail, and they’re coming for you.” She glanced over her shoulder. A trio of disconcertingly large men strode toward them. “They’re charging you both with piracy.”
At the word, Sophia went queasy. The dock lurched under her. She was on solid land now—or solid wood, at any rate—why did it still feel as though she were at sea?
Gray did not seem perturbed in the least. “I was expecting this. Mallory’s nothing but a lying bilge rat, Bel. I’ll have it straightened out in a minute, you’ll see.” He smiled at Sophia. “And then I’ve someone you’ll be glad to meet.”
Sophia and Miss Grayson barely had time to exchange befuddled looks before the men were upon them.
“Jenkins.” Gray greeted the man in front with a nod. Sophia recognized his posture of effortless authority. “Always a pleasure.”