Surrender of a Siren

Page 6

But now Gray could show her he’d changed. As much as it was within his power to change, at any rate. He’d given up the reckless, albeit far more entertaining, life of a privateer and become a successful tradesman. The owner of a shipping concern, with two new vessels in construction besides the Aphrodite, and investors lining up to back more. Able to offer her a home in London, a comfortable life, whatever else she might desire. Bel might have preferred he grow a conscience, rather than build a fortune. But Gray knew better than to waste his time. If a scoundrel like him had any hope of Heaven, it rested solely on the strength of Isabel Grayson’s prayers.
Prayer wouldn’t help him tonight. From Gray’s experience, the best ward against seasickness was to turn one’s mind to sin.
Surprising, then, that his thoughts drifted to Miss Turner. He thought he’d outgrown admiring her sort, those delicate English roses. Give him an exotic orchid. A voluptuous woman with unbound hair and bold, dark eyes, who knew what she was about. Girlish blushes, demure smiles—they’d lost their allure for Gray years ago.
But still he thought of her. He could no more rid his mind of her than command the storm to cease. Tossing fitfully in his bunk, he recalled her near-breakable beauty, her delicate scent. And the feel of her body pressed against his for those few seconds in the rowboat. Not just the enticing sensation of her soft, pillowy breasts flattening against his chest, but beneath them, a pulse racing like a bird’s, pounding against his torso through all those layers of womanly flesh and wool. As if something caged inside her was clamoring for escape. Begging him to set it free. It was then he discovered an unhappy consequence to all his tossing and turning. One of the ropes binding him to his bed had drifted south—and now cinched his body at a most unfortunate latitude.
Damn it to hell.
He undid the ropes and wrestled out of the bed. What the devil was happening to him? His little brother had him confined to his cabin. A prim governess had him tied in knots. And worst—he’d been off the sea so long, he was losing his instincts. Joss had been right; the storm was growing violent.
Arms braced against either side of the corridor, Gray made his way from the gentlemen’s cabin to the companionway. He needed to see the storm for himself, judge how the ship’s new rigging and spars were weathering the gale.
But when he reached the stairs, his plans changed. There was a girl in his way.
Miss Turner stood perched on the third rung of the ladder, straining on tiptoe to peek through the half-open hatch. Had Gray been the superstitious sort, he might have thought her a ghost. Her fingers were white, delicate webs where she clutched the handle of the hatch with one hand and the ladder with the other. Flashes of luminous beauty alternated with darkness. Each fork of lightning illuminated her finely wrought features and the droplets of spray clinging to her hair and eyelashes.
No, she wasn’t a ghost. But she was a vision just the same.
“Miss Turner,” he said, bracing one shoulder against the wall. She didn’t turn around.
Gray cleared his throat and tried again. “Miss Turner.”
Now she startled, nearly losing her grip on the ladder. “Mr. Grayson. I …”
Her voice caught, and she dabbed her face with her sleeve. “I wanted to see the storm.”
“And how do you find it?”
“Wet.”
Gray chuckled, surprised.
“And beautiful,” she continued, as another bolt of lightning threw her features into relief. “Out here on the water, with no solid land beneath—it’s so different. As though there’s no boundary between sky and sea, and we’re simply at Nature’s mercy. It’s so wild and gothic.”
“It’s dangerous, is what it is.”
“Yes, precisely.” Another bright flash revealed the curve of a smile. Gray frowned. What was she doing, smiling at him in a storm? Sending electric pulses through his blood with each glimpse of her pale, haunting beauty? She ought to be huddled in her bunk, fearing for her life. He crossed the small space in one stride, gripping the ladder with one hand and offering her the other, to assist her descent. “Wise passengers wait out a storm in their berths.”
“Do they?” she whispered, taking his hand. “What does that make us, then?”
Now this, this was danger. He didn’t miss the coy lilt in her voice, nor the tremor of her rain-dampened shoulders, an unconscious shiver that all but begged for his embrace. No, she didn’t even realize the invitation she’d made, but the signs were unmistakable to Gray. He’d seen this reaction, many times before, and he knew better than to be flattered by it. It was nothing more than instinct.
Any port in a storm.
“It doesn’t make us anything,” he said, helping her down. The feel of her chilled, slender fingers in his triggered all manner of instincts. “It makes me a concerned investor. And it makes you a girl with an overactive imagination. Go back to your berth.”
The lightning had ceased, but her eyes sparked with a fire all their own.
“But I—”
“You’re not safe here.” He wrenched open the door to the ladies’ cabin and waved her through it. “Go to bed, Miss Turner.”
Yes, go to bed, he thought, as she wordlessly swept through the door and he drew it shut behind her. Go to your bed, before I sweep you off tomine.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sophia woke with a start, alone and disoriented in the dark. Her pulse responded first, pumping panic through her veins at a furious rate. She pressed her hand to her heart, and her fingers curled around her purse. Awareness returned in a dizzy rush.
A faint silvery glow leaked under the door of her berth. It was morning. And if it was morning, that must mean she’d survived the night. She turned onto her side. Every muscle screamed with pain. Her skirt and cloak were still heavy with damp, resisting her feeble attempts to rise. Perhaps she didn’t need to move, after all.
Oh, but she did. She drew a deep breath, then wished she could spit it out. The air was thick with humidity and rank with the odors of sickness and bilge. She slid from her bunk, ignoring the protestations of her aching limbs, and flung open the door of her berth.
She lunged for the staircase, scrambling up on her hands and knees. A salty breeze nipped at her ears as she emerged headfirst into the gray dawn. She inhaled a deep, bracing breath of fresh air. The thought of returning below held no appeal whatsoever. Yet neither could she remain like this, head and neck protruding from a hole in the deck, like some species of seafaring marmot.
She climbed abovedecks and struggled into an upright position, planting her feet in a wide stance to buffer the ship’s rolling. Sophia closed her eyes. Either the ship was caught in a whirl pool, or her head was spinning like a top. She looked toward the nearest rail—only five paces away, perhaps six. Beyond it, the English coastline appeared to teeter on a fulcrum. She bowed her head, focused her gaze on the deck beneath her, and took one step. Two.
Then the deck pitched suddenly, and her locked knees buckled. She was falling, spinning, out of control.
She was caught.
“Steady there.” Two large hands gripped her elbows. Her fingers instinctively closed over two strong arms. Sophia barely had time to register the feel of superfine wool and hard muscle beneath her fingertips, a brief instant to catch a glimpse of two gray-green eyes.
And then she vomited all over two slightly scuffed, tassel-topped Hessians.
“I …” She coughed and sputtered. Mr. Grayson’s iron grip on her elbows refused to relax, preventing her from turning away. “Sir … Release me, I beg you.”
“Absolutely not. You’re not steady on your feet. This way, then.” He guided her sideways, nudging her to take small steps and twirl slightly right
—the most mortifying waltz Sophia had ever endured. He backed her against a small crate. “Sit down.”
She obeyed, sinking onto the rough wooden slats gratefully. Still holding her fast by the elbows, he crouched before her. She could not bear to meet his eyes.
“Stay here,” he ordered. “I’ll come back presently.”
Oh, please don’t. Sophia cringed as his soiled boots carried him away. The instant his footsteps faded, she pulled a handkerchief from her cloak and wiped her brow. She willed her head to stop spinning, so she could rise to her feet unaided and make her escape. But he was too fast for her. Within the space of two minutes, he was back, boots rinsed—with seawater, she supposed—and steaming tankard in hand.
“Drink this.” He wrapped her trembling hands around the tankard. Delicious warmth prickled through her chilled fingers.
“What is it?”
“Tea, with treacle and lemon. And a touch of rum.” When she merely stared at the drink, he added, “Drink it. You’ll feel better.”
Sophia raised the mug to her lips and sipped carefully. Fragrant steam warmed her from the inside out. The syrupy sweetness coated her throat, masking the bitter taste of bile. She sipped again. “Thank you,” she finally managed, keeping her eyes trained on the liquid sloshing in the tankard. “I’m … I’m sorry about your boots.”
He laughed. “You should be sorry.” He crouched beside her. Sophia stubbornly stared into her tankard. “I despise these boots,” he continued. “I’d just been contemplating yanking them off my feet and tossing them overboard. But now it seems I’ll have to keep them.” Surprise tugged her gaze up to his. He grinned. “For sentimental reasons.”
Don’t do it, she told herself. Don’t smile back.
Too late.
“Mr. Grayson …”
“Please.” His elbow nudged her thigh. An accident? He did not apologize.
“After that, I believe you can call me Gray.”
His gaze sparked—a hint of silver flashing in murky green—and Sophia became suddenly, painfully aware of the picture she must present. Soiled, wrinkled dress still damp at the hem, flax-colored hair teased loose from its pins. The pale, wan complexion of illness.
And yet …
His eyes did not merely skim her surface. Instead, they focused some distance beneath her stained garments, plumbing the depths of her appearance in a most disconcerting way.
Despite the chill, a light sheen of perspiration bloomed over her thighs.
“Mr. Grayson. I thank you for the tea.” Sophia shifted the tankard to one hand and shook out the handkerchief she’d kept in her palm. A sudden puff of wind wrenched it from her grasp.
His hand darted out, and he caught the fluttering scrap of white effortlessly, as though it were a dove trained to fly to his hand. Sophia reached for it. “Once again, I thank you.”
He whisked it out of her grasp. “Save your thanks. I haven’t given it back.”
He fingered the eyelet trim. “Perhaps I’ll decide to keep it. For sentimental reasons.”
It came to her so easily, the flirtatious response. He had only to look at her, and her caution collapsed in the flick of a fan. “You shouldn’t tease, Mr. Grayson. It isn’t at all charitable.”
“Ah, but I’m a tradesman. I’m interested in profit, not charity. And I asked you to call me Gray.” He leaned closer, and now—at this diminished distance—Sophia would have sworn his eyes were not green at all, but a pale blue.
Piercing blue.
“You have money, don’t you?”
Her mouth went dry. He knew. From the handkerchief? It must be too fine, too embellished. Obviously it belonged to a lady of wealth. Curse it. If only Sophia had had more time to plan her escape, she would have managed a better disguise. It had been difficult enough to leave her painstakingly selected trousseau behind and take only her everyday linens.
She hadn’t had time to assemble a coarser wardrobe, nor even any notion of where the poorer classes shopped.
“I beg your pardon?” Her fingers tightened around the rapidly cooling tankard.