Surrender of a Siren (19 page)

Joss paused over his desk. “I know what love looks like. Using up all those Portuguese goods on one meal, killing a valuable goat, bringing out porcelain from the cargo hold … Crack one plate, and you’d lose half the set’s price. Serving meat onto a lady’s plate.” He shrugged. “Love looks something like that.”

Gray ran his hands through his hair, shaking off the lunatic notion before it could take root in his brain. “I’m telling you, I’m not in love. I’m just too damned bored. I’ve nothing to do on this voyage but plan dinner parties. And it’s about to get worse. No chance of cracking a plate tonight.” He jerked his chin at the lamp dangling from a hook, which on any normal night would have been swaying in time with the waves. “If you hadn’t noticed, we’ re becalmed.”

“I’d noticed.” Joss grimaced and motioned for the flask. Gray tossed it to him. “Good thing we’ve given the men a fine meal and grog tonight. Becalming’s never good for the crew’s morale.”

“Not good for the investor’s morale, either.” Gray rubbed his temples. “Let’s hope it doesn’t last.”

The calm lasted for days. For all of Christmas Day, and all of Boxing Day, too. The idleness that began as a welcome holiday quickly became a hardship to all aboard the
Aphrodite
. By the third morning, the same men who’d spent Christmas singing and joking were sniping at one another and grumbling under their breath at every order. Without wind, there was little for them to do but mend the rigging and scrape the chains. Men’s equivalent of needlework, Sophia mused, eyeing the foot-long marlinespikes the sailors used to reeve and splice the lines. The crew had her sympathy. She’d always detested needlework.

The sky was cloudless, the air was listless, the men were restless. And above all, it was hot. Hotter than Sophia could ever have dreamed. The tropical air smothered her like a thick, woolen blanket.

With no breeze, the cabin became an oven. Sophia had no intention of staying inside. The men rigged an unused sail into a canopy, and she sat on a crate beneath it, fanning herself with her drawing board and sketching from time to time. Watching the mast’s shadow crawl across the dock. Sitting absolutely, perfectly still.

Mr. Grayson, by contrast, was in constant motion. He roamed between hold and deck, fore and aft, seemingly the most restless man aboard. Sophia hadn’t known what to expect, after their furtive exchange beneath the dinner table. She’d lain awake half that night, counting the bells that marked each half-hour. At first, sensual excitement clanged through her with each sharp ring. As hours passed, the buzzing pulses turned to pangs of trepidation. Then, as night gave way to morning, hollow disappointment reigned. Capricious, teasing man. Why hadn’t he come? Surely he couldn’t have desired any clearer invitation.

But he hadn’t appeared that night. Not the next morning, either. By the time she finally crossed paths with him the following afternoon, his mumbled “Merry Christmas” was the extent of their exchange.

It seemed they were back to silence.

I don’t want you
.

She tried to ignore the words echoing in her memory. They weren’t true, she told herself. She was an expert at deceit; she knew a lie when she heard one.

Still. What else to believe, when he avoided her thus?

Although he rarely spoke
to
her over the next two days, Sophia frequently overheard him speaking
of
her. Even these remarks were the tersest of commands: “Fetch Miss Turner more water,” or “See that her canopy doesn’t go slack.” She felt herself being tended, not unlike a goat. Fed, watered, sheltered. Perhaps she shouldn’t complain. Food, water, and shelter were all welcome things.

But Sophia was not livestock, and she had other, more profound needs. Needs he seemed intent on neglecting, the infuriating man.

On their third morning of calm, Captain Grayson ordered the crew to put in the longboat. This order was met by loud grumbles and curses among the sailors.

“What is it?” Sophia asked as O’Shea stomped past.

“The captain’s ordering us to go out in the longboat and tow the ship. He’s hoping if we move around, we’ll find some wind. But rowing in this heat …” The big Irishman squinted and wiped his brow with his forearm. “It’ll be a bitch.”

O’Shea walked off without even apologizing for his language. Sophia couldn’t blame him. She would be cursing, too, if she had to perform hard physical labor under this blistering sun.

The men took three shifts, each with one officer and four men out in the longboat, rowing with all their might for an hour to make little discernible progress. Sophia watched with sympathy, but also with fascination. While out on the longboat, the men removed their shirts, and she took the opportunity to make discreet sketches. Even from a distance, she could plainly see their cord-like muscles, their vivid scars and exotic tattoos. These men were a far cry from the languid Greek marbles she’d been taught to copy. They were imperfect, perspiring, striving, and most of all,
real
.

But soon the heat swamped even this diversion, as the pencil slipped from Sophia’s sweaty grasp and rolled away.

Drat
.

She couldn’t be bothered to chase it.

One hour blurred into another after that. The men continued through their rotations, one crew rowing, the other overhauling rigging, the third at rest. Mr. Grayson had disappeared belowdecks.

Davy Linnet walked past, and Sophia perked. “Good afternoon, Davy,” she said, smiling. Ever since the Tropic crossing, she’d made an extra effort to favor Davy in front of his crewmates. Even in this sweltering heat, courage deserved its reward.

“Good afternoon, Miss Turner.” He ducked his head to hide a shy grin.

“You’re looking very well, Davy. I’d wager you’ve gained a stone since we left England. They won’t be able to call you ‘boy’ much longer.” She tilted her head in coquettish fashion. “Do they have you in the forecastle yet?”

He shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Still have a lot to learn, miss. I’ll make it there soon.”

“I’m certain you will.” She smiled again, and the lad blushed. Sophia knew how much he craved admittance to the forecastle, where all the sailors bedded down. He’d been sleeping in steerage since the voyage began, and there he would remain until he’d proven himself, in both ability and character.

“Man aloft to splice the fore topgallant lift!”

From around the foremast, Quinn grumbled and began moving toward the ratlines.

“I’ll do it.” Davy dodged in front of the sailor, throwing him off balance.

Quinn gritted his teeth, but profanity flowed freely through the gaps. “Out of my way, boy, or I’ll throw you to the sharks.”

“I said, I’ll do it.” Davy held out a hand. “Lend me your marlinespike.”

Quinn gave him a skeptical look. “This is sailor’s work, boy. Have you spliced a cable before?”

“I’ve practiced on deck.”

The older man harrumphed and elbowed the boy aside.

With a glance in Sophia’s direction, Davy stepped in front of him again. He stood undeterred even when Quinn puffed his chest and drew up to full height, a full head taller than the youth.

“Let me do it,” Davy insisted. “How can I learn if you don’t give me a chance to try?”

Quinn paused, staring up at the mast. Then he wiped his brow and looked back at the boy. “If you want to climb up there in this heat, I won’t stop you.” He unknotted the marlinespike from his belt and slapped the needle into Davy’s outstretched palm. “Don’t cock it up, or I’ll gut you myself.”

With those words of encouragement, Davy sprang into the rigging. She watched his ascent for a while, and then he climbed out of her sight, behind the canopy. Sophia decided her loyalty to Davy did not extend that far, as to wilt and freckle in the tropical sun while he repaired a bit of rope. She would conserve her energy for congratulating him once he finished.

She waited, chin propped in her hands. Her eyelids grew heavy. She was drifting … drifting …

Thwack
.

The sharp noise jolted her awake.

“Ho, there! Get down here, boy!” She recognized Mr. Brackett’s harsh bark.

Sophia scrambled out from under the canopy. The crew gathered around the foremast, watching in ominous silence as Davy slowly descended the ratlines. At the center of the scattered group stood Mr. Brackett, hands planted on either hip, and legs braced wide in an attitude of imminent threat.

“Ahoy! All hands!”

She shook herself, trying to dispel the drowsy haze from her brain. What could Davy have done that would warrant this assembly, resembling nothing so much as a shipboard trial, with Mr. Brackett looking like judge and executioner in one?

Then she saw it, sticking out of the deck like a giant’s dart—the marlinespike driven straight into the planks. That must have been the loud thwack she’d heard. Davy had dropped it from the topgallant yard. If it had struck a man … Despite the heat, Sophia shivered. It was a miracle no one on deck had been killed.

She might have counted their blessings too soon.

As Davy finally reached the deck, Mr. Brackett’s expression spelled quiet murder. He walked over to the offending sliver of iron, planted a boot on the board it had pierced, grasped the spike with both hands, and pulled it free with one swift yank. He brandished it before Davy, jabbing the point into the center of the boy’s chest. “Careless, Linnet. Very careless.”

The boy stood a bit taller, but Sophia noticed his left knee begin to shake.

“I’m sorry, sir. My hand was sweaty. It just slipped. It won’t happen again, sir.” Davy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“I’d like to believe that, Linnet. But I think I’d better teach you a lesson. Just to be certain.”

Teach him a lesson? What could the man mean? Sophia scanned the deck. The captain was out in the longboat. Mr. Wiggins was presumably belowdecks, resting. For the moment, the ship was Mr. Brackett’s to command.

And Sophia could tell, he wasn’t about to let the men forget it.

The air and the water were so calm, so still, that every word echoed off the decking, as though it were a stage. And Brackett definitely had an air for the theatrical. He circled the men, turning his hawkish glare from one sailor to the next, letting his boots clunk ominously with each slow step. He held his audience rapt.

“This crew is the most indolent band of curs I’ve ever seen. I’ve been itching to give you men a taste of real discipline.” Brackett turned to Davy. “Do you really mean to be a sailor, boy? Do you think you have what it takes?”

Davy nodded, once.

“Well, you can’t handle a marlinespike, can you? But perhaps you can handle a taste of the lash.”

Sophia leapt forward. “No!”

Mr. Brackett turned to her. “Miss Turner, this isn’t a fit spectacle for ladies. You ought to return to your cabin.”

“No. You can’t do this. I won’t allow it.”

The moment the words escaped her throat, Sophia knew she’d made a grave mistake. If Davy had any hope of leniency, she’d just erased it. Brackett’s black eyes pinned her, as dark and unyielding as obsidian. He would never back down now. To spare Davy at her behest would be tantamount to surrendering authority in front of his crew. Unthinkable.

“I apologize for offending your genteel sensibilities, Miss Turner. Justice can be an ugly business. Now, I advise you to go belowdecks.”

“Go on, Miss Turner,” Davy said. “I’ve had my share of beatings. It’s nothing I haven’t felt before.”

And of course he didn’t want her to see, the brave boy. Sophia cast him an apologetic look. Then she firmed her chin and spoke to Brackett. “Thank you, I will stay. If you can perform this atrocity, you can perform it in front of me.” Perhaps the man would go lightly on Davy with her here. Or maybe she could swoon at a fortuitous moment and put a stop to it altogether.

“If you wish.” Brackett turned on his heel, swinging the marlinespike around like a compass needle, ultimately selecting Quinn as its true north. “You there. String Linnet up to the yardarm.”

Muffled curses rose up from the assembled crew. Quinn shifted his weight uneasily. Brackett swung ’round again, making another swiping threat with the marline-spike, and losing his hat in the process. The men dropped back in silence.

The sweat on Sophia’s neck went cold.

“Remove your shirt, Linnet.” When the boy simply stood in place, Brackett hooked the tip of the marline-spike into Davy’s collar and yanked, ripping the coarse tunic from neck to waist. Then he reached out with his free hand to tear the shirt away from the youth’s torso, exposing a smooth, pale chest.

Brackett rested the marlinespike on his shoulder like a dueling pistol and turned to Quinn. “String. Him. Up.”

Quinn did not move. Braced in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest, he was a towering mountain of muscle. And he received Brackett’s command with all the stony indifference of a mountain that had just been ordered to jump.
Make me
, his gaze said.
I’d like to see you try
.

Sophia wanted to believe the man felt some allegiance to Davy, but she suspected the heat factored strongly in his defiance. If Quinn hadn’t wanted to climb the mast ten minutes ago, he could hardly relish the idea of hauling a boy up with him now.