Surrender of a Siren (33 page)

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.

“Take her teat,” he said haltingly. “Like so.”

She tilted her head to view the goat’s underside, where Davy’s thumb and forefinger curled around one knobby teat. Cautiously, she reached out to follow suit on her side. At the first brush of her fingers against the milk-swelled udder, the animal gave an annoyed shiver. Sophia snatched her hand back.

“Don’t let her frighten you, Miss Turner. You can’t be timid with a goat.”

A nervous giggle escaped her. “Oh, I assure you, I can. I haven’t your bravery, Mr. Linnet.”

Her remark fell into the silence like a lead weight. Davy made no answer.
Drat
. Sophia chastised herself with a sharp tug on her apron. That was badly done of her. It was awkward enough that she’d asked him for milking lessons; to engage him in flirtation was unspeakably insensitive. Still, she needed to learn how to do this. Every hour Davy spent at milking was an hour he couldn’t be standing watch.

Emboldened by the desire to complete this lesson quickly, she reached out in a flash, capturing the goat’s second teat with her thumb and forefinger. “Like so?”

“Yes, miss. And now you roll your fingers down, one by one …” He demonstrated, and a jet of milk hit the tin pail with a sharp trill.

Sophia imitated his movements. Nothing happened. She tried again, earning only an impatient shuffle of the goat’s hind legs.

“Try again, a bit faster this time.”

She tried again, pulling harder. Nothing. The goat bleated, in seeming irritation at her ineptitude.

“Don’t wring it, now. You want to coax the milk out, one finger at a time, see?” He sent a few more squirts of milk pinging into the pail.

Taking a deep breath, Sophia began again, painstakingly imitating the rolling pull of Davy’s hand. When a thin stream of white shot from the teat, she could not suppress a small cry of elation. In truth, if she hadn’t feared it would startle the nanny dry, she would have done a little dance. She tried again, with greater confidence. Another spurt of milk came forth.

“Good,” Davy said, after she’d removed enough yellowish milk from the goat to cover the bottom of the pail. “You’ve the way of it now.” He continued milking the other teat, and they settled into a quiet, contrapuntal rhythm.

“Did you do this often at home, then?” She hoped conversation would feel less stifling than silence.

“Often enough. Every day, when I was a boy.”

Sophia smiled to herself. No, she supposed he wasn’t a boy any longer.

“Who tends them now that you’re gone?”

“My sisters, I expect.”

“Sisters? Are they older or younger?”

“I’m in the middle. The eldest, she got herself married already. By the time I see her again, she’ll have a brat of her own, I reckon.” His voice deepened in pitch, as though the prospect displeased him.

“Shouldn’t you like to be an uncle? Just think of the exotic tales and trinkets you’ll bring home. You’ll be a returning hero. The children will swarm around you like bees.” She imbued her voice with a coy lilt. “All the girls will be mad for you.”

He fell quiet again. Frustrated with herself, Sophia gave a harsh yank on the goat’s teat and narrowly missed a swift kick to the thigh. It would seem she’d lost the ability to converse rather than flirt, if she’d ever developed that talent at all. What was her reasoning, precisely? That a man couldn’t possibly hold himself in high esteem without the benefit of her flattery? Or that he’d see no reason to esteem
her
without it?

Davy finally said, “So long as I come home with my wages, I don’t expect they’ll turn me away.”

She let the soft splashes of milk fill the silence. At length, she asked cautiously, “Aren’t you happy for her, your sister who married?”

“I don’t know that it matters, how I feel about it.”

“But she’s your sister. She matters to you.”

His hand stilled on the teat. “The man she married, he’s too old for her. My father’s the one that arranged it. I think …” He squeezed out another jet of milk. “I think my father was in the man’s debt, more than he could pay.”

“I see.”

Her dismay must have been evident. Davy’s voice grew robust with defense. “She weren’t forced into it, mind. She didn’t marry him against her will.”

“No. No, of course not. Just against her heart. I do understand. It’s the way of things for women, sometimes.” After all, it had nearly been the way of things for her. “You don’t suspect he’ll mistreat her?”

“He’ll treat her fair enough, I reckon. My father wouldn’t have let her go, otherwise.”

“Then that’s some comfort.”

“Aye.” He shook a few last drops from the goat’s teat, then released it completely. “Just the same, I didn’t like it. I don’t like to see her married to a man she didn’t choose.”

Sophia continued milking on her side, settling into a hypnotic rhythm. “Of course you don’t. She’s your sister. If you care for her, you want to see her well cared for. If you love her, you want to see her loved.” If only she’d been so fortunate, to have a brother to want the same for her.