Tessa Dare

by Surrender of a Siren

  Sophia couldn’t say. But touching him made her feel exhilarated. Powerful and alive. Everything she’d been waiting her whole life to feel. Everything she’d been prepared to travel halfway across the globe to find.

  In running away, she had made the decision to embrace infamy. And lo, here he was.

  The girl really needed to let him go.

  This was the voyage Gray went respectable. And it was off to a very bad start.

  It was all her fault—this delicate wisp of a governess, with that porcelain complexion and her big, round eyes tilting up at him like Wedgwood teacups. She looked as if she might break if he breathed on her wrong, and those eyes kept beseeching him, imploring him, making demands. Please, rescue me from this pawing brute. Please, take me on your ship and away to Tortola. Please, strip me out of this revolting gown and initiate me in the pleasures of the flesh right here on the barstool.

  Well, innocent miss that she was, she might have lacked words to voice the third quite that way. But, worldly man that he was, Gray could interpret the silent petition quite clearly. He only wished he could discourage his body’s instinctive, affirmative response.

  He didn’t know what to do with the girl. He ought to do the respectable thing, seeing as how this voyage marked the beginning of his respectable career. But Miss Turner had him pegged. He was no kind of gentleman, and damned if he knew the respectable thing. Allowing a young, unmarried, winsome lady to travel unaccompanied probably wasn’t it. But then, if he refused her, who was to say she wouldn’t end up in an even worse situation? The chit couldn’t handle herself for five minutes in a tavern. Was he truly going to turn her loose on the Gravesend quay? What would he tell George Waltham then?

  Damn it. After years of aimless carousing, Gray had reached the point in his life where, for one reason and another, he actually wanted to behave in an honorable fashion. The trouble was, somewhere in all those years of aimless carousing, he’d mislaid his sense of honor. He could sail through a cyclone and not lose his course. He could navigate a woman’s body in the dark. But his moral compass had grown rusted with disuse.

  However … he never lost sight of the bottom line. And so, with this governess putting him to the test, Gray reverted to his usual method of making decisions—he opted for profit. Miss Jane Turner was a passenger. He had a ship with empty berths. The decision was simple. He was a tradesman, and this was business. Strictly business.

  He had no business studying the exquisite alabaster sweep of her cheekbone.

  And she had no business clutching his arm.

  “Miss Turner,” he said sternly, in the same voice he gave orders to his crew.

  “Yes?”

  “Let me go now.”

  She released his arm, blushing fetchingly as she did so and looking up at him through trembling lashes. Gray sighed. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.

  “I’ve one last piece of business, then. Stay here.”

  With that imperious command, he crossed the tavern. Bains sat at a table, hunkered over a fresh tankard of ale. Gray clapped a hand on his shoulder and leaned over to speak in his unwashed ear. A few more stern words, a few coins, and there was one more quandary resolved to his profit.

  “Now then, Miss Turner. We can be on our way.” Grasping her firmly by the elbow, he whisked her out the tavern door.

  “You gave him money?” Struggling under his grip, she twisted to look back toward Bains. “After what he did to me, what you did to him … You paid him?”

  Ignoring her question, he caught the porter’s eye. “The lady’s belongings,” he commanded briskly.

  The porter wrapped beefy forearms around the larger of her two trunks. Gray reached for the smaller one, hefting it onto his shoulder and holding it balanced there with one hand. He took three paces before he realized she wasn’t following.

  He paused long enough to toss a comment over his shoulder. “Come along, then. I’ll take you out to the Aphrodite. You’ll be wanting to meet the captain.”

  CHAPTER

  TWO

  The captain?

  Sophia stood staring numbly after him. Had he just said he’d introduce her to the captain? If someone else was the captain, then who on earth was this man?

  One thing was clear. Whoever he was, he had her trunks.

  And he was walking away.

  Cursing under her breath, Sophia picked up her skirts and trotted after him, dodging boatmen and barrels and coils of tarred rope as she pursued him down the quay. A forest of tall masts loomed overhead, striping the dock with shadow.

  Breathless, she regained his side just as he neared the dock’s edge. “But … aren’t you Captain Grayson?”

  “I,” he said, pitching her smaller trunk into a waiting rowboat, “am Mr. Grayson, owner of the Aphrodite and principal investor in her cargo.”

  The owner. Well, that was some relief. The tavern-keeper must have been confused.

  The porter deposited her larger trunk alongside the first, and Mr. Grayson dismissed him with a word and a coin. He plunked one polished Hessian on the rowboat’s seat and shifted his weight to it, straddling the gap between boat and dock. Hand outstretched, he beckoned her with an impatient twitch of his fingers. “Miss Turner?”

  Sophia inched closer to the dock’s edge and reached one gloved hand toward his, considering how best to board the bobbing craft without losing her dignity overboard.

  The moment her fingers grazed his palm, his grip tightened over her hand. He pulled swiftly, wrenching her feet from the dock and a gasp from her throat. A moment of weightlessness—and then she was aboard. Somehow his arm had whipped around her waist, binding her to his solid chest. He released her just as quickly, but a lilt of the rowboat pitched Sophia back into his arms.

  “Steady there,” he murmured through a small smile. “I have you.”

  A sudden gust of wind absconded with his hat. He took no notice, but Sophia did. She noticed everything. Never in her life had she felt so acutely aware. Her nerves were drawn taut as harp strings, and her senses hummed.

  The man radiated heat. From exertion, most likely. Or perhaps from a sheer surplus of simmering male vigor. The air around them was cold, but he was hot. And as he held her tight against his chest, Sophia felt that delicious, enticing heat burn through every layer of her clothing—cloak, gown, stays, chemise, petticoat, stockings, drawers—igniting desire in her belly.

  And sparking a flare of alarm. This was a precarious position indeed. The further her torso melted into his, the more certainly he would detect her secret: the cold, hard bundle of notes and coin lashed beneath her stays.

  She pushed away from him, dropping onto the seat and crossing her arms over her chest. Behind him, the breeze dropped his hat into a foamy eddy. He still hadn’t noticed its loss.

  What he noticed was her gesture of modesty, and he gave her a patronizing smile. “Don’t concern yourself, Miss Turner. You’ve nothing in there I haven’t seen before.”

  Just for that, she would not tell him. Farewell, hat.

  To a point, he was correct. She likely had nothing in there he had not seen before. He’d certainly seen a sovereign in his life, and a banknote or two. He may have even seen almost six hundred pounds’ worth of them, all lined up in a tidy row. But he likely hadn’t seen them in the possession of a governess, because no woman with that sort of money would ever seek employment.

  That scuffle with Bains in the tavern had only underscored her peril. She needed to focus on the tasks at hand. Escaping England and marriage. Guarding her secrets and her purse. Surviving until her twenty-first birthday, when she could return to claim the remainder of her trust. And in aid of it all, keeping men out of her stays.

  After untying the boat, Mr. Grayson wedged himself onto the narrow plank across from her and gathered the oars.

  “You don’t have a boatman?” she asked. Their knees were practically touching, they sat so close together. She sat up a bit, widening the gap.

  “Not at the
moment.” Levering one oar, he pushed off from the dock.

  She frowned. Surely it wasn’t usual, for the ship’s owner and principal investor to row himself to and from the quay. Then again, surely it wasn’t usual for the ship’s owner and principal investor to have the shoulders of an ox. As he began to row in earnest, the bold, rhythmic power of his strokes entranced her. The soft splash of the oars cutting through the water, the confident motions of his hands, the way strength rippled under his coat again, and again, and again …

  Sophia shook herself. This was precisely the sort of observation she ought to avoid.

  With reluctance, she dragged her gaze from his muscled shoulders and settled it on a more benign prospect.

  Burnt sienna. To capture the color of his hair, she would start with a base of burnt sienna, mixed with a touch of raw umber and—she mentally added, as the boat drifted through a shaft of sunlight—the faintest trace of vermillion. More umber at the temples, where sideburns glossed with pomade slicked back toward his slightly square-tipped ears. A controlled touch would be needed there, but the breeze-tossed waves atop his head invited loose, sinuous brushstrokes, layered with whispers of amber. Indian yellow, she decided, lightened with lead white.

  The mental exercise calmed her nerves. These wild, mutinous passions that ruled her—Sophia might never master them, but at least she could channel them into her art.

  “Was it a convent you escaped, Miss Turner?” He turned the boat with a deft pull on one oar.

  “Escaped?” Her heart knocked against her hidden purse. “I’m a governess, I told you. I’m not running away, from a convent or anywhere else. Why would you ask that?”

  He chuckled. “Because you’re staring at me as though you’ve never seen a man before.”

  Sophia’s cheeks burned. She was staring. Worse, now she found herself powerless to turn away. What with the murky shadows of the tavern and the confusion of the quay, not to mention her own discomposure, she hadn’t taken a good, clear look at his eyes until this moment.

  They defied her mental palette utterly.

  The pupils were ringed with a thin line of blue. Darker than Prussian, yet lighter than indigo. Perhaps matching that dearest of pigments—the one even her father’s generous allowance did not permit—ultramarine. Yet within that blue circumference shifted a changing sea of color—green one moment, gray the next … in the shadow of a half-blink, hinting at blue.

  He laughed again, and flinty sparks of amusement lit them.

  Yes, she was still staring.

  Forcing her gaze to the side, she saw their rowboat nearing the scraped hull of a ship. She cleared her throat and tasted brine. “Forgive me, Mr. Grayson. I’m only trying to make you out. I understood you to be the ship’s captain.”

  “Well,” he said, grasping a rope thrown down to him and securing it to the boat, “now you know I’m not.”

  “Might I have the pleasure, then, of knowing the captain’s name?”

  “Certainly,” he said, securing a second rope. “It’s Captain Grayson.”

  She heard the smirk in his voice, even before she swiveled her head to confirm it. Was he teasing her? “But, you said …”

  Before Sophia could phrase her question—or even decide exactly which question she meant to ask—Mr. Grayson shouted to the men aboard the ship, and the rowboat lurched skyward. A splinter gouged her palm as she gripped the seat. The boat made a swift, swaying ascent.

  As they reached deck level, Mr. Grayson stood. With the same sure strength he’d exhibited on the dock, he grasped her by the waist and swung her over the ship’s rail, setting her on deck and releasing her an instant too soon. Her knees wobbled. She put out a hand to grab the rail as a pair of crewmen hoisted her trunks aboard. She, and everything she owned in the world, now resided on this creaking bowl of timber and tar. The ship jogged with a passing wave, and dizziness forced her eyes closed.

  “Miss Turner?”

  She turned back to face Mr. Gr … or Captain … Him, whoever he was.

  Instead, she found herself staring into the starched cravat of a different man. A very different man.

  It wasn’t as though she’d never seen a man like him before. Many of England’s best families kept Negro servants in their employ. In fact, black footmen were quite the fashion in the ton—their presence hinted at lucrative foreign holdings, and ebony skin made an aesthetically pleasing contrast with a powdered wig.

  But this man’s skin was not ebony. Rather, the tone of his complexion more accurately matched the warm gloss of a ripe hazelnut, or strong tea lightened with a drop of milk. He wore no wig at all, but a tall gray hat. And beneath the hat, his brown, tightly curled hair was cropped close to his scalp. His dark-blue greatcoat was as well-tailored and elegant as any dandy’s. Golden-brown eyes regarded her from a fine-featured face.

  He was handsome, and—to Sophia’s further confusion—handsome in a vaguely familiar way.

  “Miss Turner.” Mr. Grayson stepped forward, shrinking the triangle. “Allow me to present Captain Josiah Grayson.”

  She slid her gaze from the black man just long enough to shoot him a sharp glare. “You said you were Mr. Grayson.”

  Both men smiled. Sophia set her jaw.

  “I am Mr. Grayson. And this”—he clapped a hand on the black man’s shoulder—“is Captain Grayson.”

  She looked from one man to the other, then back again. “You share the same name?”

  Their smiles broadened.

  “But of course,” Mr. Grayson said smoothly, that thin scar on his chin curving up to mock her. “Brothers usually do.”

  Gray watched with satisfaction as a blush bloomed across those smooth, delicate cheeks. Perhaps he was enjoying Miss Turner’s confusion a bit too much. But damn, ever since he’d lifted Bains off her in the tavern, he’d been enjoying everything a bit too much. The way the circumference of her waist so perfectly filled his crooked arm. The feel of her soft, fragile body pressed up against his in the rowboat. The clean, feminine scent of her—hints of powder and rose water and another scent he couldn’t quite place. Something sweet.

  And the way she kept staring at him. Bloody hell. It heated his blood, made him want things that even he recognized as less than respectable.

  So it was a relief now, to let her blink up at his brother for a bit.

  “Brothers.” She looked from Gray to Joss and back again. Her gaze sharpened, seemed to refocus somewhere behind him. Gray fought the urge to turn and look over his shoulder.

  “Yes of course,” she said slowly, tilting her head to one side. “I ought to have seen it at once. The squared-off tip, the little notch above the lobe …”

  He exchanged an amused glance with Joss. What the devil was this about notches and tips?

  “You have the same ears,” she finished, a smile tipping the corner of her mouth as she made a smooth curtsy.

  Gray paused a beat, then gave a soft laugh. There was a self-assured grace to her movements that he found oddly entrancing, and now he understood why. This was a gesture of satisfaction, not deference. She curtsied not to please, but because she was pleased with herself.

  In short, the girl was taking a bow.

  And damned if he wasn’t tempted to applaud. She hadn’t been destined for employment, he would stake the ship on that. Gentle-bred, certainly, despite those deplorable garments. From a wealthy family, he surmised, fallen on hard times. Those fine gloves were only a subtle clue; it was her bearing that made the confession. Gray knew how to discern the true value of goods beneath layers of spit and varnish, and Miss Turner … Miss Turner was a quality piece.

  She straightened. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Captain Grayson.”

  “The honor is mine,” Joss replied with a smooth bow. “You travel alone, Miss Turner?”

  “Yes. I am to be employed, near Road Town.”

  “She’s to be governess to George Waltham’s whelps,” Gray interjected. “Needless to say, I attempted to caution her a
gainst taking such a thankless post.”

  “Miss Turner.” Joss’s voice took on a serious tone. “As captain of this vessel, I must also question the prudence of this journey.”

  Miss Turner foraged in her cloak. “I … I have a letter, from Mr. Waltham.”

  “Please, don’t misunderstand me,” Joss said. “It’s not your employment I’m concerned for, it’s your reputation. We have no other passengers aboard this ship.”

  No other passengers? Gray cleared his throat.

  Joss shot him a look. “Save my brother, of course. A young, unmarried woman, traversing the Atlantic without a chaperone …”

  Gray shuffled his feet impatiently. What was Joss on about? Surely he didn’t intend to refuse her passage?

  “Perhaps you would do better to wait. The Peregrine sails for Tortola next week.”

  Hell. He did intend to refuse her passage.

  “No,” she objected. “No, please. Captain, I appreciate your concern for my reputation. Had I any prospects other than this post, had I any family or friends who would take exception … I might share your concern. As matters stand, I tell you with complete honesty”—she swallowed—“there is no one who will care.”

  Gray tried, very hard, to pretend he hadn’t just heard that.

  She continued, “If you can ensure my safety, Captain Grayson, I can promise to behave in strict accordance with propriety.”

  Sighing hard, Joss shifted his weight. “Miss Turner, I’m sorry, but—”

  “Please,” she begged, laying a delicate hand on his brother’s arm. “You must take me. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

  Joss’s expression softened. Gray was relieved to learn he wasn’t the only man that wide-eyed plea worked on. For no definable reason, he was also annoyed, to watch it plied on another man.

  “Take pity, Captain Grayson. Surely Miss Turner must be fatigued.” Gray spied the old steward limping down the deck. “Stubb, kindly show Miss Turner to the ladies’ cabin. Berth seven is vacant, I believe.”