Tessa Dare

by Surrender of a Siren

  He looked unforgivably handsome. The sheet of paper crumpled in Sophia’s grip. Drat him, now he owed her three.

  “Paper,” he repeated.

  “Yes, paper. It may be just ‘a few sheets of paper’ to you, but to me, it’s … well, it’s paper.” Sophia was painfully aware of how idiotic she sounded. “I have a very limited supply, you see, and it’s simply too dear to be wasted on livestock.”

  “I see.” His brows knit together as he stared at the sheet in her hand.

  “No, you don’t.” Sophia felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Of all the absurd occasions to cry. She’d told herself she could leave everything else behind—her family, her friends, her belongings—so long as she had her art. Only now she found herself missing everything else a bit more than she’d planned, and to have her creative outlet threatened by this, this beast—not to mention his goat … She sniffed fiercely. “Of course, you don’t see. How could you? You’re thinking it’s just a bit of paper, but it isn’t at all. It’s …”

  “It’s paper.”

  Blinking back her tears, Sophia turned to stare resolutely at the horizon. “Yes, precisely.”

  “Now, sweetheart, where’s that lacy little handkerchief when you need it?”

  After a furtive swipe at her eyes, Sophia crossed her arms.

  “Ho there, boy!” A sharp voice cut through their conversation. “Go aloft and set the fore royal.”

  “Aye, aye, Mr. Brackett.”

  A youth about Sophia’s height hurried between them and paused at the base of the rigging. She recognized him as the boy who’d removed the unwelcome goat from her cabin.

  “First time then, Davy?” Mr. Grayson asked.

  The youth swallowed audibly. “First time at sea, sir.”

  Mr. Grayson clapped him on the shoulder. “Just take your time. The royal’s not nearly so tricky as the topgallant—it’s higher, but there’s no need to go out on the yardarm. Stick to the rigging. Keep your feet on the ropes and your eyes on your hands, and you’ll be fine.”

  The lad nodded. He mounted a part of the rigging that formed a tarred, narrow ladder and began to climb, his face grim. Sophia watched, breathless, as he quickly gained the first of the perpendicular beams that held each of the Aphrodite’s square-rigged sails. There, some twenty feet above the deck, he reached a sort of railing that surrounded the mast, where he paused before resuming his climb.

  “That’s it, Davy,” Mr. Grayson called. “Look lively, then.”

  The boy moved on to a new set of tiered ropes and resumed climbing. “How far up does he have to go?” Sophia cupped a hand over her eyes.

  “To the royal yard.” Mr. Grayson met her puzzled expression. “All the way.”

  She tilted her head back and let her gaze follow the mast skyward. She couldn’t discern whether she actually glimpsed the top, or whether the towering column simply faded into the distance. The prospect was dizzying.

  “But that’s so high!” She blinked up at the mast again. “And on his second day at sea?”

  “Exactly. If he’s to be a sailor, he must become accustomed to the feel of the rigging and the motion of the ship. The officers do him no favors if they coddle him at the outset.”

  Sophia looked up again. Davy had reached the next yard. He paused there for some moments, clinging to the rigging. He was only halfway to the top of the mast, yet so high she could no longer distinguish the features of his face. The mast swayed back and forth with each pitch of the ship.

  “What if he falls?” she asked, swallowing hard.

  Mr. Grayson shrugged. “From where he’s at now? He’d be a mite banged up, but he’d live.”

  “From the royal yard?”

  “Well, then he’d likely die. Whether he hit the deck or the sea, it wouldn’t much matter. But don’t worry, sweetheart. He won’t fall.”

  Just then, Davy’s boot slipped in its foothold. The boy caught himself quickly, but not before Sophia gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. The sheet of crumpled paper fell from her grasp. It never hit the deck. Mr. Grayson snagged it easily between his first finger and thumb. He smoothed the sheet against his embroidered waistcoat before handing it back.

  “Wouldn’t want to waste another sheet of paper,” he said with a slight smile. “But you see, sweetheart—we sailors catch on quickly. A sailor with slow reflexes is a dead sailor.”

  Sophia looked back up to the rigging. She and Mr. Grayson weren’t the only ones watching Davy’s progress. From the mainmast, bow, helm—all eyes were fixed on the boy. The crewmen watched his ascent with great interest and whispered speculation, as though it were a horse race or a prizefight.

  When Davy reached the next yard, a clamor of approval rose up from the deck. “That’s the topgallant now, boy,” a burly sailor called out. “Almost home!”

  When the boy hesitated, clinging to the mast, Mr. Grayson cupped his hands around his mouth. “Get on with it then, Davy! The goats are getting lonesome!”

  The youth began the last, most perilous section of his climb. Sophia could not bear to watch any longer. She focused on the planks beneath her feet instead, and then—when the suspense became too great to tolerate—she let her gaze slide to Mr. Grayson’s hand where it hung at his side.

  Sophia kept her eyes trained on that hand—the strong, sculpted fingers, the palm ridged with callus. With that hand, he’d caught her handkerchief, the paper, and Sophia herself on more than one occasion. If Davy stumbled, surely that hand would reflexively move to catch him. She stared at his hand because she knew—so long as it dangled loose at Mr. Grayson’s side, the boy was safe.

  She was safe.

  Oh, no. Where had that thought come from? An absurdity, that. He was dangerous, Sophia reminded herself. He could expose her deceits and force her back to a miserable existence, and she, who could recite falsehoods effortlessly to dukes and doormen alike, lost all power to dissemble whenever he drew near. And yet, despite all this—or perhaps because of it?—standing in his broad shadow, Sophia began to feel strangely safe. Protected.

  She shook herself. It would seem seasickness or Mr. Grayson’s teasing, or most likely both, had rendered her completely nonsensical. Logic demanded she flee to the cabin that instant and remove herself from the influence of that potent, self-assured charm.

  But she didn’t.

  Instead, she inched closer.

  He felt it, her sudden nearness. A warm, feminine propinquity that drew his every nerve to attention. He didn’t need to look.

  He didn’t need to, but he did.

  God, she truly was exquisite.

  Even his grief-blinded brother had called her beautiful, but that word wasn’t quite enough. There was a rightness to her face somehow, a quality that resonated in his bones. Like the clear ring of fine crystal clinked in celebration, or the echo of a whisper in a cathedral.

  Exquisite.

  A raucous cheer announced young Davy’s success, and Gray looked up to the royal yard to see the square sail unfurling high above, like a handkerchief.

  The loud clanging of the bell cut through the crew’s whoops and whistles. Mr. Brackett stood on the raised deck toward the ship’s stern, his expression forbidding. “This isn’t a circus, you louts! All hands back to work!”

  The sailors returned to their duties, grumbling among themselves. If Gray couldn’t fault the officer for chasing the sailors back to work, at least he could make up for their absence by congratulating young Davy heartily on his descent.

  “Well done, boy.” He clapped a hand on the youth’s trembling shoulder. “You’ll be in the forecastle with the sailors soon enough. Perhaps by the time we cross the Tropic.”

  “Thank you, sir.” The boy wiped his brow with his sleeve.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Like I’m going to be sick, sir.”

  Gray laughed and stepped back quickly. “Just do me a favor, boy. Spare my boots a second baptism.”

  Stifling a nervous giggle, Miss Tu
rner gave the boy a warm smile. “You’re very brave, Mr. Linnet.”

  Gray observed the blanched, tight skin over her knuckles where she gripped the edges of her cloak. He knew she’d been sick with worry for the boy. Even now, she was struggling to mask her true emotions behind that gracious smile—because she understood, as Gray did, how important it was for Davy’s confidence, that he never see her fear.

  But Gray saw it. He’d felt it, as she’d inched closer to him. Even now, she stood so close that their shadows bled together on the deck.

  Her vulnerability disarmed him, somehow; and that smile had him envying a fifteen-year-old green hand like he’d never envied a prince. Gray was seized by the absurd notion to climb the mast himself, just to bask in that warm approbation.

  Davy lurched off toward the rail, and Gray laid a hand at the base of Miss Turner’s spine, turning her in the opposite direction. That lovely smile aside, she didn’t look too well herself. With a light yet firm touch, he ushered her up the steps onto the elevated deck at the helm. She made no protest.

  Damn, but she fit so perfectly under his palm. Gray imagined his hand could nearly span the width of her waist. He tested the idea, fanning his fingers over the small of her back. She shivered under his touch, but did not pull away.

  In fact, she seemed to shrink closer.

  “It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “The lad came through it admirably. So did you.”

  She wheeled to face him, those heavy woolen skirts swirling about his legs. A strange swell of protectiveness rose in his chest. Driven by some impulse he could no better understand than he could deny, Gray lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her fingers.

  “Now,” he murmured, “what were we discussing?” For the life of him, he couldn’t hold a thought in his head.

  “Paper. You … you still owe me two sheets of paper.”

  “You still owe me six pounds, eight shillings,” he said softly. “Not to mention a new pair of boots. So I think you’re rather ahead.”

  Indeed, Gray was losing ground fast. Those lovely eyes, her whisper-soft skin, the sweet scent that only grew more potent as the warmth between them built … If they stood like this much longer, he wouldn’t give tuppence for anything but gathering her in his arms, covering her lips with his, and ravaging that pert blossom of a mouth.

  No, no. What was he thinking? One didn’t ravage an English rose of a governess. This was a girl who’d expect to be kissed sweetly. Chastely. Tenderly.

  Hell. The word “chaste” wasn’t even in his vocabulary. And Gray didn’t do anything tenderly.

  “Sweet, I hate to break it to you. But no matter how many sheets of paper you fill with letters home—there’s no mail coach stopping by.”

  “No, it’s not for letters. You don’t understand.”

  “So explain it to me.”

  “I …” She looked up at him again, those big eyes searching his. There was a story behind that desperate gaze. One that wouldn’t fit on two sheets of paper, nor even two hundred, he supposed.

  He squeezed her hand. Go on, some fool part of him urged. Tell me everything.

  She never had a chance.

  “I beg your pardon, Miss Turner.” Joss stood at Gray’s shoulder, looking as though someone had mixed bilge-water into his tea. “I need a word with my brother, if I may.”

  “Yes, of course, Captain. Mr. Grayson was just … explaining the workings of the ship.” She attempted to tug her hand from Gray’s grasp, shooting him a pained look when he refused to relinquish his prize.

  Gray said smoothly, “Actually, we were discussing debts. Miss Turner still owes me her fare, and I—”

  “And I told you, you’ll have it today.” Beneath that abomination of a skirt wrapped about his leg, she planted her heel atop his booted toe and transferred all her weight onto it. Firmly. Once again, Gray regretted trading his old, sturdy boots for these foppish monstrosities. Her little pointed heel bit straight through the thin leather.

  With a tight grimace, Gray released her hand. He’d been about to say, and I have her handkerchief to return. But just for that, he wouldn’t.

  “Good afternoon, then.” A sweet smile graced her face as she stomped down on his foot again, harder. Then she turned and flounced away.

  He made an amused face at Joss. “I think she likes me.”

  “In my cabin, Gray.”

  Gray gritted his teeth and followed Joss down the hatch. Whether he liked being Gray’s half brother or not, Joss was damn lucky right now that he was. Gray wouldn’t have suffered that supercilious command for any bond weaker than blood.

  “You gave me your word, Gray.”

  “Did I? And what word was that?”

  Joss tossed his hat on the wood-framed bed and stripped off his greatcoat with agitated movements. “You know damn well what I mean. You said you wouldn’t pursue Miss Turner. Now you’re kissing her hand and making a spectacle in front of the whole ship. Bailey’s already taking bets from the sailors as to how many days it’ll take you to bed her.”

  “Really?” Gray rubbed the back of his neck. “I hope he’s giving even odds on three. Two, if you’ll send young Davy up the mast again. That got her quite excited.”

  Joss glared at him. “Need I remind you that this was your idea? You wanted a respectable merchant vessel. I’m trying to command it as such, but that’ll be a bit difficult if you intend to stage a bawdy-house revue on deck every forenoon.”

  Gray smiled as Joss slung himself into the captain’s chair. “Be careful, Joss. I do believe you nearly made a joke. People might get the idea you have a sense of humor.”

  “I don’t see anything humorous about this. This isn’t a pleasure cruise around the Mediterranean.”

  “You think I don’t know that?” Gray paced toward the windows spanning the ship’s stern. “Believe me, I know perfectly well what’s at stake here. They’re my stakes, damn it.”

  Joss made a dismissive snort. “You don’t need to remind me whose money it is.”

  “Yes, it’s my money and my ship, but I’ve entrusted them both to you.”

  “No you haven’t. You’re ordering my crew around, questioning my decisions …”

  “So that’s what this is about. The storm yesterday?”

  “The storm, the goats, Bains, the girl. You’ve countermanded me at every turn, and we’re only a day out from land. I’m telling you, if you want a captain who thinks only of profit, with no regard for the comfort and safety of people aboard—”

  No regard for people? Oh, now Gray was getting angry. This was all about his regard for people—two rather important people, one of whom stood glaring at him with murder in his eyes. The other being the principal reason for his presence on this ship. Fetching his baby sister for her London debut was something he’d been waiting to do for years. That task, Gray wouldn’t delegate.

  “I want a captain who doesn’t furl the sails and drop anchor at the sight of a few clouds,” he said. “And yes, damn it, I need a captain with the fortitude to put up with a few goats and governesses, if that’s what it takes to turn a profit.” He rounded the table to stand toe-to-toe with his brother. “What’s happened to you? We used to churn up these seas like a pair of sharks. We took everything, feared nothing.”

  “We were young. And stupid.”

  “Maybe so, but we were great. We sailed the fastest ship on the Atlantic. The Aphrodite captured more prize than any other privateer in service of the Crown, and we didn’t do it by playing safe.” Gray put a hand on Joss’s shoulder and lowered his voice. “The war’s over. And I don’t need to tell you how much of that money’s sunk into this venture. We have to conquer honest trade now. We have to chase success with everything we’ve got.”

  “We? What’s all this talk of ‘we’? When did that word enter your vocabulary?” Joss shrugged off his hand.

  “When did you become such an insufferable ass? It’s always been ‘we.’ We were supposed to be ful
l partners, until you changed your mind.”

  “Oh, are we going to tally broken promises now? Be my guest, but I’m warning you … I don’t think that’s an argument you want to start.”

  Gray took a slow breath, forcing himself to remain calm. “What’s past is past. I’ve done what I can on my own, but now we have to make this work. We owe it to Bel. And to Jacob.”

  “I see. It’s your money, but it’s our obligation.” Joss shrugged off Gray’s hand. “Don’t presume to tell me what I owe my own son. I’ll be damned if I’ll take lessons on family duty from you.”

  Gray stared at his brother. Their father’s ears aside, he scarcely recognized Joss anymore. When he wasn’t cutting the pitiful figure of a mourning widower, he was being a downright prick. Why couldn’t he see this was all for the good of the family? That Gray had worked all these years, assumed all these risks—for him and Bel, and now Jacob?

  “Miss Turner may be a sweet-looking lass,” Joss said, “but you’ve got to look the other direction. Aside from my responsibility as captain to guard her personal safety, I can’t afford the melodrama that accompanies your affaires, Gray. You know full well what it’ll do to the crew if they know you’re bedding her under their noses. And what happens when you tire of her? Need I remind you of the French captain’s widow? That incessant wailing did wonders for shipboard morale.”

  “Perhaps I won’t tire of her,” Gray protested, just to be contrary. Because, apparently, that was how brothers behaved.

  “Perhaps a dolphin will fly out of your arse. And here’s an argument even you can’t refute. Grayson Shipping doesn’t need a reputation for delivering damaged goods. You want me to hand George Waltham an impregnated governess?”

  “I wouldn’t get her with child. Give me that much credit, at least.”

  “I give you credit for nothing. Let’s try this one last time, shall we? You made me this ship’s captain. If I’m the captain, what I say goes. And I say you don’t touch her. If you can’t abide by my orders, take command of the ship yourself and let me go home.”