With another light smack to her bum that she probably couldn’t even feel through all those skirts and petticoats, Gray slid her from his shoulder and dropped her on her feet. She wobbled backward, and he caught her arm, reversing her momentum. Now she tripped toward him, flinging her arms around his neck and sagging against his chest. Gray just stood there, arms dangling at his sides.
Oh, bloody hell.
She stared up at him, with those wide, searching eyes. Fair glossed over with rum, those eyes, but beautiful nonetheless. And those lips—soft, swollen, pouting, just begging to be kissed. God, he wanted to kiss her. Kiss her long and slow and deep, until he was drunk on her sweet, rum-scented breath.
She pursed those lovely lips together—
And then she laughed. She bent her head and buried her face in his coat and laughed, long and loud, until her shoulders shook with it.
“This isn’t funny,” he said weakly. Weakly, because he didn’t truly want her to stop. So stupid, this small thrill of triumph. At last, he’d made the pretty girl laugh.
“Oh, but it is. Those men up there … What do you think they think we’re doing down here?”
It took Gray a moment to follow her through that labyrinth of a question.
“They’ll think we’re lovers,” she cooed, bursting into laughter again.
“Sweetheart, you’d better pray they do.” He put both hands on her waist and pushed her away. But she wouldn’t release his neck. They did a strange imitation of a Russian dance as he walked her backward, until she collided with a wall. He pinned her to the paneling with his hands on her hips and his most intimidating glare drilling into her eyes. “You’d better pray that they think I’m down here rogering you within an inch of your precious life. Because that’s the only way you’ll sleep undisturbed tonight. They won’t try a thing, if they think you’re mine.”
Her fingers curled into the locks of hair at his nape. She toyed with them idly, letting her fingernails rake over his skin. Her bandaged palm brushed his neck.
“Stop that,” he said hoarsely.
She didn’t. A muscle in his thigh began to quiver.
“Stop that,” he repeated. “You’re not supposed to be using your hands.”
“I’m not using them much.” She rested her chin on his chest and peered up at him. “How many teeth does a shark have, I wonder? It seemed like hundreds.”
“I have no … no idea.” He groaned as her finger traced the sensitive groove behind his ear. His eyelids fluttered.
“No, don’t close your eyes,” she said. “I like the way you look at me. So hungry. So dangerous. As if you’re a pirate … and I’m a prize worth far more than six pounds, eight shillings.”
“You’re drunk is what you are.”
“Mmm. And you’re a man. A big, strong man with the softest, most lovely hair.” Her fingers slid up, caressing his scalp until he was fully, excruciatingly aroused.
She started giggling again. Gray had never been much for giggling women, but damned if her soft, rolling laughter wasn’t driving him insane with desire. He could stop that giggling. He could kiss her quiet, fondle her breathless.
“Do you want to know why I’m laughing?”
“No.”
“Come on, Gray,” she mimicked saucily, her hips wriggling under his hands. “You’re no fun anymore.”
“No,” he growled. “I’m not.” I’ve gone respectable, he reminded himself, as of this voyage. Damned if he could remember why, or what was the bloody rush. Why hadn’t he waited another month to reform? The start of the new year would have been a logical choice. What kind of a fool made resolutions in December?
“I’ll tell you anyway,” she whispered. “It’s your hair. It’s such a beautiful color, this dark, delicious brown, with the red undertones all through. And up here”—her fingers danced up his temples—“little strands of gold.” She frowned with concentration, as though it cost her a great deal of effort to focus her eyes. “It reminds me how, from the very first time I saw you, I’ve been wanting …”
She broke off giggling again.
And damn it, now he did want to know why. He wanted very, very much to know why. Because Gray didn’t find this situation amusing in the slightest. His body was aching with quite serious need. What ever scraps of resolve he possessed were quickly disintegrating, and his trembling fingers couldn’t—or just plain wouldn’t—hold her off anymore. Releasing her hips, he braced both hands on the wall, caging her between his arms.
There, now he wasn’t even touching her.
But she was touching him. Still stroking her soft fingers through his hair, now pressing her warm body to his. His straining erection finally met with the welcome friction of her belly, and it was all he could do not to grind against it. He ought to walk away. Walk straight out of the room without looking back.
But he couldn’t. God, he just couldn’t. She felt too good. She wanted him, and that felt too good. The wanting, he could resist. But this feeling of being wanted—it was always his undoing. His little siren would pull him straight to his death, all the way to damnation, and he was literally inches away from giving in and enjoying the ride.
“I’ve been wanting,” she breathed, “so very much … to paint you.”
To paint him?
He laughed. Oh, what fun he could have with her. “Sweetheart, I …”
Gray’s voice trailed off as a vivid image appeared in his mind. Not Miss Turner naked and writhing beneath him—though that image would certainly haunt his dreams.
No, he saw her charcoal sketch of young Davy Linnet. The perception in it, the attention to detail. And suddenly, Gray formed a vision of himself through those all-seeing, artist’s eyes.
He saw an unshaven brigand, inches away from plundering an innocent governess who was far from home and full in her cups. A man poised to break his word to his only brother, again—as though it were an easy habit. A fraud in foppish boots, trying to buy his way into the graces of his sister and society because he lacked the merit to earn their respect.
In that fraction of a second, Gray glimpsed his own portrait, and he did not like what he saw. He might never be the picture of respectability, but he’d be damned if the world would remember him like this.
With a harsh growl, he pushed off against the wall. She fell back against the paneling, her bandaged hands dangling at her sides.
“This is not going to happen,” he said, as much to himself as to her. He paced away in agitation and ran his hands through his hair, as if he could brush off the memory of her delicate, teasing touch.
“Why not? Don’t you want me to—”
“No. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you to paint me. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want to see you distracting the crew. I don’t want to see you baiting sharks. I don’t want to see you. At all.”
She blinked at him. No more giggles now.
But Gray wasn’t done. “You—” He shook a finger at her. “You are so bloody stupid. You have no idea how damned lucky you are. Do you know what could happen to you, crossing the ocean alone with no money and no chaperone? Do you have any notion what a dangerous game you play, going addled with rum and then prancing before the crew like a common harlot?”
She swallowed hard.
“If I wanted you,” he said, bracing one hand on the wall above her shoulder and looming over her in an attitude of threat, “I could have had you days ago, your very first night on this ship. I’d probably have tired of you by now. Your innocence would be gone, and you’d have thrown it away. For nothing. Maybe if you were especially good, I’d have knocked a few shillings off your fare.”
Her eyes went wide. The drunken gloss in them was gone.
Good. Maybe now she’d behave with some sense. Hadn’t he warned her from the first? He’d never met a girl he couldn’t disillusion.
Gray took a step backward, then another. Easing his way toward the door.
“So be a good little governess, M
iss Turner. Go to your berth, blockade the door, crawl into your bunk, and say your prayers. And thank Almighty God in Heaven that I don’t want you.”
CHAPTER
NINE
Curse the sun.
Sophia’s eyelids fluttered open. A narrow crease of daylight greeted her, winking from underneath the door. She squeezed her eyes shut, recoiling in pain. Her head pounded. Her hands throbbed. Her body ached all over, no doubt from yesterday’s wrestling matches with fish and men.
Oh, God. Men.
Fragmented memories of last night floated to the surface of her consciousness, began piecing themselves into a picture. A picture that made her sick.
She groped wildly for the water basin and retched into it.
What on earth had she done? She’d announced to a dozen disorderly sailors that she’d just finished a torrid affair with a Frenchman and was currently searching for his replacement. Then she’d plastered herself to Mr. Grayson, murmuring all manner of rubbish and winding her fingers through that dark, thick hair.
And oh, it had been so soft.
She didn’t know which was more humiliating: the fact that she’d offered herself to him with all the finesse and enthusiasm of a back-alley whore? Or the fact that he’d refused?
I don’t want you, he’d said.
No, this was the most humiliating fact: For all her bodily aches and pains, the severest wound was to her pride. A proper, well-bred young lady would have praised God that, despite all her imprudent, scandalous behavior, she’d awakened this morning with her virtue intact. But Sophia had long ago decided to leave her proper, well-bred life behind and embrace infamy.
And now, infamy himself wouldn’t have her.
I don’t want you.
His words had cut her like a knife. Each time they echoed in her mind, the knife twisted.
Who would want her, after the way she’d behaved? Heavens, if she hadn’t been born into wealth and guarded so closely all these years, what kind of sordid end would she have come to? One that would make even a wanton dairymaid blush. If Toby could see her now, he’d be congratulating himself on his lucky escape.
A light knock sounded at her door. Sophia winced.
“Who is it?” Her voice was scratchy and feeble.
“It’s breakfast,” came Stubb’s voice. He cackled. “Compliments of your sweetheart, Germaine.”
“Gervais,” she moaned, diving back under her blanket. Good Lord, how could she face him again? How could she face anyone on this ship?
She couldn’t, it turned out, for quite some time.
She spent three whole days cloistered in her cabin, taking her meals in solitude, spending the daylight hours hunched over a sketch, venturing only to the privy and back. Stubb broke her seclusion a few times a day, to deliver meals and change the dressings on her wounds.
Eventually, her boredom eclipsed her embarrassment. By her estimate, there were three weeks or more remaining in this journey. She couldn’t remain holed away in the cabin that long. She needed fresh air and light, and inspiration for her artist’s eye.
On the fourth morning, Sophia removed the bandages from her hands and gingerly stretched the new pink skin covering her wounds. Then she gathered her drawing board and charcoal—and any scrap of courage she could find—and climbed abovedecks.
The ship was unnaturally quiet. Although she stared at the boards beneath her feet, she could feel all heads swiveling in her direction. Mr. Grayson’s head wasn’t among them. She would have sensed it, had he been there. She was all too familiar with the prickling heat of his gaze.
Taking a deep breath, she hiked her chin, squared her shoulders, walked all of five paces to a low stool, and sat down. There, that hadn’t been so difficult.
She was vaguely conscious of the sailors talking and laughing among themselves. No doubt her antics four nights ago were the source of their amusement. Sophia didn’t know what she’d do if any of them approached her, hoping to be the next “Gervais.” Despite the humiliation of being hauled from the deck in such barbaric fashion, she hoped Mr. Grayson had been correct in saying they’d not make advances if they thought she was his.
Of course, if they thought she was his, they were dead wrong.
I don’t want you.
Enough. She’d been reliving those events for days now, ruminating over the implications and castigating herself—and, when regrets became tiresome, savoring the memory of his wavy hair caught in the webs of her fingers, or the sensation of his strong hands encircling her waist …
Enough. It was time to go back to work. Once she put charcoal to paper, a bubble of concentration formed around her, blocking out all distractions.
She drew a kitten, of all things. A kitten, with wide eyes and sharp little claws, wiggling back on its hindlegs as if preparing to pounce. Pounce on what, she had not yet decided.
A shadow fell over her paper, and a low whistle sounded from some feet above. Sophia froze, afraid to look up.
“Would ye look at that. Got his sights on a wee mousie, has he?”
It was O’Shea. Sophia sighed with relief. She didn’t know all the crew by name yet, but O’Shea’s thick brogue—and mammoth size—distinguished him from the crowd. “I hadn’t yet decided,” she answered him, tilting her head to the side. “I was thinking, perhaps a cricket. Or maybe a snake.”
“Brave puss.”
Sophia shielded her eyes with her hand and peered up at the Irishman’s face. His hard eyes wandered from her hand, to her face, to the sketch in her lap. He made a gruff noise in his throat—the sort of noise men make when they’re working up to saying something and don’t quite know how to get it out, but want to keep up the aura of brute masculinity in the midst of their indecision.
He was making Sophia nervous. He meant to ask her something, and she was afraid to learn just what.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“The crew … We had it out between ourselves, Miss Turner. There were a bit o’ scuffling, but I came out on top.” He suddenly crouched before her, transforming his silhouette from tree-trunk to boulder in an instant. His craggy face split in a devilish grin. “I get to be first.”
“We drew lots, Miss Turner. It’s my turn next.” Sophia looked up from her drawing board. Quinn stood before her, wringing his tarred sailor’s cap in massive, knob-knuckled hands, wearing an expression more fit for a funeral than a portrait-sitting. “Do take a seat, Mr. Quinn.”
The man lowered his weight onto the crate opposite, bracing his arms on his knees. “What am I to do?”
With her fingernail, Sophia sharpened the stub of charcoal. “You needn’t do anything but sit there.” She gave him a small smile, then quickly looked down again, as it clearly made him uncomfortable. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” She directed her question to the paper as she began to rough in the oval of his face.
He scratched his chin. “Not much to tell. Born in Yorkshire, I was. My father moved us to London when I was a lad. Got pressed into the Navy when I was sixteen, and I’ve not called dry land home since.”
“You don’t have a wife then? No family of your own?” Sophia kept her tone light, stealing furtive glances at Quinn’s hawk’s-beak nose and heavy brow between questions.
“Not as yet, miss.”
“But surely you’ve a sweetheart for Saturdays?”
Quinn gave a rough laugh. “Oh, I’ve one for every day of the week, Miss Turner.”
Sophia stilled her charcoal and lifted an eyebrow. “What a relief to learn that your calendar is full, Mr. Quinn. For I warn you, I shan’t be tempted to stray from Gervais.”
He laughed then, and his posture relaxed. Sophia was relieved, too. In the week since that night, her drunken toast had become just another shipboard joke. Mr. Grayson had returned abovedecks quickly enough to prevent the crew from suspecting an affair. Neither had the men taken Gervais seriously, thank Heaven, and she was coming to understand why. Most of their toasts weren’t based in reality, either. Life a
t sea was a dangerous business. The men flirted with death on a daily basis, and they laughed off their close calls. But even if they could escape death, they could not escape loneliness. It was an ever-present shadow that they worked to shrug off—through song, drink, embroidered tales.
Sophia could wholeheartedly relate to that sentiment. She knew loneliness, all too well. And having a fantasy lover—well, for the first time in her life, it didn’t make her feel isolated. Here, she was just like everyone else.
She set to work on her sketch, keeping Quinn occupied with questions about his childhood, his home, his service in the war. Asking a man to recall his past invariably caused him to look away, as though his memories marched along the horizon. And while Quinn focused on that far-off time, Sophia could study his features openly without making him ill at ease. She noted the small divot between his eyebrows that appeared likely to become a furrow with time. She observed the tar embedded under his fingernails and in the creases of his palms; stains that would likely never wash off. And when he spoke of his nephew, she caught the faintest hint of a smile at the corner of his eyes.
How different it was, to draw people—real people with lives of sweat and labor, each a unique challenge. A far cry from sketching the same old vases of flowers and copies of copies of great masterworks. It gave Sophia a surprising amount of pleasure to simply talk with the men and gain their confidence. When they sat down before her, they trusted her to collect all their weathered features and tiny imperfections and commit them to paper, to assemble them into likenesses for their wives, their sweethearts, themselves. It felt somehow important. When she handed them the completed sketch, she gave them something of value that came from her talent, not from her fortune or her pretty face.
Of course, it also helped pass the time. And it kept Sophia, for those few hours a day, from thinking of him.
He was everywhere on the ship; there was no escaping him. Even if she remained in her cabin most of the day, the skylight was always open, and through it flowed steady streams of sunshine and fresh air and his voice.
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