Tessa Dare

by Surrender of a Siren

  O’Shea winked at the crewman. “Could hardly blame him.”

  Sophia’s heart pounded, and with every wild thump it slammed against the purse secured beneath her stays. Was this “Triton” the seafaring equivalent of a highwayman, then? Some sort of pirate?

  “Where are the officers?” she asked Quinn. “Doesn’t the captain greet any approaching vessel?”

  “The captain and his mates tend to steer clear of Triton. Sailors’ business, this is.”

  Well, if Sophia had been looking for an excuse to flee belowdecks, she’d just been handed one. But before she could move, a voice called out, “All hands at attention! Prepare to greet yer king! The ruler of the ocean depths himself, and with him today comes his fair mistress, the Queen!”

  Coarse laughter rippled through the crowd. None of the sailors seemed the least bit distressed at receiving this visitor, Sophia noted. Of course, none of them had much to lose.

  Two sailors hauled on ropes, hoisting the jolly boat up to the ship’s side, revealing two apocryphal figures standing in the center of the small craft. At first glance, Sophia only saw clearly the shorter of the two, a gruesome creature with long tangled hair and a painted face, wearing a tight-fitting burlap skirt and a makeshift corset fashioned from fishnet and mollusk shells. The Sea Queen, Sophia reckoned, a smile warming her cheeks as the crew erupted into raucous cheers. A bearded Sea Queen, no less, who bore a striking resemblance to the Aphrodite’s own grizzled steward.

  Stubb.

  Sophia craned her neck to spy Stubb’s consort, as the foremast blocked her view of Triton’s visage. She caught only a glimpse of a white toga draped over a bronzed, bare shoulder. She took a jostling step to the side, nearly tripping on a coil of rope.

  “Foolish mortals! Kneel before your king!”

  The assembled sailors knelt on cue, giving Sophia a direct view of the Sea King. And even if the blue paint smeared across his forehead or the strands of seaweed dangling from his belt might have disguised him, there was no mistaking that persuasive baritone.

  Mr. Grayson.

  There he stood, tall and proud, some twenty feet away from her. Bare-chested, save for a swath of white linen draped from hip to shoulder. Wet locks of hair slicked back from his tanned face, sunlight embossing every contour of his sculpted arms and chest. A pagan god come swaggering down to earth.

  He caught her eye, and his smile widened to a wolfish grin. Sophia could not for the life of her look away. He hadn’t looked at her like this since … since that night. He’d scarcely looked in her direction at all, and certainly never wearing a smile. The boldness of his gaze made her feel thoroughly unnerved, and virtually undressed. Until the very act of maintaining eye contact became an intimate, verging on indecent, experience.

  If she kept looking at him, she felt certain her knees would give out. If she looked away, she gave him the victory. There was only one suitable alternative, given the circumstances. With a cheeky wink to acknowledge the joke, Sophia dropped her eyes and curtsied to the King.

  Mr. Grayson laughed his approval. Her curtsy, the crew’s gesture of fealty—he accepted their obeisance as his due. And why should he not? There was a rightness about it somehow, an unspoken understanding. Here at last was their true leader: the man they would obey without question, the man to whom they’d pledge loyalty, even kneel.

  This was his ship.

  “Where’s the owner of this craft?” he called. “Oh, right. Someone told me he’s no fun anymore.”

  As the men laughed, the Sea King swung over the rail, hoisting what looked to be a mop handle with vague aspirations to become a trident. “Bring forth the virgin voyager!”

  Sophia’s stomach gave a panicked flutter. What in God’s name did Mr. Grayson intend to do to her? She half-feared, half-yearned to find out. Then the flutter spread pleasantly downward, and the balance tipped in favor of yearning.

  But the sailors took no notice of her. Instead they pushed Davy Linnet to the fore.

  “Here he is, yer majesty!” Quinn called out. “New boy, first time crossing the Tropic.”

  Mr. Grayson leveled his “trident” at the lad. “If you wish to cross my sea, young man, you must submit yourself to questioning. And you must tell the truth, do you understand? No one lies to the Sea King. If you attempt to deceive me, I shall know it. And then I’ll suck you down into the depths of the ocean to live with the eels, never to be heard from again.”

  Davy glanced around him, looking uncertain whether to laugh or tremble. “Aye, sir.”

  “Aye, your majesty,” Triton corrected.

  Davy shuffled his feet. “Aye, yer majesty.”

  A pair of crewmen pushed a barrel against the mast, and Davy was made to stand upon it. Somewhere in the crowd, a sailor made a crude remark. The men erupted into laughter.

  Mr. Grayson banged his mop-handle trident on the deck for silence—once, twice. The men hushed, and he turned to Davy. “Now then, boy, tell me your name.”

  “Davy Linnet, sir.”

  Bang went the mop handle. “Your majesty.”

  “Davy Linnet, yer majesty.”

  “What is your age, Davy Linnet?”

  “Fifteen, sir.”

  Bang.

  Davy jumped. “Fifteen, yer majesty.”

  Mr. Grayson began to circle the lad at a leisurely pace. “From whence do you hail, Davy Linnet?”

  “From Sussex. Town of Dunswold. Yer majesty.”

  “How many siblings have you?”

  “Five, yer majesty. Four sisters and one brother.”

  “Are your parents living?”

  “Both, sir. Er, yer majesty.”

  Mr. Grayson turned slowly on his heel, his arm muscles flexing as he propped the makeshift trident on one shoulder. The drape of his toga slipped, and he casually repositioned the fabric with his free hand. But not before Sophia glimpsed a shocking scar near his collarbone—an irregular circle of pink, puckered flesh nearly the size of her palm. She pressed her own hand to her throat.

  “And tell me, Davy Linnet,” Mr. Grayson continued, “given a choice, do you prefer brown bread or white?”

  “White, yer majesty.”

  “Ale or grog?”

  “Grog, yer majesty.” Davy began to relax, a shy smile playing on his face. Clearly, he’d anticipated a harsher interrogation than this.

  He’d anticipated correctly.

  “Ever stolen anything, Davy Linnet?”

  The boy’s smile vanished, and his brow creased. “Wh-what?”

  “Have you”—Mr. Grayson leveled the mop handle at the boy—“ever stolen anything? Are you a thief?”

  Davy hedged. “Well, I’ve nicked a scrap here and there in my time. Food, mostly.”

  “Mostly?”

  Davy’s eyes hardened. “Mostly.” Mr. Grayson held his silence, but the youth did not elaborate. Finally, he added, “Weren’t much to go around in the Linnet house.”

  Mr. Grayson gave him a stern look. “So hunger excuses theft, does it?”

  “N-no, sir. No, yer majesty.”

  “Would you steal from your crewmates?”

  “No,” Davy shot back, resolute. He looked around at the sailors. “No.”

  Bang.

  “No, yer majesty.”

  Mr. Grayson turned a slow circle. “What if you were hungry?”

  “No, yer majesty. Not from my crewmates. Can’t steal from those as share everything. If I’m going hungry, it means everyone’s going hungry.”

  Mr. Grayson gave a stiff nod, obviously satisfied with Davy’s response. He paused a long beat. Then his posture changed abruptly as he leaned back against the ship’s rail. “Have you a wife, Davy Linnet?”

  The boy chuckled, obviously relieved at the change of subject. “No, yer majesty.”

  “No? I do hope it’s not for lack of trying. How many sweethearts have you had?”

  Davy’s cheeks colored. “None, yer majesty.”

  “Tumbled any girls, Davy Linnet?”
r />   Davy’s face went scarlet. He mumbled, “N-no.”

  Bang.

  “No, yer majesty,” the boy amended quickly. “Not yet.”

  This last drew a roar of laughter from the crew and a smirk from the Sea King. Davy’s posture relaxed.

  “How about love? Ever been in love, Davy Linnet?”

  The boy went rigid again. His eyes flitted to Sophia for an instant, and her heart squeezed. She knew the boy harbored an infatuation for her—everyone aboard the ship knew it—and she knew just as certainly it wasn’t anything to approach the love he’d one day feel for a wife. But then, one couldn’t tell a fifteen-year-old his emotions were less than real.

  The silence stretched as the entire assembly awaited the boy’s response. Quinn grinned and winked at Sophia. Davy swallowed hard.

  Mr. Grayson rapped his staff against the barrel, causing Davy to sway. “The truth, boy. Or the eels.”

  The boy studied his feet for a moment. Then his head shot up and he met Mr. Grayson’s eyes directly. “Aye, sir. I’m in love.”

  Raucous laughter burst like a thunderclap, quickly organizing itself into a bawdy chant. Davy’s face flushed red as a cake of vermillion. Sophia bit her lip, inwardly aching for him. Not even when he’d climbed the mast that first day at sea, white-knuckled and shaking with fear, had she ever witnessed such courage. The irony pricked at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever hearing those words and truly believing them—not from her family, not from her friends. She’d been courted by a legion of suitors and even been betrothed, but her first sincerely-uttered declaration of love came from this brave, earnest boy.

  Davy’s admission must have affected the Sea King, too. For though he kept his face carefully composed, Mr. Grayson neglected to bang his trident and elicit the required “yer majesty.”

  Sophia longed to gauge Mr. Grayson’s reaction further, but she kept her gaze trained on the youth. Davy stood tall, despite the jeering of his crewmates. She prepared to reward him with a gracious smile, should he look in her direction, though she suspected he’d be too proud to do so.

  And he was. The boy stared stubbornly at Mr. Grayson. “Any more questions, yer majesty?”

  Another storm of laughter swept through the crew.

  Bang.

  Silence.

  “Only one, Davy Linnet. Have you coin to pay your tax?”

  The lad blinked. “Tax?”

  “Aye, your tax. There’s a price for crossing these waters unharmed. And if you cannot pay it with coin, you must suffer the consequences.” Mr. Grayson nodded toward Stubb, who pushed forward another barrel, this one open at the top and sloshing with liquid. A stench wafted from the barrel—odors of tar and rotting fish mingling with the pervasive aroma of stirred-up bilge.

  Davy’s nose wrinkled as he regarded the noxious brew from his high vantage point. “I … I haven’t a coin to my name, yer majesty.”

  “Well, Davy Linnet,” Mr. Grayson continued smoothly, “if you can’t pay the tax, you must be dunked.”

  Stubb pulled out a rusted strap of metal and waved it above his head. “Dunked and shaved!”

  The men erupted into cheers. Levi and O’Shea took Davy by either leg, lifting him toward the bilge-filled barrel.

  Sophia knew she shouldn’t intervene. The boy would come to no harm, she told herself. It was just a bit of bilge water. Clearly all of the sailors had suffered some similar hazing their first voyage, or they wouldn’t be taking such glee in Davy’s plight. But the lad had already endured too much humiliation, and endured too much of it on her account.

  “Stop!” she called out.

  To a one, the crewmen froze. A dozen heads swiveled to face her.

  Sophia swallowed and turned to Mr. Grayson. “What about me? I’m also a virgin voyager.”

  His lips quirked as his gaze swept her from head to toe and then back up partway. “Are you truly?”

  “Yes. And I haven’t a coin to my name. Do you plan to dunk and shave me, too?”

  “Now there’s an idea.” His grin widened. “Perhaps. But first, you must submit to an interrogation.”

  A lump formed in Sophia’s throat, impossible to speak around.

  Mr. Grayson raised that sonorous baritone to a carrying pitch. “What’s your name then, miss?” When Sophia merely firmed her chin and glared at him, he warned dramatically, “Truth or eels.”

  Bang.

  Excited whispers crackled through the assembly of sailors. Davy was completely forgotten, dropped to the deck with a dull thud. Even the wind held its breath in anticipation, and Sophia gave a slight jump when a sail smacked limp against the mast.

  Though her heart pounded an erratic rhythm of distress, she willed her voice to remain even. “I’ve no intention of submitting myself to any interrogation, by god or man.” She lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow. “And I’m not impressed by your staff.”

  She paused several seconds, waiting for the crew’s boisterous laughter to ebb.

  Mr. Grayson pinned her with his bold, unyielding gaze. “You dare speak to me that way? I’m Triton.” With each word, he stepped closer. “King of the Sea. A god among men.” Now they stood just paces apart. Hunger gleamed in his eyes. “And I demand a sacrifice.”

  Her hand remained pressed against her throat, and Sophia nervously picked at the neckline of her frock. This close, he was all bronzed skin stretched tight over muscle and sinew. Iridescent drops of seawater paved glistening trails down his chest, snagging on the margins of that horrific scar, just barely visible beneath his toga.

  “A sacrifice?” Her voice was weak. Her knees were weaker.

  “A sacrifice.” He flipped the trident around, his biceps flexing as he extended the blunt end toward her, hooking it under her arm. He lifted the mop handle, pulling her hand from her throat and raising her wrist for his inspection.

  Sophia might have yanked her arm away at any moment, but she was as breathless with anticipation as every other soul on deck. She’d become an observer of her own scene, helpless to alter the drama unfolding, on the edge of her seat to see how it would play out.

  He studied her arm. “An unusually fine specimen of female,” he said casually. “Young. Fair. Unblemished.” Then he withdrew the stick, and Sophia’s hand dropped to her side. “But unsatisfactory.”

  She felt a sharp twinge of pride. Unsatisfactory? Those words echoed in her mind again. I don’t want you.

  “Unsatisfactory. Too scrawny by far.” He looked around at the crew, sweeping his makeshift trident in a wide arc. “I demand a sacrifice with meat on her bones. I demand …”

  Sophia gasped as the mop handle clattered to a rest at her feet. Mr. Grayson gave her a sly wink, bracing his hands on his hips in a posture of divine arrogance. “I demand a goat.”

  CHAPTER

  ELEVEN

  The stench of live goats had permeated the Aphrodite for weeks. Now, the more pleasing aroma of cooked goat battled for precedence. Gray found it a refreshing change, but the remaining livestock didn’t seem to agree. They bleated loudly in their berths, protesting the sudden decrease in their number.

  Gray picked his way through the barn that had formerly been the gentlemen’s cabin, careful not to brush up against anything. He’d just bathed and dressed, and it wouldn’t do to show up at Christmas Eve dinner with goat dung on his boots.

  He passed into the galley and was greeted by a cloud of fragrant steam. The exotic scent of spices mingled with the tang of roasting meat. Startled, Gabriel choked on a sip from a tankard. In the corner, Stubb quickly shoved something behind his back. The old men’s eyes shone with more than holiday merriment.

  “Happy Christmas, Gray.” Gabriel extended the tankard to him. “Here. We poured you some wine.”

  Gray waved it off with a chuckle. “That my new Madeira you’re sampling?”

  Gabriel nodded as he downed another sip. “Thought I should taste it before you serve it to company. You know, to be certain it ain’t poisoned.”
He drained the mug and set it down with a smile. “No, sir. Not poisoned.”

  “And the figs? The olives? The spices? I assume you checked them all, too? For caution’s sake, of course.”

  “Of course,” Stubb said, pulling his own mug from behind his back and taking a healthy swallow. “Everyone knows you can’t trust a Portuguese trader.”

  Gray laughed. He plucked an olive from a dish on the table and popped it into his mouth. Rich oil coated his tongue. “Did you find the crate easily enough?” he asked Stubb, reaching for another olive.

  The old steward nodded. “It’s all laid out, just so. Candles, too.”

  “Feels like Christmas proper.” Gabriel tilted his head. “Miss Turner even gave me a gift.”

  Gray followed the motion, squinting through the steam.

  I’ll be damned.

  A small canvas sat propped on the cabinet. Painted on it was a deceptively simple seascape. Masterful brushstrokes captured the swirling motion of the water and the dance of the breeze. Fading sunlight kissed the waves with brilliance.

  And as was the case with all Miss Turner’s work, Gray found himself genuinely moved by it—not only by the painting’s beauty, but by the care that occasioned its creation. She’d given Gabriel a window for the galley, just as surely as if she’d cut a hole in the ship’s side and installed a pane of glass. She’d given him a gift, indeed.

  Stubb said, “She made a sketch of Bailey for his wife. Now he’s fashioning her these little canvases from spare bits of wood and sailcloth.”

  “Doesn’t Bailey have sails to mend?” he grumbled. “I’m not paying the man to make canvases.”

  Gabriel shrugged, throwing him an offended look. “I just give the man his biscuit three times a day. I don’t keep track of how he spends his time.”

  Gray knew he was being an ass, but he found it damned maddening, this constant assault of her artistry. These little scraps of beauty strewn about his ship. Dazzling his eyes, yanking him about with little tugs on his gut. Their collective effect left Gray feeling more than a bit resentful. But not so resentful that he’d ceased looking for them—hell, hoping to find them—in a manner that verged uncomfortably on habit.