Tessa Dare

by Surrender of a Siren

  “If you wish.” Brackett turned on his heel, swinging the marlinespike around like a compass needle, ultimately selecting Quinn as its true north. “You there. String Linnet up to the yardarm.”

  Muffled curses rose up from the assembled crew. Quinn shifted his weight uneasily. Brackett swung ’round again, making another swiping threat with the marline-spike, and losing his hat in the process. The men dropped back in silence.

  The sweat on Sophia’s neck went cold.

  “Remove your shirt, Linnet.” When the boy simply stood in place, Brackett hooked the tip of the marline-spike into Davy’s collar and yanked, ripping the coarse tunic from neck to waist. Then he reached out with his free hand to tear the shirt away from the youth’s torso, exposing a smooth, pale chest.

  Brackett rested the marlinespike on his shoulder like a dueling pistol and turned to Quinn. “String. Him. Up.”

  Quinn did not move. Braced in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest, he was a towering mountain of muscle. And he received Brackett’s command with all the stony indifference of a mountain that had just been ordered to jump. Make me, his gaze said. I’d like to see you try.

  Sophia wanted to believe the man felt some allegiance to Davy, but she suspected the heat factored strongly in his defiance. If Quinn hadn’t wanted to climb the mast ten minutes ago, he could hardly relish the idea of hauling a boy up with him now.

  Mr. Brackett did not seem angered by Quinn’s mute refusal. Instead, Sophia thought he looked oddly gratified. His face lit with a smug, expectant grin. “Do you disobey a direct order then, Quinn?”

  Quinn did not move.

  “Insubordination,” said Brackett, circling Quinn slowly, “is a serious infraction. I advise you to reconsider. I’ll say it but one more time, Quinn.” Brackett punctuated each word with a jab to the sailor’s chest. “String. Him. Up.”

  Quinn shrugged off the spike, as a horse twitches its flank to dislodge a fly.

  Brackett sneered, sweat trickling off his brow. His black hair was soaked with perspiration, matted to his scalp like raven feathers. Whether it was the heat, the power of command, or both—this scene had unleashed something dark in the man. Something terrifying. His eyes were wild, and he wielded the marlinespike like one of the devil’s own tormentors.

  “I was going to make an example of the boy there, but now I think you”—he jabbed Quinn again—“will make a better example by far.”

  With sudden, agile fury, Brackett swung the heavy iron spike and hit Quinn square in the back of his knee. The man’s leg crumpled beneath him, and he dropped to the deck with a heavy thud.

  Sophia clapped a hand over her scream.

  Quinn groaned and rolled to his knees. Brackett twirled the marlinespike in his hand and hammered him between the shoulder blades with the blunt end, sprawling him face-first onto the deck. Before the sailor could recover from the blow, Brackett had his boot planted on the man’s neck, holding him down.

  The assembled crew stood frozen, the men glancing frantically from one to another. Sophia understood their hesitation. Even if their captain would not countenance such violence—and Sophia felt certain he wouldn’t—to overpower Brackett would be mutiny.

  Quinn struggled to rise. Brackett crushed his heel down on the man’s neck, stifling all protest.

  Sophia glanced toward the ship’s prow. It was impossible to see the longboat from here. If only she could make some sort of signal … or call out to the captain.

  “Fetch me the lash,” Brackett ordered, pointing the marlinespike at Davy. “And be quick about it, or I’ll double your strokes.”

  Sophia didn’t wait for Davy’s response. She turned on her heel and bolted down the stairs belowdecks, racing through the ladies’ cabin and passing into steerage.

  “Mr. Grayson!” She wove through the jumbled crates. He would make everything all right, she knew it. He had to. “Mr. Grayson! Gray!”

  A hand snagged her elbow.

  “Come to me at last, have you?”

  It was stifling hot in the compartment, and Sophia was overwrought. At the sound of his sleepy baritone and the reassuring feel of his hand on her skin, she nearly melted. He leaned against the stacked crates, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his sleeve. “What is it, sweet?”

  “Come quickly,” she said, removing his hand from her elbow and tugging him back toward the stairs.

  At the frantic tremor in her voice, he snapped into seriousness. She yanked on his arm, but he did not move. “What is it?” he repeated, his eyes searching hers.

  “It’s Davy. And Quinn … he’s going to flog them.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Brackett.”

  With a muttered curse, he shook off her grip and charged past her, making his way through the ladies’ cabin and taking the ladder three rungs at a time. Sophia hurried behind him.

  “What the devil is going on here?” Mr. Grayson demanded.

  The scene looked much as Sophia had left it. Was it possible only a minute had passed? Brackett still held Quinn under his boot, at the point of the marlinespike. Around him, the crewmen stood in a half-circle, sweat streaming from their brows under the midday sun. At the sight of Mr. Grayson, they visibly relaxed. The only one missing was Davy.

  “Ah, Mr. Grayson. Good afternoon.” Mr. Brackett greeted him calmly, his eyes hard as stone.

  “Where’s the boy?”

  “I’ve sent him to fetch the lash. This one”—he shifted his weight to Quinn’s neck—“needs to learn who his superiors are.”

  “There’s no lash on this ship, Brackett. I don’t permit flogging. Never have.”

  Brackett smirked. “Small wonder, then, that your crew is so worthless. They’re well overdue for their dose of discipline. And if you’ve no lash … well, I’m certain something can be improvised.”

  “Ahoy!” The call came from the front of the ship. The longboat had returned. A few of the sailors began backing away from the scene, toward the prow. They looked toward Mr. Grayson for permission, and he dismissed them with a nod.

  “That’ll be your captain, Brackett. You may stand down.”

  Mr. Grayson’s voice remained so calm, so authoritative; his posture was relaxed. His coat and trousers hung haphazardly from his frame, in contrast to Mr. Brackett’s orderly rows of buttons, glaring in the sun. He was unarmed, unkempt, unruffled. Yet there was no doubt in anyone’s mind who had the upper hand. Once again, Mr. Grayson had assumed command of a scene without even breaking a sweat.

  Meanwhile, Sophia trembled so violently, her ribs rattled against her stays. She felt an arm take her elbow, steadying it. Swiveling her head, she found Stubb standing beside her.

  “The boy’s below,” he whispered. “When he come looking for the lash, I told him to stay out of sight.”

  Sophia swallowed and nodded.

  Mr. Grayson crossed his arms over his chest. “Stand down, Brackett. If there’s discipline to be meted out, the captain will handle it.”

  Brackett removed his boot from Quinn’s neck, only to give him a swift kick in the ribs. The sailor groaned at his feet, and the officer’s mouth twisted in a sick smile. “I’m first mate. I don’t work for the captain. I work for you.”

  Mr. Grayson’s eyes hardened. “Not any longer, you don’t.”

  The captain strode across the deck, wiping his brow before replacing his hat. Four sailors followed him, still shirtless from their stint in the longboat.

  “What’s going on? We heard a commotion.” The captain spied Quinn groaning in pain on the deck and knelt beside him. “Good God. He didn’t fall from the rigging?”

  “No.” Mr. Grayson nodded toward Brackett. “Captain Grayson, you should know that Mr. Brackett has been relieved of his duties as first mate of the Aphrodite, effective immediately. How you accommodate his presence on this ship for the remainder of the voyage is yours to decide. I recommend the brig.”

  “I see.” Joss looked around at the assembled sailors, his demeanor suddenly
grave. He rose to his feet, pulling his cuffs straight. “Stubb, tend to Quinn.” He turned to the shirtless sailors. “Levi, O’Shea. Show Mr. Brackett his new quarters in the brig. Gray—” He tilted his head toward Sophia. “Get her belowdecks. And keep her there.”

  Mr. Grayson nodded.

  Levi and O’Shea took the snarling Brackett between them, one on either arm, and together they herded him down into the hold. As they passed, Sophia gasped. Levi’s back was a gnarled mass of healed scars, braided one over the other in the middle, branching out toward both shoulders. She wondered, were they the result of his permanent silence, or the cause?

  “Come, sweetheart. You need to rest.” Mr. Grayson’s hand pressed against the small of her back.

  Sophia shook her head. She couldn’t tear her eyes away from the horror that was Levi’s back. Not until he disappeared belowdecks. “I thought you said you don’t permit flogging.”

  “I don’t. That’s why.”

  CHAPTER

  THIRTEEN

  Miss Turner went limp in his arms. Gray thought for a moment she’d swooned. But when he looked down at her, he found only thick-fringed eyes gazing back up at him, swimming with confusion and unshed tears. She hadn’t fainted at all. She’d simply fallen against him and trusted him to catch her.

  Behind him, Joss barked orders to the crew, and to Mr. Wiggins, now first mate. The men scurried back to their stations. Still, the two of them stood there, her back pressing flat and warm against his chest. Gray wrapped his arms about her and steered her toward the companionway. Shoring up her slender frame with an arm about her waist, he guided Miss Turner down the stairs and into the ladies’ cabin.

  And then came the moment to ease her into a chair. But he found he didn’t want to release her. She fit so perfectly against him, and he suddenly allowed himself to feel how very much he’d been yearning to do exactly this. Hold her close. Hold her tight. Not let go.

  Together they leaned against the doorframe. One of them was shaking, and Gray worried it might be him.

  She leaned her head against his arm. “I knew you’d put a stop to it. I tried, but I only made matters worse. But I knew they’d listen to you. They all listen to you. And I knew you’d never allow such a thing to continue.”

  Good Lord, Gray thought. Here he held this woman in his arms while she made him out to be some sort of … not a saint, exactly, but a man possessing a shred of honor. And all the while she trembled against his body, soft and damp and warm, never suspecting the dozens of ways in which he longed to dishonor them both.

  Would she still allow him to hold her like this, encircled in his arms, her backside pressed against his swelling groin, if she could read his thoughts? If she knew that when she tilted her head to bury her face in his sleeve, she gave him a direct view of the alabaster curve of her neck, the carved ivory of her collarbone, and the exquisite image that would haunt his dreams—the soft, rose-scented valley between her breasts?

  God, what a lecherous bastard he was.

  He’d been ashamed of many things in his life, but never before had he felt so ashamed simply to be a man, a part of this violent, brutish race of creatures who flogged one another, beat helpless boys with marline-spikes, and lusted after unsuspecting governesses while they were overset with emotion. This woman was bred for better things, deserved better things. Better than this ship, this life. Better than a base, craving creature like him.

  “You should sit down.” He brought his hands to her shoulders and guided her to a chair.

  She sank into it slowly, folding her hands on the table in front of her. Well, and now what? He certainly couldn’t leave her alone in this state. Her eyes were dark hollows in an ashen face; her lips quivered.

  Gray paced the cabin. He couldn’t comfort her without mauling her. He couldn’t go abovedecks and put his crew to rights, because they weren’t his crew to command.

  Impotent. He’d been rendered impotent, in more ways than one. Gray nearly laughed with the realization. It was not a sensation he’d ever thought to experience, in any sense of the word. Coupled with this heat … he would go mad with frustration. He rubbed his hand under his collar, then made a fist and punched the wall.

  “What will happen to Mr. Brackett?” Her voice was flat, remote.

  “He’ll stay in the ship’s brig until we dock.”

  She gave him a blank look.

  “It’s a jail,” he explained. “More of a cage, really. Down in the hold.”

  “A cage? How horrible.”

  “It’s for his own safety, as much as anything. What he did … it wasn’t any worse than what officers on other ships do every day. But now that he’s no longer an officer, the sailors might be tempted to exact revenge.”

  “Why did you dismiss him from duty, then? Why not let him remain an officer until we reach Tortola?”

  “Even if Brackett’s actions had been justified, I couldn’t have kept him in the post. He’s lost all authority with the crew now. My interference assured that.”

  “It’s all my fault.” Her voice shrank. “I’m so sorry.”

  “No.” She jumped, and Gray bit the inside of his cheek. Bloody hell. Hadn’t she seen enough coarseness today, without him losing all sense of civility? He forced his emotions back down to a simmer. “Don’t be sorry. You were right to help. You were right to fetch me.”

  She relaxed, and Gray resumed prowling the cabin. “What the devil was Davy doing up there with a marlinespike? That’s what I’d like to know. It’s a sailor’s duty.”

  She put her head in her hands. “I’m afraid that’s my fault, too. I’d been talking to him about moving up to the forecastle, and I … I think he wanted to impress me.”

  Gray choked on a laugh. “Well, of course he did. You ought to take care how you bat those eyelashes, sweetheart. One of these days, you’re likely to knock a man overboard.”

  The legs of her chair scraped the floor as she stood. The color returned to her cheeks. “If Davy was trying to impress me, it’s as much your fault as mine.”

  “How is that my fault?” Gray’s frustration came right back to a boil. He hated himself for growling at her, but he couldn’t seem to help it.

  “You’re the one who humiliated him in front of the crew, with all those questions. You goaded him into saying he … well, you know what he said.”

  “Yes, I know what he said.” Gray stepped toward her until only the table separated them. “I know what he said. And don’t pretend you didn’t enjoy it. Don’t pretend you don’t use those men to feed your vanity.”

  “My vanity? What would you know about feeding my vanity? You don’t so much as breathe in my direction. At least the sailors speak to me. And if that entire ‘King of the Sea’ display wasn’t one long exercise in feeding your own vanity, I’m sure I don’t know what is.” She jabbed one finger on the tabletop and lowered her voice. “Those men may flirt with me, but they worship you. You know it. You wanted to feel it. Bask in it. And you did so at Davy’s expense.”

  “At least I only teased the boy. I’m not the one poised to break his heart.”

  She blinked. “It’s only infatuation. He’s not really in love with me.”

  He pounded the table. “Of course the boy’s in love with you! They all are. You talk to them, you listen to their stories—even Wiggins’s prattling, God only knows why. You draw them little sketches, you make them paintings for Christmas. You remind them of everything they’ve left behind, everything they pray they’ll one day hold again. And you do it all looking like some sort of Botticelli goddess, surely the most beautiful thing they’ve ever laid eyes on. Damn it, how’s a man to keep from falling in love with you?”

  Silence.

  She stared at him.

  She blinked.

  Her lips parted, and she drew a quick breath.

  Say something, Gray silently pleaded. Anything. But she only stared at him. What the hell had he just said? Was it truly that bad? He frowned, reliving the past minute in
his mind.

  Oh, God. Gray rubbed his face with one hand, then gave a sharp tug on his hair. It was that bad. Damn it to hell. If Joss were here, he’d have a good laugh at his expense.

  “Have you …”

  “Have I what?” Gray prompted, promptly kicking himself for doing so. God only knew what she’d ask now. Or what damn fool thing he’d say in response.

  “Have you ever seen a Botticelli? Painting, I mean. A real one, in person?”

  The breath he’d been holding whooshed out of him. “Yes.”

  “Oh.” She bit her lip. “What was it like?”

  “I …” His hand gestured uselessly. “I haven’t words to describe it.”

  “Try.”

  Her eyes were too clear, too piercing. He swallowed and shifted his gaze to a damp lock of hair curling at her temple. “Perfect. Luminous. So beautiful, your chest aches. And so smooth, like glass. Your fingers itch to touch it.”

  “But you can’t.”

  “No,” he said quietly, his gaze sliding back to meet hers. “It isn’t allowed.”

  “And you care what others will allow?” She took a step toward him, her fingers trailing along the grooved tabletop. “What if you were alone, and there was no one to see? Would you touch it then?”

  Gray shook his head and dropped his gaze to his hands. “It’s not …” He paused, picking over his words like fruits in an island market. Testing and discarding twice as many as he chose. “There’s a varnish, you see. Some sort of gloss. If I touched it with these rough hands, I’d mar it somehow. Make it a bit less beautiful. Couldn’t live with myself then.”

  “So—” She leaned one hip against the table’s edge, making her whole body one sinuous, sweeping curve. Gray sucked in a lungful of heat. “It isn’t the rules that prevent you.”