Surrender of a Siren (3 page)

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 against 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.”

Stubb gave an amused cackle. “They’re all vacant, I believe.”

Well, yes. But they’d all be full on the voyage home, thanks to the dwindling profits of sugar plantations. Scarcely anyone was traveling to the West Indies anymore, save Methodist missionaries. And, apparently, the occasional winsome governess.

Seeming to recognize defeat, Joss bowed. “Welcome aboard the
Aphrodite
, Miss Turner. I hope your voyage is pleasant.”

The young lady curtsied once again before Stubb escorted her to the narrow stairs that led belowdecks. Gray watched Miss Turner descend into the belly of the ship, knowing that for good or ill, this voyage had just become a great deal more interesting.

“Where’s Bains?” Joss asked suddenly. “What are you doing, rowing yourself back to the ship? Is he following with more cargo?”

“No. I let him go.”

“You let him go? What the devil for?”

“Something’s wrong with his eyesight.” Any man who mistook Miss Turner for a dockside whore had to be losing his vision. Not to mention, Gray didn’t want a sailor who had a habit of taking what wasn’t offered him. In voyages past, that attitude might have been a desirable trait, but not anymore. The
Aphrodite
was a respectable merchant ship now.

Joss’s jaw clenched. “You can’t let him go. He’s my crewman.”

“It’s already done.”

“I can’t believe this. You go ashore for two hours of trade, and somehow you’ve exchanged an experienced sailor for a governess.”

“Well, and goats. I did buy a few goats—the boatman will have them out presently.”

“Damn it, don’t try to change the subject. Crew and passengers are supposed to be my responsibility. Am I captain of this ship or not?”

“Yes, Joss, you’re the captain. But I’m the investor. I don’t want Bains near my cargo, and I’d like at least one paying passenger on this voyage, if I can get one. I didn’t have that steerage compartment converted to cabins for a lark, you realize.”

“If you think I’ll believe your interest in that girl lies solely in her six pounds sterling …”

Gray shrugged. “Since you mention it, I quite admired her brass as well.”

“You know damn well what I mean. A young lady, unescorted …” He looked askance at Gray. “It’s asking for trouble.”

“Asking for trouble?” Gray echoed, hoping to lighten the conversation. “Since when does the
Aphrodite
need to go
asking
for trouble? We’ve stowed more trouble than cargo on this ship.” He leaned back, propping both elbows on the ship’s rail. “And as trouble goes, Miss Turner’s variety looks a damn sight better than most alternatives. Perhaps you could do with a bit of trouble yourself. It’s been a year, you know.”

Joss’s face drew tight. “It’s been a year, two months, and seventeen days. I have troubles enough of my own, Gray. I’m not looking for more.” He turned and stared out over the harbor.

Damn
. Gray knew he shouldn’t have said that. It was just—well, he missed the old, piss-at-the-devil Joss. He missed his brother.

He kept hoping the old Joss would surface someday, once he released all that pain dragging him down. But the chances of that seemed even less likely, now that Gray had made him captain. Navigating the sea would be the least of Joss’s worries on this, his first voyage in command. Navigating the balance of power between a green captain and fifteen men more accustomed to plundering cargo than protecting it—now
that
was treacherous going.
Here there be monsters
.

And Joss was worried—perhaps rightly—that having an attractive, unmarried young lady aboard would cock it all up.

“I’ll keep the girl out of trouble,” Gray said, in what seemed to him a rather magnanimous gesture. “I’ll watch out for her.”

“Oh, I’ve no doubt you will. But who’s going to watch out for you?”

Gray’s nerves prickled. So, it wasn’t the girl Joss was concerned about. No, he expected Gray to cock it all up.

“Right, Joss. I’m an unprincipled, lecherous bastard.” He paused, waiting for his brother to argue otherwise.

He didn’t.

Gray protested, “She’s a governess, for the love of gold. Prim, proper, starched, dull.”
Soft
, he thought in counterpoint.
Delicate, sweet. Intriguing
.

“Ah. So you’ll dally with any chambermaid or serving wench who’ll lift her skirts, but you’d draw the line at seducing a governess?”

“
Yes
. Have a look at me, man.” Gray smoothed his brushed velvet lapel, then gestured upward at the banners trimming the freshly tarred rigging. “Look at this ship. I’m telling you, my libertine days are over. I’ve gone respectable.”

“It’s easy to change your coat. It’s a great deal harder to change your ways.”

Gray sighed heavily. He’d never been a model brother, and God knew he’ d never be a saint. But whether Joss believed it or not, he’d worked damn hard to launch this business. He’d worked damn hard for
them
—to give this patched-together family of theirs some security, the place in society their father had forfeited de cades ago. He’d talked investors into entrusting him with thousands of pounds; he’d promised the insurers he could be trusted to safely deliver the cargo.