41
" Gray waited a full verse before approaching her, prowling around her periphery and coming to rest behind her right shoulder. A few of the men gave him friendly nods, but most were too absorbed in their spirits and song to pay him any mind.
“What are you doing?” she asked, flicking him a glance through the swaying lamplight.
“Who, me?” he murmured. “I’m simply leaning against the foremast. You know, this tall bit of timber you weren’t to go past.”
She sipped her drink.
Gray pushed off the mast and crouched at her side. If she’d turn and look at him, they would be eye-to-eye. But she didn’t. “The better question is, what the hell are you doing?”
“I’m enjoying myself,” she said lightly, taking another drink. “I suggest you do the same.” She passed the tankard to him and applauded with wild enthusiasm as the song came to its tuneless end.
Gray peered at the half-empty tankard, then lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Straight, unadulterated rum, the girl was drinking. That would explain the enthusiasm. Her applause concluded, she snatched the tankard back and downed a swallow to do a sailor proud.
Bloody hell. Gray suspected the only thing worse than watching over a prim governess would be watching over a soused one. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
43
" The captain?
Sophia stood staring numbly after him. Had he just said he’d introduce her to the captain? Of someone else was the captain, then who on earth was this man?
One thing was clear. Whoever he was, he had her trunks.
And he was walking away.
Cursing under her breath, Sophia picked up her skirts and trotted after him, dodging boatmen and barrels and coils of tarred rope as she pursued him down the quay. A forest of tall masts loomed overhead, striping the dock with shadow.
Breathless, she regained his side just as he neared the dock’s edge. “But…aren’t you Captain Grayson?”
“I,” he said, pitching her smaller trunk into a waiting rowboat, “am Mr. Grayson, owner of the Aphrodite and principle investor in her cargo.”
The owner. Well, that was some relief. The tavern-keeper must have been confused.
The porter deposited her larger truck alongside the first, and Mr. Grayson dismissed him with a word and a coin. He plunked one polished Hessian on the rowboat’s seat and shifted his weight to it, straddling the gap between boat and dock. Hand outstretched, he beckoned her with an impatient twitch of his fingers. “Miss Turner?”
Sophia inched closer to the dock’s edge and reached one gloved hand toward his, considering how best to board the bobbing craft without losing her dignity overboard.
The moment her fingers grazed his palm, his grin tightened over her hand. He pulled swiftly, wrenching her feet from the dock and a gasp from her throat. A moment of weightlessness-and then she was aboard. Somehow his arm had whipped around her waist, binding her to his solid chest. He released her just as quickly, but a lilt of the rowboat pitched Sophia back into his arms.
“Steady there,” he murmured through a small smile. “I have you.”
A sudden gust of wind absconded with his hat. He took no notice, but Sophia did. She noticed everything. Never in her life had she felt so acutely aware. Her nerves were draw taut as harp strings, and her senses hummed.
The man radiated heat. From exertion, most likely. Or perhaps from a sheer surplus of simmering male vigor. The air around them was cold, but he was hot. And as he held her tight against his chest, Sophia felt that delicious, enticing heat burn through every layer of her clothing-cloak, gown, stays, chemise, petticoat, stockings, drawers-igniting desire in her belly.
And sparking a flare of alarm. This was a precarious position indeed. The further her torso melted into his, the more certainly he would detect her secret: the cold, hard bundle of notes and coin lashed beneath her stays.
She pushed away from him, dropping onto the seat and crossing her arms over her chest. Behind him, the breeze dropped his hat into a foamy eddy. He still hadn’t noticed its loss.
What he noticed was her gesture of modesty, and he gave her a patronizing smile. “Don’t concern yourself, Miss Turner. You’ve nothing in there I haven’t seen before.”
Just for that, she would not tell him. Farewell, hat. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
45
" Was it a convent you escaped from, Miss Turner?” He turned the boat with a deft pull on one oar.
“Escaped?” Her heart knocked against her hidden purse. “I’m a governess, I told you. I’m not running away, from a convent or anywhere else. Why would you ask that?”
He chuckled. “Because you’re staring at me as though you’ve never seen a man before.”
Sophia’s cheeks burned. She was staring. Worse, now she found herself powerless to turn away. What with the murky shadows of the tavern and the confusion of the quay, not to mention her own discomposure, she hadn’t taken a good, clear look at his eyes until this moment.
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? "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
46
" I know what you’re thinking, Gray,” O’Shea’s brogue lilted down through the skylight one warm morning, while Sophia was hard at work.
Mr. Grayson responded, a raw longing in his voice. “Aye. It would be so easy to take her.”
Sophia nearly dropped her quill.
“We’ve the advantage of the wind,” O’Shea said.
“And a faster ship,” Gray replied. “We’d be on her stern in no time.”
Ships. Sophia breathed again. They were speaking of ships.
“Those were the days.” O’Shea gave a low whistle. “One cannonball to the rudder…”
“Wouldn’t even need that. She’d accept our terms with little more than a signal shot and a smile.”
She could hear that smile in his voice.
He continued, “Cannons are for amateurs. Seizing a ship intact…it’s all in the approach. From the moment that sail appears on the horizon, you act as though it’s already yours. All that remains is to inform the other captain. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
47
" Then he took the teat closest to Sophia and gave it a twist. A fresh stream of milk shot forth, glancing off the rim of the bucket and splashing her slippers.
“Take care!” With a little shriek of laughter, she pushed away from the goat’s side. Davy tilted his hand and squeezed the teat again, this time splattering Sophia from crown to chest. Sputtering and wiping milk from her face, she scrambled to her feet. “Davy Linnet,” she scolded, towering over both youth and goat. “You’re a rascal.”
“Am I?” He flashed her a lopsided, innocent grin. Shrugging, he dropped his gaze and emptied the last drops of milk into the pail. “Well, you’re blushing.”
Sophia made a show of huffing and crossing her arms, but she could not keep the laughter out of her voice. “Never say you’ve learned nothing from me, Davy. You might have shown me how to milk, but I’ve taught you to flirt.”
“A fair bargain, then.” He stood and took the goat by its collar.
“Perhaps. Mind you don’t confuse the two talents. Keep your goats straight from your girls.”
“That’s easily done.” Mischief twinkled sharp in his eye. “The goat’s don’t blush. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
48
" Gray froze as Miss Turner emerged from the hold. For weeks, she’d plagued him-by day, he suffered glimpses of her beauty; by night, he was haunted by memories of her touch. And just when he thought he’d finally wrangled his desire into submission, today she’d ruined everything.
She’d gone and changed her dress.
Gone was that serge shroud, that forbidding thundercloud of a garment that had loomed in his peripheral vision for weeks. Today, she wore a cap-sleeved frock of sprigged muslin.
She stepped onto the deck, smiling face tilted to the wind. A flower opening to greet the sun. She bobbed on her toes, as though resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl. The pale, sheer fabric of her dress billowed and swelled in the breeze, pulling the undulating contour of calf, thigh, hip into relief.
Gray thought she just might be the loveliest creature he’d ever seen.
Therefore, he knew he ought to look away.
He did, for a moment. He made an honest attempt to scan the horizon for clouds. He checked the hour on his pocket watch, wound the small knob one, two, three, four times. He wiped a bit of salt spray from its glass face. He thought of England. And France, and Cuba, and Spain. He remembered his brother, his sister, and his singularly ugly Aunt Rosamond, on whom he hadn’t clapped eyes in decades. And all this Herculean effort resulting in nothing but a fine sheen of sweat on his brow and precisely thirty seconds’ delay in the inevitable.
He looked at her again.
Desire swept through his body with starling intensity. And beneath that hot surge of lust, a deeper emotion swelled. It wasn’t something Gray wished to examine. He preferred to let it sink back into the murky depths of his being. An unnamed creature of the deep, let for a more intrepid adventurer to catalog.
Instead, he examined Miss Turner’s new frock. The fabric was of fine quality, the sprig pattern evenly stamped, without variations in shape or hue. The dressmaker had taken great pains to match the pattern at the seams. The sleeves of the frock fit perfectly square with her shoulders, in a moment of calm, the skirt’s single flounce lapped the laces of her boots. Unlike that gray serge abomination, this dress was expensive, and it had been fashioned for her alone.
But it no longer fit. As she turned, Gray noted how the neckline gaped slightly, and the column of her skirt that ought to have skimmed the swell of her hip instead caught on nothing but air.
He frowned. And in that instant, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught and held. Her own smile faded to a quizzical expression. And because Gray didn’t know how to answer the unspoken question in her eyes, and because he hated the fact that he’d banished the giddy delight from her face, he gave her a curt nod and a churlish, “Good morning.”
And then he walked away. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
49
" 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 refuse. 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.”
“Go home and do what? Squander your fortune and talent on dirt farming?”
“Go home and take care of my own family. Go home and do what I damn well please, for once.”
Cursing, Gray leaned against the wall. He knew Joss would make good on that threat, too. It hadn’t been easy, coaxing his brother out of mourning. Gray had resorted to outright bullying just to convince him to take command of the Aphrodite, threatening to cut off his income unless he reported to London as agreed. But he needed Joss, if this shipping concern was to stay afloat. He’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much to see it fail.
And if Joss didn’t become a willing partner, it all would have been in vain.
“Stay away from the girl, Gray.”
Gray sighed. “We’re on the same ship. I can’t help but be near her. I’ll not promise to refrain from touching her, because the girl seems to lose her footing whenever I’m around. But I give you my word I’ll not kiss her again. Satisfied?”
Joss shook his head. “Give me your word you won’t bed her.”
“What a legend you’re making me! Insinuating I could bed her without even kissing her first.” Gray worried the edge of his thumbnail as he considered. “That might prove an amusing challenge, now that you suggest it.”
Joss shot him an incredulous look.
“With some other lady, on some other ship.” Gray raised his hands in a defensive gesture. “I’ll not bed her. You have my word. And don’t think that’s not a great sacrifice, because it is. I’d have her in two, three days at the most, I tell you.”
“Once again-not amusing.”
“For God’s sake, Joss, it’s a joke. What do you want, an apology? I’m sorry for kissing Miss Turner’s hand, all right?”
Joss shook his head and flipped open the logbook. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am.” The odd thing of it was, Gray was telling the truth. He knew he was being an ass, but the joking was easier than honesty. For all his teasing, he hadn’t kissed her hand with the intent to seduce, or to judge if she tasted as sweet as he’d dreamed. He’d kissed her fingers for one reason only. Because they were trembling, and he’d wanted them to stop. It was wholly unlike him, that kiss. It was not a gesture he thought it wise to repeat. That girl did something strange to him. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
50
" If only he weren’t so infuriating and so solicitous, all at once. One or the other, she knew how to resist, but insolence and charm made a potent brew indeed. The way he’d soothed her concern with rough fingers, even as his words teased. The way he’d guided her with a light touch at the small of her back, kissed her fingers so tenderly…they could have been in an elegant ballroom, preparing to dance a quadrille.
By all evidence-his fine attire, cultured accent, proud bearing, the rare flash of politesse-Mr. Grayson was a man who could move in the highest echelons of English society, but delighted in doing just the reverse. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
51
" He recognized her deft hand and eye for detail immediately. He flipped through the pages, past vignettes of the dairymaid and her vague-featured gentleman engaged in a courtship of sorts: a kiss on the hand, a whisper in the ear. By the book’s midpoint, the chit’s voluminous petticoats were up around her ears, and the illustrations comprised a sequence of quite similar poses in varying locales. Not just the dairy, but a carriage, the larder, in a hayloft lit with candles and strewn with…were those rose petals?
I’ll be damned.
Gray was fast divining the true source of the French painting master’s mythic exploits. More unsettling by far, however, as he perused the book, he noted a subtle alteration in the gentleman lover’s features. With each successive illustration, the hero appeared taller, broader in the shoulders, and his hair went from a cropped style to collar length in the space of two pages.
The more pages Gray turned, the more he recognized himself.
It was unmistakable. She’d used him as the model for these bawdy illustrations. She’d sketched him in secret; not once, but many times. And here he’d nearly gone mad with envy over each scrap of foolscap she’d inked for once crewman or another. His emotions underwent a dizzying progression-from surprised, to flattered, to (with the benefit of one especially inventive situation in an orchard) undeniably aroused.
But as he lingered over a nude study of this amalgam of the real him and some picaresque fantasy, he began to feel something else entirely. He felt used.
She’d rendered his form with astonishing accuracy, given that it must have been drawn before she’d any opportunity to actually see him unclothed. Not that she’d achieved an exact likeness. Her virgin’s imagination was rather generous in certain aspects and somewhat stinting in others, he noted with a bitter sort of amusement. But she’d laid him bare in these pages, without his knowledge or consent. God, she’d even drawn his scars. All in service of some adolescent erotic fantasy.
And now he began to grow angry.
He had been handling the leaves of the book with his fingertips only, anxious he might smudge or rip the pages. Now he abandoned all caution and flipped roughly through the remainder of the volume. Until he came to the end, and his hand froze.
There they were, the two of them. He and she fully clothed and unengaged in any physical intimacies-yet intimate, in a way he had never known. Never dreamed. Sitting beneath a willow tree, his head in her lap. One of her hands lay twined with his, atop his chest. The other rested on his brow. The sky soared vast and expansive above, gauzy clouds spinning into forever.
The hot fist of desire that had gripped his loins loosened, moved upward through his torso, churning the contents of his gut along the way. Then it clutched at his heart and squeezed until it hurt. Somehow, this illustration was the most dismaying of all. So naïve, so ridiculous. at least the bawdy situations were plausible, if sometimes physically improbable. This was utterly impossible. To her, he'd never been more than a fantasy.
It occurred to Gray that more secrets might be packed within these trunks. If he sorted through her belongings, he might find the answers to all his questions. Perhaps answers to questions he'd never thought to ask. In spite of this, he let the lid of the trunk clap shut and fastened the strap with shaking fingers. He'd suffered as many of her fantasies as he could bear for one day.
It was time to acquaint her with reality. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
52
" As she hurried on deck, her mind was awhirl. All that time that Mr. Grayson had been touching her, teasing her…she’d been consorting with a pirate. If he had the slightest inkling that she carried hundreds of pounds beneath her stays, he’d surely stop at nothing to get it. And yet, she could not bid caution to overtake the gothic thrill. For Heaven’s sake, a pirate.
She could be in danger, she admonished herself.
She could be plundered.
The possibility really ought to have frightened her more than it did.
Perhaps she could not escape the man, but she had to tamp down this response he incited in her. There was only one thing for it. She would go to her cabin and sketch. Something simple, innocent. Rosebuds, apples, blocks of wood. Anything but him. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
53
" 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.”
“Not really. No.”
Silence again. Vast and echoing, like the long, marble-tiled galleries of the Uffizi. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
54
" Gray burst into the galley. “Miss Turner is not eating.”
The cramped, boxed-in nature of the space, the oppressive heat-it seemed an appropriate place to take this irrational surge of resentment. If only his emotion could dissipate through the ventilation slats as quickly as steam.
“And good morning to you, too.” Gabriel wiped his hands on his apron without glancing up.
“She’s not eating,” Gray repeated evenly. “She’s wasting away.” He didn’t even realize his knuckled cracked. He flexed his fingers impatiently.
“Wasting away?” Gabriel’s face split in a grin as he picked up a mallet and attacked a hunk of salted pork. “Now what makes you say that?”
“Her dress no longer fits properly. The neckline of her bodice is too loose.”
Gabriel stopped pounding and looked up, meeting Gray’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the galley. The mocking arch of the old man’s eyebrows had Gray clenching his teeth. They stared at each other for a second. Then Gray blew out his breath and looked away, and Gabriel broke into peals of laughter.
“Never thought I’d live to see the day,” the old cook finally said, “when you would complain that a beautiful lady’s bodice was too loose.”
“It’s not that she’s a beautiful lady-“
Gabriel looked up sharply.
“It’s not merely that she’s a beautiful lady,” Gray amended. “She’s a passenger, and I have a duty to look out for her welfare.”
“Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?”
Gray narrowed his eyes.
“And I know my duty well enough,” Gabriel continued. “It’s not as though I’m denying her food, now is it? I’m thinking Miss Turner just isn’t accustomed to the rough living aboard a ship. Used to finer fare, that one.”
Gray scowled at the hunk of cured pork under Gabriel’s mallet and the shriveled, sprouted potatoes rolling back and forth with each tilt of the ship. “Is this the noon meal?”
“This, and biscuit.”
“I’ll order the men to trawl for a fish.”
“Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gabriel’s tone was sly.
Gray wasn’t sure whether the plume of steam swirling through the galley originated for the stove or his ears. He didn’t care for Gabriel’s flippant tone. Neither did he care for the possibility of Miss Turner’s lush curves disappearing when he’d never had any chance to appreciate them.
Frustrated beyond all reason, Gray turned to leave, wrenching open the galley door with such force, the hinges creaked in protest. He took a deep breath to compose himself, resolving not to slam the door shut behind him.
Gabriel stopped pounding. “Sit down, Gray. Rest your bones.”
With another rough sigh, Gray complied. He backed up two paces, slung himself onto a stool, and watched as the cook grabbed a tin cup from a hook on the wall and filled it, drawing a dipper of liquid from a small leather bucket. Then Gabriel set the cup on the table before him.
Milk.
Gabriel stared it. “For God’s sake, Gabriel. I’m not six years old anymore.”
The old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, seeing as how you haven’t outgrown a visit to the kitchen when you’re in a sulk, I thought maybe you’d have a taste for milk yet, too. You did buy the goats. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
55
" And there it was. The prim face of censure he’d been seeking. A strange sense of satisfaction descended on him. Divine justice, perhaps. Other men, better men, confessed their sins to priests and saints, but Gray had chosen for his confessor this governess. The most beautiful woman he’d ever set eyes on, in all his years of chasing pleasure from one horizon to the next. The only woman to stir this desperate yearning in his breast. And this was his penance-to watch her shrink back into her chair, to see those clear eyes glaze with mistrust as she at last recognized him for the devil he was.
Yes, this was his due. And she wasn’t finished yet, his petite, austere inquisitor. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
56
" Another sketch-this one of Gabriel-hung on the all above the water cask. It swiveled gently on a single tack; or rather, the paper hung plump with gravity while the whole ship swiveled around it. She’d captured Gabriel’s toothy, inoffensive grin and the devilish gleam in his eye, and the effect of the paper’s constant, subtle rocking was to make the image come alive. Softly, strangely-the portrait of Gabriel was laughing.
Gray shook himself. Laughing at him, most likely.
“She comes here?” he asked.
“Aye. That she does. Every morning.” Gabriel straightened his hunched spine and adopted a cultured tone. “We take tea.”
Gray frowned. One more place he’d have to avoid-the galley at morning teatime. “See to it that she eats something. Slip more milk in her tea. Make her treacle duff every day, if she cares for it. Are you giving her a daily ration of lime juice?”
Gabriel smiled down at the salt pork. “Yes, sir.”
“Double it.”
“Yes, sir.” Gabriel’s grin widened.
“And stop grinning, damn it.”
“Yes, sir.” The old man practically sang the words as he pounded away at the meat. “Never thought I’d live to see the day. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
58
" It’s a sailors’ tradition, miss.” O’Shea approached, his thick brogue cutting through Sophia’s confusion. “The Sea King himself comes aboard to have a bit of sport with those crossing the Tropic for the first time, like the new boy there.” He nodded toward Davy, who stood to the side, looking every bit as confused as Sophia but unwilling to own to it.
Quinn crossed his massive forearms over his chest, stacking them like logs. “And Triton always collects his tax, of course.”
“His tax?” Sophia asked.
O’Shea gave her a sly look. “Best be ready with a coin or two, Miss Turner. If you can’t pay his tax, old Triton just might sweep ye down to the depths with him and keep ye there forever.”
Quinn chuckled, shooting the Irishman a knowing look. “Knowing old Triton, it wouldn’t be surprising if he did just that.”
O’Shea winked at the crewman. “Could hardly blame him. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
59
" After all,” she said, her eyes meeting his, “it’s not as though you lack sufficient charm to woo ladies. And you’re certainly handsome enough, in your own way.”
She bent her head again. “Oh, stop looking s smug. I’m not flattering you, I’m merely stating facts. Privateering was not your only profitable course of action. You might have married, if you’d wished to.”
“Ah, but there’s the snag, you see. I didn’t wish to.”
She picked up a brush and tapped it against her palette. “No, you didn’t. You wished to be at sea. You wished to go adventuring, to seize sixty ships in the name of the Crown and pursue countless women on four continents. That’s why you sold your land, Mr. Grayson. Because it’s what you wanted to do. The profit was incidental.”
Gray tugged at the cuff of his coat sleeve. It unnerved him, how easily she stared down these truths he’d avoided looking in the eye for years. So now he was worse than a thief. He was a selfish, lying thief. And still she sat with him, flirted with him, called him “charming” and “handsome enough.” How much darkness did the girl need to uncover before she finally turned away?
“And what about you, Miss Turner?” He leaned forward in his chair. “Why are you here, bound for the West Indies to work as a governess? You, too, might have married. You come from quality; so much is clear. And even if you’d no dowry, sweetheart…” He waited for her to look up. “Yours is the kind of beauty that brings men to their knees.”
She gave a dismissive wave of her paintbrush. Still, her cheeks darkened, and she dabbed her brow with the back of her wrist.
“Now, don’t act missish. I’m not flattering you, I’m merely stating facts.” He leaned back in his chair. “So why haven’t you married?”
“I explained to you yesterday why marriage was no longer an option for me. I was compromised.”
Gray folded his hands on his chest. “Ah, yes. The French painting master. What was his name? Germaine?”
“Gervais.” She sighed dramatically. “Ah, but the pleasure he showed me was worth any cost. I’d never felt so alive as I did in his arms. Every moment we shared was a minute stolen from paradise.”
Gray huffed and kicked the table leg. The girl was trying to make him jealous. And damn, if it wasn’t working. Why should some oily schoolgirl’s tutor enjoy the pleasures Gray was denied? He hadn’t aided the war effort just so England’s most beautiful miss could lift her skirts for a bloody Frenchman.
She began mixing pigment with oil on her palette. “Once, he pulled me into the larder, and we had a feverish tryst among the bins of potatoes and turnips. He held me up against the shelves and we-“
“May I read my book now?” Lord, he couldn’t take much more of this.
She smiled and reached for another brush. “If you wish.”
Gray opened his book and stared at it, unable to muster the concentration to read. Every so often, he turned a page. Vivid, erotic images filled his mind, but all the blood drained to his groin. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
60
" Had the girl had any common sense, she would have dropped the line at once. But she had no sense. She made no sense. She was a pale English rose of a governess, adrift in a watery wilderness, on her way to a grueling post on a godforsaken island, when any fool could have told her-a woman so lovely need never work for her keep.
Had the men around her any sense, they would have cut the rope immediately. But they were idiots, bloody shite-for-brains idiots, too entranced by the pretty girl in peril to reach for their knives.
Had Gray his own knife, he would have drawn it. But he wasn’t wearing his knife, because he wasn’t the captain on this ship, was he? Nor an officer, nor even part of the crew. He was just a stupid, overdressed passenger who hadn’t strapped on a goddamned knife that morning because it might ruin the lines of his goddamned brand-new coat. "
― Tessa Dare , Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy, #2)
