Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(10)

The men glared at each other, and the fog swirling around them took on the charged heat of steam. Apparently, the Grayson brothers shared no more affection than Sophia and her sister did.

The captain turned toward the ship’s bow, calling, “Mr. Brackett!”

A third man joined them. The fog and spray obscured the features of his face, but Sophia could see he was tall and lean, standing ramrod straight despite the waves.

“Mr. Brackett,” said the captain, “see that all passengers”—he shot another glance at his fuming brother—“are returned to their cabins. Furl the topsails and prepare to drop anchor.”

“Aye, aye, Captain.” Mr. Brackett strode forward, sharp cheekbones and blade-thin nose slicing through the fog. He began barking orders, and the crew exploded into activity.

“Come along then, Miss Turner.” Stubb took her elbow and urged her toward the companionway hatch. They crossed the deck in a lurching gait as the waves rolled beneath.

Once they were safely below, Stubb left her alone, only to return a few moments later with a bucket threaded over his arm. Behind him followed another of the sailors—an impossibly tall and broad-shouldered black man whose size required him to nearly double over and turn sideways just to thread his body through the compartment entry.

“Levi ’ere will be putting up the deadlights.” Stubb tilted his hoary crown toward the black man as he bent to lash the chair legs to the table’s bolted base.

“Deadlights?” Just the sound of the word left Sophia cold, and she braced herself against the table to receive its meaning.

“Shutters for the cabin windows,” the steward explained. “To keep out the storm and sea.”

Levi nudged past her, squeezing into her berth. He carried a circular plate, drilled ’round with screw holes.

Stubb passed the bucket to Sophia. “You’re like to have need of this.”

She looked down at the leather pail. “Am I to bail out the seawater, then?”

Stubb cackled with laughter. “Levi! The lovely miss thinks she’ll be put to work, bailing out the bilge!” Levi made no reply as he emerged from her berth, but Stubb laughed twice as loudly to compensate. “Nay, miss. If we take on some sea, there’s a pump in the hold.”

“Then why the bucket?” Sophia asked. The ship dropped suddenly, and her stomach rolled with it. “Oh. That.”

“Now don’t be worried about the waves, miss. Save your concerns for the lightning.”

“Lightning?” She didn’t like the sound of that.

“Aye. Strange things occur when lightning strikes a ship. That electric fluid bounces all through the hull, and woe to the sailor caught holding a bit of metal.” Stubb fluffed his whiskers. “What do you think turned this beard of mine to white?” He flashed a toothless grin. “Had me a whole set of gold teeth. All melted to slag.”

“You’re teasing me.”

“I am not,” the steward said, though he threw Sophia a sly wink. “Just ask Levi here. He won’t speak a word to contradict me.”

Neither would he speak a word to support you, she surmised. The black man hadn’t broken his silence since entering. But arms crossed and face stony, he looked capable of supporting the London Bridge.

“Don’t you know?” the old man continued. “That’s why they call me Stubb. Before the lightning struck, I used to have a wooden leg.”

“A wooden …” Sophia stared at the steward’s bare, furred feet for a moment before Stubb broke into loud, toothless laughter.

“No, don’t worry yerself about a little blow like this one, miss,” Stubb said, backing his way out of the cabin. “We’ll come through it fine.”

Once the men had left, taking the lamp along with them, Sophia fumbled her way into her berth. It was dark as a pocket, and even if she had some light by which to undress or unpack her trunks, the boat’s turbulent motions made it difficult just to remain upright.

She settled for removing her gloves, and then her cloak, reaching into the folds to retrieve her “letter of employment.” This she tucked beneath her bodice, where it curled around her purse. She groped with her feet until she located her trunks. Then, climbing atop them and clinging to the edge of the bunk for balance, she spread her cloak across the high, flat plank and—between groaning tilts of the ship—managed to scramble into bed. That letter—it was a stroke of good fortune that neither Captain nor Mr. Grayson had been inclined to examine it. Her handiwork could easily deceive someone unacquainted with either party, but Mr. Grayson possessed intimate knowledge of the Waltham family. He would be certain to notice something amiss.

It all had begun as a lark, a joke. While tucked away at a country house party, Sophia had amused her friend Lucy Waltham by drafting a nonsense letter to Lucy’s cousins in Tortola, whom she had never met. At the time, Sophia’s sole motive had been to needle Lucy about her suitor, Jeremy Trescott, the Earl of Kendall. But the romance of it all, the idea of her scribblings floating across the sea to a tropical clime, had gripped Sophia and refused to let go. She posted the letter on a whim, signing Lucy’s name but giving her own London address. Then Lucy had married Jeremy, and Sophia had become engaged, and Tortola had been forgotten. Until a week ago, when Sophia received a reply.

My dear cousin Lucy, the letter read.