Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(16)

“I see.” Joss tapped the toe of his boot against the deck. “And I suppose you’re going to look after them there? Clean up after them? Milk them?”

“Don’t be absurd. Stubb and Gabriel can share the milking. As for the tending … That green hand of yours is fresh off the farm, isn’t he? Ah, there he is.” He whistled through his teeth. “Boy!”

A pale-faced youth trotted across the deck, a thick coil of rope threaded over his arm.

“What’s your name, again?”

“Davy Linnet, sir.”

“How old are you, Davy?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

“Come from the farm, have you?”

The lad shifted his feet. He regarded the goats warily. “Yes, sir.”

“Then I suppose you know how to tend a goat.”

The boy hesitated, looking toward Joss.

“Well?” Gray asked. “Do you know a goat’s teat from her tail, or don’t you?” When the boy still paused, he added, “Speak up now, or I’ll ask you the same about girls.”

“I’ve tended goats, sir. It’s just … I wasn’t expecting to tend them at sea. I rather thought I was finished with that.”

Gray laughed. “A man can’t shake his past, Davy. And don’t I know it. Take them down to the gentlemen’s cabin, then. One to a berth.” He raised his voice and spoke in the direction of the hatch. “And rescue Miss Turner from that animal under her skirts.”

Davy stowed his coil of rope and grabbed a cannon rammer from the rack at the ship’s rail. He prodded one goat’s flank with the blunt end. “Get along, then.”

“So, if the goats are in the gentlemen’s cabin,” Joss asked, turning toward the helm, “where do you intend to sleep? Not curled up with your flock, I imagine.”

“No. There’s always the la—”

“The ladies’ cabin?” Joss stopped. His eyes narrowed. “Think again.”

“I suppose the for—”

“And don’t think about bunking in the forecastle. I’ll not have you in there carousing with the crew, undermining my authority.”

Gray shrugged. “Then that leaves steerage, it would seem. I’m certain Davy can spare some room for me amongst the barrels.” He shook his head. “I own the damn ship, and I’ll be bedding down in steerage with the green hand.”

“Don’t look to me for sympathy,” Joss said. “I didn’t want your bloody goats. Or their milk.”

“Oh, you’ll drink their milk. You’ll drink it, and you’ll thank me for it.” Gray teetered on the brink of anger, and his brother’s smirk pushed him over the edge. “Damn it, I’ve taken on risks for this business, Joss. I’ve made sacrifices. All so the family … so you can reap the benefits. I wish you’d cease throwing them back in my face.”

Gray knew instantly he’d gone too far. Lately, conversing with Joss was like swimming through shark-infested waters. And the steely glint in his brother’s eye signaled an imminent attack.

“You. Want to tell me. About sacrifices.” Joss took a step toward him, his voice rough. “I reap the benefits, do I? My family reaped the sugarcane that paid for this ship. They lived and died for it. And you may own the damn ship, but you don’t own me.”

Damn it to hell. Whenever Gray thought they’d finally moved past the inequity of their births, he found himself quite rudely corrected. It wasn’t as though Gray could change the fact that he’d been the first born, legitimate son. As the younger brother, Joss would never have had the same opportunities as Gray, whether he’d been born of a mistress, a wife, or in this case, a slave.

“Joss, that’s unfair. You know the fact we’re of different mothers didn’t matter to our father. It’s never mattered to me.”

“It matters to some. I’ve the scars to prove it.”

“As do I.”

Shaking his head, Joss studied the mainmast towering above them. “Go bugger one of your goats, Gray.”

“Joss.”

Ignoring Gray entirely, Joss turned to his second mate. “Mr. Wiggins!

Summon all hands. Prepare to weigh anchor.”

Gray walked away. There wasn’t anything more he could say. At least, there wasn’t anything more he knew how to say. He’d just have to keep quiet, he supposed. Keep quiet, and look after the money. There wasn’t any way he could change the past and little enough he knew to do in the present. He’d never had any talent for morality—that, he gladly left to Bel. But if he looked after the money, everything else would fall into place. Even the goats.

“Sir, you owe me a debt.”

Sophia dodged Mr. Grayson’s elbow as he wheeled to face her. She had him right where she wanted him. With the mast directly behind him, and rigging to either side, he had nowhere to escape.

“Mr. Grayson.” She took a deep breath and clenched one hand into a fist at her side. The other hand she raised into the space between them, brandishing a sheet of clean parchment. “You—and your goat—owe me two leaves of high-quality paper. Heavy stock, free of markings. I expect restitution.”

He rubbed one palm along his jaw, then slid it back to cup his neck. “