Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(17)

“Paper?” One eyebrow arched as he took in her disheveled appearance.

“You’re all worked up over a few sheets of paper?”

Suddenly self-conscious under his gaze, Sophia smoothed a lock of hair behind her ear. After the theft of her paper and the humiliation of landing in a farmyard tangle, she had relied upon her indignation to shield her from Mr. Grayson’s charms. Perhaps she had overestimated the protective quality of pique.

Although she still wore the same bedraggled garment she’d been wearing since the moment of their introduction, he’d changed his attire. His tailored navy-blue topcoat and buff trousers were the height of fashion. His unruly waves of hair had been tamed with a touch of pomade, and the light growth of beard only increased his roguish good looks. The sole defect in his appearance remained the scuffed boots, which had now suffered all manner of abuse, from saltwater to sickness.

He looked unforgivably handsome. The sheet of paper crumpled in Sophia’s grip. Drat him, now he owed her three.

“Paper,” he repeated.

“Yes, paper. It may be just ‘a few sheets of paper’ to you, but to me, it’s… well, it’s paper.” Sophia was painfully aware of how idiotic she sounded.

“I have a very limited supply, you see, and it’s simply too dear to be wasted on livestock.”

“I see.” His brows knit together as he stared at the sheet in her hand.

“No, you don’t.” Sophia felt tears pricking the corners of her eyes. Of all the absurd occasions to cry. She’d told herself she could leave everything else behind—her family, her friends, her belongings—so long as she had her art. Only now she found herself missing everything else a bit more than she’d planned, and to have her creative outlet threatened by this, this beast

—not to mention his goat … She sniffed fiercely. “Of course, you don’t see. How could you? You’re thinking it’s just a bit of paper, but it isn’t at all. It’s…”

“It’s paper.”

Blinking back her tears, Sophia turned to stare resolutely at the horizon.

“Yes, precisely.”

“Now, sweetheart, where’s that lacy little handkerchief when you need it?”

After a furtive swipe at her eyes, Sophia crossed her arms.

“Ho there, boy!” A sharp voice cut through their conversation. “Go aloft and set the fore royal.”

“Aye, aye, Mr. Brackett.”

A youth about Sophia’s height hurried between them and paused at the base of the rigging. She recognized him as the boy who’d removed the unwelcome goat from her cabin.

“First time then, Davy?” Mr. Grayson asked.

The youth swallowed audibly. “First time at sea, sir.”

Mr. Grayson clapped him on the shoulder. “Just take your time. The royal’s not nearly so tricky as the topgallant—it’s higher, but there’s no need to go out on the yardarm. Stick to the rigging. Keep your feet on the ropes and your eyes on your hands, and you’ll be fine.”

The lad nodded. He mounted a part of the rigging that formed a tarred, narrow ladder and began to climb, his face grim. Sophia watched, breathless, as he quickly gained the first of the perpendicular beams that held each of the Aphrodite’s square-rigged sails. There, some twenty feet above the deck, he reached a sort of railing that surrounded the mast, where he paused before resuming his climb.

“That’s it, Davy,” Mr. Grayson called. “Look lively, then.”

The boy moved on to a new set of tiered ropes and resumed climbing.

“How far up does he have to go?” Sophia cupped a hand over her eyes.

“To the royal yard.” Mr. Grayson met her puzzled expression. “All the way.”

She tilted her head back and let her gaze follow the mast skyward. She couldn’t discern whether she actually glimpsed the top, or whether the towering column simply faded into the distance. The prospect was dizzying.

“But that’s so high!” She blinked up at the mast again. “And on his second day at sea?”

“Exactly. If he’s to be a sailor, he must become accustomed to the feel of the rigging and the motion of the ship. The officers do him no favors if they coddle him at the outset.”

Sophia looked up again. Davy had reached the next yard. He paused there for some moments, clinging to the rigging. He was only halfway to the top of the mast, yet so high she could no longer distinguish the features of his face. The mast swayed back and forth with each pitch of the ship.

“What if he falls?” she asked, swallowing hard.

Mr. Grayson shrugged. “From where he’s at now? He’d be a mite banged up, but he’d live.”

“From the royal yard?”

“Well, then he’d likely die. Whether he hit the deck or the sea, it wouldn’t much matter. But don’t worry, sweetheart. He won’t fall.”

Just then, Davy’s boot slipped in its foothold. The boy caught himself quickly, but not before Sophia gasped and clapped a hand to her mouth. The sheet of crumpled paper fell from her grasp. It never hit the deck. Mr. Grayson snagged it easily between his first finger and thumb. He smoothed the sheet against his embroidered waistcoat before handing it back.

“Wouldn’t want to waste another sheet of paper,” he said with a slight smile. “But you see, sweetheart—we sailors catch on quickly. A sailor with slow reflexes is a dead sailor.”