Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(18)

Sophia looked back up to the rigging. She and Mr. Grayson weren’t the only ones watching Davy’s progress. From the mainmast, bow, helm—all eyes were fixed on the boy. The crewmen watched his ascent with great interest and whispered speculation, as though it were a horse race or a prizefight.

When Davy reached the next yard, a clamor of approval rose up from the deck. “That’s the topgallant now, boy,” a burly sailor called out. “Almost home!”

When the boy hesitated, clinging to the mast, Mr. Grayson cupped his hands around his mouth. “Get on with it then, Davy! The goats are getting lonesome!”

The youth began the last, most perilous section of his climb. Sophia could not bear to watch any longer. She focused on the planks beneath her feet instead, and then—when the suspense became too great to tolerate—she let her gaze slide to Mr. Grayson’s hand where it hung at his side. Sophia kept her eyes trained on that hand—the strong, sculpted fingers, the palm ridged with callus. With that hand, he’d caught her handkerchief, the paper, and Sophia herself on more than one occasion. If Davy stumbled, surely that hand would reflexively move to catch him. She stared at his hand because she knew—so long as it dangled loose at Mr. Grayson’s side, the boy was safe.

She was safe.

Oh, no. Where had that thought come from? An absurdity, that. He was dangerous, Sophia reminded herself. He could expose her deceits and force her back to a miserable existence, and she, who could recite falsehoods effortlessly to dukes and doormen alike, lost all power to dissemble whenever he drew near. And yet, despite all this—or perhaps because of it?—standing in his broad shadow, Sophia began to feel strangely safe. Protected.

She shook herself. It would seem seasickness or Mr. Grayson’s teasing, or most likely both, had rendered her completely nonsensical. Logic demanded she flee to the cabin that instant and remove herself from the influence of that potent, self-assured charm.

But she didn’t.

Instead, she inched closer.

He felt it, her sudden nearness. A warm, feminine propinquity that drew his every nerve to attention. He didn’t need to look.

He didn’t need to, but he did.

God, she truly was exquisite.

Even his grief-blinded brother had called her beautiful, but that word wasn

’t quite enough. There was a rightness to her face somehow, a quality that resonated in his bones. Like the clear ring of fine crystal clinked in celebration, or the echo of a whisper in a cathedral.

Exquisite.

A raucous cheer announced young Davy’s success, and Gray looked up to the royal yard to see the square sail unfurling high above, like a handkerchief.

The loud clanging of the bell cut through the crew’s whoops and whistles. Mr. Brackett stood on the raised deck toward the ship’s stern, his expression forbidding. “This isn’t a circus, you louts! All hands back to work!”

The sailors returned to their duties, grumbling among themselves. If Gray couldn’t fault the officer for chasing the sailors back to work, at least he could make up for their absence by congratulating young Davy heartily on his descent.

“Well done, boy.” He clapped a hand on the youth’s trembling shoulder.

“You’ll be in the forecastle with the sailors soon enough. Perhaps by the time we cross the Tropic.”

“Thank you, sir.” The boy wiped his brow with his sleeve.

“How do you feel?”

“Like I’m going to be sick, sir.”

Gray laughed and stepped back quickly. “Just do me a favor, boy. Spare my boots a second baptism.”

Stifling a nervous giggle, Miss Turner gave the boy a warm smile. “You’re very brave, Mr. Linnet.”

Gray observed the blanched, tight skin over her knuckles where she gripped the edges of her cloak. He knew she’d been sick with worry for the boy. Even now, she was struggling to mask her true emotions behind that gracious smile—because she understood, as Gray did, how important it was for Davy’s confidence, that he never see her fear.

But Gray saw it. He’d felt it, as she’d inched closer to him. Even now, she stood so close that their shadows bled together on the deck. Her vulnerability disarmed him, somehow; and that smile had him envying a fifteen-year-old green hand like he’d never envied a prince. Gray was seized by the absurd notion to climb the mast himself, just to bask in that warm approbation.

Davy lurched off toward the rail, and Gray laid a hand at the base of Miss Turner’s spine, turning her in the opposite direction. That lovely smile aside, she didn’t look too well herself. With a light yet firm touch, he ushered her up the steps onto the elevated deck at the helm. She made no protest. Damn, but she fit so perfectly under his palm. Gray imagined his hand could nearly span the width of her waist. He tested the idea, fanning his fingers over the small of her back. She shivered under his touch, but did not pull away.

In fact, she seemed to shrink closer.

“It’s all right, sweetheart,” he murmured in her ear. “The lad came through it admirably. So did you.”

She wheeled to face him, those heavy woolen skirts swirling about his legs. A strange swell of protectiveness rose in his chest. Driven by some impulse he could no better understand than he could deny, Gray lifted her hand to his lips, pressing a warm kiss to her fingers.

“Now,” he murmured, “what were we discussing?” For the life of him, he couldn’t hold a thought in his head.