Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(26)

“Don’t bother,” Gray called out, vaulting over the rail that separated helm and quarterdeck. “I’ll put a stop to it myself.”

Long strides carried him across the decking, while Gray tried to hold panic at bay. Devil take it, when had the Aphrodite become so damned long? Up at the bow, Miss Turner lost her footing, tripping over the coiled rope, and Gray very nearly lost his breakfast.

“Bloody idiots,” he muttered, as a prelude to the worse invectives running through his mind. Only a fool let a fish thrash at the end of a rope like that, churning up the froth, leaving a wake of blood and innards on the waves. It was a cretinous way to catch a fish, and a surefire method of attracting a—

“Shark!”

And from there on, it all went so fast. But so slowly, at the same time. Had the girl 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.

No, he didn’t have his knife. But he had his legs, powering him the remaining yards to the bow. He had his arms, lashing around Miss Turner just as the shark’s jaws snatched the dolphin-fish carcass and dragged it under the waves. And he had his voice, that authoritative tone of command. The voice that carried over storms, and gunfire, and howls of pain.

“Let go of the line.” He grabbed her forearms and shook them. Jesus, she’d been holding on to the thing for so long, her instinct was to tighten her fingers further. Precisely the wrong thing to do. As the shark lunged away, the cable streamed through her two-fisted grip, no doubt taking the skin of her palms along with it.

“Let it go!” he ordered. “Now!”

She did. Her shaking fingers were white; her palms were abraded and raw.

And damn it to hell, he stared at those ruined hands an instant too long. By the time Gray attempted to pull her back from the rail, the shark had spooled out several more yards of rope. The rope that lay coiled and tangled about her foot, that was.

“Cut the bloody line!” he commanded, tightening his arms around her slender frame and jamming his boot down on top of hers.

The rope cinched like a noose about their ankles, yanking their feet out from under them. She screamed as together they fell to the deck, then skidded toward the rail, tugged by their intertwined legs. In a matter of seconds, they would either be pulled overboard entirely, or have their legs torn off. Neither alternative sounded particularly pleasant. Gray shoved his free boot against the bulwark, bracing himself for what he knew would be a futile, and brief, wrestling match with a shark. He gritted his teeth.

“Someone. Cut. The. Damn. Line.”

Thwack.

Someone did.

Gray lifted his head to spy Levi’s hand on an ax handle, and the blade several inches deep in the rail. “Thank you,” he huffed, letting his head fall back against the deck.

And now here he lay on the forecastle, holding Miss Turner as if they were two spoons in a drawer. The crown of her head tucked neatly under his chin, and her round little bottom nestled between his thighs. She was damp with sweat, and panting for breath. Gray was struck by the ridiculous notion that he’d had a dream the other night, very much like this. Except they’d been wearing fewer clothes. And there hadn’t been a half-dozen gawking seamen standing about.

And what did she say, his dream girl? This exquisite, rose-scented siren who would smile as she pulled him to his death?

“Well,” she said. “That was exciting.”

CHAPTER EIGHT

“That”—Mr. Grayson slammed the door of the captain’s cabin—“was the most breathtaking display of stupidity I have ever witnessed in my life.”

Sophia cringed in her chair as he plunked a basin of water on the table. Liquid sloshed over the side, trickling toward the floor. With jerky motions, he removed a flask from his breast pocket, unscrewed the top, and added a splash of brandy. Then he threw back a healthy swallow, himself. She’d never seen him so agitated. He took everything as a joke, laughed off confrontation, deflected insult with a roguish smile.

“You’re angry,” she said.

“Damn right, I’m angry. I’d like to string every one of those bloody idiots up to the yardarm and shout them deaf.”

“So why are you here, shouting at me?”

He yanked open a drawer and removed a box. When he flung it on the table and flipped the latch, the box proved to be a medicine kit, crowded with brown glass vials and plasters and rolls of gauze.

“Because …” With a sullen sigh, he dropped into the other chair.

“Shouting the crew deaf is the captain’s privilege. And I’m not the captain. So I’m here instead, playing nursemaid. Give me your hands.”