Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(29)

“It’s Saturday. Wives and sweethearts, you know.”

“I don’t care if it’s the devil’s own birthday. If this ship were under my command, they’d not taste a drop until the Tropic.”

Joss made a derisive sound. “Fortunate thing she’s not under your command, then. You know as well as I, what a fool decision that would be. In fact, after what you did today, you ought to go join them.”

Gray sighed. He knew his brother was right. Brushes with death were commonplace at sea, and a true sailor learned to shrug them off with a laugh or a smile. One moment, a man could be scaling the rigging—a false move, a soft splash, and the next moment, he’d be gone. Lives were gambled and lost on the whims of fate. When fortune did work in a man’s favor and he survived a narrow scrape, it was bad form to brood. Made the crew tense, and even more prone to accidents.

No, the only thing for it was to go on with life. To smile, to joke, to drink and make merry. To toast wives and sweethearts, just as they did every Saturday.

Funny, for Joss to remind him of this. Of all the men who needed to smile, laugh, and just get on with life.

“Come have a drink with me then,” Gray said, nudging his brother with his elbow.

Joss shook his head. “No sweetheart to toast. No wife, either.”

“So raise a glass to her memory.”

“Not tonight.” Joss pushed off the rail and headed for the hatch, only pausing long enough for one last remark—a remark that summed up just about every word Joss had spoken to Gray since the day Mara died: “Go on without me.”

And Gray still hadn’t figured out how to argue back.

Once his brother had disappeared belowdecks, Gray ambled toward the bow of the ship, to join the weekly celebration. In fact, he began the celebration a bit early by pausing to take out his flask and toss back a large swallow.

He froze, flask tilted to his lips, when the music stopped and he heard a light, flirtatious, most distinctly feminine laugh coming from the assembled crew.

It had to be her. He knew this simply because she was the only female aboard—not because he recognized her laugh. And that had him tossing back another draught of brandy, to think that he’d been several days in a beautiful woman’s proximity and not yet made her laugh. How utterly unlike him.

How depressing.

A few paces more, and one glance confirmed his suspicion. There Miss Jane Turner sat, balancing a tankard between her fingertips, the skirts of her ill-fitting gown draped across an overturned crate. Damn it, hadn’t he just told the chit she was to stay aft of the foremast?

Bailey struck a few notes on the pipes, and the crew launched into another rousing song. Gray waited a full verse before approaching her, prowling around her periphery and coming to rest behind her right shoulder. A few of the men gave him friendly nods, but most were too absorbed in their spirits and song to pay him any mind.

“What are you doing?” she asked, flicking him a glance through the swaying lamplight.

“Who, me?” he murmured. “I’m simply leaning against the foremast. You know, this tall bit of timber you weren’t to go past.”

She sipped her drink.

Gray pushed off the mast and crouched at her side. If she’d turn and look at him, they would be eye-to-eye. But she didn’t. “The better question is, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m enjoying myself,” she said lightly, taking another drink. “I suggest you do the same.” She passed the tankard to him and applauded with wild enthusiasm as the song came to its tuneless end.

Gray peered at the half-empty tankard, then lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Straight, unadulterated rum, the girl was drinking. That would explain the enthusiasm. Her applause concluded, she snatched the tankard back and downed a swallow to do a sailor proud.

Bloody hell. Gray suspected the only thing worse than watching over a prim governess would be watching over a soused one.

“Gray!” O’Shea pushed through the crowd and thrust a brimming mug into his hand. “Just in time for another round of toasts.” O’Shea lifted his own cup high. “To the fair Maureen, and her lovely bits. She’s firm in the arse, and soft in the—”

“Head,” Gray interrupted, prodding the Irishman’s bulk with his shoulder.

“Got porridge for brains, if she dallies with the likes of you.”

While the men laughed and drank “To fair Maureen,” Gray reached for Miss Turner’s elbow. “Come along, then. You don’t belong here.”

“I was invited here,” she ground out. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s no place for ladies.” He squeezed her elbow firmly and lifted her to her feet.

“Your turn, Gray,” O’Shea said.

He shook his head. “I’m not here to drink. I’m here to see our little Miss Turner back to her cabin. It’s past her bedtime.”

She glared at him. He glared right back.

“Come on, Gray,” another sailor called. “Just one toast.”

Miss Turner raised her eyebrows and leaned into him. “Come on, Mr. Grayson. Just one little toast,” she taunted, in the breathy, seductive voice of a harlot. It was a voice his body knew well, and vital parts of him were quickly forming a response.

Siren.

“Very well.” He lifted his mug and his voice, all the while staring into her wide, glassy eyes. “To the most beautiful lady in the world, and the only woman in my life.”