Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(31)

“No, don’t close your eyes,” she said. “I like the way you look at me. So hungry. So dangerous. As if you’re a pirate … and I’m a prize worth far more than six pounds, eight shillings.”

“You’re drunk is what you are.”

“Mmm. And you’re a man. A big, strong man with the softest, most lovely hair.” Her fingers slid up, caressing his scalp until he was fully, excruciatingly aroused.

She started giggling again. Gray had never been much for giggling women, but damned if her soft, rolling laughter wasn’t driving him insane with desire. He could stop that giggling. He could kiss her quiet, fondle her breathless.

“Do you want to know why I’m laughing?”

“No.”

“Come on, Gray,” she mimicked saucily, her hips wriggling under his hands. “You’re no fun anymore.”

“No,” he growled. “I’m not.” I’ve gone respectable, he reminded himself, as of this voyage. Damned if he could remember why, or what was the bloody rush. Why hadn’t he waited another month to reform? The start of the new year would have been a logical choice. What kind of a fool made resolutions in December?

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she whispered. “It’s your hair. It’s such a beautiful  color, this dark, delicious brown, with the red undertones all through. And up here”—her fingers danced up his temples—“little strands of gold.” She frowned with concentration, as though it cost her a great deal of effort to focus her eyes. “It reminds me how, from the very first time I saw you, I’ve been wanting …”

She broke off giggling again.

And damn it, now he did want to know why. He wanted very, very much to know why. Because Gray didn’t find this situation amusing in the slightest. His body was aching with quite serious need. What ever scraps of resolve he possessed were quickly disintegrating, and his trembling fingers couldn’t—or just plain wouldn’t—hold her off anymore. Releasing her hips, he braced both hands on the wall, caging her between his arms. There, now he wasn’t even touching her.

But she was touching him. Still stroking her soft fingers through his hair, now pressing her warm body to his. His straining erection finally met with the welcome friction of her belly, and it was all he could do not to grind against it. He ought to walk away. Walk straight out of the room without looking back.

But he couldn’t. God, he just couldn’t. She felt too good. She wanted him, and that felt too good. The wanting, he could resist. But this feeling of being wanted—it was always his undoing. His little siren would pull him straight to his death, all the way to damnation, and he was literally inches away from giving in and enjoying the ride.

“I’ve been wanting,” she breathed, “so very much … to paint you.”

To paint him?

He laughed. Oh, what fun he could have with her. “Sweetheart, I …”

Gray’s voice trailed off as a vivid image appeared in his mind. Not Miss Turner naked and writhing beneath him—though that image would certainly haunt his dreams.

No, he saw her charcoal sketch of young Davy Linnet. The perception in it, the attention to detail. And suddenly, Gray formed a vision of himself through those all-seeing, artist’s eyes.

He saw an unshaven brigand, inches away from plundering an innocent governess who was far from home and full in her cups. A man poised to break his word to his only brother, again—as though it were an easy habit. A fraud in foppish boots, trying to buy his way into the graces of his sister and society because he lacked the merit to earn their respect. In that fraction of a second, Gray glimpsed his own portrait, and he did not like what he saw. He might never be the picture of respectability, but he’d be damned if the world would remember him like this.

With a harsh growl, he pushed off against the wall. She fell back against the paneling, her bandaged hands dangling at her sides.

“This is not going to happen,” he said, as much to himself as to her. He paced away in agitation and ran his hands through his hair, as if he could brush off the memory of her delicate, teasing touch.

“Why not? Don’t you want me to—”

“No. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you to paint me. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want to see you distracting the crew. I don’t want to see you baiting sharks. I don’t want to see you. At all.”

She blinked at him. No more giggles now.

But Gray wasn’t done. “You—” He shook a finger at her. “You are so bloody stupid. You have no idea how damned lucky you are. Do you know what could happen to you, crossing the ocean alone with no money and no chaperone? Do you have any notion what a dangerous game you play, going addled with rum and then prancing before the crew like a common harlot?”

She swallowed hard.

“If I wanted you,” he said, bracing one hand on the wall above her shoulder and looming over her in an attitude of threat, “I could have had you days ago, your very first night on this ship. I’d probably have tired of you by now. Your innocence would be gone, and you’d have thrown it away. For nothing. Maybe if you were especially good, I’d have knocked a few shillings off your fare.”

Her eyes went wide. The drunken gloss in them was gone.

Good. Maybe now she’d behave with some sense. Hadn’t he warned her from the first? He’d never met a girl he couldn’t disillusion. Gray took a step backward, then another. Easing his way toward the door.