Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(32)

“So be a good little governess, Miss Turner. Go to your berth, blockade the door, crawl into your bunk, and say your prayers. And thank Almighty God in Heaven that I don’t want you.”

CHAPTER NINE

Curse the sun.

Sophia’s eyelids fluttered open. A narrow crease of daylight greeted her, winking from underneath the door. She squeezed her eyes shut, recoiling in pain. Her head pounded. Her hands throbbed. Her body ached all over, no doubt from yesterday’s wrestling matches with fish and men. Oh, God. Men.

Fragmented memories of last night floated to the surface of her consciousness, began piecing themselves into a picture. A picture that made her sick.

She groped wildly for the water basin and retched into it. What on earth had she done? She’d announced to a dozen disorderly sailors that she’d just finished a torrid affair with a Frenchman and was currently searching for his replacement. Then she’d plastered herself to Mr. Grayson, murmuring all manner of rubbish and winding her fingers through that dark, thick hair.

And oh, it had been so soft.

She didn’t know which was more humiliating: the fact that she’d offered herself to him with all the finesse and enthusiasm of a back-alley whore? Or the fact that he’d refused?

I don’t want you, he’d said.

No, this was the most humiliating fact: For all her bodily aches and pains, the severest wound was to her pride. A proper, well-bred young lady would have praised God that, despite all her imprudent, scandalous behavior, she’d awakened this morning with her virtue intact. But Sophia had long ago decided to leave her proper, well-bred life behind and embrace infamy. And now, infamy himself wouldn’t have her.

I don’t want you.

His words had cut her like a knife. Each time they echoed in her mind, the knife twisted.

Who would want her, after the way she’d behaved? Heavens, if she hadn’t been born into wealth and guarded so closely all these years, what kind of sordid end would she have come to? One that would make even a wanton dairymaid blush. If Toby could see her now, he’d be congratulating himself on his lucky escape.

A light knock sounded at her door. Sophia winced.

“Who is it?” Her voice was scratchy and feeble.

“It’s breakfast,” came Stubb’s voice. He cackled. “Compliments of your sweetheart, Germaine.”

“Gervais,” she moaned, diving back under her blanket. Good Lord, how could she face him again? How could she face anyone on this ship?

She couldn’t, it turned out, for quite some time.

She spent three whole days cloistered in her cabin, taking her meals in solitude, spending the daylight hours hunched over a sketch, venturing only to the privy and back. Stubb broke her seclusion a few times a day, to deliver meals and change the dressings on her wounds.

Eventually, her boredom eclipsed her embarrassment. By her estimate, there were three weeks or more remaining in this journey. She couldn’t remain holed away in the cabin that long. She needed fresh air and light, and inspiration for her artist’s eye.

On the fourth morning, Sophia removed the bandages from her hands and gingerly stretched the new pink skin covering her wounds. Then she gathered her drawing board and charcoal—and any scrap of courage she could find—and climbed abovedecks.

The ship was unnaturally quiet. Although she stared at the boards beneath her feet, she could feel all heads swiveling in her direction. Mr. Grayson’s head wasn’t among them. She would have sensed it, had he been there. She was all too familiar with the prickling heat of his gaze. Taking a deep breath, she hiked her chin, squared her shoulders, walked all of five paces to a low stool, and sat down. There, that hadn’t been so difficult.

She was vaguely conscious of the sailors talking and laughing among themselves. No doubt her antics four nights ago were the source of their amusement. Sophia didn’t know what she’d do if any of them approached her, hoping to be the next “Gervais.” Despite the humiliation of being hauled from the deck in such barbaric fashion, she hoped Mr. Grayson had been correct in saying they’d not make advances if they thought she was his.

Of course, if they thought she was his, they were dead wrong. I don’t want you.

Enough. She’d been reliving those events for days now, ruminating over the implications and castigating herself—and, when regrets became tiresome, savoring the memory of his wavy hair caught in the webs of her fingers, or the sensation of his strong hands encircling her waist …

Enough. It was time to go back to work. Once she put charcoal to paper, a bubble of concentration formed around her, blocking out all distractions. She drew a kitten, of all things. A kitten, with wide eyes and sharp little claws, wiggling back on its hindlegs as if preparing to pounce. Pounce on what, she had not yet decided.

A shadow fell over her paper, and a low whistle sounded from some feet above. Sophia froze, afraid to look up.

“Would ye look at that. Got his sights on a wee mousie, has he?”

It was O’Shea. Sophia sighed with relief. She didn’t know all the crew by name yet, but O’Shea’s thick brogue—and mammoth size—distinguished him from the crowd. “I hadn’t yet decided,” she answered him, tilting her head to the side. “I was thinking, perhaps a cricket. Or maybe a snake.”

“Brave puss.”

Sophia shielded her eyes with her hand and peered up at the Irishman’s face. His hard eyes wandered from her hand, to her face, to the sketch in her lap. He made a gruff noise in his throat—the sort of noise men make when they’re working up to saying something and don’t quite know how to get it out, but want to keep up the aura of brute masculinity in the midst of their indecision.