Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(35)

He looked at her again.

Desire swept through his body with startling intensity. And beneath that hot surge of lust, a deeper emotion swelled. It wasn’t something Gray wished to examine. He preferred to let it sink back into the murky depths of his being. An unnamed creature of the deep, left for a more intrepid adventurer to catalog.

Instead, he examined Miss Turner’s new frock. The fabric was of fine quality, the sprig pattern evenly stamped, without variations in shape or hue.

The dressmaker had taken great pains to match the pattern at the seams. The sleeves of the frock fit perfectly square with her shoulders; in a moment of calm, the skirt’s single flounce lapped the laces of her boots. Unlike that gray serge abomination, this dress was expensive, and it had been fashioned for her alone.

But it no longer fit. As she turned, Gray noted how the neckline gaped slightly, and the column of skirt that ought to have skimmed the swell of her hip instead caught on nothing but air.

He frowned. And in that instant, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught and held. Her own smile faded to a quizzical expression. And because Gray didn’t know how to answer the unspoken question in her eyes, and because he hated the fact that he’d banished the giddy delight from her face, he gave her a curt nod and a churlish “Good morning.”

And then he walked away.

Gray burst into the galley. “Miss Turner is not eating.”

The cramped, boxed-in nature of the space, the oppressive heat—it seemed an appropriate place to take this irrational surge of resentment. If only his emotion could dissipate through the ventilation slats as quickly as steam.

“And good morning to you, too.” Gabriel wiped his hands on his apron without glancing up.

“She’s not eating,” Gray repeated evenly. “She’s wasting away.” He didn’t even realize his hand had balled into a fist until his knuckles cracked. He flexed his fingers impatiently.

“Wasting away?” Gabriel’s face split in a grin as he picked up a mallet and attacked a hunk of salted pork. “Now what makes you say that?”

“Her dress no longer fits properly. The neckline of her bodice is too loose.”

Gabriel stopped pounding and looked up, meeting Gray’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the galley. The mocking arch of the old man’s eyebrows had Gray clenching his teeth. They stared at each other for a second. Then Gray blew out his breath and looked away, and Gabriel broke into peals of laughter.

“Never thought I’d live to see the day,” the old cook finally said, “when you would complain that a beautiful lady’s bodice was too loose.”

“It’s not that she’s a beautiful lady—”

Gabriel looked up sharply.

“It’s not merely that she’s a beautiful lady,” Gray amended. “She’s a passenger, and I have a duty to look out for her welfare.”

“Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?”

Gray narrowed his eyes.

“And I know my duty well enough,” Gabriel continued. “It’s not as though I’m denying her food, now is it? I’m thinking Miss Turner just isn’t accustomed to the rough living aboard a ship. Used to finer fare, that one.”

Gray scowled at the hunk of cured pork under Gabriel’s mallet and the shriveled, sprouted potatoes rolling back and forth with each tilt of the ship.

“Is this the noon meal?”

“This, and biscuit.”

“I’ll order the men to trawl for a fish.”

“Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gabriel’s tone was sly. Gray wasn’t sure whether the plume of steam swirling through the galley originated from the stove or his ears. He didn’t care for Gabriel’s flippant tone. Neither did he care for the possibility of Miss Turner’s lush curves disappearing when he’d never had any chance to appreciate them. Frustrated beyond all reason, Gray turned to leave, wrenching open the galley door with such force, the hinges creaked in protest. He took a deep breath to compose himself, resolving not to slam the door shut behind him. Gabriel stopped pounding. “Sit down, Gray. Rest your bones.”

With another rough sigh, Gray complied. He backed up two paces, slung himself onto a stool, and watched as the cook grabbed a tin cup from a hook on the wall and filled it, drawing a dipper of liquid from a small leather bucket. Then Gabriel set the cup on the table before him. Milk.

Gray stared at it. “For God’s sake, Gabriel. I’m not six years old anymore.”

The old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, seeing as how you haven’t outgrown a visit to the kitchen when you’re in a sulk, I thought maybe you’d have a taste for milk yet, too. You did buy the goats.”

Gray shook his head. He lifted the cup to his lips and sipped cautiously at first, paused, then drained the cup quickly, as if it held rum rather than goat’s milk. It coated his tongue, tasting bland and creamy and smooth. Innocent. Gray looked down at the empty cup ruefully. He wished he’d made it last a bit longer.

Gabriel took up his mallet and started pounding again, and Gray looked up sharply, about to ask the old man to leave off and find some quieter occupation. A task more conducive to … to Gray’s pondering, or yearning, or regretting, or what ever damn fool thing he’d sat down to do. But a glimpse of something fluttering behind the cook’s shoulder stole the complaint from his lips.