Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(36)

Another sketch—this one of Gabriel—hung on the wall above the water cask. It swiveled gently on a single tack; or rather, the paper hung plumb with gravity while the whole ship swiveled around it. She’d captured Gabriel’s toothy, inoffensive grin and the devilish gleam in his eye, and the effect of the paper’s constant, subtle rocking was to make the image come alive. Softly, strangely—the portrait of Gabriel was laughing. Gray shook himself. Laughing at him, most likely.

“She comes here?” he asked.

“Aye. That she does. Every morning.” Gabriel straightened his hunched spine and adopted a cultured tone. “We take tea.”

Gray frowned. One more place he’d have to avoid—the galley at morning teatime. “See to it that she eats something. Slip more milk in her tea. Make her treacle duff every day, if she cares for it. Are you giving her a daily ration of lime juice?”

Gabriel smiled down at the salt pork. “Yes, sir.”

“Double it.”

“Yes, sir.” Gabriel’s grin widened.

“And stop grinning, damn it.”

“Yes, sir.” The old man practically sang the words as he pounded away at the meat. “Never thought I’d live to see the day.”

CHAPTER TEN

It was Christmas Eve morning, and Sophia’s mood could only be described as morose. She sat in the cabin, which felt incongruously warm considering the holiday. Paper, inkwell, and quill sat before her on the table. By now, she’d adapted her artistic technique to the ocean’s ceaseless rolling. Her inkwell she affixed to the tabletop with a large dab of melted wax, so it could not easily be dislodged into her lap. The paper she braced under straps of leather she’d removed from her trunk and stretched over the tabletop. And as she laid quill to paper, she kept the joints of her arm and wrist loose to buffer any sudden lurch of the ship.

She’d illustrated three-quarters now of The Book, meticulously documenting the wanton dairymaid and her lover in each of their amorous attitudes. This morning, however, lewdness did not excite her. She flipped to the epilogue, wherein the gentleman proposed marriage to his lover and together they embarked on a long and fruitful union. Without any excess of concentration, Sophia began sketching a scene of the couple picnicking together beneath the shade of a willow tree. The dairymaid, now dressed in a lady’s finery, sat on a blanket, legs extended before her, ankles crossed, her gaze searching the horizon. The gentleman lay with his head in her lap, looking up at the sky. They did not regard each other, but the easy intimacy of their postures gave them the air of a couple very much in love.

“Ahoy! Ship ahoy! Larboard bow! All hands!”

The ship bustled into activity, and Sophia recognized the familiar sounds of the off-watch sailors thundering up from the forecastle, the mainsail being backed against the mast. The boat slowed and swung around. She recapped her inkwell and wiped her hands on her apron hurriedly.

“Speaking” with another ship could take minutes or hours, depending on the circumstance. Sometimes the captains merely exchanged names and destinations in a friendly “how-do” fashion, like two ladies crossing paths in the park. In other instances, long conversations and trade might take place. The other day, Mr. Grayson had boarded a Portuguese trader and returned with a crate of bartered goods.

But whether the encounter lasted minutes or hours, Sophia—like everyone else aboard—did not want to miss it. Nothing rivaled the sight of a sail approaching. It served as a comforting reminder that the Aphrodite was not simply drifting the globe alone. A promise that civilization and society awaited them at the end of this journey, somewhere.

She hastened abovedecks, shielded her eyes with her hand, and performed a slow circle. There was no ship to be seen, not even a single puffed sail hugging the horizon. Yet the men were all assembled on deck, buzzing with anticipation. All the sailors, at least. Mr. Grayson was notably absent, as were the captain, his officers, and Stubb.

Confused, Sophia approached Quinn. “I thought we were to speak with another ship.”

A wide grin split Quinn’s weathered face. “That we are, miss.”

“But …” Sophia scanned the distance again, and her voice trailed out to sea.

“Oh, ’tisn’t a ship coming across the sea,” Quinn said. “Nay, we’re expecting a visitor come up from the sea. We’ve crossed the Tropic of Cancer. And that means we’ve got to appease old Triton before we go any further.”

Sophia looked around at the milling crewmen. “Triton? Up from the sea? I don’t understand.”

“It’s a sailors’ tradition, miss.” O’Shea approached, his thick brogue cutting through Sophia’s confusion. “The Sea King himself comes aboard to have a bit of sport with those crossing the Tropic for the first time, like the new boy there.” He nodded toward Davy, who stood to the side, looking every bit as confused as Sophia but unwilling to own to it. Quinn crossed his massive forearms over his chest, stacking them like logs. “And Triton always collects his tax, of course.”

“His tax?” Sophia asked.

O’Shea gave her a sly look. “Best be ready with a coin or two, Miss Turner. If you can’t pay his tax, old Triton just might sweep ye down to the depths with him and keep ye there forever.”

Quinn chuckled, shooting the Irishman a knowing look. “Knowing old Triton, it wouldn’t be surprising if he did just that.”