Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(37)

O’Shea winked at the crewman. “Could hardly blame him.”

Sophia’s heart pounded, and with every wild thump it slammed against the purse secured beneath her stays. Was this “Triton” the seafaring equivalent of a highwayman, then? Some sort of pirate?

“Where are the officers?” she asked Quinn. “Doesn’t the captain greet any approaching vessel?”

“The captain and his mates tend to steer clear of Triton. Sailors’business, this is.”

Well, if Sophia had been looking for an excuse to flee belowdecks, she’d just been handed one. But before she could move, a voice called out, “All hands at attention! Prepare to greet yer king! The ruler of the ocean depths himself, and with him today comes his fair mistress, the Queen!”

Coarse laughter rippled through the crowd. None of the sailors seemed the least bit distressed at receiving this visitor, Sophia noted. Of course, none of them had much to lose.

Two sailors hauled on ropes, hoisting the jolly boat up to the ship’s side, revealing two apocryphal figures standing in the center of the small craft. At first glance, Sophia only saw clearly the shorter of the two, a gruesome creature with long tangled hair and a painted face, wearing a tight-fitting burlap skirt and a makeshift corset fashioned from fishnet and mollusk shells. The Sea Queen, Sophia reckoned, a smile warming her cheeks as the crew erupted into raucous cheers. A bearded Sea Queen, no less, who bore a striking resemblance to the Aphrodite’s own grizzled steward. Stubb.

Sophia craned her neck to spy Stubb’s consort, as the foremast blocked her view of Triton’s visage. She caught only a glimpse of a white toga draped over a bronzed, bare shoulder. She took a jostling step to the side, nearly tripping on a coil of rope.

“Foolish mortals! Kneel before your king!”

The assembled sailors knelt on cue, giving Sophia a direct view of the Sea King. And even if the blue paint smeared across his forehead or the strands of seaweed dangling from his belt might have disguised him, there was no mistaking that persuasive baritone.

Mr. Grayson.

There he stood, tall and proud, some twenty feet away from her. Bare-chested, save for a swath of white linen draped from hip to shoulder. Wet locks of hair slicked back from his tanned face, sunlight embossing every contour of his sculpted arms and chest. A pagan god come swaggering down to earth.

He caught her eye, and his smile widened to a wolfish grin. Sophia could not for the life of her look away. He hadn’t looked at her like this since …

since that night. He’d scarcely looked in her direction at all, and certainly  never wearing a smile. The boldness of his gaze made her feel thoroughly unnerved, and virtually undressed. Until the very act of maintaining eye contact became an intimate, verging on indecent, experience. If she kept looking at him, she felt certain her knees would give out. If she looked away, she gave him the victory. There was only one suitable alternative, given the circumstances. With a cheeky wink to acknowledge the joke, Sophia dropped her eyes and curtsied to the King. Mr. Grayson laughed his approval. Her curtsy, the crew’s gesture of fealty

—he accepted their obeisance as his due. And why should he not? There was a rightness about it somehow, an unspoken understanding. Here at last was their true leader: the man they would obey without question, the man to whom they’d pledge loyalty, even kneel.

This was his ship.

“Where’s the owner of this craft?” he called. “Oh, right. Someone told me he’s no fun anymore.”

As the men laughed, the Sea King swung over the rail, hoisting what looked to be a mop handle with vague aspirations to become a trident.

“Bring forth the virgin voyager!”

Sophia’s stomach gave a panicked flutter. What in God’s name did Mr. Grayson intend to do to her? She half-feared, half-yearned to find out. Then the flutter spread pleasantly downward, and the balance tipped in favor of yearning.

But the sailors took no notice of her. Instead they pushed Davy Linnet to the fore.

“Here he is, yer majesty!” Quinn called out. “New boy, first time crossing the Tropic.”

Mr. Grayson leveled his “trident” at the lad. “If you wish to cross my sea, young man, you must submit yourself to questioning. And you must tell the truth, do you understand? No one lies to the Sea King. If you attempt to deceive me, I shall know it. And then I’ll suck you down into the depths of the ocean to live with the eels, never to be heard from again.”

Davy glanced around him, looking uncertain whether to laugh or tremble.

“Aye, sir.”

“Aye, your majesty,” Triton corrected.

Davy shuffled his feet. “Aye, yer majesty.”

A pair of crewmen pushed a barrel against the mast, and Davy was made to stand upon it. Somewhere in the crowd, a sailor made a crude remark.

The men erupted into laughter.

Mr. Grayson banged his mop-handle trident on the deck for silence—once, twice. The men hushed, and he turned to Davy. “Now then, boy, tell me your name.”

“Davy Linnet, sir.”

Bang went the mop handle. “Your majesty.”

“Davy Linnet, yer majesty.”

“What is your age, Davy Linnet?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

Bang.

Davy jumped. “Fifteen, yer majesty.”

Mr. Grayson began to circle the lad at a leisurely pace. “From whence do you hail, Davy Linnet?”