Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(38)

“From Sussex. Town of Dunswold. Yer majesty.”

“How many siblings have you?”

“Five, yer majesty. Four sisters and one brother.”

“Are your parents living?”

“Both, sir. Er, yer majesty.”

Mr. Grayson turned slowly on his heel, his arm muscles flexing as he propped the makeshift trident on one shoulder. The drape of his toga slipped, and he casually repositioned the fabric with his free hand. But not before Sophia glimpsed a shocking scar near his collarbone—an irregular circle of pink, puckered flesh nearly the size of her palm. She pressed her own hand to her throat.

“And tell me, Davy Linnet,” Mr. Grayson continued, “given a choice, do you prefer brown bread or white?”

“White, yer majesty.”

“Ale or grog?”

“Grog, yer majesty.” Davy began to relax, a shy smile playing on his face. Clearly, he’d anticipated a harsher interrogation than this. He’d anticipated correctly.

“Ever stolen anything, Davy Linnet?”

The boy’s smile vanished, and his brow creased. “Wh-what?”

“Have you”—Mr. Grayson leveled the mop handle at the boy—“ever stolen anything? Are you a thief?”

Davy hedged. “Well, I’ve nicked a scrap here and there in my time. Food, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Davy’s eyes hardened. “Mostly.” Mr. Grayson held his silence, but the youth did not elaborate. Finally, he added, “Weren’t much to go around in the Linnet house.”

Mr. Grayson gave him a stern look. “So hunger excuses theft, does it?”

“N-no, sir. No, yer majesty.”

“Would you steal from your crewmates?”

“No,” Davy shot back, resolute. He looked around at the sailors. “No.”

Bang.

“No, yer majesty.”

Mr. Grayson turned a slow circle. “What if you were hungry?”

“No, yer majesty. Not from my crewmates. Can’t steal from those as share everything. If I’m going hungry, it means everyone’s going hungry.”

Mr. Grayson gave a stiff nod, obviously satisfied with Davy’s response. He paused a long beat. Then his posture changed abruptly as he leaned back against the ship’s rail. “Have you a wife, Davy Linnet?”

The boy chuckled, obviously relieved at the change of subject. “No, yer majesty.”

“No? I do hope it’s not for lack of trying. How many sweethearts have you had?”

Davy’s cheeks colored. “None, yer majesty.”

“Tumbled any girls, Davy Linnet?”

Davy’s face went scarlet. He mumbled, “N-no.”

Bang.

“No, yer majesty,” the boy amended quickly. “Not yet.”

This last drew a roar of laughter from the crew and a smirk from the Sea King. Davy’s posture relaxed.

“How about love? Ever been in love, Davy Linnet?”

The boy went rigid again. His eyes flitted to Sophia for an instant, and her heart squeezed. She knew the boy harbored an infatuation for her—everyone aboard the ship knew it—and she knew just as certainly it wasn’t anything to approach the love he’d one day feel for a wife. But then, one couldn’t tell a fifteen-year-old his emotions were less than real. The silence stretched as the entire assembly awaited the boy’s response. Quinn grinned and winked at Sophia. Davy swallowed hard. Mr. Grayson rapped his staff against the barrel, causing Davy to sway.

“The truth, boy. Or the eels.”

The boy studied his feet for a moment. Then his head shot up and he met Mr. Grayson’s eyes directly. “Aye, sir. I’m in love.”

Raucous laughter burst like a thunderclap, quickly organizing itself into a bawdy chant. Davy’s face flushed red as a cake of vermillion. Sophia bit her lip, inwardly aching for him. Not even when he’d climbed the mast that first day at sea, white-knuckled and shaking with fear, had she ever witnessed such courage. The irony pricked at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever hearing those words and truly believing them—not from her family, not from her friends. She’d been courted by a legion of suitors and even been betrothed, but her first sincerely-uttered declaration of love came from this brave, earnest boy.

Davy’s admission must have affected the Sea King, too. For though he kept his face carefully composed, Mr. Grayson neglected to bang his trident and elicit the required “yer majesty.”

Sophia longed to gauge Mr. Grayson’s reaction further, but she kept her gaze trained on the youth. Davy stood tall, despite the jeering of his crewmates. She prepared to reward him with a gracious smile, should he look in her direction, though she suspected he’d be too proud to do so. And he was. The boy stared stubbornly at Mr. Grayson. “Any more questions, yer majesty?”

Another storm of laughter swept through the crew.

Bang.

Silence.

“Only one, Davy Linnet. Have you coin to pay your tax?”

The lad blinked. “Tax?”

“Aye, your tax. There’s a price for crossing these waters unharmed. And if you cannot pay it with coin, you must suffer the consequences.” Mr. Grayson nodded toward Stubb, who pushed forward another barrel, this one open at the top and sloshing with liquid. A stench wafted from the barrel—odors of tar and rotting fish mingling with the pervasive aroma of stirred-up bilge.