Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(39)

Davy’s nose wrinkled as he regarded the noxious brew from his high vantage point. “I … I haven’t a coin to my name, yer majesty.”

“Well, Davy Linnet,” Mr. Grayson continued smoothly, “if you can’t pay the tax, you must be dunked.”

Stubb pulled out a rusted strap of metal and waved it above his head.

“Dunked and shaved!”

The men erupted into cheers. Levi and O’Shea took Davy by either leg, lifting him toward the bilge-filled barrel.

Sophia knew she shouldn’t intervene. The boy would come to no harm, she told herself. It was just a bit of bilge water. Clearly all of the sailors had suffered some similar hazing their first voyage, or they wouldn’t be taking such glee in Davy’s plight. But the lad had already endured too much humiliation, and endured too much of it on her account.

“Stop!” she called out.

To a one, the crewmen froze. A dozen heads swiveled to face her. Sophia swallowed and turned to Mr. Grayson. “What about me? I’m also a virgin voyager.”

His lips quirked as his gaze swept her from head to toe and then back up partway. “Are you truly?”

“Yes. And I haven’t a coin to my name. Do you plan to dunk and shave me, too?”

“Now there’s an idea.” His grin widened. “Perhaps. But first, you must submit to an interrogation.”

A lump formed in Sophia’s throat, impossible to speak around. Mr. Grayson raised that sonorous baritone to a carrying pitch. “What’s your name then, miss?” When Sophia merely firmed her chin and glared at him, he warned dramatically, “Truth or eels.”

Bang.

Excited whispers crackled through the assembly of sailors. Davy was completely forgotten, dropped to the deck with a dull thud. Even the wind held its breath in anticipation, and Sophia gave a slight jump when a sail smacked limp against the mast.

Though her heart pounded an erratic rhythm of distress, she willed her voice to remain even. “I’ve no intention of submitting myself to any interrogation, by god or man.” She lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow.

“And I’m not impressed by your staff.”

She paused several seconds, waiting for the crew’s boisterous laughter to ebb.

Mr. Grayson pinned her with his bold, unyielding gaze. “You dare speak to me that way? I’m Triton.” With each word, he stepped closer. “King of the Sea. A god among men.” Now they stood just paces apart. Hunger gleamed in his eyes. “And I demand a sacrifice.”

Her hand remained pressed against her throat, and Sophia nervously picked at the neckline of her frock. This close, he was all bronzed skin stretched tight over muscle and sinew. Iridescent drops of seawater paved glistening trails down his chest, snagging on the margins of that horrific scar, just barely visible beneath his toga.

“A sacrifice?” Her voice was weak. Her knees were weaker.

“A sacrifice.” He flipped the trident around, his biceps flexing as he extended the blunt end toward her, hooking it under her arm. He lifted the mop handle, pulling her hand from her throat and raising her wrist for his inspection.

Sophia might have yanked her arm away at any moment, but she was as breathless with anticipation as every other soul on deck. She’d become an observer of her own scene, helpless to alter the drama unfolding, on the edge of her seat to see how it would play out.

He studied her arm. “An unusually fine specimen of female,” he said casually. “Young. Fair. Unblemished.” Then he withdrew the stick, and Sophia’s hand dropped to her side. “But unsatisfactory.”

She felt a sharp twinge of pride. Unsatisfactory? Those words echoed in her mind again. I don’t want you.

“Unsatisfactory. Too scrawny by far.” He looked around at the crew, sweeping his makeshift trident in a wide arc. “I demand a sacrifice with meat on her bones. I demand …”

Sophia gasped as the mop handle clattered to a rest at her feet. Mr. Grayson gave her a sly wink, bracing his hands on his hips in a posture of divine arrogance. “I demand a goat.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The stench of live goats had permeated the Aphrodite for weeks. Now, the more pleasing aroma of cooked goat battled for precedence. Gray found it a refreshing change, but the remaining livestock didn’t seem to agree. They bleated loudly in their berths, protesting the sudden decrease in their number.

Gray picked his way through the barn that had formerly been the gentlemen’s cabin, careful not to brush up against anything. He’d just bathed and dressed, and it wouldn’t do to show up at Christmas Eve dinner with goat dung on his boots.

He passed into the galley and was greeted by a cloud of fragrant steam. The exotic scent of spices mingled with the tang of roasting meat. Startled, Gabriel choked on a sip from a tankard. In the corner, Stubb quickly shoved something behind his back. The old men’s eyes shone with more than holiday merriment.

“Happy Christmas, Gray.” Gabriel extended the tankard to him. “Here. We poured you some wine.”

Gray waved it off with a chuckle. “That my new Madeira you’re sampling?”

Gabriel nodded as he downed another sip. “Thought I should taste it before you serve it to company. You know, to be certain it ain’t poisoned.”

He drained the mug and set it down with a smile. “No, sir. Not poisoned.”