Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(40)

“And the figs? The olives? The spices? I assume you checked them all, too? For caution’s sake, of course.”

“Of course,” Stubb said, pulling his own mug from behind his back and taking a healthy swallow. “Everyone knows you can’t trust a Portuguese trader.”

Gray laughed. He plucked an olive from a dish on the table and popped it into his mouth. Rich oil coated his tongue. “Did you find the crate easily enough?” he asked Stubb, reaching for another olive.

The old steward nodded. “It’s all laid out, just so. Candles, too.”

“Feels like Christmas proper.” Gabriel tilted his head. “Miss Turner even  gave me a gift.”

Gray followed the motion, squinting through the steam.

I’ll be damned.

A small canvas sat propped on the cabinet. Painted on it was a deceptively simple seascape. Masterful brushstrokes captured the swirling motion of the water and the dance of the breeze. Fading sunlight kissed the waves with brilliance.

And as was the case with all Miss Turner’s work, Gray found himself genuinely moved by it—not only by the painting’s beauty, but by the care that occasioned its creation. She’d given Gabriel a window for the galley, just as surely as if she’d cut a hole in the ship’s side and installed a pane of glass. She’d given him a gift, indeed.

Stubb said, “She made a sketch of Bailey for his wife. Now he’s fashioning her these little canvases from spare bits of wood and sailcloth.”

“Doesn’t Bailey have sails to mend?” he grumbled. “I’m not paying the man to make canvases.”

Gabriel shrugged, throwing him an offended look. “I just give the man his biscuit three times a day. I don’t keep track of how he spends his time.”

Gray knew he was being an ass, but he found it damned maddening, this constant assault of her artistry. These little scraps of beauty strewn about his ship. Dazzling his eyes, yanking him about with little tugs on his gut. Their collective effect left Gray feeling more than a bit resentful. But not so resentful that he’d ceased looking for them—hell, hoping to find them—in a manner that verged uncomfortably on habit.

Not that any of her sketches or paintings were for him. He turned to Stubb. “Did she give you a present, too?”

The man smiled through his grizzled beard. “Aye. It’s in steerage. Lovely little painting of a mermaid.”

“Good Lord.” Gray sanded his palm on his bearded jaw.

The steward picked up a wooden spoon and prodded Gray in the side.

“They’re waiting for you, you know. Get in there, so we can serve.”

Gray hurried through the passage before Stubb could prod him again. He traversed the small corridor of the officers’ berths and entered the captain’s cabin. The men rose as he entered, Joss at the head of the narrow table, flanked by the other officers.

“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. He nodded to  the men, then turned and made a bow to Miss Turner before sliding into the chair opposite.

Stripes.

Out of habit, Gray immediately noted the answer to his question. The persistent, ever-present question that plagued his days, popped into his mind whenever he saw her or anticipated seeing her. Which was nearly all of the time.

Which frock would she be wearing? Sprigs or stripes?

Gray harbored a slight preference for the stripes. Not only did the darker color suit her complexion, but the neckline plunged in an enticing manner, displaying a wedge of sheer chemise. The sprigged gown had a higher, square neckline, and only one flounce to this frock’s two. But then … The sprigged gown had tiny buttons down the side—fourteen buttons, to be exact, and though just mentally undoing them was enough to drive Gray mad with frustration, that mile-long stretch of minuscule pearl dots was some comfort. The fastenings of this striped gown, by contrast, were completely invisible. Were there little hooks, he wondered, under the sleeves? Hidden in the seams somewhere?

Miss Turner coughed and shifted in her seat.

Dear God. Gray shook himself, realizing he’d just spent the better part of a minute openly staring in the direction of her br**sts. At a distance of no more than two feet. Worse—he’d wasted that blasted minute obsessing about hooks and buttons, when he could have been scanning for the shadow of an areola, or the crest of a nipple.

Damn.

And now he had no choice but to drop his gaze and study the china. It did look well, the porcelain. The acanthus pattern complemented the scrollwork on the silver quite nicely. Odd, to be drinking Madeira from teacups, but at least they were better than tin. The white drape beneath it all was nothing of quality, but the lighting was dim, and it would do. Gray put out a hand to straighten his fork.

“The table looks lovely,” she said, to no one in particular. Dear God. Once again, she jolted him back into reality, and Gray realized he’d spent the better part of two minutes now fussing over china and table linens. First dressmaking, now table-setting … If it wasn’t for the fact that her voice called straight to his swelling groin, Gray might have begun to question his masculinity.

What the hell was happening to him?

He wanted her. He wanted her body, quite obviously. More disturbing by far, he could no longer deny that he wanted her approval. And he wanted both with a near-paralyzing intensity, though he knew he could never have one without sacrificing the other.