Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(46)

“You’re looking very well, Davy. I’d wager you’ve gained a stone since we left England. They won’t be able to call you ‘boy’ much longer.” She tilted her head in coquettish fashion. “Do they have you in the forecastle yet?”

He shook his head and scratched the back of his neck. “Still have a lot to learn, miss. I’ll make it there soon.”

“I’m certain you will.” She smiled again, and the lad blushed. Sophia knew how much he craved admittance to the forecastle, where all the sailors bedded down. He’d been sleeping in steerage since the voyage began, and there he would remain until he’d proven himself, in both ability and character.

“Man aloft to splice the fore topgallant lift!”

From around the foremast, Quinn grumbled and began moving toward the ratlines.

“I’ll do it.” Davy dodged in front of the sailor, throwing him off balance. Quinn gritted his teeth, but profanity flowed freely through the gaps. “Out of my way, boy, or I’ll throw you to the sharks.”

“I said, I’ll do it.” Davy held out a hand. “Lend me your marlinespike.”

Quinn gave him a skeptical look. “This is sailor’s work, boy. Have you spliced a cable before?”

“I’ve practiced on deck.”

The older man harrumphed and elbowed the boy aside.

With a glance in Sophia’s direction, Davy stepped in front of him again. He stood undeterred even when Quinn puffed his chest and drew up to full height, a full head taller than the youth.

“Let me do it,” Davy insisted. “How can I learn if you don’t give me a chance to try?”

Quinn paused, staring up at the mast. Then he wiped his brow and looked back at the boy. “If you want to climb up there in this heat, I won’t stop you.”

He unknotted the marlinespike from his belt and slapped the needle into Davy’s outstretched palm. “Don’t c**k it up, or I’ll gut you myself.”

With those words of encouragement, Davy sprang into the rigging. She watched his ascent for a while, and then he climbed out of her sight, behind the canopy. Sophia decided her loyalty to Davy did not extend that far, as to wilt and freckle in the tropical sun while he repaired a bit of rope. She would conserve her energy for congratulating him once he finished. She waited, chin propped in her hands. Her eyelids grew heavy. She was drifting … drifting …

Thwack.

The sharp noise jolted her awake.

“Ho, there! Get down here, boy!” She recognized Mr. Brackett’s harsh bark.

Sophia scrambled out from under the canopy. The crew gathered around the foremast, watching in ominous silence as Davy slowly descended the ratlines. At the center of the scattered group stood Mr. Brackett, hands planted on either hip, and legs braced wide in an attitude of imminent threat.

“Ahoy! All hands!”

She shook herself, trying to dispel the drowsy haze from her brain. What could Davy have done that would warrant this assembly, resembling nothing so much as a shipboard trial, with Mr. Brackett looking like judge and executioner in one?

Then she saw it, sticking out of the deck like a giant’s dart—the marlinespike driven straight into the planks. That must have been the loud thwack she’d heard. Davy had dropped it from the topgallant yard. If it had struck a man … Despite the heat, Sophia shivered. It was a miracle no one on deck had been killed.

She might have counted their blessings too soon.

As Davy finally reached the deck, Mr. Brackett’s expression spelled quiet murder. He walked over to the offending sliver of iron, planted a boot on the board it had pierced, grasped the spike with both hands, and pulled it free with one swift yank. He brandished it before Davy, jabbing the point into the center of the boy’s chest. “Careless, Linnet. Very careless.”

The boy stood a bit taller, but Sophia noticed his left knee begin to shake.

“I’m sorry, sir. My hand was sweaty. It just slipped. It won’t happen again, sir.” Davy’s voice cracked as he spoke.

“I’d like to believe that, Linnet. But I think I’d better teach you a lesson. Just to be certain.”

Teach him a lesson? What could the man mean? Sophia scanned the deck. The captain was out in the longboat. Mr. Wiggins was presumably belowdecks, resting. For the moment, the ship was Mr. Brackett’s to command.

And Sophia could tell, he wasn’t about to let the men forget it. The air and the water were so calm, so still, that every word echoed off the decking, as though it were a stage. And Brackett definitely had an air for the theatrical. He circled the men, turning his hawkish glare from one sailor to the next, letting his boots clunk ominously with each slow step. He held his audience rapt.

“This crew is the most indolent band of curs I’ve ever seen. I’ve been itching to give you men a taste of real discipline.” Brackett turned to Davy.

“Do you really mean to be a sailor, boy? Do you think you have what it takes?”

Davy nodded, once.

“Well, you can’t handle a marlinespike, can you? But perhaps you can handle a taste of the lash.”

Sophia leapt forward. “No!”

Mr. Brackett turned to her. “Miss Turner, this isn’t a fit spectacle for ladies. You ought to return to your cabin.”

“No. You can’t do this. I won’t allow it.”