Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(47)

The moment the words escaped her throat, Sophia knew she’d made a grave mistake. If Davy had any hope of leniency, she’d just erased it. Brackett’s black eyes pinned her, as dark and unyielding as obsidian. He would never back down now. To spare Davy at her behest would be tantamount to surrendering authority in front of his crew. Unthinkable.

“I apologize for offending your genteel sensibilities, Miss Turner. Justice can be an ugly business. Now, I advise you to go belowdecks.”

“Go on, Miss Turner,” Davy said. “I’ve had my share of beatings. It’s nothing I haven’t felt before.”

And of course he didn’t want her to see, the brave boy. Sophia cast him an apologetic look. Then she firmed her chin and spoke to Brackett. “Thank you, I will stay. If you can perform this atrocity, you can perform it in front of me.” Perhaps the man would go lightly on Davy with her here. Or maybe she could swoon at a fortuitous moment and put a stop to it altogether.

“If you wish.” Brackett turned on his heel, swinging the marlinespike around like a compass needle, ultimately selecting Quinn as its true north.

“You there. String Linnet up to the yardarm.”

Muffled curses rose up from the assembled crew. Quinn shifted his weight uneasily. Brackett swung ’round again, making another swiping threat with the marline-spike, and losing his hat in the process. The men dropped back in silence.

The sweat on Sophia’s neck went cold.

“Remove your shirt, Linnet.” When the boy simply stood in place, Brackett hooked the tip of the marline-spike into Davy’s collar and yanked, ripping the coarse tunic from neck to waist. Then he reached out with his free hand to tear the shirt away from the youth’s torso, exposing a smooth, pale chest.

Brackett rested the marlinespike on his shoulder like a dueling pistol and turned to Quinn. “String. Him. Up.”

Quinn did not move. Braced in a wide stance, arms crossed over his chest, he was a towering mountain of muscle. And he received Brackett’s command with all the stony indifference of a mountain that had just been ordered to jump. Make me, his gaze said. I’d like to see you try. Sophia wanted to believe the man felt some allegiance to Davy, but she suspected the heat factored strongly in his defiance. If Quinn hadn’t wanted to climb the mast ten minutes ago, he could hardly relish the idea of hauling a boy up with him now.

Mr. Brackett did not seem angered by Quinn’s mute refusal. Instead, Sophia thought he looked oddly gratified. His face lit with a smug, expectant grin. “Do you disobey a direct order then, Quinn?”

Quinn did not move.

“Insubordination,” said Brackett, circling Quinn slowly, “is a serious infraction. I advise you to reconsider. I’ll say it but one more time, Quinn.”

Brackett punctuated each word with a jab to the sailor’s chest. “String. Him. Up.”

Quinn shrugged off the spike, as a horse twitches its flank to dislodge a fly.

Brackett sneered, sweat trickling off his brow. His black hair was soaked with perspiration, matted to his scalp like raven feathers. Whether it was the heat, the power of command, or both—this scene had unleashed something dark in the man. Something terrifying. His eyes were wild, and he wielded the marlinespike like one of the devil’s own tormentors.

“I was going to make an example of the boy there, but now I think you”—he jabbed Quinn again—“will make a better example by far.”

With sudden, agile fury, Brackett swung the heavy iron spike and hit Quinn square in the back of his knee. The man’s leg crumpled beneath him, and he dropped to the deck with a heavy thud.

Sophia clapped a hand over her scream.

Quinn groaned and rolled to his knees. Brackett twirled the marlinespike in his hand and hammered him between the shoulder blades with the blunt end, sprawling him face-first onto the deck. Before the sailor could recover from the blow, Brackett had his boot planted on the man’s neck, holding him down.

The assembled crew stood frozen, the men glancing frantically from one to another. Sophia understood their hesitation. Even if their captain would not countenance such violence—and Sophia felt certain he wouldn’t—to overpower Brackett would be mutiny.

Quinn struggled to rise. Brackett crushed his heel down on the man’s neck, stifling all protest.

Sophia glanced toward the ship’s prow. It was impossible to see the longboat from here. If only she could make some sort of signal … or call out to the captain.

“Fetch me the lash,” Brackett ordered, pointing the marlinespike at Davy.

“And be quick about it, or I’ll double your strokes.”

Sophia didn’t wait for Davy’s response. She turned on her heel and bolted down the stairs belowdecks, racing through the ladies’ cabin and passing into steerage.

“Mr. Grayson!” She wove through the jumbled crates. He would make everything all right, she knew it. He had to. “Mr. Grayson! Gray!”

A hand snagged her elbow.

“Come to me at last, have you?”

It was stifling hot in the compartment, and Sophia was overwrought. At the sound of his sleepy baritone and the reassuring feel of his hand on her skin, she nearly melted. He leaned against the stacked crates, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his sleeve. “What is it, sweet?”

“Come quickly,” she said, removing his hand from her elbow and tugging him back toward the stairs.