Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(5)

“Steady there,” he murmured through a small smile. “I have you.”

A sudden gust of wind absconded with his hat. He took no notice, but Sophia did. She noticed everything. Never in her life had she felt so acutely aware. Her nerves were drawn taut as harp strings, and her senses hummed.

The man radiated heat. From exertion, most likely. Or perhaps from a sheer surplus of simmering male vigor. The air around them was cold, but he was hot. And as he held her tight against his chest, Sophia felt that delicious, enticing heat burn through every layer of her clothing—cloak, gown, stays, chemise, petticoat, stockings, drawers—igniting desire in her belly.

And sparking a flare of alarm. This was a precarious position indeed. The further her torso melted into his, the more certainly he would detect her secret: the cold, hard bundle of notes and coin lashed beneath her stays. She pushed away from him, dropping onto the seat and crossing her arms over her chest. Behind him, the breeze dropped his hat into a foamy eddy. He still hadn’t noticed its loss.

What he noticed was her gesture of modesty, and he gave her a patronizing smile. “Don’t concern yourself, Miss Turner. You’ve nothing in there I haven’t seen before.”

Just for that, she would not tell him. Farewell, hat.

To a point, he was correct. She likely had nothing in there he had not seen before. He’d certainly seen a sovereign in his life, and a banknote or two. He may have even seen almost six hundred pounds’ worth of them, all lined up in a tidy row. But he likely hadn’t seen them in the possession of a governess, because no woman with that sort of money would ever seek employment.

That scuffle with Bains in the tavern had only underscored her peril. She needed to focus on the tasks at hand. Escaping England and marriage. Guarding her secrets and her purse. Surviving until her twenty-first birthday, when she could return to claim the remainder of her trust. And in aid of it all, keeping men out of her stays.

After untying the boat, Mr. Grayson wedged himself onto the narrow plank across from her and gathered the oars.

“You don’t have a boatman?” she asked. Their knees were practically touching, they sat so close together. She sat up a bit, widening the gap.

“Not at the moment.” Levering one oar, he pushed off from the dock. She frowned. Surely it wasn’t usual, for the ship’s owner and principal investor to row himself to and from the quay. Then again, surely it wasn’t usual for the ship’s owner and principal investor to have the shoulders of an ox. As he began to row in earnest, the bold, rhythmic power of his strokes entranced her. The soft splash of the oars cutting through the water, the confident motions of his hands, the way strength rippled under his coat again, and again, and again …

Sophia shook herself. This was precisely the sort of observation she ought to avoid.

With reluctance, she dragged her gaze from his muscled shoulders and settled it on a more benign prospect.

Burnt sienna. To capture the color of his hair, she would start with a base of burnt sienna, mixed with a touch of raw umber and—she mentally added, as the boat drifted through a shaft of sunlight—the faintest trace of vermillion. More umber at the temples, where sideburns glossed with pomade slicked back toward his slightly square-tipped ears. A controlled touch would be needed there, but the breeze-tossed waves atop his head invited loose, sinuous brushstrokes, layered with whispers of amber. Indian yellow, she decided, lightened with lead white.

The mental exercise calmed her nerves. These wild, mutinous passions that ruled her—Sophia might never master them, but at least she could channel them into her art.

“Was it a convent you escaped, Miss Turner?” He turned the boat with a deft pull on one oar.

“Escaped?” Her heart knocked against her hidden purse. “I’m a governess, I told you. I’m not running away, from a convent or anywhere else. Why would you ask that?”

He chuckled. “Because you’re staring at me as though you’ve never seen a man before.”

Sophia’s cheeks burned. She was staring. Worse, now she found herself powerless to turn away. What with the murky shadows of the tavern and the confusion of the quay, not to mention her own discomposure, she hadn’t taken a good, clear look at his eyes until this moment.

They defied her mental palette utterly.

The pupils were ringed with a thin line of blue. Darker than Prussian, yet lighter than indigo. Perhaps matching that dearest of pigments—the one even her father’s generous allowance did not permit—ultramarine. Yet within that blue circumference shifted a changing sea of color—green one moment, gray the next … in the shadow of a half-blink, hinting at blue.

He laughed again, and flinty sparks of amusement lit them. Yes, she was still staring.

Forcing her gaze to the side, she saw their rowboat nearing the scraped hull of a ship. She cleared her throat and tasted brine. “Forgive me, Mr. Grayson. I’m only trying to make you out. I understood you to be the ship’s captain.”

“Well,” he said, grasping a rope thrown down to him and securing it to the boat, “now you know I’m not.”

“Might I have the pleasure, then, of knowing the captain’s name?”

“Certainly,” he said, securing a second rope. “It’s Captain Grayson.”

She heard the smirk in his voice, even before she swiveled her head to confirm it. Was he teasing her? “But, you said …”