Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(53)

He shrugged and continued to stare up at the ceiling. “Is it?”

Another question perched on the tip of her tongue. Sophia hesitated, then asked it anyway. “And did any of them love you?”

He leveled a cool gaze at her. “Only the fools.” There was such pride there in his eyes, mingled with such pain.

Then, suddenly, his fist crashed to the tabletop. Sophia jumped in her seat.

“I think it’s time I asked the questions, don’t you?” He rose to his feet and began pacing the cabin. “I know your name already, Miss Jane Turner.”

Sophia had the impulse to interrupt, to correct him. But she couldn’t. Guilt pinched in her chest. He’d just bared his life to her. Why hadn’t she the courage to do the same?

“What is your age, then?”

“I am twenty.” At least that was the truth.

“Twenty,” he repeated, in a tone of dismissal. “Only twenty. So young. What can you know of the world?”

“More than you would credit. What can you know of me, to draw such a conclusion?”

He swung around and leaned a hand on the table. “What can I know of you, indeed. How much of the world have you seen, then, Miss Turner?

From whence do you hail?”

He loomed over her, his bulk and strength intimidating. But the intensity in his eyes was more disquieting by far. “Kent.”

He laughed and stood erect again. “Oh, Miss Turner hails from the wilds of Kent, does she? Known for its savage garden parties, Kent. Are your parents living?”

“Yes, both.”

“Have you siblings?”

“One sister.”

“What a charming little family.” Sophia began to interject, but he spoke over her. “Brown bread or white?”

“White.”

“White bread. But of course. Nothing but the best for Miss Turner. I suppose I can skip the next question, as well. I’m well aware of your taste for rum.”

Sophia bristled at the malice in his voice, and the brutal way in which his hand sliced the air. “Actually, I prefer claret.”

“Claret.” He smirked. “Well, I’m sorry I cannot accommodate your tastes, Miss Turner, to offer you white bread and claret at every meal.”

“You know I’ve no such expectation.” Pressing her hands to the tabletop, she rose to her feet. “Why are you behaving in this fashion?”

He leaned over the table, placing his hands flat to mirror hers. “In what fashion would you like me to behave? I can’t be other than I am, sweetheart. You’ve known from the start, I’m no gentleman. I’m a liar, a thief, a libertine … and worse.” He leaned closer, and she swayed forward, as if pulled by a thread. His face was but a handsbreadth from hers. Close enough to kiss.

His gaze fell to her lips, his voice distilling to a rough whisper. “You say you have no expectation of white bread and claret? Sweet …” The word swirled over her lips, and Sophia’s eyes fluttered shut. “You would do well to form no expectations at all.”

Her eyes flew open. He pushed back and straightened until his dark hair swept the cabin ceiling. Sophia retreated slowly, her heart drumming in her breast. A sad, yet satisfied look came over his face as he folded his arms across his chest.

He meant to push her away. She understood it now. Telling her of the history with his brother, boasting about the countless women. And now, with this ruthless interrogation. This was the same man who had held her so tenderly not a half-hour ago, practically declared love for her in a moment of honest anger. The man who wanted her so fiercely, she could taste it on his breath. The man she desired so much, she ached for him, body and heart.

And now he was pushing her away. Using his sordid past to drive a wedge between them.

Well, Sophia had a sordid past of her own. Her sins might not have been as numerous or as salacious, but they were every bit as black as his. And she was not going to allow yet another man to paint her as some sort of perfect angel, above desire, too pure to touch.

She skirted the table, closing the distance between them. “We’re not finished.”

“Sweet, I think we were finished before we began.”

She shook her head, laying a hand on his arm. “You’ve more questions to ask me.”

His mouth quirked in a half-smile. Unfolding his arms, he caught her hand in his. Sophia wished that the glassy sea would roll beneath them, pitching her into his arms. But the calm held.

“Don’t try to tell me,” he said, tracing her fingers with his, “that these soft, delicate hands have committed theft.”

“But they have.”

“Of what? Ribbons? A bit of lace, perhaps?” He folded her fingers over her palm and returned her hand to her side. “Perhaps a few leaves of paper?”

“Paper of a sort.” Banknotes were paper, weren’t they?

“What ever your petty sins, sweet, I’m certain I could buy and sell them with the coin in my waistcoat pocket.”

He had no idea. Lowering her eyes, Sophia pressed her hand to the purse beneath her stays. True, the money was hers in name. But hadn’t it been nearly Toby’s, by rights? Even now, he could be bringing suit against her parents, demanding the dowry she’d denied him when she ran away. What she’d done … It wasn’t so very different from Mr. Grayson’s deceit. She’d stolen her own inheritance. “You’d be surprised at the cost of my sins.”