Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(67)

“What’s in the hold?” His blow landed awkwardly, glancing the rail. Pain erupted in his elbow.

“Rum!” Davy scrambled toward them, juggling a small powder keg. Gray stopped mid-swing and stared at the boy. Terror was etched on his young face. “It’s rum, Gray. The hold’s full to bursting with it, and the—”

Davy tripped on a coil of rope, dropping the keg. Gray watched it roll back down the quarterdeck, trailing a thin line of powder as it went. Perfect. Just bloody wonderful.

Gray swung the knife again, fear cramping his side. “Is there fire below?”

“Not that I saw. But there are wounded men down there. One of them …”

Davy’s chest convulsed with a sudden heave, as if he would vomit. “One of them’s burnt bad.”

“Boats?” Gray looked to the sailors.

“Just one.”

A wave of heat swamped them as the topsail caught fire, going up in flames like a dry leaf. Gray examined the shallow groove in the mainmast. Despite Levi’s strength, he’d barely managed to score the trunk of pine. It would take far too long to fell it. By that time, the flames would be too low. The fire would reach the deck, ignite the powder, spread to the hold full of rum, and the entire ship would explode like a Bonapartist’s grenade. Bloody hell.

Levi kept swinging the tiny cleaver, while the rest of the men merely stared at Gray. Davy swallowed and shifted his weight, clearly awaiting direction. “Captain?”

The instant that word fell from Davy’s lips, Gray knew several things. He knew he was now the de facto captain of this godforsaken ship. He’d boarded it and taken command, and now he had to stay with it until the end. He knew he could save some of the men, but not all. At this rate, they’d be lucky to get the boat lowered before the rum exploded, let alone bring the injured up from the hold. And he knew he couldn’t leave the wounded behind and live with himself afterward. Which meant he wouldn’t live. He’d never get back to the Aphrodite. Not to his business, not to his family. Not to her.

He was going to die. Today.

Christ.

He ran both hands through his hair, pushing it off his brow, then took the cleaver from Levi. “Put in the boat. Raise the call to abandon ship.” A hunk of charred yardarm dropped to the deck at his feet, forcing him to step back. “And be quick about it.”

The men hurried to lower the jolly boat from the ship’s stern, leaving Gray to stare up at the burning mainmast. The mast danced with flame like a giant candlewick. He made a fist and punched the stubborn column of wood, earning nothing but scraped knuckles and searing pain for his trouble.

“Fall, damn you.” He leaned his shoulder against the mast and pushed, though he knew it a futile effort. Teeth gritted and heels dug into the grooves of the deck, he shoved again. “Fall.”

Nothing.

An unfamiliar seaman’s voice rasped through the gale. “Abandon ship! All hands, abandon ship! To the boat!”

A handful of sailors struggled up through the forecastle hatch, lurching their way toward the stern. If the men noticed a bearded madman attempting to topple the mainmast with his bare hands, they did not pause to spare him a second glance.

“Stop that bloody shouting!”

The surly, languid curse drew Gray’s attention toward the stern. He watched as a lanky man in a black, brass-buttoned coat staggered out from the captain’s cabin, rubbing his bleary face. Slack-jawed and blinking, he wore an expression that was one part bewilderment, two parts liquor. The captain looked up at the encroaching flames and scowled. “What the devil—?”

Gray shook his head. Had the man slept through the whole damned ordeal? He’d lost at least two crewmen and his ship was poised to become an inferno, and this excuse for a commander had the idiocy to curse the alarm that roused him from his stupor?

The deck lurched, and the drunken captain grabbed a pin for support. With the next roll of the ship, he vomited wildly on his own boots. Gray took two strides toward the helm and cupped his hands around his mouth. “O’Shea!”

The Irishman caught his gaze across the ship’s wheel.

Gray indicated the retching officer. “Get him to the boat. And stay there yourself. Tell Levi to start pulling away. Now.”

“What about you, Gray?”

“I’ll swim out to you. Now go!”

“Aye, aye.” O’Shea yanked on the captain’s coat sleeve, practically carrying him toward the boat. They both disappeared over the ship’s rail, and Gray watched the ropes securing the jolly boat reel out and then go slack.

They were away.

Gray sagged against the mainmast, feeling the flames above him singe his hair. He was going to die here, alone, leaving nothing to mark his time on this earth but a string of dashed expectations and broken promises. His legacy would fade faster than the wake of a porpoise.

Something popped overhead, and sparks showered down around him. Ducking, Gray buried his face against his arm. Perhaps, he thought, he could swim for it. There were injured men in the hold—how many? Four?

Five? No way to save them now. But he could save himself. He could swim back to her. He’d swim miles to her, if that’s what it took. But could he live with himself afterward, knowing he’d abandoned five men to an agonizing death while he swam to safety?

An image of her loveliness bloomed behind his eyelids.