Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(75)

Mallory sneered. “You miserable, sniveling whoreson.” He spat again, this time in Gray’s face.

Gray slowly wiped his face on his shredded cuff. The two men glared at each other, the tension between them building, swarming, growing fists. Through the charged silence, Sophia heard the sound of knuckles cracking. Then suddenly, Gray stood down. As he always did, he stole the advantage with a shrug and a lazy smile. If I don’t care about you, that look said, you can’t possibly hurt me.

Sophia was growing to hate that look.

“Mallory,” he began on a tone of false conciliation, “by all means, let’s do things the easy way. It would be a shame for this to turn violent.” His voice darkened a shade. “I don’t like violence.”

He swung around to face Joss. “Send a party of able men to the Kestrel, to start rigging a jury-mast and fitting it with sails. You take the wounded on into port, and we’ll limp behind as best we can. We’ll meet up in Road Town.”

“No!” Sophia threw open the hatch and stumbled out onto the deck, drowning Mallory’s protest with her own. “Gray, you are not leaving me again. I won’t let you.”

His face was hard, unreadable as he quickly scanned her appearance.

“What the devil are you doing on deck?”

“What am I doing? What are …” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the lascivious leer Mallory was dragging up and down her body. Sophia crossed her arms over her chest, disgusted. He was younger than she’d imagined from his voice, and thinner. But no less repulsive.

“Well, well,” he clucked, narrow-set eyes peering at her around a hooked nose. “If she stays with this ship, I might stop protesting. Can’t say I’d turn down a taste of that tart.”

Her cheeks burning, Sophia turned to Gray. To her horror, she watched as his mouth tipped in a smirk. Almost a smile. Curse him, he even chuckled as he strolled back across the deck to face Mallory. Was that how he saw her now, too? As a tart? Just another of his countless paramours? They might as well have been right back in that seedy tavern on the Gravesend quay, when she’d mistaken him for a gentleman—and he’d looked at her and seen only a bit of skirt.

“Mr. Mallory,” he said, striking his habitual pose of arrogant swagger, “I’d like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving me an excuse to do this.”

Gray swung his fist, putting the full force of his body behind the blow. The punch connected with Mallory’s jaw, sending him reeling against the ship’s rail. Before Sophia could even draw breath, Gray hit him again, this time delivering a solid blow to the stomach. With a choked groan, Mallory doubled over his boots and crumpled to the deck.

“I told you, I don’t like violence,” Gray forced out, shaking his hand as he stood over Mallory’s writhing form. “But I’m not above using it.”

Sophia’s knees melted. She clung to the edge of the raised hatch for support. Tears stung her eyes, although she wasn’t at all certain who or what she cried for.

“Put him in the brig,” Gray said, without diverting his attention from Mallory.

“Can’t,” O’Shea said. “Brackett’s in the brig. It’s not big enough for two.”

“Well, I can’t have this cur aboard the Kestrel. He knows the vessel too well, might find some way to influence the crew.” Gray looked to his brother.

“I’ll take Brackett with me.”

Joss nodded. “You’ll need a few able seamen as well.” He turned to O’Shea.

The burly Irishman smiled. “I’m in.”

“You’re first mate, then,” Gray said. He rubbed the back of his neck as he circled the whimpering figure on the deck. “I’ll need Bailey, for sails and carpentry. And Davy, if you can spare him. Their cook was killed in the blast, so I’ll need someone to manage the stores and pass around biscuit now and then.”

“Then you’d best take a few of the goats, too,” Joss said. “Stubb can’t do the milking himself, not with wounded men to tend.”

Gray nodded.

Sophia choked on a sob. Here he stood readying to leave the ship, making plans to take along sailors and Davy and goats and even that horrid Mr. Brackett … and ignoring her completely. He hadn’t even cast a glance in her direction since Mallory’s insult.

She sniffed loudly, wiping away tears with the back of one hand. Fool girl, she chided herself. Hadn’t she vowed just minutes ago that she would not cry?

“Get below.” The words could only be meant for her, though Gray did not turn his gaze. “Pack your things.”

The captain shot Sophia a worried glance, then addressed his brother in solemn tones. “Gray, I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’d be much safer aboard the Aphrodite.”

“I know,” Gray said. “But I can’t leave her.” It was hardly a pledge of tenderness or emotion. Resentment hung from his words, making them heavy. Crushing.

“Are you certain?” Joss asked.

“I can’t leave her,” Gray repeated. Irony crept over his face, like the shadow of a passing cloud. “I gave my word.”

Sophia stepped toward him. “Gray—”

“Get. Below.” Cold, demanding eyes finally met hers. “And stay there.”