Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(79)

“There,” she said, casting the sovereigns on the table. “Six pounds, and”

—she fished out a crown—“ten shillings. You owe me the two.”

He held up open palms. “Well, I’m afraid I have no coin on me. You’ll have to trust me for it.”

“I wouldn’t trust you for anything. Not even two shillings.”

He glared at her for a moment, then turned on his heel and exited the cabin, banging the door shut behind him. Sophia stared at it, wondering whether she dared stomp after him with her bodice hanging loose around her hips. Before she could act on the obvious affirmative, he stormed back in.

“Here.” A pair of coins clattered to the table. “Two shillings. And”—he drew his other hand from behind his back—“your two leaves of paper. I don

’t want to be in your debt, either.” The ivory sheets fluttered as he released them. One drifted to the floor.

Sophia tugged a banknote from her bosom and threw it on the growing pile. To her annoyance, it made no noise and had correspondingly little dramatic value. In compensation, she raised her voice. “Buy yourself some new boots. Damn you.”

“While we’re settling scores, you owe me twenty-odd nights of undisturbed sleep.”

“Oh, no,” she said, shaking her head. “We’re even on that regard.” She paused, glaring a hole in his forehead, debating just how hateful she would make this.

Very.

“You took my innocence,” she said coldly—and completely unfairly, because they both knew she’d given it freely enough.

“Yes, and I’d like my jaded sensibilities restored, but there’s no use wishing after rainbows, now is there?”

He had a point there. “I suppose we’re squared away then.”

“I suppose we are.”

“There’s nothing else I owe you?”

His eyes were ice. “Not a thing.”

But there is, she wanted to shout. I still owe you the truth, if only you’dcare enough to ask for it. If only you cared enough for me, to want toknow.

But he didn’t. He reached for the door.

“Wait,” he said. “There is one last thing.”

Sophia’s heart pounded as he reached into his breast pocket and withdrew a scrap of white fabric.

“There,” he said, unceremoniously casting it atop the pile of coins and notes and paper. “I’m bloody tired of carrying that around.”

And then he was gone, leaving Sophia to wrap her arms over her half-naked chest and stare numbly at what he’d discarded. A lace-trimmed handkerchief, embroidered with a neat S.H.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Gray left the cabin and went to work. He worked for days. He worked until he couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. His life became flips of the hourglass, clangs of the bell—increments of time too brief to allow anxiety for the future or regrets about the past. It was simply, always now. He concentrated on the task of each moment: the sail that wanted reefing, the brace gone slack. Getting the Kestrel from the crest of one wave to the next.

All the while, a deep, insidious current pulled on his heart. Resentment, confusion, fear. Uncertainty, in all its most sinister forms. By sheer force of will, he kept it at bay. A mere hint of uncertainty was all it required to taint authority in irrevocable fashion.

But for all his intensity of purpose, a mere moment in her presence was all it required to scatter his wits completely—he feared, in irrevocable fashion. In the clang of a bell, Gray was undone.

“What are you doing?”

The words fired from his mouth, like a salvo of rifle shots. She flinched with each one. But great God, he felt under attack.

What the devil was she doing in the galley? The galley was not where she ought to be. She ought to be in the captain’s cabin, where she’d remained squirreled away for the past three days. Where he didn’t have to look at this exquisite face, breathe this intoxicating fragrance, suffer these small earthquakes in his chest that left him reeling in his boots whenever she drew near.

“I’m serving dinner.” She held out a deep wooden plate ladled with steaming chowder. “Are you always this late to mess?”

Gray stared at the plate. Then he stared at her. Which was a mistake. Because he was starving, and she looked … delicious.

The galley was steamy and hot, as galleys tend to be. A high flush painted her cheeks and throat. Loose wisps of hair frizzled to tight curls at her hairline. Tiny beads of perspiration glittered on her décolletage, where her br**sts pressed up like twin mounds of risen dough. Her skin glowed, and her eyes … God, her eyes positively sparkled. Plump lips curved in a self-satisfied, feline smile.

She had the look, the air—even the scent—of a recently-bedded, thoroughly-pleasured woman. And Gray’s senses were under siege. All the desire that he’d been forcing down for the past three days tore free. It raced hot through his veins, swelled in his groin.

He resented it, resented this power she had over him. This was why she needed to stay where he’d put her, out of sight.

“What are you doing?” he growled again. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’m helping,” she bit out, her smile fading to a tight line. Her eyes dulled in the space of a blink, and she slung the plate onto the table. Gray slouched against the door and massaged his temples with one hand. Damn it, he was always the one to erase that smile from her face, douse that sparkle in her eyes. But he needed her to stay in that cabin. He could not look on her, be near her, think of her, and keep the Kestrel afloat at the same time. No red-blooded man could.