Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(82)

“Shouldn’t you like to be an uncle? Just think of the exotic tales and trinkets you’ll bring home. You’ll be a returning hero. The children will swarm around you like bees.” She imbued her voice with a coy lilt. “All the girls will be mad for you.”

He fell quiet again. Frustrated with herself, Sophia gave a harsh yank on the goat’s teat and narrowly missed a swift kick to the thigh. It would seem she’d lost the ability to converse rather than flirt, if she’d ever developed that talent at all. What was her reasoning, precisely? That a man couldn’t possibly hold himself in high esteem without the benefit of her flattery? Or that he’d see no reason to esteem her without it?

Davy finally said, “So long as I come home with my wages, I don’t expect they’ll turn me away.”

She let the soft splashes of milk fill the silence. At length, she asked cautiously, “Aren’t you happy for her, your sister who married?”

“I don’t know that it matters, how I feel about it.”

“But she’s your sister. She matters to you.”

His hand stilled on the teat. “The man she married, he’s too old for her. My father’s the one that arranged it. I think …” He squeezed out another jet of milk. “I think my father was in the man’s debt, more than he could pay.”

“I see.”

Her dismay must have been evident. Davy’s voice grew robust with defense. “She weren’t forced into it, mind. She didn’t marry him against her will.”

“No. No, of course not. Just against her heart. I do understand. It’s the way of things for women, sometimes.” After all, it had nearly been the way of things for her. “You don’t suspect he’ll mistreat her?”

“He’ll treat her fair enough, I reckon. My father wouldn’t have let her go, otherwise.”

“Then that’s some comfort.”

“Aye.” He shook a few last drops from the goat’s teat, then released it completely. “Just the same, I didn’t like it. I don’t like to see her married to a man she didn’t choose.”

Sophia continued milking on her side, settling into a hypnotic rhythm. “Of course you don’t. She’s your sister. If you care for her, you want to see her well cared for. If you love her, you want to see her loved.” If only she’d been so fortunate, to have a brother to want the same for her.

“Aye.” His voice cracked slightly on the word, and he paused. It must have been a full minute before he spoke again. “He’s a good man, the captain.”

Her hand stilled. “The captain?”

“Gray. He’s a good man, Miss Turner. He’ll do right by you.”

Sweet Heavens, the boy was giving her his blessing. Sophia didn’t know what to say. It would probably wound his pride, to call him the loving brother she’d never had. Certainly, she couldn’t tell him the truth of how matters stood between her and Gray. She didn’t want to deplete the boy’s faith in his captain’s honorable intentions. To the contrary, she dearly wished to borrow it.

Sniffing, she let go of the goat’s teat and brushed her hand on her skirts.

“I think she’s empty.”

“Are you certain?” He reached under the goat and gave the udder a brisk rub. Then he took the teat closest to Sophia and gave it a twist. A fresh stream of milk shot forth, glancing off the rim of the bucket and splashing her slippers.

“Take care!” With a little shriek of laughter, she pushed away from the goat’s side. Davy tilted his hand and squeezed the teat again, this time splattering Sophia from crown to chest. Sputtering and wiping milk from her face, she scrambled to her feet. “Davy Linnet,” she scolded, towering over both youth and goat. “You’re a rascal.”

“Am I?” He flashed her a lopsided, innocent grin. Shrugging, he dropped his gaze and emptied the last drops of milk into the pail. “Well, you’re blushing.”

Sophia made a show of huffing and crossing her arms, but she could not keep the laughter out of her voice. “Never say you’ve learned nothing from me, Davy. You might have shown me how to milk, but I’ve taught you to flirt.”

“A fair bargain, then.” He stood and took the goat by its collar.

“Perhaps. Mind you don’t confuse the two talents. Keep your goats straight from your girls.”

“That’s easily done.” Mischief twinkled sharp in his eye. “The goats don’t blush.”

“Son of a bitch.”

Gray scowled at the ink spattering his trousers and pooling atop the toe of his boot. This was why captains had cabins. It was nigh on impossible to keep a proper log in the first-mate’s berth, with only the most meager of lighting and this paltry writing surface jutting out from the wall, too narrow to accommodate both logbook and inkwell. And, he concluded as he frowned at the now-emptied latter, it was definitely impossible to keep a log without the benefit of ink.

He threw open the door of his berth and entered the captain’s cabin, knowing it to be unoccupied. At this hour, she would be preparing dinner in the galley. Flinging the logbook and quill down on the table, he moved to search the built-in drawers for a fresh bottle of ink. He found none.

“Blast.”

His eye fell on her trunks, stacked neatly in the corner. Surely she had a supply of ink, and quality ink at that. Without sparing a moment to second-guess the decision, he strode to her trunks and worked open the latches of the smaller trunk. He flipped it open.