Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(92)

“Flying fish. A sure sign we’re close. And there’s another.” He pointed toward the tip of the foremast, where a large white gull perched serenely.

“A bird. I can’t believe it’s been a whole month since I’ve seen a bird.”

She turned to Gray. “And yet, I can’t believe it’s been only a month that I’ve known you. I can’t decide whether it’s been the longest month of my life, or the shortest.”

His eyebrows gathered in an exaggerated frown. “I can’t decide which pays me the fainter compliment.”

“Neither,” she teased, linking her arm in his. “To compliment you, I should tell you it has been the best month of my life. And it has.” Truer words, she’d never spoken.

“Oh, nicely managed. My pride is rescued.” Despite his air of nonchalance, his eyes held genuine emotion. They were fully blue today—a rich, azure blue, clear and inviting and endless. Just like the sea. Sophia laughed to herself. How had she missed the obvious? All this time, she’d been puzzling out the color of his eyes. They were always shifting and changing, from green to blue to gray. And now she knew why. They always reflected the sea.

“Do you know,” he said, “if you keep gazing at me like that much longer, I shall be forced to pack you off belowdecks.”

“Am I truly gazing?” She fluttered her lashes at him. “I am making a trip to the storeroom soon, you know. But mind—this is the last good frock I’ve got.”

“Siren.” He gave her a surreptitious pinch on the hip. “No, it’s the cabin I have in mind for you, and you’re going there alone. You need to rest.” He walked her toward the hatch.

“You won’t come rest with me?”

“If I come with you, neither of us will rest.”

A current of pleasure shot straight to her center. Then a more practical thought intruded. “But what of the noon meal? It won’t make itself.”

At that instant, a flying fish as long as her arm sailed over the rail of the boat and flopped on the deck at their feet.

Gray looked at the thrashing fish, then raised his eyebrows at her.

“Somehow I think we’ll manage.”

Hours later, Sophia woke alone in the dark. Her toes groped the floorboards for her slippers, and she wrapped a light blanket over her shift before heading abovedecks.

Stars greeted her, in divine multitudes. A million lights dancing, winking, shining merrily in the firmament. As though some mischievous seraph were crawling about the floor of Heaven, drilling little holes with an auger to let glory shine through.

She spied him at the helm, his back to her as he looked out over the Kestrel’s stern, elbows propped on the rail. The crewman at the ship’s wheel politely ignored her as Sophia tiptoed past, through the swaying umbra of lamplight and into the shadows that cloaked Gray. Noiselessly, she pressed her body to his, flattening her cheek against his back. He tensed at the initial contact, then relaxed an instant later. His fingers found hers as she crept one hand around his waist.

“You should be sleeping,” he murmured. His amplified voice sounded delicious, traveling through the solid muscles of his back. She felt him, rather than heard him. Felt him everywhere.

“I was missing you.” And, because she wanted to feel him speak again, she added in a suggestive voice, “Were you missing me?”

“Of course.” He dragged her hand downward to present her with tangible proof of just how much he missed her. Sophia smiled against his back. He missed her greatly, she discovered, her fingers exploring. This was yearning on a grand scale, indeed.

He spoke again, sending pleasant tremors through her. “We’ll make land tomorrow. In the morning, if the wind holds.”

Now Sophia was the one to tense. He pivoted to face her, drawing her tight against his chest. “Nothing between us changes tomorrow.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. “Except this,” he said, rubbing her palm over his beard. “The first thing I’ll do once we reach terra firma is shave. I’m going mad with itching.”

She laughed, caressing his rough cheek with her thumb. “Then why haven

’t you shaved all along?”

“Feel this?” He dragged her fingertips over the narrow scar slanting across his chin. “This is what comes of shaving at sea.”

“Truly?” She pulled back, blinking in the starlight to make out his features.

“That’s how you got that scar? You cut yourself shaving?” She could not help but laugh.

“I’m glad my vanity-occasioned injury amuses you so.”

“I’m not laughing at you. I’m laughing at myself. That you cut yourself shaving … it isn’t at all what I’d imagined.”

“Oh, by all means, laugh. It was pure folly.” He looked out over the waters.

“Must have happened somewhere near this corner of the ocean, since we were only a day or so out from Tortola. I was coming home from England, after my father had died. I was so worried for my sister, Bel. She was just a child then. We hadn’t seen each other in years, but from the moment she greeted me, I wanted her to feel reassured. I was so anxious to look responsible, capable …” She heard the wry smile in his voice. “Failing that, at least well-groomed. I was shaving when the storm hit. Lost my balance and fell—sliced open my chin, and blackened an eye, too. Instead of well-groomed and responsible, I showed up looking as though I’d been besieged by pirates.”