Surrender of a Siren (The Wanton Dairymaid Trilogy #2)(94)

“Aha!” She straightened triumphantly, holding a sharply gleaming object in her hand. A razor, he discerned. “There’s a strop and a cake of shaving soap, too. I’ll just fetch some water from the galley.”

Before he could protest, she was out the cabin door, and Gray let his head fall back on the pillow. He must have dozed, because he opened his eyes to find her over him, tugging his head toward the edge of the bed and smoothing her palms over his face.

“Just lie still,” she whispered, guiding him to pivot his body until the crown of his head rested against her chest. “Trust me, I’ve a very steady hand.”

“I don’t doubt it.” She worked sharp-scented lather through the whiskers, and the aroma sliced through the fog of his brain, waking him a bit more.

“This time, you shall greet your sister looking resplendent. The picture of respectability; or at least, of good grooming.”

He sighed as she smoothed the lather down his throat, her touch gliding over his skin. “Good. I shall need all the resplendence I can manage, in order to convince her. Although, I expect your presence will accomplish more in that respect.”

“Convince her of what?”

“To come with us, of course.” He paused as she laid the blade to his jaw and dragged it slowly up to his cheek. “Now that her mother’s gone, and Mara, too … I can’t allow her to continue living there alone.”

“Mara?” She made another slow swipe with the razor.

“Joss’s wife. Died in childbirth last year.”

She paused. “How dreadful. Did the babe survive?”

“Yes. A boy, Jacob. Bel’s looking after him now.”

After rinsing the blade, she laid a hand to his cheek, rolling his head to the other side. Again, she began at his ear and worked inward.

“I wish you could have known my brother before,” Gray continued.

“Before Mara died, he was different. Things were different between us. More … brotherly.”

“Grief changes people.”

“So I’ve learned.”

She tipped his head back to reach his throat. He steadied his breathing, fighting the urge to swallow as she scraped over his pulse. Grief changespeople. How could it not? He realized now how unfair he’d been to Joss, denying him the time to grieve, the space to change. It was only now that he could understand it, when the very idea of losing this woman forced beads of cold sweat to his brow.

Closing his eyes, he reached up to squeeze her free hand. “Let us speak of happier things.”

“Very well.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Where shall we honeymoon? Will you take me to Italy, to see the Botticellis?”

“I will take you anywhere you wish. Anywhere under the sky.”

A tender kiss landed on his eyelid. Then she fell silent, working toward the center of his chin, dipping the blade in a basin at his side between short, sure strokes. She was concentrating, he realized, working carefully around his scar. At last she set aside the razor, letting it sink into the basin with a soft splash, then dried his face with a cloth.

“Stay still.” Her fingers ran lightly over his face, as if testing for any rough spots she’d missed. She traced the thin scar from his chin to his mouth.

“So if this scar was self-inflicted, occasioned by vanity”—her hand slid down to the scar on his chest—“what of this? Not vanity, I think.”

He shook his head, laying one hand over hers. “Pure stupidity, that one. But self-inflicted, just the same.”

“It looks like a burn.”

“It is.”

Silence. His heart thumped against her palm.

“You don’t have to tell me,” she finally whispered.

“I want to,” he replied, surprised to find it was the truth. How could he expect her to share her own secrets, if he withheld his? “But it’s a long  story.”

“We have all night.” He cocked his head and frowned up at her. “When I went to the galley, I told O’Shea you were ill,” she admitted through a grin.

“He’ll not disturb us until they sight land.”

He rolled onto his side and propped himself on one elbow, uncertain whether to scold or kiss her. She solved the dilemma by kissing him first, then nestling into the bed beside him.

“You need rest,” she whispered, drawing his head to her shoulder.

“Between keeping watch and keeping a mistress, you’ve scarcely slept in a week.”

“You’re not my mistress, you’re my future wife.”

“We’re not married yet. And don’t spoil my fun. It’s my last chance to be anyone’s mistress.”

A savage joy swelled his heart. He wrapped an arm about her waist. “Yes, it is.”

Gray held her in silence, considering the story he meant to tell. It was a story he scarcely understood himself, and he realized he would be relating it for his own benefit more than for hers. “You will have gathered that Joss’s mother was my father’s mistress. One of his mistresses, at any rate. She was a slave.”

“I see.” She stroked his hair.

“From the beginning, my father acknowledged Joss openly as his son. This was after my own mother’s death, and before his bastards numbered so many as to make acknowledging them impractical. We were raised as brothers, during the day. Played together, dined together, took our lessons together. By night I stayed in the house, and Joss went to his mother in her quarters.”