But she was touching him. Still stroking her soft fingers through his hair, now pressing her warm body to his. His straining erection finally met with the welcome friction of her belly, and it was all he could do not to grind against it. He ought to walk away. Walk straight out of the room without looking back.
But he couldn’t. God, he just couldn’t. She felt too good. She wanted him, and that felt too good. The wanting, he could resist. But this feeling of being wanted—it was always his undoing. His little siren would pull him straight to his death, all the way to damnation, and he was literally inches away from giving in and enjoying the ride.
“I’ve been wanting,” she breathed, “so very much … to paint you.”
To paint him?
He laughed. Oh, what fun he could have with her. “Sweetheart, I …”
Gray’s voice trailed off as a vivid image appeared in his mind. Not Miss Turner naked and writhing beneath him—though that image would certainly haunt his dreams.
No, he saw her charcoal sketch of young Davy Linnet. The perception in it, the attention to detail. And suddenly, Gray formed a vision of himself through those all-seeing, artist’s eyes.
He saw an unshaven brigand, inches away from plundering an innocent governess who was far from home and full in her cups. A man poised to break his word to his only brother, again—as though it were an easy habit. A fraud in foppish boots, trying to buy his way into the graces of his sister and society because he lacked the merit to earn their respect. In that fraction of a second, Gray glimpsed his own portrait, and he did not like what he saw. He might never be the picture of respectability, but he’d be damned if the world would remember him like this.
With a harsh growl, he pushed off against the wall. She fell back against the paneling, her bandaged hands dangling at her sides.
“This is not going to happen,” he said, as much to himself as to her. He paced away in agitation and ran his hands through his hair, as if he could brush off the memory of her delicate, teasing touch.
“Why not? Don’t you want me to—”
“No. I don’t want anything from you. I don’t want you to paint me. I don’t want you to touch me. I don’t want to see you distracting the crew. I don’t want to see you baiting sharks. I don’t want to see you. At all.”
She blinked at him. No more giggles now.
But Gray wasn’t done. “You—” He shook a finger at her. “You are so bloody stupid. You have no idea how damned lucky you are. Do you know what could happen to you, crossing the ocean alone with no money and no chaperone? Do you have any notion what a dangerous game you play, going addled with rum and then prancing before the crew like a common harlot?”
She swallowed hard.
“If I wanted you,” he said, bracing one hand on the wall above her shoulder and looming over her in an attitude of threat, “I could have had you days ago, your very first night on this ship. I’d probably have tired of you by now. Your innocence would be gone, and you’d have thrown it away. For nothing. Maybe if you were especially good, I’d have knocked a few shillings off your fare.”
Her eyes went wide. The drunken gloss in them was gone.
Good. Maybe now she’d behave with some sense. Hadn’t he warned her from the first? He’d never met a girl he couldn’t disillusion. Gray took a step backward, then another. Easing his way toward the door.
“So be a good little governess, Miss Turner. Go to your berth, blockade the door, crawl into your bunk, and say your prayers. And thank Almighty God in Heaven that I don’t want you.”
CHAPTER NINE
Curse the sun.
Sophia’s eyelids fluttered open. A narrow crease of daylight greeted her, winking from underneath the door. She squeezed her eyes shut, recoiling in pain. Her head pounded. Her hands throbbed. Her body ached all over, no doubt from yesterday’s wrestling matches with fish and men. Oh, God. Men.
Fragmented memories of last night floated to the surface of her consciousness, began piecing themselves into a picture. A picture that made her sick.
She groped wildly for the water basin and retched into it. What on earth had she done? She’d announced to a dozen disorderly sailors that she’d just finished a torrid affair with a Frenchman and was currently searching for his replacement. Then she’d plastered herself to Mr. Grayson, murmuring all manner of rubbish and winding her fingers through that dark, thick hair.
And oh, it had been so soft.
She didn’t know which was more humiliating: the fact that she’d offered herself to him with all the finesse and enthusiasm of a back-alley whore? Or the fact that he’d refused?
I don’t want you, he’d said.
No, this was the most humiliating fact: For all her bodily aches and pains, the severest wound was to her pride. A proper, well-bred young lady would have praised God that, despite all her imprudent, scandalous behavior, she’d awakened this morning with her virtue intact. But Sophia had long ago decided to leave her proper, well-bred life behind and embrace infamy. And now, infamy himself wouldn’t have her.
I don’t want you.
His words had cut her like a knife. Each time they echoed in her mind, the knife twisted.
Who would want her, after the way she’d behaved? Heavens, if she hadn’t been born into wealth and guarded so closely all these years, what kind of sordid end would she have come to? One that would make even a wanton dairymaid blush. If Toby could see her now, he’d be congratulating himself on his lucky escape.
A light knock sounded at her door. Sophia winced.
“Who is it?” Her voice was scratchy and feeble.
“It’s breakfast,” came Stubb’s voice. He cackled. “Compliments of your sweetheart, Germaine.”
“Gervais,” she moaned, diving back under her blanket. Good Lord, how could she face him again? How could she face anyone on this ship?
She couldn’t, it turned out, for quite some time.
She spent three whole days cloistered in her cabin, taking her meals in solitude, spending the daylight hours hunched over a sketch, venturing only to the privy and back. Stubb broke her seclusion a few times a day, to deliver meals and change the dressings on her wounds.
Eventually, her boredom eclipsed her embarrassment. By her estimate, there were three weeks or more remaining in this journey. She couldn’t remain holed away in the cabin that long. She needed fresh air and light, and inspiration for her artist’s eye.
On the fourth morning, Sophia removed the bandages from her hands and gingerly stretched the new pink skin covering her wounds. Then she gathered her drawing board and charcoal—and any scrap of courage she could find—and climbed abovedecks.
The ship was unnaturally quiet. Although she stared at the boards beneath her feet, she could feel all heads swiveling in her direction. Mr. Grayson’s head wasn’t among them. She would have sensed it, had he been there. She was all too familiar with the prickling heat of his gaze. Taking a deep breath, she hiked her chin, squared her shoulders, walked all of five paces to a low stool, and sat down. There, that hadn’t been so difficult.
She was vaguely conscious of the sailors talking and laughing among themselves. No doubt her antics four nights ago were the source of their amusement. Sophia didn’t know what she’d do if any of them approached her, hoping to be the next “Gervais.” Despite the humiliation of being hauled from the deck in such barbaric fashion, she hoped Mr. Grayson had been correct in saying they’d not make advances if they thought she was his.
Of course, if they thought she was his, they were dead wrong. I don’t want you.
Enough. She’d been reliving those events for days now, ruminating over the implications and castigating herself—and, when regrets became tiresome, savoring the memory of his wavy hair caught in the webs of her fingers, or the sensation of his strong hands encircling her waist …
Enough. It was time to go back to work. Once she put charcoal to paper, a bubble of concentration formed around her, blocking out all distractions. She drew a kitten, of all things. A kitten, with wide eyes and sharp little claws, wiggling back on its hindlegs as if preparing to pounce. Pounce on what, she had not yet decided.
A shadow fell over her paper, and a low whistle sounded from some feet above. Sophia froze, afraid to look up.
“Would ye look at that. Got his sights on a wee mousie, has he?”
It was O’Shea. Sophia sighed with relief. She didn’t know all the crew by name yet, but O’Shea’s thick brogue—and mammoth size—distinguished him from the crowd. “I hadn’t yet decided,” she answered him, tilting her head to the side. “I was thinking, perhaps a cricket. Or maybe a snake.”
“Brave puss.”
Sophia shielded her eyes with her hand and peered up at the Irishman’s face. His hard eyes wandered from her hand, to her face, to the sketch in her lap. He made a gruff noise in his throat—the sort of noise men make when they’re working up to saying something and don’t quite know how to get it out, but want to keep up the aura of brute masculinity in the midst of their indecision.
He was making Sophia nervous. He meant to ask her something, and she was afraid to learn just what.
“Yes?” she prompted.
“The crew … We had it out between ourselves, Miss Turner. There were a bit o’ scuffling, but I came out on top.” He suddenly crouched before her, transforming his silhouette from tree-trunk to boulder in an instant. His craggy face split in a devilish grin. “I get to be first.”
“We drew lots, Miss Turner. It’s my turn next.” Sophia looked up from her drawing board. Quinn stood before her, wringing his tarred sailor’s cap in massive, knob-knuckled hands, wearing an expression more fit for a funeral than a portrait-sitting. “Do take a seat, Mr. Quinn.”
The man lowered his weight onto the crate opposite, bracing his arms on his knees. “What am I to do?”
With her fingernail, Sophia sharpened the stub of charcoal. “You needn’t do anything but sit there.” She gave him a small smile, then quickly looked down again, as it clearly made him uncomfortable. “Why don’t you tell me about yourself?” She directed her question to the paper as she began to rough in the oval of his face.
He scratched his chin. “Not much to tell. Born in Yorkshire, I was. My father moved us to London when I was a lad. Got pressed into the Navy when I was sixteen, and I’ve not called dry land home since.”
“You don’t have a wife then? No family of your own?” Sophia kept her tone light, stealing furtive glances at Quinn’s hawk’s-beak nose and heavy brow between questions.
“Not as yet, miss.”
“But surely you’ve a sweetheart for Saturdays?”
Quinn gave a rough laugh. “Oh, I’ve one for every day of the week, Miss Turner.”
Sophia stilled her charcoal and lifted an eyebrow. “What a relief to learn that your calendar is full, Mr. Quinn. For I warn you, I shan’t be tempted to stray from Gervais.”
He laughed then, and his posture relaxed. Sophia was relieved, too. In the week since that night, her drunken toast had become just another shipboard joke. Mr. Grayson had returned abovedecks quickly enough to prevent the crew from suspecting an affair. Neither had the men taken Gervais seriously, thank Heaven, and she was coming to understand why. Most of their toasts weren’t based in reality, either. Life at sea was a dangerous business. The men flirted with death on a daily basis, and they laughed off their close calls. But even if they could escape death, they could not escape loneliness. It was an ever-present shadow that they worked to shrug off—through song, drink, embroidered tales. Sophia could wholeheartedly relate to that sentiment. She knew loneliness, all too well. And having a fantasy lover—well, for the first time in her life, it didn’t make her feel isolated. Here, she was just like everyone else.