And what would he ask her now? Their little script was at an end. Sophia waited breathless in the dark, hoping some question, request—or kiss—would fall from his lips.
The cabin door scraped open, and a lamp threw flickering light between them. He took a step back.
Stubb shuffled in, struggling under a heavy tray. “Here’s dinner,” he announced, hanging a lamp on a hook above them. “Sorry it’s late, but it’s been a busy day.”
Mr. Grayson nodded. “I’ll leave you to your meal then, Miss Turner.”
“I brought service for two.” Stubb plunked tin plates and serving dishes on the table. “All passengers are to take their meals in the ladies’ cabin until further notice. Captain’s orders.” The old man glanced at Gray. “The captain wants you both to stay belowdecks until we get our wind back. He’d said you’d understand, Gray.”
“Aye,” Mr. Grayson replied. “I understand.” He gave Sophia a guarded look. “But I’ll leave you to your dinner just the same.”
“You’re not hungry?” Stubb lifted the cover from a serving dish. At the smell of the salted-beef stew called lobscouse, Sophia’s empty stomach complained loudly.
“Miss Turner will better enjoy her meal without my presence,” Mr. Grayson said, backing toward the steerage passage. “As for me, I’ll hold till breakfast. I find I’ve little appetite this evening.”
Then he left. But not before flashing her one last searching, hungry glance.
Sophia smiled. He was a very poor liar.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Gray’s body complained at him all night long. His empty stomach groused, when he might have filled it at dinner. His joints protested the cramped hammock swaddling him, when he might have been sharing a soft mattress with an even softer companion. And of course there was the ever-present ache of unfulfilled lust in his groin.
But beyond all this, his mind was in turmoil, and his heart—his heart was unmoored completely. Wrenched free of its anchor and set adrift. He’d no idea how to secure it again.
She wasn’t a virgin.
So she claimed.
Don’t question it.
At last, with that one bit of information, everything about the girl made sense. The fine clothes, the cultured air, the governess post. The spark in her eyes, and the way she responded to his touch. The way she touched him. She understood passion; she knew what pleasure they could share. Still he passed the night alone.
Because she offered more than pleasure. She offered her heart. She offered trust. God, she’d practically thrust it upon him, and Gray didn’t want it. He had enough people to look after, and he’d already disappointed them all. It was only a matter of time before he’d fail her, too. Even so, by daybreak Gray had already washed and dressed. He sat on a crate, tapping his boot and fidgeting with his pocket watch until eight bells sounded for the forenoon watch. Breakfast time. He could ignore the needs of his stomach no longer. Neither could he ignore this other gnawing ache inside him—the need to see her.
He hadn’t the faintest idea what he’d say to the girl; as little as possible would be best. Gray fetched up a book, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the ladies’ cabin door.
The aroma of freshly brewed tea greeted him. Miss Turner stood over the table, arranging a half-dozen small pots next to the breakfast tray. After yesterday’s dramatic events and a restless night, it surprised Gray to see her standing there looking so … normal. Almost domestic. The knot of anxiety in his chest unraveled.
“Good morning.” Without looking up, she unscrewed the lid off one of the pots and dabbed at its contents with a fingertip.
“Are you planning to poison my tea?” Gray drew out a chair and sat down, plunking his book down on the table and helping himself to a biscuit.
“Nothing quite so dreadful.” She looked up at him, and the coquettish gleam in her eyes had him coughing around his mouthful of food. Yes, everything was as usual. The mere sight of her, so beautiful, so close—stole his very breath. Which left him completely unprepared for the words she spoke next. “I’m going to paint you.”
“Paint me?” Vivid, sensual memories flooded his mind. Her fingers threaded in his hair, her body pressed against his. Gray doubted she even remembered that night, drunk as she’d been. Of course, he couldn’t forget it.
“You don’t mind, do you? I need to practice, and it is something to pass the time.” Pushing aside a mug of tea, she began unfolding a small easel.
“Unless you had some other activity in mind?”
Gray cleared his throat and lowered his gaze to his book. He had many other activities in mind. “I had planned to read.”
“And so you still may.” She threaded her arms through the sleeves of a smock and tied it behind her back. “Just allow me enough time to rough in the outline of your features, and then you can read your book while I complete the rest.”
“I’m not certain …”
She set down a trio of brushes, lining them up from smallest to largest. “I’m running out of subjects, you see. I’ve sketched or painted nearly everyone else on the ship.”
“I’d noticed.”
She paused, staring hard at the brushes. “Had you?”
“Yes.”
Her gaze lifted to his. “And … ?”And what? What could he possibly say? That her sketches filled him with envy and yearning? That they revealed to him hidden qualities in men he’d worked alongside for years, and showed him more than he’d ever wanted to know of her heart? That he’d spurned this same request—and her— weeks ago, precisely because he dreaded the moment she turned that artist’s eye on him and perceived the true quality of his soul? Irony tugged the corner of his mouth into a half-smile. Let her see it, then. Her supply of black pigment would be exhausted completely. She’d never burden him with that trusting look again.
He drained his mug of tea and threw it down like a gauntlet. “Very well.”
Smiling, she propped a canvas on the easel. “Very well.”
“What am I to do?”
“Just be at ease.” She threw him an amused glance. “Much as I’d rejoice to feel the sea rolling beneath us, I don’t believe you’re in any imminent danger of being thrown to the floor.”
Gray followed her gaze to his hand where it clenched the arm of his chair. Annoyed with his own transparency, he folded his hands across his chest, sliding one boot along the floorboards as he reclined in the chair. “I am perfectly at ease.”
“How is it,” she asked, scratching with a pencil as her narrowed gaze alternated between him and the canvas, “that the son of a dissolute gentleman, raised on a West Indian sugar plantation and educated at Oxford, after inheriting land and an income, decides to make his life at sea?”
Gray stared at her.
She ceased sketching and cast him an expectant look, tucking a stray wisp of hair behind her ear.
“What? You want me to talk? I thought I was supposed to remain still.”
“You are supposed to be at ease. And reminiscing, I find, usually puts a subject at ease.”
Not this subject.
She turned back to her sketch. “Did you dream of becoming a sailor as a boy?”
Gray laughed. “No. I’d never been aboard a ship until I was sent off to Oxford. I was sick and miserable for the whole first week at sea. Couldn’t eat a thing. A stroke of luck, as it turned out, for the sailors caught and ate a tainted fish. Nearly all of the crew fell ill; four of them died.”
“Good Heavens.”
“I offered my assistance to the captain. He put me to work, and I just took to it, somehow. By the time we crossed the Tropic, I was setting and furling sails like an able seaman. Between shifts in the rigging, I learned everything the captain had to teach me about windpower and navigation. When we reached England, I asked him if I could stay on, and he made me second mate. Didn’t make it to Oxford for another year and a half.”
“I wonder that you bothered to go at all.”
“I nearly didn’t.” He scratched his chin. “But the war was brewing. And a letter finally caught up with me, saying my father had taken ill—that sobered me. Both Joss and Bel were still underage, and I knew there’d be no one to look after them if he died. Figured I’d best stay put for a while, so they’d know where to find me if they needed me. Oxford seemed as good a place as any. Only finished three terms, as it happened.”
“Because your father did die.” Catching the pencil between her teeth, she wiped her hands on the apron of her smock.
“Yes.”
She removed the pencil from her mouth and turned her head to stare at him. Her eyes did not meet his, however. Rather, Gray fancied that she studied his ear, or perhaps the line of his jaw. He scratched his neck self-consciously, feeling his whole body heat under her unabashed appraisal.
“And that’s when you sold the land,” she said, returning her attention to the canvas. “And became a privateer?”
He nodded.
“But if you were concerned for your brother and sister, why did you not simply go home? Keep running the plantation?”
Gray exhaled roughly. “For a host of reasons. But all of them had to do with money. Sugar prices were plummeting; tariffs kept increasing. West Indian plantations were no longer the profitable enterprises they’d once been. We would have been mired in debt within the year.” He shook his head. “It never would have worked. If I’d told the executors about Joss, it would have meant months of delay, and I couldn’t be certain he’d even agree to sell. I found a buyer for the land, and I had the opportunity to buy this ship and obtain a letter of marque, so I seized it. And then I seized over sixty ships in the name of the Crown.” Gray couldn’t keep a hint of pride out of his voice. “I’ve never regretted my decision. It was the only profitable course.”
She cast another scrutinizing glance at him, this time in the direction of his hairline. Gray’s own eyes rolled heavenward, as if he could follow the line of her gaze.
“Does this occur often, that the ship is becalmed?”
Gray shrugged. “Not every voyage. But often enough.”
“How long does it usually last?”
“There’s no way of telling. Hours. Days. A week.”
She brushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “A week’s delay? That must affect your profit most adversely.”
“Aye, it does.”
He looked up at the skylight beseechingly. This must be hell. He was losing money by the hour, he was made to suffer the unattainable temptation of the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, and it was bloody hot. Without any fresh breezes to stir it, the air inside the cabin grew increasingly stale as the sun inched higher in the sky. It was barely mid-morning, and sweat was already beading under Gray’s cravat. He looked back at Miss Turner, admiring the graceful, dewy curve of her bare neck as she bent her head. The temperature inside the cabin increased another degree.
She sat back and tilted her head to one side, studying the canvas. “Surely it wasn’t the only profitable course, privateering. There are so many risks involved, such unpredictability. I mean, you might have married.”
“Married?”
“Yes, of course. That’s what most eligible gentlemen in financial straits do, isn’t it? You came from a good family and had some land to your name… surely you could have found a young heiress or wealthy widow to marry you, and then you might have done as you pleased. After all,” she said, her eyes meeting his, “it’s not as though you lack sufficient charm to woo ladies. And you’re certainly handsome enough, in your own way.”
“Handsome enough. In my own way.”