“And the figs? The olives? The spices? I assume you checked them all, too? For caution’s sake, of course.”
“Of course,” Stubb said, pulling his own mug from behind his back and taking a healthy swallow. “Everyone knows you can’t trust a Portuguese trader.”
Gray laughed. He plucked an olive from a dish on the table and popped it into his mouth. Rich oil coated his tongue. “Did you find the crate easily enough?” he asked Stubb, reaching for another olive.
The old steward nodded. “It’s all laid out, just so. Candles, too.”
“Feels like Christmas proper.” Gabriel tilted his head. “Miss Turner even gave me a gift.”
Gray followed the motion, squinting through the steam.
I’ll be damned
.
A small canvas sat propped on the cabinet. Painted on it was a deceptively simple seascape. Masterful brushstrokes captured the swirling motion of the water and the dance of the breeze. Fading sunlight kissed the waves with brilliance.
And as was the case with all Miss Turner’s work, Gray found himself genuinely moved by it—not only by the painting’s beauty, but by the care that occasioned its creation. She’d given Gabriel a window for the galley, just as surely as if she’d cut a hole in the ship’s side and installed a pane of glass. She’d given him a gift, indeed.
Stubb said, “She made a sketch of Bailey for his wife. Now he’s fashioning her these little canvases from spare bits of wood and sailcloth.”
“Doesn’t Bailey have sails to mend?” he grumbled. “I’m not paying the man to make canvases.”
Gabriel shrugged, throwing him an offended look. “I just give the man his biscuit three times a day. I don’t keep track of how he spends his time.”
Gray knew he was being an ass, but he found it damned maddening, this constant assault of her artistry. These little scraps of beauty strewn about his ship. Dazzling his eyes, yanking him about with little tugs on his gut. Their collective effect left Gray feeling more than a bit resentful. But not so resentful that he’d ceased looking for them—hell,
hoping
to find them—in a manner that verged uncomfortably on habit.
Not that any of her sketches or paintings were for
him
.
He turned to Stubb. “Did she give you a present, too?”
The man smiled through his grizzled beard. “Aye. It’s in steerage. Lovely little painting of a mermaid.”
“Good Lord.” Gray sanded his palm on his bearded jaw.
The steward picked up a wooden spoon and prodded Gray in the side. “They’re waiting for you, you know. Get in there, so we can serve.”
Gray hurried through the passage before Stubb could prod him again. He traversed the small corridor of the officers’ berths and entered the captain’s cabin. The men rose as he entered, Joss at the head of the narrow table, flanked by the other officers.
“Merry Christmas,” he mumbled, suddenly self-conscious. He nodded to the men, then turned and made a bow to Miss Turner before sliding into the chair opposite.
Stripes.
Out of habit, Gray immediately noted the answer to his question. The persistent, ever-present question that plagued his days, popped into his mind whenever he saw her or anticipated seeing her. Which was nearly all of the time.
Which frock would she be wearing? Sprigs or stripes?
Gray harbored a slight preference for the stripes. Not only did the darker color suit her complexion, but the neckline plunged in an enticing manner, displaying a wedge of sheer chemise. The sprigged gown had a higher, square neckline, and only one flounce to this frock’s two.
But then … The sprigged gown had tiny buttons down the side—fourteen buttons, to be exact, and though just mentally undoing them was enough to drive Gray mad with frustration, that mile-long stretch of minuscule pearl dots was some comfort. The fastenings of this striped gown, by contrast, were completely invisible. Were there little hooks, he wondered, under the sleeves? Hidden in the seams somewhere?
Miss Turner coughed and shifted in her seat.
Dear God. Gray shook himself, realizing he’d just spent the better part of a minute openly staring in the direction of her breasts. At a distance of no more than two feet. Worse—he’d wasted that blasted minute obsessing about hooks and buttons, when he could have been scanning for the shadow of an areola, or the crest of a nipple.
Damn
.
And now he had no choice but to drop his gaze and study the china.
It did look well, the porcelain. The acanthus pattern complemented the scrollwork on the silver quite nicely. Odd, to be drinking Madeira from teacups, but at least they were better than tin. The white drape beneath it all was nothing of quality, but the lighting was dim, and it would do.
Gray put out a hand to straighten his fork.
“The table looks lovely,” she said, to no one in particular.
Dear God. Once again, she jolted him back into reality, and Gray realized he’d spent the better part of two minutes now fussing over china and table linens. First dressmaking, now table-setting … If it wasn’t for the fact that her voice called straight to his swelling groin, Gray might have begun to question his masculinity.
What the hell was happening to him?
He wanted her. He wanted her body, quite obviously. More disturbing by far, he could no longer deny that he wanted her approval. And he wanted both with a near-paralyzing intensity, though he knew he could never have one without sacrificing the other.
Then she extended her slender wrist to reach for the teacup, and Gray remembered the reason for this entire display.
He wanted to see her
eat
.
“Where’s Stubb?” he growled, tetchy with hunger. All sorts of hunger.
“Right behind you, sirs and madam.” Stubb shuffled in, bearing a steaming tureen. “First course, soup.” He moved around the table, beginning with Miss Turner, ladling generous helpings of creamy chowder into their bowls.
Silence reigned, save for the light clink of silver on china. Gray ate his soup quickly, scarcely tasting it, scalding the roof of his mouth in the process. Then he sat back and sipped Madeira from his teacup, trying not to stare at her as she daintily spooned chowder to her lips.
Perhaps he was going mad.
Next to him, Wiggins cleared his throat. “You must forgive us, Miss Turner. We seamen are poor dinner companions, I fear. We are accustomed to eating quickly, efficiently, with little conversation. And we are certainly unused to the company of a beautiful lady.”
Gray coughed, setting his teacup down on its saucer with a crack.
Miss Turner swallowed slowly and laid down her spoon. “I am most grateful for company this evening, even of the quiet variety. I am no great conversationalist, myself.”
Gray snorted. Not a conversationalist. The girl had coaxed the life story out of every sailor on this ship.
She had just picked up her spoon again when Joss spoke.
“You do not find the voyage too tedious, Miss Turner?” Joss asked. “I regret that you are left to entertain yourself, being the sole passenger.”
She laid down her spoon. “Thank you, Captain, but I find sufficient activity to occupy my hands and my mind. Reading, sketching, walking the deck for fresh air and healthful exertion. I’m surprisingly content, living at sea.”
Gray’s heart gave an odd kick.
“But it’s Christmas, Miss Turner. You are away from your home.” Brackett’s voice was cool. “Surely you must miss your family?”
“Yes, of course. I do.” She folded her hands behind her half-full bowl of chowder. “I miss … Oddly enough, I miss oranges. We always had oranges at Christmas, when I was a child.”
“Yes,” said Joss, his lips curving in the rare hint of a smile. “Yes, so did we. Didn’t we, Gray?”
Oranges
. They wanted oranges. As if it could be so simple, to go back to the time when happiness came in a knobby round package and fit in the palm of one’s hand. And yet, were there oranges to be had at that moment, Gray would have traded the ship for a crate of them. He watched as Miss Turner lifted a spoonful of soup to her lips with agonizing slowness. He stared, fascinated, as her lips parted, revealing the tip of her tongue …
“I say, Miss Turner—” Wiggins again.
Her spoon paused in mid-air.
Gray crashed his fist on the table. “Christ, man! Can’t you see the lady is trying to eat?” Crossing his arms, he slumped back in his chair. Its wooden joints creaked in protest.
And now everyone put down their spoons.
Gray felt their eyes on him. He kicked the table leg, frustrated with himself, with her, with his goddamned boots. They still pinched his feet.
Stubb shuffled in, accompanied by Gabriel this time. “Main course,” the old steward called.
“There’s meat-and-kidney pie,” Gabriel announced proudly, setting the dish in the center of the table. “Made the crust from biscuit meal. Thought my arm would fall off from pounding.”
“And here’s the roast!” Stubb lowered his offering to the table, a well-browned haunch that smelled of grease and savory. Olives and small, white rounds of goat’s-milk cheese ringed the meat.
“Thank you, gentlemen.” Joss wrenched the carving knife from the roast, and a trickle of rich juices flowed forth.
Conversation was adjourned, by unanimous decree.
Generous helpings of meat and pie, along with second and third cups of Madeira, did much to improve the general mood. Seemingly gripped by holiday nostalgia, Wiggins prattled on and on about his children. During a particularly inane monologue on little Master Wiggins’s affinity for his schoolmaster, Brackett pushed back from the table and excused himself to resume his watch on deck. Gray helped himself to more roast, taking the opportunity to slide an extra slice onto Miss Turner’s plate.
She glanced up at him, her expression a mixture of shock and reproach.
And this was his reward for generosity.
He gave a tense shrug by way of excuse, then replaced the knife and fork and busied himself with his own food. He felt her staring at him.
That was it. If she was entitled to stare at him, he was damned well going to stare back. And if this governess was going to reprimand him like an incorrigible charge … well, then Gray was going to misbehave.
Letting his silver clatter to the china, he balled his hands into fists and plunked them down on either side of his plate. “You say you miss your family, Miss Turner? I wonder at it.”
Her glare was cold. “You do?”
“You told me in Gravesend you’d nowhere to turn.”
“I spoke the truth.” Her chin lifted. “I’ve been missing my family since long before I left England.”
“So they’re dead?”
She fidgeted with her fork. “Some.”
“But not all?”
He leaned toward her and spoke in a low voice, though anyone who cared to listen might hear. “What sort of relations allow a young woman to cross an ocean unaccompanied, to labor as a plantation governess? I should think you’d be glad to be free of them.”
She blinked.
He picked up his fork and jabbed at a hunk of meat. His voice a low murmur, he directed the next question at his plate. “Or perhaps they’re glad to be free of you?”
Something crushed his foot under the table. A pointy-heeled boot. Then, just as quickly, the pressure eased. But her foot remained atop his. The gesture was infuriating, and somehow wildly erotic.
He met her gaze, and this time found no coldness, no reproach. Instead, her eyes were wide, beseeching. They called to something deep inside him he hadn’t known was there.
Please
, she mouthed.
Don’t
.
She bit her lip, and he felt it as a visceral tug. That unused part of him stretched and ached. And at that instant, Gray would have sworn they were the only two souls in the room. In the world. Until Wiggins spoke again, confound the man.
“How strange you must find it, Miss Turner,” the second mate said, “celebrating the holiday in this tropical climate. Not a typical English Christmas, is it?”
Sophia cleared her throat. “No indeed.” God bless Mr. Wiggins. She extricated herself from Mr. Grayson’s enigmatic gaze and reached for her Madeira. Loath to field further questions of any variety, she passed the burden of conversation like a hot serving dish. “Would you agree, Captain Grayson?”
Beneath the table, she allowed her foot to slide back down to the floor. That was a mistake. In the next heartbeat, his boot clamped over hers like a trap.
Sophia kept her gaze trained on the captain. His thin black eyebrows rose. “I’m afraid I couldn’t say, Miss Turner. All of my Christmases have been spent at sea, or on Tortola.”
Sophia wriggled her foot madly, but it was no use. Mr. Grayson’s Hessian pinned her nankeen half boot to the cabin floor. She shot him an angry glare, but he had taken a sudden interest in searching the depths of his Madeira.
“Yes, of course,” Sophia replied to the captain. “Mr. Grayson,” she said pointedly, hoping to draw the scoundrel’s attention, “mentioned to me that your father owns a plantation there. What crop did you tell me your father raises, Mr. Grayson?”
He refused to look up. Shrugging, he set down his cup and began worrying his thumbnail. “I didn’t tell you.”