After untying the boat, Mr. Grayson wedged himself onto the narrow plank across from her and gathered the oars.

“You don’t have a boatman?” she asked. Their knees were practically touching, they sat so close together. She sat up a bit, widening the gap.

“Not at the moment.” Levering one oar, he pushed off from the dock. She frowned. Surely it wasn’t usual, for the ship’s owner and principal investor to row himself to and from the quay. Then again, surely it wasn’t usual for the ship’s owner and principal investor to have the shoulders of an ox. As he began to row in earnest, the bold, rhythmic power of his strokes entranced her. The soft splash of the oars cutting through the water, the confident motions of his hands, the way strength rippled under his coat again, and again, and again …

Sophia shook herself. This was precisely the sort of observation she ought to avoid.

With reluctance, she dragged her gaze from his muscled shoulders and settled it on a more benign prospect.

Burnt sienna. To capture the color of his hair, she would start with a base of burnt sienna, mixed with a touch of raw umber and—she mentally added, as the boat drifted through a shaft of sunlight—the faintest trace of vermillion. More umber at the temples, where sideburns glossed with pomade slicked back toward his slightly square-tipped ears. A controlled touch would be needed there, but the breeze-tossed waves atop his head invited loose, sinuous brushstrokes, layered with whispers of amber. Indian yellow, she decided, lightened with lead white.

The mental exercise calmed her nerves. These wild, mutinous passions that ruled her—Sophia might never master them, but at least she could channel them into her art.

“Was it a convent you escaped, Miss Turner?” He turned the boat with a deft pull on one oar.

“Escaped?” Her heart knocked against her hidden purse. “I’m a governess, I told you. I’m not running away, from a convent or anywhere else. Why would you ask that?”

He chuckled. “Because you’re staring at me as though you’ve never seen a man before.”

Sophia’s cheeks burned. She was staring. Worse, now she found herself powerless to turn away. What with the murky shadows of the tavern and the confusion of the quay, not to mention her own discomposure, she hadn’t taken a good, clear look at his eyes until this moment.

They defied her mental palette utterly.

The pupils were ringed with a thin line of blue. Darker than Prussian, yet lighter than indigo. Perhaps matching that dearest of pigments—the one even her father’s generous allowance did not permit—ultramarine. Yet within that blue circumference shifted a changing sea of color—green one moment, gray the next … in the shadow of a half-blink, hinting at blue.

He laughed again, and flinty sparks of amusement lit them. Yes, she was still staring.

Forcing her gaze to the side, she saw their rowboat nearing the scraped hull of a ship. She cleared her throat and tasted brine. “Forgive me, Mr. Grayson. I’m only trying to make you out. I understood you to be the ship’s captain.”

“Well,” he said, grasping a rope thrown down to him and securing it to the boat, “now you know I’m not.”

“Might I have the pleasure, then, of knowing the captain’s name?”

“Certainly,” he said, securing a second rope. “It’s Captain Grayson.”

She heard the smirk in his voice, even before she swiveled her head to confirm it. Was he teasing her? “But, you said …”

Before Sophia could phrase her question—or even decide exactly which question she meant to ask—Mr. Grayson shouted to the men aboard the ship, and the rowboat lurched skyward. A splinter gouged her palm as she gripped the seat. The boat made a swift, swaying ascent. As they reached deck level, Mr. Grayson stood. With the same sure strength he’d exhibited on the dock, he grasped her by the waist and swung her over the ship’s rail, setting her on deck and releasing her an instant too soon. Her knees wobbled. She put out a hand to grab the rail as a pair of crewmen hoisted her trunks aboard. She, and everything she owned in the world, now resided on this creaking bowl of timber and tar. The ship jogged with a passing wave, and dizziness forced her eyes closed.

“Miss Turner?”

She turned back to face Mr. Gr … or Captain … Him, whoever he was. Instead, she found herself staring into the starched cravat of a different man. A very different man.

It wasn’t as though she’d never seen a man like him before. Many of England’s best families kept Negro servants in their employ. In fact, black footmen were quite the fashion in the ton—their presence hinted at lucrative foreign holdings, and ebony skin made an aesthetically pleasing contrast with a powdered wig.

But this man’s skin was not ebony. Rather, the tone of his complexion more accurately matched the warm gloss of a ripe hazelnut, or strong tea lightened with a drop of milk. He wore no wig at all, but a tall gray hat. And beneath the hat, his brown, tightly curled hair was cropped close to his scalp. His dark-blue greatcoat was as well-tailored and elegant as any dandy’s. Golden-brown eyes regarded her from a fine-featured face. He was handsome, and—to Sophia’s further confusion—handsome in a vaguely familiar way.

“Miss Turner.” Mr. Grayson stepped forward, shrinking the triangle. “Allow me to present Captain Josiah Grayson.”

She slid her gaze from the black man just long enough to shoot him a sharp glare. “You said you were Mr. Grayson.”

Both men smiled. Sophia set her jaw.

“I am Mr. Grayson. And this”—he clapped a hand on the black man’s shoulder—“is Captain Grayson.”

She looked from one man to the other, then back again. “You share the same name?”

Their smiles broadened.

“But of course,” Mr. Grayson said smoothly, that thin scar on his chin curving up to mock her. “Brothers usually do.”

Gray watched with satisfaction as a blush bloomed across those smooth, delicate cheeks. Perhaps he was enjoying Miss Turner’s confusion a bit too much. But damn, ever since he’d lifted Bains off her in the tavern, he’d been enjoying everything a bit too much. The way the circumference of her waist so perfectly filled his crooked arm. The feel of her soft, fragile body pressed up against his in the rowboat. The clean, feminine scent of her—hints of powder and rose water and another scent he couldn’t quite place. Something sweet.

And the way she kept staring at him. Bloody hell. It heated his blood, made him want things that even he recognized as less than respectable. So it was a relief now, to let her blink up at his brother for a bit.

“Brothers.” She looked from Gray to Joss and back again. Her gaze sharpened, seemed to refocus somewhere behind him. Gray fought the urge to turn and look over his shoulder.

“Yes of course,” she said slowly, tilting her head to one side. “I ought to have seen it at once. The squared-off tip, the little notch above the lobe …”

He exchanged an amused glance with Joss. What the devil was this about notches and tips?

“You have the same ears,” she finished, a smile tipping the corner of her mouth as she made a smooth curtsy.

Gray paused a beat, then gave a soft laugh. There was a self-assured grace to her movements that he found oddly entrancing, and now he understood why. This was a gesture of satisfaction, not deference. She curtsied not to please, but because she was pleased with herself. In short, the girl was taking a bow.

And damned if he wasn’t tempted to applaud. She hadn’t been destined for employment, he would stake the ship on that. Gentle-bred, certainly, despite those deplorable garments. From a wealthy family, he surmised, fallen on hard times. Those fine gloves were only a subtle clue; it was her bearing that made the confession. Gray knew how to discern the true value of goods beneath layers of spit and varnish, and Miss Turner … Miss Turner was a quality piece.

She straightened. “I am honored to make your acquaintance, Captain Grayson.”

“The honor is mine,” Joss replied with a smooth bow. “You travel alone, Miss Turner?”

“Yes. I am to be employed, near Road Town.”

“She’s to be governess to George Waltham’s whelps,” Gray interjected.

“Needless to say, I attempted to caution her against taking such a thankless post.”

“Miss Turner.” Joss’s voice took on a serious tone. “As captain of this vessel, I must also question the prudence of this journey.”

Miss Turner foraged in her cloak. “I … I have a letter, from Mr. Waltham.”

“Please, don’t misunderstand me,” Joss said. “It’s not your employment I’m concerned for, it’s your reputation. We have no other passengers aboard this ship.”

No other passengers? Gray cleared his throat.

Joss shot him a look. “Save my brother, of course. A young, unmarried woman, traversing the Atlantic without a chaperone …”

Gray shuffled his feet impatiently. What was Joss on about? Surely he didn’t intend to refuse her passage?

“Perhaps you would do better to wait. The Peregrine sails for Tortola next week.”

Hell. He did intend to refuse her passage.

“No,” she objected. “No, please. Captain, I appreciate your concern for my reputation. Had I any prospects other than this post, had I any family or friends who would take exception … I might share your concern. As matters stand, I tell you with complete honesty”—she swallowed—“there is no one who will care.”

Gray tried, very hard, to pretend he hadn’t just heard that. She continued, “If you can ensure my safety, Captain Grayson, I can promise to behave in strict accordance with propriety.”

Sighing hard, Joss shifted his weight. “Miss Turner, I’m sorry, but—”

“Please,” she begged, laying a delicate hand on his brother’s arm. “You must take me. I’ve nowhere else to go.”

Joss’s expression softened. Gray was relieved to learn he wasn’t the only man that wide-eyed plea worked on. For no definable reason, he was also annoyed, to watch it plied on another man.

“Take pity, Captain Grayson. Surely Miss Turner must be fatigued.” Gray spied the old steward limping down the deck. “Stubb, kindly show Miss Turner to the ladies’ cabin. Berth seven is vacant, I believe.”

Stubb gave an amused cackle. “They’re all vacant, I believe.”

Well, yes. But they’d all be full on the voyage home, thanks to the dwindling profits of sugar plantations. Scarcely anyone was traveling to the West Indies anymore, save Methodist missionaries. And, apparently, the occasional winsome governess.

Seeming to recognize defeat, Joss bowed. “Welcome aboard the Aphrodite, Miss Turner. I hope your voyage is pleasant.”

The young lady curtsied once again before Stubb escorted her to the narrow stairs that led belowdecks. Gray watched Miss Turner descend into the belly of the ship, knowing that for good or ill, this voyage had just become a great deal more interesting.

“Where’s Bains?” Joss asked suddenly. “What are you doing, rowing yourself back to the ship? Is he following with more cargo?”

“No. I let him go.”

“You let him go? What the devil for?”

“Something’s wrong with his eyesight.” Any man who mistook Miss Turner for a dockside whore had to be losing his vision. Not to mention, Gray didn’t want a sailor who had a habit of taking what wasn’t offered him. In voyages past, that attitude might have been a desirable trait, but not anymore. The Aphrodite was a respectable merchant ship now.

Joss’s jaw clenched. “You can’t let him go. He’s my crewman.”

“It’s already done.”

“I can’t believe this. You go ashore for two hours of trade, and somehow you’ve exchanged an experienced sailor for a governess.”