He was leaving this ship? Sophia pushed the hatch higher, needing to see more of him. His trousers and shirt hung limp and tattered from his frame. His loose posture was one of exhaustion. But even from her furtive vantage point, she could tell his expression was all seriousness. Her lungs seized. He couldn’t be thinking to leave her again. He hadn’t even dealt with her yet.

Mallory sneered. “You miserable, sniveling whoreson.” He spat again, this time in Gray’s face.

Gray slowly wiped his face on his shredded cuff. The two men glared at each other, the tension between them building, swarming, growing fists. Through the charged silence, Sophia heard the sound of knuckles cracking. Then suddenly, Gray stood down. As he always did, he stole the advantage with a shrug and a lazy smile. If I don’t care about you, that look said, you can’t possibly hurt me.

Sophia was growing to hate that look.

“Mallory,” he began on a tone of false conciliation, “by all means, let’s do things the easy way. It would be a shame for this to turn violent.” His voice darkened a shade. “I don’t like violence.”

He swung around to face Joss. “Send a party of able men to the Kestrel, to start rigging a jury-mast and fitting it with sails. You take the wounded on into port, and we’ll limp behind as best we can. We’ll meet up in Road Town.”

“No!” Sophia threw open the hatch and stumbled out onto the deck, drowning Mallory’s protest with her own. “Gray, you are not leaving me again. I won’t let you.”

His face was hard, unreadable as he quickly scanned her appearance.

“What the devil are you doing on deck?”

“What am I doing? What are …” Her voice trailed off as she noticed the lascivious leer Mallory was dragging up and down her body. Sophia crossed her arms over her chest, disgusted. He was younger than she’d imagined from his voice, and thinner. But no less repulsive.

“Well, well,” he clucked, narrow-set eyes peering at her around a hooked nose. “If she stays with this ship, I might stop protesting. Can’t say I’d turn down a taste of that tart.”

Her cheeks burning, Sophia turned to Gray. To her horror, she watched as his mouth tipped in a smirk. Almost a smile. Curse him, he even chuckled as he strolled back across the deck to face Mallory. Was that how he saw her now, too? As a tart? Just another of his countless paramours? They might as well have been right back in that seedy tavern on the Gravesend quay, when she’d mistaken him for a gentleman—and he’d looked at her and seen only a bit of skirt.

“Mr. Mallory,” he said, striking his habitual pose of arrogant swagger, “I’d like to thank you.”

“For what?”

“For giving me an excuse to do this.”

Gray swung his fist, putting the full force of his body behind the blow. The punch connected with Mallory’s jaw, sending him reeling against the ship’s rail. Before Sophia could even draw breath, Gray hit him again, this time delivering a solid blow to the stomach. With a choked groan, Mallory doubled over his boots and crumpled to the deck.

“I told you, I don’t like violence,” Gray forced out, shaking his hand as he stood over Mallory’s writhing form. “But I’m not above using it.”

Sophia’s knees melted. She clung to the edge of the raised hatch for support. Tears stung her eyes, although she wasn’t at all certain who or what she cried for.

“Put him in the brig,” Gray said, without diverting his attention from Mallory.

“Can’t,” O’Shea said. “Brackett’s in the brig. It’s not big enough for two.”

“Well, I can’t have this cur aboard the Kestrel. He knows the vessel too well, might find some way to influence the crew.” Gray looked to his brother.

“I’ll take Brackett with me.”

Joss nodded. “You’ll need a few able seamen as well.” He turned to O’Shea.

The burly Irishman smiled. “I’m in.”

“You’re first mate, then,” Gray said. He rubbed the back of his neck as he circled the whimpering figure on the deck. “I’ll need Bailey, for sails and carpentry. And Davy, if you can spare him. Their cook was killed in the blast, so I’ll need someone to manage the stores and pass around biscuit now and then.”

“Then you’d best take a few of the goats, too,” Joss said. “Stubb can’t do the milking himself, not with wounded men to tend.”

Gray nodded.

Sophia choked on a sob. Here he stood readying to leave the ship, making plans to take along sailors and Davy and goats and even that horrid Mr. Brackett … and ignoring her completely. He hadn’t even cast a glance in her direction since Mallory’s insult.

She sniffed loudly, wiping away tears with the back of one hand. Fool girl, she chided herself. Hadn’t she vowed just minutes ago that she would not cry?

“Get below.” The words could only be meant for her, though Gray did not turn his gaze. “Pack your things.”

The captain shot Sophia a worried glance, then addressed his brother in solemn tones. “Gray, I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’d be much safer aboard the Aphrodite.”

“I know,” Gray said. “But I can’t leave her.” It was hardly a pledge of tenderness or emotion. Resentment hung from his words, making them heavy. Crushing.

“Are you certain?” Joss asked.

“I can’t leave her,” Gray repeated. Irony crept over his face, like the shadow of a passing cloud. “I gave my word.”

Sophia stepped toward him. “Gray—”

“Get. Below.” Cold, demanding eyes finally met hers. “And stay there.”

There was no disobeying that look, nor the blunted steel in his voice. Hands trembling and mind awhirl, Sophia went below.

And stayed there.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It was midway through the dogwatch when the cabin door swung open with a rude creak, startling Sophia from her chair. Her stiffened joints protested the abrupt movement, and pain tingled through her limbs. She’d been sitting in that chair for hours.

“Are your things ready?” Gray asked, by way of greeting. Leaning one shoulder against the doorframe, he looked at the two trunks, packed and fastened shut. Sophia could sense him mentally weighing the baggage. He slumped further, his chest deflating with a slow exhalation. “Perhaps I’ll have Levi fetch them.”

Soot and dried blood streaked his face; shadows pooled under his eyes. He still wore the same bedraggled shirt and trousers, with the addition of an incongruently clean and tailored coat. Had it really been only yesterday morning, that he’d asked her permission to remove it? Indeed it had. Will Ishock you, he’d asked, if I remove my coat? The absurdity of such a question now, after all that had passed between them. Drunken laughter bubbled up inside her, but she kept it corked.

Since that morning, she’d thought up a hundred things to say to him when this moment arrived. She’d narrowed them to a handful of possibilities, depending on his demeanor when he appeared. The cutting retort, the gentle plea, the abject apology and indignant defense … they all melted like snowflakes on her tongue.

“Oh, Gray,” she said. “You must be so tired.”

“Aye.” The word was a ragged sigh, directed at his right boot. “I am.”

His gaze lifted to hers then, his eyes shining with all the vulnerability he was simply too fatigued to mask. She ached to hold him. And from the yearning plainly writ on his face, she could tell he ached to be held. Only pride—and two packed trunks—stood between them.

He straightened and reached for the smaller of the trunks. “Let’s go, then. It’ll be dark before long.”

The Kestrel’s jolly boat had been hoisted to the Aphrodite’s rail. It was a small craft, with two plank benches and a single pair of oars, not unlike the tiny rowboat that had conveyed her to the Aphrodite. Once Sophia and her trunks were deposited in the boat, Captain Grayson came by to offer words of farewell. She offered her hand, and he kissed it, making a smooth bow. The gesture surprised her. Sophia thought of him as so reserved and staid, in contrast to Gray. Apparently, the brothers shared a measure of charm, as well as their father’s ears.

“You’ve been very kind to me,” she said. “Thank you.”

“You’re not obliged to go. If you would prefer to remain aboard the Aphrodite, you’ve only to say the word.”

Gray appeared behind his brother. His look to Sophia sparked with unspoken challenge.

“Thank you, Captain,” she said. “I appreciate your concern, but Gray will look after me.”

The captain smiled. “I’m certain he will. Until Tortola, then.”

He bowed again and stepped aside so Gray could swing into the boat. The two men brushed shoulders in passing, in what Sophia assumed qualified as an acceptably masculine substitute for an embrace. How grateful she was to be female.

“What about the others?” Sophia asked, as the boat was lowered down to the sea. They sat facing each other on the two planks.

“Already aboard the Kestrel.”

“Even the goats?”

“Yes,” he replied, his voice humorless.

The boat hit the water’s surface with a splash. A few shouts volleyed between Gray and the men above, and then the boat was loose, drifting quietly with the waves.

Gray reached for the oars. “We need to talk. Alone. And we may not have the chance once we’re aboard the Kestrel. I’ll be busy.”

“Then I’ll thank you now.”

“For what?”

“For Captain Mallory.”

“For hitting him, you mean?” He shook his head, looking off toward the horizon. “Save your thanks. I felt like hitting someone. He was convenient.”

“Oh.” Sophia searched the opposite horizon. Tears welled in her eyes again, much to her frustration.

“Jesus.” He pulled hard on the oars. “I never hit people. Look what you’ve done to me. This was supposed to be the voyage I go respectable. Instead, I’m throwing fists, seizing ships, defiling virgins …”

Wincing at his harsh tone, Sophia sniffed and shifted sideways on the plank. Abruptly, he dropped the oars and began to wrestle with his coat.

“Why are you doing this?” Despite her bruised feelings, she caught the edge of one coat sleeve and held it as his arm slid loose.

“Easier to row with no coat.” He wriggled free of the other sleeve.

“Gray.” She waited for him to meet her eyes. “You know that’s not what I mean.”

He folded the coat and handed it to her. “Here.”

She stared at the bundle of wool. “What am I to do with it?”

“Sit on it,” he said, thrusting it toward her. “You must be … tender.” His gaze dropped briefly to her lap.

Sophia’s face burned. She was indeed tender, and the wooden plank was torture beneath her thin skirts, but the presumptive manner of his gesture piqued her pride. She crossed her arms and glared at the proffered coat. “I might have been a virgin, Gray, but I’ve never been a fool. I knew it would hurt, but I wanted it anyway.” She lifted her chin. “I knew you would hurt me.”

His face hardened to stone. “Did you now?” He dropped the coat and reached for the oars. “Tell me,” he asked on a vigorous pull, “did you pause to consider those you would hurt?”

Sophia fell silent. All was silent, save for the oars slicing briskly through the waves. The sun was an orange ember sliding toward the horizon, fizzling through layers of ashy, striated clouds. She inhaled deeply, letting the fresh, salty scent of the ocean fill her lungs—a relief from the brackish odor of bilge.

She gazed at the man across from her. Her lover. His powerful shoulders worked beneath his shirt as he pulled on the oars. The display of strength and agility, set to a steady rhythm … memories of their lovemaking assailed her with quiet force.