No, the only thing for it was to go on with life. To smile, to joke, to drink and make merry. To toast wives and sweethearts, just as they did every Saturday.

Funny, for Joss to remind him of this. Of all the men who needed to smile, laugh, and just get on with life.

“Come have a drink with me then,” Gray said, nudging his brother with his elbow.

Joss shook his head. “No sweetheart to toast. No wife, either.”

“So raise a glass to her memory.”

“Not tonight.” Joss pushed off the rail and headed for the hatch, only pausing long enough for one last remark—a remark that summed up just about every word Joss had spoken to Gray since the day Mara died: “Go on without me.”

And Gray still hadn’t figured out how to argue back.

Once his brother had disappeared belowdecks, Gray ambled toward the bow of the ship, to join the weekly celebration. In fact, he began the celebration a bit early by pausing to take out his flask and toss back a large swallow.

He froze, flask tilted to his lips, when the music stopped and he heard a light, flirtatious, most distinctly feminine laugh coming from the assembled crew.

It had to be her. He knew this simply because she was the only female aboard—not because he recognized her laugh. And that had him tossing back another draught of brandy, to think that he’d been several days in a beautiful woman’s proximity and not yet made her laugh. How utterly unlike him.

How depressing.

A few paces more, and one glance confirmed his suspicion. There Miss Jane Turner sat, balancing a tankard between her fingertips, the skirts of her ill-fitting gown draped across an overturned crate. Damn it, hadn’t he just told the chit she was to stay aft of the foremast?

Bailey struck a few notes on the pipes, and the crew launched into another rousing song. Gray waited a full verse before approaching her, prowling around her periphery and coming to rest behind her right shoulder. A few of the men gave him friendly nods, but most were too absorbed in their spirits and song to pay him any mind.

“What are you doing?” she asked, flicking him a glance through the swaying lamplight.

“Who, me?” he murmured. “I’m simply leaning against the foremast. You know, this tall bit of timber you weren’t to go past.”

She sipped her drink.

Gray pushed off the mast and crouched at her side. If she’d turn and look at him, they would be eye-to-eye. But she didn’t. “The better question is, what the hell are you doing?”

“I’m enjoying myself,” she said lightly, taking another drink. “I suggest you do the same.” She passed the tankard to him and applauded with wild enthusiasm as the song came to its tuneless end.

Gray peered at the half-empty tankard, then lifted it to his nose and sniffed. Straight, unadulterated rum, the girl was drinking. That would explain the enthusiasm. Her applause concluded, she snatched the tankard back and downed a swallow to do a sailor proud.

Bloody hell. Gray suspected the only thing worse than watching over a prim governess would be watching over a soused one.

“Gray!” O’Shea pushed through the crowd and thrust a brimming mug into his hand. “Just in time for another round of toasts.” O’Shea lifted his own cup high. “To the fair Maureen, and her lovely bits. She’s firm in the arse, and soft in the—”

“Head,” Gray interrupted, prodding the Irishman’s bulk with his shoulder.

“Got porridge for brains, if she dallies with the likes of you.”

While the men laughed and drank “To fair Maureen,” Gray reached for Miss Turner’s elbow. “Come along, then. You don’t belong here.”

“I was invited here,” she ground out. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

“It’s no place for ladies.” He squeezed her elbow firmly and lifted her to her feet.

“Your turn, Gray,” O’Shea said.

He shook his head. “I’m not here to drink. I’m here to see our little Miss Turner back to her cabin. It’s past her bedtime.”

She glared at him. He glared right back.

“Come on, Gray,” another sailor called. “Just one toast.”

Miss Turner raised her eyebrows and leaned into him. “Come on, Mr. Grayson. Just one little toast,” she taunted, in the breathy, seductive voice of a harlot. It was a voice his body knew well, and vital parts of him were quickly forming a response.

Siren.

“Very well.” He lifted his mug and his voice, all the while staring into her wide, glassy eyes. “To the most beautiful lady in the world, and the only woman in my life.”

The little minx caught her breath. Gray relished the tense silence, allowing a broad grin to spread across his face. “To my sister, Isabel.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. The men groaned.

“You’re no fun anymore, Gray,” O’Shea grumbled.

“No, I’m not. I’ve gone respectable.” He tugged on Miss Turner’s elbow.

“And good little governesses need to be in bed.”

“Not so fast, if you please.” She jerked away from him and turned to face the assembled crew. “I haven’t made my toast yet. We ladies have our sweethearts too, you know.”

Bawdy murmurs chased one another until a ripple of laughter caught them up. Gray stepped back, lifting his own mug to his lips. If the girl was determined to humiliate herself, who was he to stop her? Who was he, indeed?

Swaying a little in her boots, she raised her tankard. “To Gervais. My only sweetheart, mon cher petit lapin.”

My dear little rabbit? Gray sputtered into his rum. What a fanciful imagination the chit had.

“My French painting master,” she continued, slurring her words, “and my tutor in the art of passion.”

The men whooped and whistled. Gray plunked his mug on the crate and strode to her side. “All right, Miss Turner. Very amusing. That’s enough joking for one evening.”

“Who’s joking?” she asked, lowering her mug to her lips and eyeing him saucily over the rim. “He loved me. Desperately.”

“The French do everything desperately,” he muttered, beginning to feel a bit desperate himself. He knew she was spinning naïve schoolgirl tales, but the others didn’t. The mood of the whole group had altered, from one of good-natured merriment to one of lust-tinged anticipation. These were sailors, after all. Lonely, rummed-up, woman-starved, desperate men. And to an innocent girl, they could prove more dangerous than sharks.

“He couldn’t have loved you too much, could he?” Gray grabbed her arm again. “He seems to have let you go.”

“I suppose he did.” She sniffed, then flashed a coquettish smile at the men. “I suppose that means I need a new sweetheart.”

That was it. This little scene was at its end.

Gray crouched, grasped his wayward governess around the thighs, and then straightened his legs, tossing her over one shoulder. She let out a shriek, and he felt the dregs of her rum spill down the back of his coat.

“Put me down, you brute!” She squirmed and pounded his back with her fists.

Gray bound her legs to his chest with one arm and gave her a pat on that well-padded rump with the other.

“Well, then,” he announced to the group, forcing a roguish grin, “we’ll be off to bed.”

Cheers and coarse laughter followed them as Gray toted his wriggling quarry down the companionway stairs and into the ladies’ cabin. With another light smack to her bum that she probably couldn’t even feel through all those skirts and petticoats, Gray slid her from his shoulder and dropped her on her feet. She wobbled backward, and he caught her arm, reversing her momentum. Now she tripped toward him, flinging her arms around his neck and sagging against his chest. Gray just stood there, arms dangling at his sides.

Oh, bloody hell.

She stared up at him, with those wide, searching eyes. Fair glossed over with rum, those eyes, but beautiful nonetheless. And those lips—soft, swollen, pouting, just begging to be kissed. God, he wanted to kiss her. Kiss her long and slow and deep, until he was drunk on her sweet, rum-scented breath.

She pursed those lovely lips together—

And then she laughed. She bent her head and buried her face in his coat and laughed, long and loud, until her shoulders shook with it.

“This isn’t funny,” he said weakly. Weakly, because he didn’t truly want her to stop. So stupid, this small thrill of triumph. At last, he’d made the pretty girl laugh.

“Oh, but it is. Those men up there … What do you think they think we’re doing down here?”

It took Gray a moment to follow her through that labyrinth of a question.

“They’ll think we’re lovers,” she cooed, bursting into laughter again.

“Sweetheart, you’d better pray they do.” He put both hands on her waist and pushed her away. But she wouldn’t release his neck. They did a strange imitation of a Russian dance as he walked her backward, until she collided with a wall. He pinned her to the paneling with his hands on her hips and his most intimidating glare drilling into her eyes. “You’d better pray that they think I’m down here rogering you within an inch of your precious life. Because that’s the only way you’ll sleep undisturbed tonight. They won’t try a thing, if they think you’re mine.”

Her fingers curled into the locks of hair at his nape. She toyed with them idly, letting her fingernails rake over his skin. Her bandaged palm brushed his neck.

“Stop that,” he said hoarsely.

She didn’t. A muscle in his thigh began to quiver.

“Stop that,” he repeated. “You’re not supposed to be using your hands.”

“I’m not using them much.” She rested her chin on his chest and peered up at him. “How many teeth does a shark have, I wonder? It seemed like hundreds.”

“I have no … no idea.” He groaned as her finger traced the sensitive groove behind his ear. His eyelids fluttered.

“No, don’t close your eyes,” she said. “I like the way you look at me. So hungry. So dangerous. As if you’re a pirate … and I’m a prize worth far more than six pounds, eight shillings.”

“You’re drunk is what you are.”

“Mmm. And you’re a man. A big, strong man with the softest, most lovely hair.” Her fingers slid up, caressing his scalp until he was fully, excruciatingly aroused.

She started giggling again. Gray had never been much for giggling women, but damned if her soft, rolling laughter wasn’t driving him insane with desire. He could stop that giggling. He could kiss her quiet, fondle her breathless.

“Do you want to know why I’m laughing?”

“No.”

“Come on, Gray,” she mimicked saucily, her hips wriggling under his hands. “You’re no fun anymore.”

“No,” he growled. “I’m not.” I’ve gone respectable, he reminded himself, as of this voyage. Damned if he could remember why, or what was the bloody rush. Why hadn’t he waited another month to reform? The start of the new year would have been a logical choice. What kind of a fool made resolutions in December?

“I’ll tell you anyway,” she whispered. “It’s your hair. It’s such a beautiful  color, this dark, delicious brown, with the red undertones all through. And up here”—her fingers danced up his temples—“little strands of gold.” She frowned with concentration, as though it cost her a great deal of effort to focus her eyes. “It reminds me how, from the very first time I saw you, I’ve been wanting …”

She broke off giggling again.

And damn it, now he did want to know why. He wanted very, very much to know why. Because Gray didn’t find this situation amusing in the slightest. His body was aching with quite serious need. What ever scraps of resolve he possessed were quickly disintegrating, and his trembling fingers couldn’t—or just plain wouldn’t—hold her off anymore. Releasing her hips, he braced both hands on the wall, caging her between his arms. There, now he wasn’t even touching her.