But the sailors took no notice of her. Instead they pushed Davy Linnet to the fore.

“Here he is, yer majesty!” Quinn called out. “New boy, first time crossing the Tropic.”

Mr. Grayson leveled his “trident” at the lad. “If you wish to cross my sea, young man, you must submit yourself to questioning. And you must tell the truth, do you understand? No one lies to the Sea King. If you attempt to deceive me, I shall know it. And then I’ll suck you down into the depths of the ocean to live with the eels, never to be heard from again.”

Davy glanced around him, looking uncertain whether to laugh or tremble.

“Aye, sir.”

“Aye, your majesty,” Triton corrected.

Davy shuffled his feet. “Aye, yer majesty.”

A pair of crewmen pushed a barrel against the mast, and Davy was made to stand upon it. Somewhere in the crowd, a sailor made a crude remark.

The men erupted into laughter.

Mr. Grayson banged his mop-handle trident on the deck for silence—once, twice. The men hushed, and he turned to Davy. “Now then, boy, tell me your name.”

“Davy Linnet, sir.”

Bang went the mop handle. “Your majesty.”

“Davy Linnet, yer majesty.”

“What is your age, Davy Linnet?”

“Fifteen, sir.”

Bang.

Davy jumped. “Fifteen, yer majesty.”

Mr. Grayson began to circle the lad at a leisurely pace. “From whence do you hail, Davy Linnet?”

“From Sussex. Town of Dunswold. Yer majesty.”

“How many siblings have you?”

“Five, yer majesty. Four sisters and one brother.”

“Are your parents living?”

“Both, sir. Er, yer majesty.”

Mr. Grayson turned slowly on his heel, his arm muscles flexing as he propped the makeshift trident on one shoulder. The drape of his toga slipped, and he casually repositioned the fabric with his free hand. But not before Sophia glimpsed a shocking scar near his collarbone—an irregular circle of pink, puckered flesh nearly the size of her palm. She pressed her own hand to her throat.

“And tell me, Davy Linnet,” Mr. Grayson continued, “given a choice, do you prefer brown bread or white?”

“White, yer majesty.”

“Ale or grog?”

“Grog, yer majesty.” Davy began to relax, a shy smile playing on his face. Clearly, he’d anticipated a harsher interrogation than this. He’d anticipated correctly.

“Ever stolen anything, Davy Linnet?”

The boy’s smile vanished, and his brow creased. “Wh-what?”

“Have you”—Mr. Grayson leveled the mop handle at the boy—“ever stolen anything? Are you a thief?”

Davy hedged. “Well, I’ve nicked a scrap here and there in my time. Food, mostly.”

“Mostly?”

Davy’s eyes hardened. “Mostly.” Mr. Grayson held his silence, but the youth did not elaborate. Finally, he added, “Weren’t much to go around in the Linnet house.”

Mr. Grayson gave him a stern look. “So hunger excuses theft, does it?”

“N-no, sir. No, yer majesty.”

“Would you steal from your crewmates?”

“No,” Davy shot back, resolute. He looked around at the sailors. “No.”

Bang.

“No, yer majesty.”

Mr. Grayson turned a slow circle. “What if you were hungry?”

“No, yer majesty. Not from my crewmates. Can’t steal from those as share everything. If I’m going hungry, it means everyone’s going hungry.”

Mr. Grayson gave a stiff nod, obviously satisfied with Davy’s response. He paused a long beat. Then his posture changed abruptly as he leaned back against the ship’s rail. “Have you a wife, Davy Linnet?”

The boy chuckled, obviously relieved at the change of subject. “No, yer majesty.”

“No? I do hope it’s not for lack of trying. How many sweethearts have you had?”

Davy’s cheeks colored. “None, yer majesty.”

“Tumbled any girls, Davy Linnet?”

Davy’s face went scarlet. He mumbled, “N-no.”

Bang.

“No, yer majesty,” the boy amended quickly. “Not yet.”

This last drew a roar of laughter from the crew and a smirk from the Sea King. Davy’s posture relaxed.

“How about love? Ever been in love, Davy Linnet?”

The boy went rigid again. His eyes flitted to Sophia for an instant, and her heart squeezed. She knew the boy harbored an infatuation for her—everyone aboard the ship knew it—and she knew just as certainly it wasn’t anything to approach the love he’d one day feel for a wife. But then, one couldn’t tell a fifteen-year-old his emotions were less than real. The silence stretched as the entire assembly awaited the boy’s response. Quinn grinned and winked at Sophia. Davy swallowed hard. Mr. Grayson rapped his staff against the barrel, causing Davy to sway.

“The truth, boy. Or the eels.”

The boy studied his feet for a moment. Then his head shot up and he met Mr. Grayson’s eyes directly. “Aye, sir. I’m in love.”

Raucous laughter burst like a thunderclap, quickly organizing itself into a bawdy chant. Davy’s face flushed red as a cake of vermillion. Sophia bit her lip, inwardly aching for him. Not even when he’d climbed the mast that first day at sea, white-knuckled and shaking with fear, had she ever witnessed such courage. The irony pricked at the corners of her eyes. She couldn’t remember ever hearing those words and truly believing them—not from her family, not from her friends. She’d been courted by a legion of suitors and even been betrothed, but her first sincerely-uttered declaration of love came from this brave, earnest boy.

Davy’s admission must have affected the Sea King, too. For though he kept his face carefully composed, Mr. Grayson neglected to bang his trident and elicit the required “yer majesty.”

Sophia longed to gauge Mr. Grayson’s reaction further, but she kept her gaze trained on the youth. Davy stood tall, despite the jeering of his crewmates. She prepared to reward him with a gracious smile, should he look in her direction, though she suspected he’d be too proud to do so. And he was. The boy stared stubbornly at Mr. Grayson. “Any more questions, yer majesty?”

Another storm of laughter swept through the crew.

Bang.

Silence.

“Only one, Davy Linnet. Have you coin to pay your tax?”

The lad blinked. “Tax?”

“Aye, your tax. There’s a price for crossing these waters unharmed. And if you cannot pay it with coin, you must suffer the consequences.” Mr. Grayson nodded toward Stubb, who pushed forward another barrel, this one open at the top and sloshing with liquid. A stench wafted from the barrel—odors of tar and rotting fish mingling with the pervasive aroma of stirred-up bilge.

Davy’s nose wrinkled as he regarded the noxious brew from his high vantage point. “I … I haven’t a coin to my name, yer majesty.”

“Well, Davy Linnet,” Mr. Grayson continued smoothly, “if you can’t pay the tax, you must be dunked.”

Stubb pulled out a rusted strap of metal and waved it above his head.

“Dunked and shaved!”

The men erupted into cheers. Levi and O’Shea took Davy by either leg, lifting him toward the bilge-filled barrel.

Sophia knew she shouldn’t intervene. The boy would come to no harm, she told herself. It was just a bit of bilge water. Clearly all of the sailors had suffered some similar hazing their first voyage, or they wouldn’t be taking such glee in Davy’s plight. But the lad had already endured too much humiliation, and endured too much of it on her account.

“Stop!” she called out.

To a one, the crewmen froze. A dozen heads swiveled to face her. Sophia swallowed and turned to Mr. Grayson. “What about me? I’m also a virgin voyager.”

His lips quirked as his gaze swept her from head to toe and then back up partway. “Are you truly?”

“Yes. And I haven’t a coin to my name. Do you plan to dunk and shave me, too?”

“Now there’s an idea.” His grin widened. “Perhaps. But first, you must submit to an interrogation.”

A lump formed in Sophia’s throat, impossible to speak around. Mr. Grayson raised that sonorous baritone to a carrying pitch. “What’s your name then, miss?” When Sophia merely firmed her chin and glared at him, he warned dramatically, “Truth or eels.”

Bang.

Excited whispers crackled through the assembly of sailors. Davy was completely forgotten, dropped to the deck with a dull thud. Even the wind held its breath in anticipation, and Sophia gave a slight jump when a sail smacked limp against the mast.

Though her heart pounded an erratic rhythm of distress, she willed her voice to remain even. “I’ve no intention of submitting myself to any interrogation, by god or man.” She lifted her chin and arched an eyebrow.

“And I’m not impressed by your staff.”

She paused several seconds, waiting for the crew’s boisterous laughter to ebb.

Mr. Grayson pinned her with his bold, unyielding gaze. “You dare speak to me that way? I’m Triton.” With each word, he stepped closer. “King of the Sea. A god among men.” Now they stood just paces apart. Hunger gleamed in his eyes. “And I demand a sacrifice.”

Her hand remained pressed against her throat, and Sophia nervously picked at the neckline of her frock. This close, he was all bronzed skin stretched tight over muscle and sinew. Iridescent drops of seawater paved glistening trails down his chest, snagging on the margins of that horrific scar, just barely visible beneath his toga.

“A sacrifice?” Her voice was weak. Her knees were weaker.

“A sacrifice.” He flipped the trident around, his biceps flexing as he extended the blunt end toward her, hooking it under her arm. He lifted the mop handle, pulling her hand from her throat and raising her wrist for his inspection.

Sophia might have yanked her arm away at any moment, but she was as breathless with anticipation as every other soul on deck. She’d become an observer of her own scene, helpless to alter the drama unfolding, on the edge of her seat to see how it would play out.

He studied her arm. “An unusually fine specimen of female,” he said casually. “Young. Fair. Unblemished.” Then he withdrew the stick, and Sophia’s hand dropped to her side. “But unsatisfactory.”

She felt a sharp twinge of pride. Unsatisfactory? Those words echoed in her mind again. I don’t want you.

“Unsatisfactory. Too scrawny by far.” He looked around at the crew, sweeping his makeshift trident in a wide arc. “I demand a sacrifice with meat on her bones. I demand …”

Sophia gasped as the mop handle clattered to a rest at her feet. Mr. Grayson gave her a sly wink, bracing his hands on his hips in a posture of divine arrogance. “I demand a goat.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The stench of live goats had permeated the Aphrodite for weeks. Now, the more pleasing aroma of cooked goat battled for precedence. Gray found it a refreshing change, but the remaining livestock didn’t seem to agree. They bleated loudly in their berths, protesting the sudden decrease in their number.

Gray picked his way through the barn that had formerly been the gentlemen’s cabin, careful not to brush up against anything. He’d just bathed and dressed, and it wouldn’t do to show up at Christmas Eve dinner with goat dung on his boots.

He passed into the galley and was greeted by a cloud of fragrant steam. The exotic scent of spices mingled with the tang of roasting meat. Startled, Gabriel choked on a sip from a tankard. In the corner, Stubb quickly shoved something behind his back. The old men’s eyes shone with more than holiday merriment.