Free The Siren's Song by Jennifer Bray-Weber Page B

There is no music.”
    ’Twas a terrible shame not to have music. She could hide behind a melody—the overture would dissolve her nervousness. And suddenly, his scrutiny had her as timid as a rabbit in a fox den. She’d never felt this fitful. Not even before her first time singing in front of the church congregation as a child. At twenty, age cured her of that.
    She must calm herself. Gilly gestured to his bottle. “May I?”
    A smile bent at the corner of his lips. “Of course.” He handed her the flagon.
    No cup? He must enjoy feeding her his crass lack of decorum. What would he think if she guzzled on his bottle like…like…well, like a pirate? Cups. Cups. Where are the cups? She scanned the cabin and spotted a cup on a shelf.
    Captain Drake blew out an impatient breath. Quite frankly, she, too, grew impatient. She drank from the bottle’s neck, careful not to swallow too much too soon as before. The warmth hit the back of her throat, then the pit of her belly. A second quaff and a third and the edge disappeared. ’Twas good, because Captain Drake didn’t look as if he would share more of his rum.
    “Are you quite ready?” he asked.
    She smiled. Was he?
    She chose a sweeping song of a lovesick couple frolicking in a rose garden. The tune required a high, strong vocal range. The harmonies came from deep inside her, filling her lungs before caroling from her throat.
    Gilly loved performing this song. It reminded her of elegant ladies on the arms of refined men, crystal goblets, flower-covered trellises and courtly orchestras. Perhaps she aspired to be respected by high society instead of looked down upon as merely entertainment for their festive affairs. A dream long gone.
    Her song carried her away. She sang of the lovers with the passion she envisioned the couple would have, whisking her arms open and twirling her wrists with emphasis. Near the end of the piece, she focused on Captain Drake. He enjoyed her ballad, surely. At some point during the song, he had removed his feet from the table and leaned forward resting his arms on his knees. His features had softened; the lines around his eyes were no longer deep with tension. Her confidence built with the bravado until she ended the song on a long rich note.
    The captain sat in silence, retreated in thought, staring at her. Did she leave him speechless with her performance? Oh, dear. Perhaps he didn’t enjoy her singing, after all. Perhaps she paled in comparison to songstresses he’d heard from his travels.
    “Did you not like my selection? I’m terribly sorry.” The captain frowned. She was right. He didn’t like her song. Her confidence unraveled. “If only I had been accompanied by music, I might have pleased you. A flute, violin, even whistling.”
    Captain Drake shook off whatever thoughts consumed him and sat back in his chair. He replaced his unreadable mask with a tilt of his lip.
    “Miss McCoy, you surprise me.”
    “Oh?” She hoped he meant it in praise.
    “I expected a jaunty tavern ditty, not an operatic piece. Your voice is magnificent.”
    With a polite inclination of her head she said, “You’re kind, sir.”
    He laughed. “Rarely. But I have misjudged you. Where’d you learn such a beautiful ballad?”
    “After my father died, a lady in our church’s congregation saw to my well-being by sending me to her aunt in Charleston. Miss. Brooks was the proprietor of a genteel school for young ladies. She taught girls how to be proper, learning to sing and dance. At sixteen, Ms. Brooks felt I was ready to be sent to social gatherings to entertain the societal ladies and gentlemen. Soon, I had become a favorite. Therefore, I had to be well versed in a great many songs.”
    “You said you worked at a tavern.” He crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “Did you lie to me then or are you lying now?”
    “No. I did work at a tavern.” The captain did not need to be privy as to just how she ended up at the Peregrine.
    “There