The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(12)

His expression altered from relief to pain. There was a hard-edged glint to his eyes that almost mirrored the pewter in his hand, making her surmise that his confidence had probably been earned from a stint in uniform rather than a fisherman’s or tinner’s employ.

She dipped a curtsy and moved toward his companions as Old Bailey and Samuel plucked their fiddles, slurring the notes, their bowstrings bouncing them into song. With practiced ease, she poured a generous amount of ale into McHugh’s tankard and then began filling Jarvis’s mug.

“Have you always worked at the Roost?” Mr. Hunt asked.

The bass tone of his voice caused sensual tremors to slither down into her belly, stealing her breath. “Yes.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “It’s my home.”

His forehead wrinkled, producing three furrowed lines above his thick eyebrows. His slender nose—one of proportionate length, too, another hint pronouncing him nobly born instead of a fisherman—drew her gaze down to full, expressive lips and a square jaw covered by a mid-length beard.

He frowned suddenly. “Watch what you’re doing, Miss.”

Jarvis inhaled loudly and scooted back in his chair with a squeak.

Startled to think that Mr. Hunt knew she’d been studying him, Oriana glanced down to see ale overflowing from Jarvis’s tankard onto his trousers. “Oh no!” She set the pitcher down and attempted to dab Jarvis’s clothing with her apron as Mr. Hunt’s and McHugh’s laughter rose.

Jarvis let out a strangled howl and swiped her hand away. “Stop, woman.”

“Are ye daft?” she asked. “Allow me to assist ye.”

Eyes widening, Jarvis shook his head. “No need troubling yourself, Miss.”

The only thing that troubled her now was looking like a fool in front of Mr. Hunt. “Forgive my carelessness.”

“No need.” Jarvis tossed her a smile. “All is forgiven.”

Mr. Hunt’s laughter stopped. “It’ll take more than a dabbing to calm what ails Jarvis.”

Heat rose to Oriana’s cheeks. “I confess I’ve never been this clumsy before.”

Mr. Hunt raised his mug. “Jarvis is a seaman and used to being wet, aren’t you, Jarvis?” He took a long drink, then set his tankard on the table.

“True,” Jarvis agreed. “No harm done, Miss.”

“I would feel better if I could—”

“You’ve done nothing wrong, Miss.” Jarvis stood, revealing how wet he was from the top of his trousers to the tip of his boots. He gave his foot a shake. “See? Right as can be.”

Oriana shook her head. If this had happened to any other man in the Roost, satisfaction would have been demanded. But these three men, with their quiet bearings and observant eyes, proved themselves decidedly different. No blame cast. No recompenses demanded.

Her heart immediately thawed. “At least allow me to offer ye something more bracing to warm your bones before ye seek your rooms.”

“Now that’s a grand invitation I cannot refuse.” Jarvis slapped McHugh on the shoulder. “Don’t ye agree, Hunt?”

“Aye.” Mr. Hunt rubbed his mustache and beard. “Giblet pie will do. I’m suddenly ravenous.”

Heat curled down Oriana’s spine as Mr. Hunt’s expression softened, his eyes sparking with intensity as he gazed upon her in such a way it was as if he could see right through her clothes. Her flesh tingled as she glanced down, nearly gasping at the discovery that she too was covered in ale. Her scalp prickled as her nipples hardened beneath his scrutiny. She’d seen and heard enough, done almost everything in her lifetime as a barmaid at the Roost, but never had a man stirred desire inside her as this one did. It both scared and titillated her.

She picked up the pitcher and grasped it to her bodice, plastering a smile on her face. “If it’s hungry ye are, I’ll get three plates straightaway.”

She turned to go, and gratefully so.

“Begging your pardon,” Mr. Hunt said, “we do not mean you to take offense, Miss.”

“’Tis the truth,” McHugh chimed in as she spun to face them.

“Very well,” she said, knees weakening. What was happening to her? Her heart had never been softened by a man until her soul was bared and nothing existed but exposed bone. “I have . . . other customers to see to.”

They nodded, and she took her leave.

When had she ever been so clumsy and confused? Nay, she was a skilled barmaid. This was all his doing—Mr. Hunt’s. If she hadn’t been staring at him like a common doxy, none of this would have happened. What was it about the man that pulled her in like the tide to the shore? Every moment in his presence set her nerves on edge.

She made her way to the bar, discarded her damp apron, and tied on a fresh one. Afterward, she uncorked a barrel and refilled the pitcher as Old Bailey spun another yarn.

She glanced back at Mr. Hunt, Jarvis, and McHugh, noting the way they conversed quietly among themselves. The pilchards were shoaling in these waters so it made sense that fishermen from all over the area followed them. But why did these three men continue to come to the inn? Was it the ale as they said? Her food? But secretly, her pride hoped it was neither. And yet, there was one other option to consider: were they Charles’s spies?

She knew she was being unreasonable, wondering if every man who came by the inn was working for Charles. Oriana placed her hand to her forehead and wiped away beads of perspiration there, suppressing a sudden weariness. Fear did that to a person, and she’d already dealt with one exhausting problem this night. She released a heavy sigh and reminded herself that no matter what happened, she’d put one foot in front of the other and purge Charles, Frank, and men like them from her mind.