The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(13)

She crossed the tavern to where Girard and O’Malley were waiting. “Surely ye have better things to do.”

“After Frank attacked ye?” Girard supplied a wink. “Nay. ’Ere we’ll stay.”

“Frank won’t be a problem anymore, Miss,” O’Malley said.

She cut her gaze to Mr. Hunt, the last person to see Frank. “Ye think not?”

“Aye.” Girard’s eyes narrowed conspiratorially. “Been shown the road, ’e ’as.”

How her heart warmed to these men who’d become her friends. It was wrong of her to care. If she cared, they’d stay, and if they stayed, they’d likely die. She couldn’t live with their deaths on her conscience any more than she’d allow Charles’s gold to lie in state, hidden away below the Roost while widows were struggling to make ends meet and orphans in Talland Bay were starving. And yet, she yearned for companionship, hope, and love. She wished Girard and O’Malley could purge the Roost of men like Jonas and Clyde Barstow, Charles’s men who’d blindly followed her brother to their horrific deaths the day Lady Chloe and her maid had been taken hostage.

But too much blood had already been spilled. She wouldn’t put Girard and O’Malley at risk. They’d been her lifeline, her saviors in times of trouble.

“No harm done,” she said. Unless Frank had ulterior motives. She could already feel a bruise developing on her upper arm and tried to ignore it, fearing if she favored her arm she’d draw attention to it. “No blood has been spilled.”

They looked at her as if she’d just told them the sun was green.

She forced a smile. “I promise.”

“Ye forget we know yer ways, Miss.” Girard pursed his lips and studied her. “If Frank ’urt ye, ye’d never say so.”

She pressed a hand to her neck, feeling her pulse race. “You’ve been a blessing, ye must know. But I cannot—I will not—allow ye to fight Frank or anyone else on my behalf. The Regent left ye here—”

“To protect ye,” O’Malley interrupted. “No matter how it should be done.”

Girard finished the last drops of ale from his tankard and placed it on the table. “Fact is, if we weren’t ’ere, Miss, men like Frank would take advantage of ye.”

A shiver waved down her spine. “No one can do that unless I allow it.”

“Are ye sure?” Girard asked.

Fire burned in the pit of her belly. “I’m not a suckling babe that needs to be weaned,” she snapped. “Not anymore.”

Girard produced a rib-tickling, wicked smile. “We saw that tonight, Miss. I’m tempted to offer ye my ’and in order to legally claim—”

“That wouldn’t be wise.” A sense of urgency took hold of her as she interrupted him. “Anyone who loves me will only get himself killed.”

O’Malley glanced over his shoulder at the people gathered in the tavern. “It would be better for ye if ye married a man who could protect ye. Ye need a man who’ll stand against men like Frank.”

“A man like the Regent,” Girard said, his eyes dancing to life.

The hair on the back of her neck prickled. What kind of luck did the pirate think she possessed? “I can and will take care of myself.”

But that was a lie, wasn’t it?

Charles could return at any moment. And when he did, no one, not even the Black Regent, would be able to save her.





Four




WOE to CITIZENS on the CORNISH COAST! Reports have surfaced that a BLACK ship and its crew of BLOODTHIRSTY miscreants are TARGETING merchant SHIPS sailing from these SHORES. No MERCY is being OFFERED. This cannot be the ACT of the BLACK REGENT! These OFFICES have been informed by Lord B and Lord U that this is the WORK of CAPTAIN CARNAGE.

~ Trewman’s Exeter Flying Post, 22 September 1809


Walsingham had to hand it to Miss Thorpe. She was quite a spirited woman. Hell, she’d tried to single-handedly thwart Frank like a savant. Girard and O’Malley had far exceeded his expectations in training the innkeeper to protect herself.

For this, he was entirely grateful. If he and his men had been drawn into a fight inside the Roost, they would have been forced to reveal that they were more than who they appeared to be, luggers—or Polperro Gaffers, as the locals called them—a small crew come to Polperro and Looe to follow shoals of pilchards.

Walsingham tented his fingers beneath his nose, studying Miss Thorpe as she spoke with Girard and O’Malley. Though she bantered with his men, her movements were practiced, wary. He drank in every facet of her, from the copper glistening in her red locks to her tall slender figure, to the curve of her forehead and defined brows, and the gentle slope of her nose leading to bow-shaped lips. Something about her raw sensuality stirred a primal need inside him to be near her. It was nearly as strong as his desperate need to safeguard his sister Chloe from Carnage.

Aye, she posed quite the temptation to the opposite sex, especially a man too long at sea . . . Why had she chosen to remain here where men like Frank could manhandle her?

Ever since the night he and Underwood—the Black Regent at the time—had stormed into the Marauder’s Roost to rescue Chloe and Jane, he’d received countless dispatches detailing Miss Thorpe’s activities and behavior. Now, sitting so near to her, it wasn’t as easy being objective as it had been aboard his ship. In the flesh, she was unequaled, a spitfire capable of matching any man—an invigorating challenge.