The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(14)
She was as feisty a female as he’d ever come across—driven and determined to succeed in a world ruled by men. Surveillance over the past several weeks, along with information gleaned from Girard and O’Malley, provided only two insurmountable deficits in her character: her brother and her stubbornness. Charles Thorpe was a fiend and Walsingham’s worst enemy, and Miss Thorpe’s unwillingness to leave the Marauder’s Roost behind to escape her diabolical sibling was putting her life in jeopardy.
Miss Thorpe could remain at the Marauder’s Roost all she wanted, but Carnage would return, and given that the barkeeper had received threatening letters affirming that fact, Walsingham knew her time on Earth was limited. That was, if he and his men could not successfully defend her. Her desire to fight her brother could only take her so far.
“Have a talk with ol’ Frank, did ye?” McHugh asked, pulling Walsingham from his thoughts.
He glanced down at his knuckles and let out a sigh of resignation. “Aye. Frank won’t be bothering Miss Thorpe for a few days at least.”
He had made sure the tyrant knew what awaited him if and when he returned. Oh, Frank had resisted at first, and Walsingham had reveled in it. He’d needed to release his pent-up frustrations and Frank had happened to be the conduit he’d been waiting for.
Jarvis frowned. “Begged for his life, I wager.”
“Aye. Sniveling coward.” After making sure Frank understood not to threaten Miss Thorpe again, Walsingham had put Frank on his horse, smacked its flanks, and sent the man on his way. “But he’ll be back eventually.”
“You’ve got a mean right hook, Cap’n.” Jarvis eased back his starched hat. “How can you be so sure?”
Walsingham reached for his tankard, the scar coiling around his hand catching the candlelight. He had hesitated to act only once in his lifetime, and it had cost Jellet his life. He tightened his fingers around the tankard until it pained him. “This may be more difficult than we planned. There are more players in this game than I imagined.”
“According to the boys—” Jarvis leaned closer and nodded to another table where Max Seaton still sat after his two brothers had left “—she’s forced to defend herself nightly.”
Walsingham glanced at the man, who seemed to feel his stare and turned to face him. They exchanged a nod as he leaned over his ale to get closer to Jarvis and McHugh. “Mistreating a woman isn’t a game.”
“No, it ain’t. But ye cannot interfere, Cap’n,” McHugh whispered. “Ye will only draw attention.”
Every muscle in Walsingham’s body tensed until he could not stay still. He shifted in his seat. “I’m fully aware of the consequences.”
His gaze strayed to Miss Thorpe where she spoke with two of her regulars—tinners by appearance. He couldn’t understand what was worth remaining at the Roost. Didn’t the inn harbor horrific memories of the day her brother tried to kill her?
A cauldron of unruly fire consumed him. He’d rather die than raise a hand against his sister—or any woman for that matter.
Jarvis set his tankard on the table and paused. “I don’t like that look in your eye, sir.”
He angled his attention back to his men. “What look?”
McHugh clucked his tongue. “The one that shouts anyone who comes near ye is a dead man.”
“If anyone manhandles Miss Thorpe again, they will be,” he growled.
Bloody hell, he’d only been in the Roost for a few hours. How had Girard and O’Malley dealt with keeping Miss Thorpe safe for months?
He glanced around the inn. Radiant shards of light illuminated the rough-hewed wood-paneled walls timbered by the relics of battered ships. Halyard blocks were hanging from the ceiling and swaying over the tables, high-backed chairs, and pillars, creating dusty swirls about the bundled lavender in makeshift vases. The flowers and candles had been placed strategically throughout the inn, masking the scents of ale, grease, and men. In fact, the entire tavern, from its silk curtains to the polished bar counter, had been smothered with love and affection, he suspected to cloak the inn’s diabolical history.
Miss Thorpe certainly proved to be industrious. But the more he learned about the woman, the more perplexing, exasperating, and curious she became. And beautiful, too.
Walsingham scrubbed a hand down his face. He considered himself a good judge of character, though it went without saying that Blackmoor had eluded him for two years, making him look like a fool. And during his years as a revenue man, he’d never found contraband in the Roost’s cellar or the tunnels leading away from it and down to the beach. Now, as the Black Regent, having taken Blackmoor and Underwood’s place, he operated on the other side of the law, which gave him access to intelligence he hadn’t been privy to before. But he still had yet to discover why he’d never caught the Thorpes.
McHugh finished off his giblet pie and pushed the empty plate to the center of the table, licking his lips. “What are ye plannin’?”
“To give the devil his due.” Just as Walsingham had countless times before.
“Just as long as you don’t sell your soul to do it, Cap’n,” Jarvis warned.
If Walsingham had decided to barter his soul to save lives, he would have done so months ago. Instead, he’d been rescued from the Windraker’s splintered decks at the expense of more than half his crew. He’d joined the Black Regent—the man he’d thought was a devil—to save his sister’s life. And then he’d agreed to wear the pirate’s mask after Chloe and Underwood married.