The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(15)
He wanted to make a difference in people’s lives without the resistance he’d always encountered with Customs officials. What he’d become was mutinous to all he held dear. The countless honors he’d secured in the navy before joining the Board of Excise and the glory he’d earned as a revenue man faded into oblivion when compared to stopping Carnage from acquiring whatever it was he’d left behind and continuing to wreak havoc on the people of England.
Walsingham gazed around the Roost, taking in its pilfered nautical touches and trinkets. These castaway timbers and beams caged not only Miss Thorpe but the miscreants who frequented the tavern with their heads down and eyes veiled—shifty souls secure in their betrayals.
McHugh lifted his tankard to his lips, took a healthy swig of ale, and then set his mug back on the tabletop. “She’s still his sister. Ye cannot trust her, no matter what Girard, O’Malley, or the Seatons tell ye.”
“No,” he admitted, being honest with himself. But for some reason, he wanted to trust her.
“I don’t like all this waiting.” Jarvis grunted. “There’s too much at stake.”
“I agree. We have no way of knowin’ where Carnage will strike next,” McHugh implored. “We cannot just sit here wastin’ valuable time. People are dyin’.”
“France will expect payment for its ship,” Walsingham explained. “Carnage needs the gold more than anything else now, especially if James is right and Zephaniah Job is onto him.” Walsingham weighed their concerns, then ground his teeth. “We must stay calm and, of all things, be patient.”
McHugh spat on the floor. “If we don’t find out what she knows soon—”
“Hold,” Walsingham warned him as he watched Miss Thorpe move, her hips swaying in an intoxicating rhythm. “He’ll come to us. If we stay hidden and disguise our ship, he’ll be forced to evade the Royal Navy and make his move. He’ll have no time to destroy innocents. Trust that our plan will work.”
No one was going to ruin the Black Regent’s name, if he had anything to say about it. He’d fought for England, played a lieutenant’s pawn, and nearly died for king and country. He’d be damned if he’d allow anyone to make him an enemy of the Crown.
“It’s only a matter of time,” he added.
“Time—” Jarvis smacked his lips, then frowned “—is one thing we don’t have, sir.”
“It’s all any of us have.” Walsingham flexed his hands and grimaced, absentmindedly fingering the scar on his left hand. “What matters is how we make use of it.”
He took a drink of his ale. The hoppy brew coursed smoothly down his throat as he observed Miss Thorpe above the pewter rim. Her unconquerable spirit intrigued him. And for some inexplicable reason, he ached to protect her, to salvage this tiny part of her world and make it a safe haven.
The storyteller and his companion plucked a melody on their fiddles, slurring and accenting a woeful rendition of “The Ballad of Chevy Chase.”
Walsingham stretched his legs as he listened. He preferred solitude to Exeter’s noisy streets and the constant hullabaloo found in large crowds. That separateness was the reason why being the Black Regent, spending most of his days and nights at sea or at Smuggler’s End, was more appealing than being Captain Pierce Walsingham, famed pirate hunter and decorated revenue officer. As Walsingham, he couldn’t go anywhere without garnering attention.
Miss Thorpe walked toward him, her hips sashaying to and fro, her dewy mouth downturned in a petulant frown, filling him with an urge to see her smile again. Up close her brown wool gown appeared faded, almost threadbare. The fresh apron she’d put on overlaid the garment, but it hid little of her monetary state. The lacy fichu she’d adorned between her breasts was slightly askew, as well. Anger flared anew inside him, and he wanted to beat Frank senseless for daring to touch a hair on her head.
Damn, I need another drink.
“Do ye need more ale?” she inquired, as if reading his mind.
“Aye.” He cleared his throat and raised his tankard. “You’re a decent woman, Miss. None here can argue that fact.”
“Decent?” She flushed, and blood began to pound in his ears. Was she as passionate as her blush implied? “Why are ye here, Mr. Hunt? Truly?”
She apparently had sound instincts, too . . .
“We’re here for the same reason half of the men in this room are here, I wager,” Walsingham said, meaning it. It was true that there was no telling how many of her patrons spied for Carnage.
“To hear the droll teller?” She glanced over at the man by the hearth. It was the exact misinterpretation he’d hoped she’d make.
“And the ale, of course,” Jarvis added craftily. “It’s the best in Cornwall.”
Walsingham nodded. “By far.” As was her smooth, cream-colored skin. “Is there anything else in life to be had but a good drink and company to share it?”
Miss Thorpe blanched and frowned as if their boasts had been hurtful, but in reality, they’d been heartfelt. “How long before ye move on?”
He forced his face to keep from falling. Could he blame her for thinking he, Jarvis, and McHugh were tetched? She’d been played false countless times before—if his information was correct—and by her own kin, the very folk expected to love her. Was she that eager to be rid of the men who’d come to protect her?