The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(17)
She didn’t answer, but seemed lost in thought for a moment. “Ye have been here many times in the past several months and have nary said a word to me. Why are ye suddenly so interested in what I do or do not do?”
He lifted his tankard and pointed it at the men in the room. “The danger to a woman alone in the middle of nowhere is very real. Frank just proved that, didn’t he?” He lowered his voice. “Where I come from, women do not run businesses of their own unless they are in approved positions of trade.”
“Approved positions?” Her skin flushed an even rosier red. “Are ye sayin’ ye do not approve of me, then?”
“No. No,” he said, scrambling to dig himself out of his own grave. “That isn’t what—”
“Poor folk better themselves here.” She looked down her nose at him. “Proper Christians must behave differently where ye come from, Mr. Hunt. Where was that again?”
Bloody hell, she clung to her defenses like a paid mercenary in a fortress fending off a fleet of ships.
“Norfolk,” he lied, even though he knew it wouldn’t do him any good.
“Ye’re from north of the Tamar, then, so ’tis only fair ye be warned. Ye are not in England anymore. This is Cornwall. We carve out a living from slate. And as long as the cock crows, we’ll live by our own rules,” she said. “Not yours.”
She suddenly clamped her lips shut, as if she regretted speaking her mind. She moved over to Jarvis and McHugh and poured more ale into their mugs.
The wide-eyed men stared at Walsingham as if he’d grown two heads.
Walsingham cleared his throat. Impatient to heal the chasm growing between himself and Miss Thorpe, he set aside caution and reached out to grab her hand before she left their table.
The moment he touched her, she pursed her lips and looked down at their joined flesh. “Remove your hand from mine, Mr. Hunt.”
“I’ve offended you,” he said hastily. “Forgive me.”
Her mouth opened ever so slightly. Then, as confusion gave way to anger, she jerked her hand away. “I don’t need your protection or anyone else’s. I can take care of myself. I always have, and I always will.”
Jarvis raised his tankard. “Hunt means well, Miss.”
She gave Jarvis a gentle shake of her head, then glanced back at Walsingham. “Take care, Mr. Hunt. Frank will not forget what ye did for me and, for that matter, neither will I.”
“Good.” Preparation saved lives. “I hope you will not blame a man for trying to do what’s right.”
She backed away. “Men have strange ways of showing they care.”
She moved on to Girard and O’Malley’s table like a hen returning dutifully to her chicks, leaving him unsettled. What he wouldn’t give to win the affection of such a woman, to prove to her that he was worthier than a thousand Carnages and Franks. But to what end? How could he protect this woman from the leviathan sailing her way—with murder on his mind, no less—when she wouldn’t even allow him to be her champion inside her tavern?
Five
PREVENTATIVE men from WHITSAND to COVERACK and LIZARD POINT have EMPLOYED countermeasures to STOP the BLACK SHIP targeting merchantmen and SAVE innocent lives. Lady O insists CAPTAIN W, may he rest in peace, would have caught CARNAGE and proven the REGENT and his crew INNOCENT of the recent VIOLENCE offshore if he had SURVIVED.
~ Sherborne Mercury, 22 September 1809
A few hours later, Oriana’s customers had certainly drunk their fill. The Lovells had retired upstairs, and Fergus and Dobby had finally stumbled off, saints preserve them. Few traveled late at night, especially when winter was nigh. Supernatural forces—giants, fairies, piskies, and demons—took advantage of intoxicated men who chanced the dangerous journey over the precarious rock and murky quicksand of the moors. Ghosts and bucca boos roamed Cornwall, and demons—human or inhuman, real or imagined—didn’t discriminate between the nobly born and run-of-the-mill laborers.
Old Bailey and Samuel had packed up their instruments and finished up a meal by the fire. Though it was customary for storytellers to stay the night at inns where they performed, the old crowder and his companion had insisted on going straight on to Looe. Concerned for their safety, she had tried to encourage the two men to accept her hospitality. McHugh, one of Mr. Hunt’s companions, had thankfully stepped forward and offered to sail Old Bailey and Samuel to their destination. And Girard and O’Malley were occupied in the cart shed until another rick of furze and turf was needed to close the tavern for the night.
Meanwhile, Oriana moved through the Roost scrubbing growder on the tables, collecting empty tankards and tableware, grateful that McHugh had helped the old droll teller and his friend. Mr. Hunt had offered to help, too—apparently feeling guilty about his earlier behavior—and now he was sweeping the floorboards. Memories flickered through her mind of a time when her father had helped her mother do the same. Quiet moments like these satisfied Oriana.
Embers in the fire crackled and popped behind her in a peaceful symphony, the furze and turf releasing a sweet, pungent scent that teased her nostrils. Living at the edge of the world offered little time for subtlety or polish. She typically worked until her hands bled before adjourning to her bedchamber for the night. But never before had she been assisted by a handsome, rugged fisherman who filled her with a desire for things she couldn’t have.