The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(18)

Gooseflesh prickled her arms as she watched Mr. Hunt from the corners of her eyes. How could one man’s offer to help lock down the inn make her go weak in the knees? Girard and O’Malley had never made her feel dizzy or disoriented before.

Admit it. Mr. Hunt is different somehow.

Yes, it was true. His smell, his nearness, ignited longings she’d always kept hidden deep inside, the hopes and dreams for a husband and children that she’d shared with no one. But what hope was there in finding a trustworthy man, let alone one willing to take on a Thorpe? Still, unbidden, Mr. Hunt was like a southwesterly wind beating mercilessly against the cliffs, deepening the fissures in her resistance as he gathered tankards, snuffed out candles, and carried rope-covered jugs back to the bar.

She had a sneaking suspicion that Mr. Hunt knew it, too, and that he enjoyed what he was doing to her. From her experience as an innkeeper and barkeep, men couldn’t resist temptation. She couldn’t help but wonder how many beautiful women had tempted Mr. Hunt.

A shiver coursed up and down her spine, making her feel jingle-brained as Mr. Hunt brushed past her again. She stood rooted to the floor as she watched him sweep, moving in and out of stationary pillars, the muscles in his broad shoulders and arms straining against his shirt with every stroke.

Mr. Hunt was a stark contrast to Oriana’s father and brothers—especially Charles. He was more muscular, leaner than Charles, commanding and competent, an intriguing man with a tendency to question her at every turn instead of ordering her about. She got the distinct impression he wanted something from her, but she couldn’t fathom what. When Charles wanted something, he took it, paying no heed to the repercussions.

Setting that worrisome thought aside, she busied herself trimming wicks on a fresh batch of candles she’d made from the pith of rushes dipped in tallow. Shadows danced and played along the walls, their dark, undulating silhouettes harbingers of memory leaping in and out of the eaves overhead. She placed the unsullied candles into their makeshift holders, thankful the furze and turf provided another use when ashes were left behind in the hearth. Nothing was wasted in Cornwall, especially here.

Catching sight of the velvet money purse sitting to the side, she smiled forlornly. So much good would come from such a little bag. If only . . .

“Miss Thorpe?” Mr. Hunt’s voice conjured yearnings she’d shoved to the back of her mind, emotions she felt compelled to ignore, which was part of the problem. She wanted to experience passion and love; she wanted a family of her own. He made her remember those things.

She blinked and looked up from her task. “Yes, Mr. Hunt?”

“Are you unwell?” He worked his way closer, the broom swishing and swooshing across the floorboards.

“I’m as fine as Old Bailey’s fiddle, thank ye.” How easily lies escaped her lips when he was near, as much as she abhorred them. She despised lying above all things. But it had become a necessary means of self-preservation to keep anyone from getting too close, to keep anyone from getting hurt. “Why do ye ask?”

Mr. Hunt set the broom aside and crossed his arms, his muscles shifting beneath his sleeves. “You seemed far away just now.”

Why would that be any concern of his? Was he watching her? She straightened her back, carefully avoiding his seductive, devilishly handsome eyes. “It’s been a long day.”

Another lie? By fire and flame, she was on a path to hell with all this deceit.

“And quite a success—” he pointed to the pouch she absentmindedly held in her hands “—if the weight of that purse in your hand is any indication.”

She glanced down at the black velvet pouch, heavy between her fingers. A sense of gratification filled her as the coins rattled within. “Ye cannot know how much this cache means to me, Mr. Hunt. The orphans at Talland Church are in great need of it. Winter is coming.”

And I will probably not be alive to help them through it.

Still mistrusting what he did to her insides, she cast him a sideways glance before plopping the bag into a pocket she’d sewn in the underside of her apron specifically for that purpose. One didn’t leave money lying about if one expected to keep it. It was a pricey lesson her father had taught her when a customer had stolen it out from under her nose once. He’d beaten her hands with a leather strap until they were black and blue. Performing chores had been a difficult task for weeks afterward.

She studied the scar on his hand. “’Tis a good, Christian act to give to the poor. A gift I now have the liberty to give, thanks to the old crowder.” Her breath caught in her throat as she found herself fighting to keep from falling under Mr. Hunt’s spell yet again at his unexpected smile. “What business is it of yours?”

“Naught but awe that you plan to give your earnings away.”

“Children are important to me,” she said.

“As they are to my sister.”

His audible pause softened her heart. His sister must be a good woman.

“I understand your desire to help those in need,” he went on. “Though I cannot help but wonder how you will make ends meet if you do so.”

She frowned. “More pryin’?”

He put his hands up in surrender. “Bear away. I have no intention on talking you out of such a gift, Miss. I am merely . . . surprised.”

“Surprised?” Her eyes widened. It was hard to believe she could surprise this perceptive man.