The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(19)

Amusement softened his face, and he grinned. “Pleasantly so.”

Devil’s hounds, he flashed his disarming smile yet again. She treaded on dangerous ground in the man’s presence, for he was too handsome by far. And when he smiled at her like that, charm and kindness exuding from him in waves, she was helpless to defend herself against the wanton inside her, kicking and scratching to be released.

Thankfully, she didn’t have to find out if she’d win or lose the battle waging within her. The front door opened with a loud bang, scaring her half to death as Girard and O’Malley entered the tavern hauling furze, turf, bruss, and stubbins.

“Figured ye’d be ready to prepare the fire for the night, Miss,” Girard said.

“Thank ye.” She quickly left the bar to join the two men, grabbing Mr. Hunt’s broom before stepping up inside the open hearth and sweeping out remnants of the old fire as they refurbished the wood corner, arranging seven to eight faggots, their blossomed ends neatly turned out.

When the fireplace was spotlessly clean, Girard lifted the furze hook, preparing to lay two to three tashes in the hearth. “’Eard Watty Hammett complain that the poorhouse was in need of faggots, Miss.”

“Is that so?” It was as bad as she feared, though Mrs. Pickering had not mentioned it, probably dreading how Oriana would react. “And what did he happen to say about the reverend’s plan to take care of that?”

Girard shrugged. “Naught, but they will be forced to pay one shillin’ for every ’undred in order to keep the wee ones warm in the poorhouse.”

“How many do we have up in the barn?” she asked.

Girard glanced around the inn, his eyes lighting on Mr. Hunt for some reason. “Only what will last ye through the winter—one thousand.”

“Then we’ll round up more turf from the bogs.” Fifty could be gleaned in one day.

“Miss,” O’Malley said, “ye cannot keep goin’ about handin’ out yer own supply. Winter is comin’. Girard and me won’t always be here to help. Without fuel, ye won’t be able to run the inn.”

Tears pooled in the corners of her eyes. “You’ve seen them, O’Malley.”

“Aye, that I have,” he said.

“Pardon me. I couldn’t help overhearing.” Mr. Hunt certainly had a habit of eavesdropping, though she suspected this time it truly couldn’t be helped because he was working alongside them. “Is the orphanage nearby?”

“Yes. Near Porthallow Farm. Not far,” she said.

“Ye’d find them a paltry lot compared to the others, Mr. ’Unt,” Girard said. “Offspring of fishermen, farmers, and miners. Destitute and ’ungry.”

A strange expression flooded Mr. Hunt’s face. “Surely there are others who can ease their plight?”

“The Black Regent,” she offered too quickly. She made a mental note not to praise the pirate aloud. There was no way to know to whom Mr. Hunt pledged his loyalty. For all she knew, he could be a revenue man in disguise. “He, the Seatons from Abbydon Cove, and a benefactress in Devon have been heaven-sent, wasting no amount of coin to feed the children.”

Mr. Hunt turned away to straighten a chair. “The Black Regent, you say?”

Was the man deaf? “Aye.”

“Have you ever seen him?” He walked to another table, stooped down, and adjusted a chair leg. “Or is he the figment of someone’s imagination?”

“The weeklies speak of his exploits.” Shocked by his lack of belief, Oriana was appalled. She quickly worked to lay his doubts to rest. “I am alive today because of the Regent. He was here, in this very inn.”

“Truly?” He walked toward her like a predatory animal, lithe and just as wickedly appealing. “I’ve heard strange things of late implicating the pirate of treason.”

“What things?” she asked, suddenly alert. Did Mr. Hunt know something she didn’t? Whatever it was, the Regent had to be innocent. “I don’t know what you’ve heard, but the Black Regent has given substantial aid to Mrs. Pickering’s orphanage. Few can say the same.”

Mr. Hunt moved closer. “People are saying the pirate has an agreement with France.”

She gasped, refusing to believe the lie. “Impossible. He would never go against Cornwall, against England.”

“Who is to say what the French can offer a man to betray his country . . .” He spread his hands wide. “But then again, rumors are merely that and rarely true.”

His stare penetrated hers with an intensity that both confused and frightened her. She grappled for something to say. “One thing is clear: if these rumors are true and the Regent is caught, the orphans at Mrs. Pickering’s school will suffer for it.”

“Hard times catch us all, do they not, Miss Thorpe?”

She knew not whether to be happy or bothered by his lack of concern for the children’s dismal situation.

“Pale as ashes the little ones be, Mr. ’Unt,” Girard chimed in as he piled several stubbins—handfuls of slow-burning roots—in the hearth. “Shells of ’umanity, livin’ a life of squalor.” He shivered, then restarted the fire. “Brutish.” Sparks ignited as Girard struck the tinder and flint three times. “I don’t envy the poor beggars the cold.”