The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(22)

“Don’t,” he said.

She bit her lip, drawing his attention to her mouth. “This isn’t proper.”

“That depends on who you ask.” She wanted him, he could tell, but she was too proud to admit it. By all that was holy, he would never pressure a woman to do anything she didn’t want to do, no matter from what echelon of society she hailed. He wasn’t that sort of man. “May I speak freely?”

“Of course,” she said. “It appears I’m your captive audience.”

“I’ve been drawn to you from the moment I walked into your inn.”

Her throat bobbed gently as she swallowed. “And I ye.”

Her green eyes radiated unequaled strength, a steely reserve that drove her to betray her own flesh and blood to save a stranger—his sister. Was that what motivated him? A need to show her his gratitude? Or was it something more, something deeper, instantaneous, the type of attraction that gripped a man by the heart and never let go?

Who could blame him? She’d worked tirelessly to operate an inn where men continued to exploit her femininity. She was a true Cornish woman who had joined forces with the church and the Seatons to support those without resources, those who could not care for themselves, extolling praises for the Regent . . . Or in essence, for him!

“I’ve dreamed of kissing you,” he admitted.

“Ye have?”

“Aye.”

A growl escaped his throat as he bent to taste her lips. But just before their mouths made contact, the latch on the door shifted loudly. Dredging up strength he didn’t know he possessed, he dropped Miss Thorpe’s hand and stepped over to one of the tables. Once there, he made quick work of appearing as if he had been rearranging the chairs.

Miss Thorpe, in all her decadent allure, bent to rearrange lavender several tables away, the quick ruse perfection as Jarvis walked in, followed by Girard and O’Malley.

“All is well in the barn, Miss,” Girard said, stopping cold and causing O’Malley to walk into him. “Miss, are ye unwell? Your face is as red as a brandy bottle.”

A tic worked Walsingham’s jaw. Damn the man for noticing the fire rising to Miss Thorpe’s cheeks and alerting everyone to it.

“Ah, ’tis nothing,” she said, fanning her face.

“Nothin’?” Girard flocked to her side. “Ye’ve never taken a fever in all the months we’ve been ’ere.”

“Ye aren’t still worried about Frank, are ye?” O’Malley asked, waving the furze near her face.

“’Tis not what ye think, I promise.” The talented actress plucked dying flowers from their vases as she spoke. “I simply stayed by the fire overlong.”

Walsingham still felt the dangerous blaze kindling inside him.

“I did leave ’er by the ’earth,” Girard admitted slyly.

“Perhaps she’s flustered about something else.” Jarvis gave Walsingham a wink as he poured a drink from the bar, making himself at home. “Never you fear about him.” Walsingham groaned inwardly. “I doubt Frank will be coming round for a good while.”

“I’d be happier if I knew he couldn’t walk,” O’Malley added.

“It was good to see Old Bailey and Samuel tonight,” Miss Thorpe said, changing the subject as she moved toward the bar while balancing her coin purse in her palm. “Their performance will be a blessing to the orphanage.”

“Praise the saints!” Girard moved to the hearth. He picked up a turf fork and banked the fire, a practice that would keep it slowly and steadily burning all night. “Will ye be needin’ anythin’ else afore we stow our goods for the night, Miss?”

“Nay.” She put the pouch back in her apron, picked up a candlestick, and moved through the tavern toward the hallway. “I thank ye for your hard work. ’Twas a long night, to be sure, and tomorrow will have us back at it.” She turned back toward them, frowning, as if something vitally important crossed her mind. “Perhaps we should call off our normal mornin’ ritual. I wouldn’t want to scare the Lovells.”

“Ritual?” After a long pause, Girard’s mouth sagged open, and he nodded emphatically.

O’Malley cackled, making Walsingham assume she alluded to the defensive training Girard and O’Malley had given her every morning.

“As ye wish, Miss,” Girard said. “We’ll finish repairin’ the chairs that were broken last week.”

“Are you carpenters by trade, then?” Mr. Hunt asked them, trying to insert himself into the conversation without giving himself away.

“Good ones,” she answered. Shadows flickered along the left side of her face in the candlelight. “Their excellent skill was needed to repair the inn after . . .”

“After . . . ?” How much would she reveal about her brother’s murdering spree, if anything?

She didn’t respond, just stood as still as a forgotten stone overlooking a headland.

Apparently nothing.

He studied Miss Thorpe, highly attuned to the subtle hint of misery and bereavement flashing in her expressive eyes. Her arresting silence cut him to the quick.

“There was a ruckus in the tavern.” Girard glanced at Walsingham, playing along. “We ’appened to be in the area and offered to repair the damage.”