The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(23)
“Aye,” O’Malley agreed. “Took our time with the details, we did. And Miss Thorpe, kind landlady that she is, asked us to stay on.”
“’Tis I who owe the thanks,” she said softly.
“Nay, Miss,” Girard said.
“’Tis I,” O’Malley argued as they lumbered away.
Girard guffawed and punched O’Malley on the shoulder. “’Tis I, ye muleheaded whitnick.”
“I’m no weasel,” O’Malley bickered as they headed out the door to the courtyard. Then he directed his attention back to Miss Thorpe. “We’ll have water in before ye know it, Miss.”
“Thank ye,” she shouted as the door clicked soundly behind them. She angled her head at Walsingham and Jarvis. “This way, if ye please.”
Girard’s and O’Malley’s devotion to Miss Thorpe had never been clearer than it had during the senseless argument they’d just had. Their loyalty and earned trust also put them in a position to do the most good where the barkeeper was concerned. When Carnage came back, Walsingham had no doubt they would protect her to their deaths.
The luminous flame dancing atop the wick of Miss Thorpe’s solitary candle flickered, then flared to life as if a sudden draft—a portent of things to come—penetrated the hallway.
As she stood in the hallway, Walsingham sensed an ever-widening chasm engulfing them. Eager to narrow the space between them, he walked past several tables toward her, motioning Jarvis to follow. “It appears you have much to be grateful for, Miss.”
“I do.” He detected an unexplainable irony in her tone. “I count every blessing.”
She had no way of knowing Chloe had been responsible for Girard and O’Malley’s help. Walsingham couldn’t imagine what Miss Thorpe’s life would have been like if she’d had to restore the inn on her own. And it galled him even more that whatever was sparking between the two of them was based on a lie. He had no choice but to keep his plans and his identity secret. He wanted to trust her, to explain how far he’d taken his disguise, forsaking family and his good name to defeat injustice. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
If she found out who he really was, she’d also discover that he’d crossed a line. That the Regent’s generosity and the men left behind to help her pick up the pieces of her life had played her false. He dared not hope Miss Thorpe would feel generous and forgive them. The Duke of Blackmoor had been given a reprieve after he’d deceived his own wife, pretending to be dead for two years in order to bring Underwood’s father, the former Marquess of Underwood, to justice as the Black Regent. Prudence, the Duchess of Blackmoor, had forgiven her husband’s deceit after much contemplation. Following Blackmoor’s example, the new Marquess of Underwood had continued the Regent’s charade out of necessity until Chloe’s happiness and Walsingham’s bloodthirst to see Carnage punished held sway.
“It’s been a long day,” he said to Miss Thorpe, hinting they should be on their way. “You must be tired.”
“Rest is the reward we all seek after a hard day’s work.” Her skin appeared paper-thin, almost ethereal in the muted light. “Follow me. I’ll show ye to your rooms.”
He nodded and approached her in the hallway. “Thank you, Miss. Jarvis will show McHugh the way when he arrives.”
She nodded, looking like a caged rabbit with nowhere to run. And yet, here they were, about to ascend the stairs that would lead them to the very place he wanted to be alone with her.
Walsingham glanced down at the candlestick in her calm, steady hand. He hadn’t mistaken her attraction to him in the tavern, had he? Or the hunger for pleasure that turned a person inside out until the entire world disappeared and nothing existed but the flesh? No. He’d read her passionate nature clearly. He was sure of it. And in response, every inch of him, especially the blood pounding in his groin, urged him to find another moment alone with her.
She’d warned him earlier that he’d find no other comforts at the Marauder’s Roost but food and lodging. Yet, here she stood, her breasts visibly rising and falling with each breath. There was no question that she was just as affected by his nearness as he was by hers.
“This way.” She turned with the candlestick, moving carefully down the hallway to keep it from extinguishing.
Even if it killed him, he had to resist the powerful tug she had on him. “We are obliged for your kindness, Miss.”
Walsingham glanced over his shoulder, giving Jarvis a nod to follow him as they left the tavern chamber. He walked behind her, fascinated by the candlelight that illuminated her hair as their footsteps echoed on the wide floorboards.
After several paces, she stopped and turned. “Watch your step. Girard and O’Malley know the way upstairs well enough, but as to ye and your men, only Jarvis has been given a tour.”
The hallway ended. She took two steps down into a room lit by wall sconces and stopped several feet inside.
“This is the kitchen, one of my favorite rooms,” she said.
Smaller than the tavern by far, the square expanse was outfitted with a table and flanked by more high-backed chairs and several benches. A washbasin sat in the corner. Glass doors adorning a buffet filled with china reflected light from Miss Thorpe’s candle. There was a hutch for cooking supplies along one wall and an armchair positioned cozily next to a hearth. Heather and spices, drying in bags to protect them from dust, dangled upside down from the rafters. The mantel was decorated with bric-a-brac and copper kettles that gleamed like gold. And above the mantel, hanging on the wall, was a portrait of a woman, a ship navigating a tempestuous sea in the background behind her.