The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(30)

She’d grown up in the inn, so she knew the lay of the house, living quarters, necessary rooms, and stairways. She knew every sound and every cranny, and because of it, she did not need candles to light her way. Moving about in the dark was almost second nature and prevented her from waking the guests. In fact, after being around people all day and night, she actually preferred the privacy the darkness provided.

Oriana padded barefoot down the corridor to the staircase leading below. Careful not to make a sound, the creak in each step put to memory, she quietly descended the stairs until she reached the kitchen. There, her way now guided by the moonlight, she moved to the corner hutch and selected an earthenware mug.

Her mother had sung all kinds of folk songs to Oriana when she’d been young and sleep had seemed out of reach. Wishing for her mother’s presence, she hummed a melody to herself and stepped toward the cupboard. Once there, she made quick work of retrieving milk and pouring a single serving into a crock suspended on an iron hook over the fire in the hearth. Bending over, careful to keep her skirts away from the embers, she levered the warmer over the low-banked fire, at last feeling the remnants of her dream and her concerns fade.

Absorbed in her task as she hummed and immersed in memories of her mother’s undying devotion, she stoked the hearth’s embers until they glowed a bright burnished orange.

Chink.

The sound made her jump. It seemed to be coming from the tavern. Apparently, she wasn’t the only person roaming around the inn in the wee hours of the morning. Was it one of her tenants? Or had Charles returned, as her dream had forewarned?

Suddenly on guard, Oriana spun on her heels, checking her skirts to make sure they didn’t land on the fire. Panic seized her chest, squeezing the air from her lungs. She faced the hallway leading to the tavern, half expecting Charles to strut through like he owned the place, hatred flaring in his hellish eyes, demanding her comeuppance.

The torture of knowing his return was imminent but not knowing when he would arrive was almost too much to bear. What would she do when she faced her brother again? What excuses could she give for choosing a stranger over her own blood?

Several moments passed without another sound. When no one appeared in the hall, she began to wonder if her mind had been playing tricks on her.

Glass clinked against pewter.

Someone is in the tavern!

Nausea welled in Oriana’s throat as she fought to control her unease. If it wasn’t Charles, but one of her tenants, who would be up and about at this hour? Girard? O’Malley? Both men had been known to walk the inn during the night, claiming that they felt the need to guard the door.

Of course, ye ninnyhammer. That is what ye heard.

She trudged through the kitchen, bypassing baskets of freshly picked vegetables from the garden, remnants of her ominous dream plaguing her anew.

What if I’m wrong?

Oriana had to protect her resources. She selected a knife from the block, holding it before her as she made her way down the hall to confront whomever was lurking there, praying with all her might that she’d see the face of either Girard or O’Malley.

Her heart beat wildly in her chest, and she gripped the knife tightly as she entered the tavern. She surveyed the overly large room, her gaze roaming over chairs and tables until light from a tamped-down lantern lured her vision to the bar. There, to her surprise, Mr. Hunt was slumped over the counter, counting corks one by one.

She stopped dead in her tracks, transfixed by the way he had scattered the corks and then placed one on top of the other until the entire column collapsed. Determined not to be defeated, he mumbled and slowly started the same series of events all over again.

Empty tankards lay upended on the bar, and his clothing was askew. Was the man drunk? How much ale had he consumed? And without paying for it!

“What are ye doing down here at this time of night, Mr. Hunt?”

He glanced up, dazedly. His gaze narrowed, focusing on her like a predator spotting its prey. “I would ask the same of you, Miss,” he said, his voice deep and husky.

Heat pooled in her belly at his raw sensuality. She cleared her throat and tried to ignore the sensations he aroused, determined to call him to task for helping himself to her merchandise. “What business is that of yours?”

“Can you fault a m-man?” he stuttered. “For needing a drink? It’s been a r-rough night.”

By the saints, the man was intoxicated!

Her temper flared. “This is my bar. No patty fingers, if ye please. Ye cannot drink my ale without payin’ for it.”

“You’ll get p-paid, Miss.” His piercing stare singed her to her toes. “In pilchards.” He attempted to straighten the kerchief around his neck. “Has s-something else upset you?”

“No,” she lied, not feeling the need to relate her dream to anyone. “I . . . I couldn’t sleep.”

“Nor I,” he said, the timbre of his voice sinking deep into her marrow.

She knew she should march back up to her room and leave Mr. Hunt to his own devices. But she couldn’t leave. She couldn’t allow him to drink all her liquor free of charge. That was no way to run a business.

Pondering what to do, Oriana fought hard to temper every breath, to keep from noticing Mr. Hunt’s physical attributes. Like his broad shoulders, the breadth of his chest . . .

A woman could do no better.

The inn had seen the best and worst of men—big, small, kind, despicable, peaceful, violent. Mr. Hunt didn’t seem to fit any mold she had ever conjured in her mind.