The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(31)

So why was he here? What was his real purpose for being in the tavern so late at night? Possibilities flooded her brain. Was he a thief? Had she caught him searching for her coin purse? Or was he one of Charles’s men and searching for the gold?

Her heartbeat quickened as she realized he was staring at her. “Why are you gawking at me like that? I thought—”

“Am I?” He shifted positions, rising to his full height and dwarfing the tall bar counter in front of him, reminding her that she was not dealing with a braggart but a real man, one not so unlike Charles in being accustomed to getting what he wanted. In an instant, she felt incredibly small and delicate, like a flower in jeopardy of being crushed beneath a horse’s hoof.

“Have a care, Mr. Hunt. If ye knew my impression of men—”

“I predict . . .” He staggered slightly, though his eyes held a purposeful glint. “You will meet a m-man one day who will n-not be easily repelled.”

“Introduce me to the man and I will gladly show him the door.” She raised the blade she held in her hand to emphasize that she hadn’t walked into the tavern without protection.

He ran his fingers through his thick, unbound hair, looking at her with startling blue eyes. “What about a m-man’s soul? Is that not worth saving?”

“That depends on the man, Mr. Hunt.” She fisted her free hand, sinking her nails into her palm to counteract the effect he had on her, even in his intoxicated state, and seat her in reality.

“Some men—” he glanced around the inn “—cannot be saved.”

Several moments passed before he turned to face her again. In the unnerving silence, her breath caught and her blood pounded in her ears. How did Mr. Hunt have such power over her? Yanking the cords on her emotions like a puppeteer operating a marionette, Oriana fought to keep a steady grip on the knife as her palms began to sweat. “Do ye . . . need savin’, Mr. Hunt?”

“Nay.” He shook his head and briefly closed his eyes. When he reopened them, she tensed. “My course is set.”

“So . . .” She raised a brow at him. “Ye want me to believe my liquor brought ye downstairs?”

His stare seemed to probe the depths of her soul, searching, reaching across space and time. “Aye. Thought a drink would relieve my . . . help me sleep.”

She didn’t believe him, but his explanation reminded her why she’d originally come downstairs.

“Sleep? My milk!” She took off at a run down the hallway to the kitchen, paying no heed to the boots pounding on the floorboards behind her. “It’s ruined. Look what ye made me do!”

“Me?” he exclaimed, catching up to her.

“Aye.” She levered the crock off the fire. “Unlike ye, milk is what I came downstairs for.”

He grimaced.

“Don’t make a face, Mr. Hunt. I realize goat’s milk may not be appetizing to a man with your . . . preferences, but my mother warmed milk for me when I couldn’t sleep.”

His expression softened with noticeable tenderness. “I used to warm milk for my sister, too.” His words were steadier now as if he sobered before her eyes.

“Truly?” Charles had safeguarded her against slippery rocks, against her father’s brutality, but that was the extent of his kindness. “Ye aren’t placating me?” She narrowed her stare. “Because if ye are, ’tis a cruel jest.”

He dismissed her misgivings. “I swear it. I would do anything for my sister.”

“Ye must love her very much.” She waved a cloth over the crock to fan away the heat. “What I wouldn’t give to hear her my mother call my name again . . .”

He stepped closer, casually brushed her aside, and reached for the cloth. Wrapping the fabric around his hand, he grabbed the crock by the handle. “Pan?”

She reached up, selected a pan, placed it on the table, and watched him pour the spoiled milk into the pot. He turned back to the fireplace and set the crock back on the iron hook.

“Goat’s milk?” he asked, glancing around the kitchen.

She pointed to the corner. “By the buffet.”

Mr. Hunt reached the buffet in three strides, retrieved the pitcher of milk, and walked purposefully to the fireplace. He added a healthy portion into the crock. When that was done, he set the milk aside and grabbed the turf fork, stoking the furze and turf beneath the crock.

“Were you and your mother close?” he asked.

She fought a fresh onslaught of tears. “As close as a mother and daughter could be. She was a simple but complicated woman, warm, extremely thoughtful, and eager to please. She had but one fault.”

“Only one?” he chided, amusement glinting in his eyes.

“Aye. When it came to her husband, she was blinded to anything but him, including her children. Weak when she should have been strong and as stubborn as a mule. She died when I was thirteen . . .” Sorrow flooded her. Her mother’s loss had nearly crushed her with its weight, and every time she thought of her now, she could feel the loss anew.

“You must miss her very much.” His words, tinged with some sort of melancholy, flowed over her like silk.

“Aye . . . More than words can say.”

She forced a smile. Rarely did she get the chance to speak openly about her mother. The one person she talked to about her violent childhood was Mrs. Pickering. Then, and only then, did she share anything about her past. For some reason, speaking to Mr. Hunt about her mother felt oddly natural, easy and right, making her less worried about his stimulating nearness.