The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(32)

Oriana would not share her mother’s hopeless struggles, of course, nor the bruises she’d hidden from neighbors or the fear in her mother’s eyes whenever her father was about.

Silently, he nodded. He wrapped his hand with the cloth again and stepped away from the table. Levering the crock away from the fire, he ladled warm milk into a tankard and handed the mug to her. “Your milk, Miss.”

Oriana accepted the beverage. “Thank ye.”

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asked.

“No.” A tempest built inside her. “Why are ye so curious about my past?”

Unfazed, he pointed to her mug. “You’ll want to drink that before it gets cold.”

“Don’t change the subject.” Her father had warned them that a man who arrived asking questions usually meant a revenue officer was in their midst. In this case, however, she was far more concerned that Mr. Hunt might be one of Charles’s spies. “What, pray tell, happened to your stuttering tongue?” she asked, hoping to catch him off guard.

He gazed at her thoughtfully. “My stuttering tongue, Miss?”

“Aye.” She narrowed her gaze on him. “When I found ye in the tavern, ye were practically pickled. Now . . . no sign of the drink is left in your speech.”

“Ah,” he hastened to say. “I’ve built up a tolerance to spirits.”

She tsked. “That wasn’t the impression I got when I found ye.” He was as clearheaded as she now, if she wasn’t mistaken. And she wasn’t. “I think it’s time ye told me why ye are really here, Mr. Hunt.”





Nine




WOE to England! TREWMAN’S EXETER FLYING POST reports another SHIP has been DESTROYED twenty leagues off ST. CATHERINE’S POINT. A replacement for BOARD OF EXCISE officer CAPTAIN W has not been found. When will this VILLAINY end?

~ Sherborne Mercury, 6 October 1809


“You know why I’m here, Miss.” Shadows danced over the planes of Mr. Hunt’s angular face in the hearth light.

She stiffened and crossed her arms over her chest. “Do I?”

“Aye,” he said lamely. “To haul in pilchards.”

“Naught else?” she asked, feeling herself snared.

He shook his head. “Naught else.”

She wrapped her fingers about her mug of milk, absorbing its warmth, trying without success to bury her concerns. What kind of hold did Mr. Hunt have over her? Whenever she doubted him, he so quickly evaded her concerns. His sinful face, strong build, and pleasant voice swept her away like the tide, making her vainly hope for things that could never be.

“I prefer not to speak of my past, if ye don’t mind,” she said, taking a sip of her milk.

“Forgive me. I didn’t mean to pry.” He stretched out his large callused hands, hands that had hauled in seine nets, spliced rope, gutted fish, and surely pleasured women.

Oh, how I envy them.

“Apology accepted,” she said as heat flushed her cheeks. “May I ask how ye got that scar?”

He lifted his left hand, flexed his wrist, and then rubbed the raised tissue with a frown. “In the navy.”

“During battle?” she asked, wondering what had he seen and been forced to endure.

“No. I took part in a mutiny.” His even, unrepentant voice caught her unawares, and she gasped. Was the fisherman capable of murder?

She glanced down at the bloodied knuckles on his right hand and grimaced. “Mutiny?”

“Aye. As ye said, some things are better left in the past, Miss.” He lowered his arm and glanced about the kitchen, muscles flexing in his jaw. “Is there no one else to offer you comfort?”

“Comfort?” Her heartbeat quickened. No one cared about her comfort. “Ye certainly do ask a lot of personal questions, Mr. Hunt.”

He shrugged. “You said your mother was dead. I’m merely curious. Don’t you have other family members who can ease the burden of operating this inn?”

“Oh.” She nodded, finally understanding. “No,” she lied. “I am the last.”

But she wasn’t the last. He couldn’t possibly understand the horror she faced. How could she fathom it? She had loved Charles, tried everything within her power to sway him from following in their father’s footsteps. And yet he had chosen his path.

She worried her bottom lip, unable to bear the thought of being alone in the world. “And what about ye? Your sister must miss ye durin’ pilchard season.”

“Aye. But worry is a needless thing, especially when it comes to my sister,” he said, his voice content and even. “She married a good man.”

Marriage. How she envied his sister’s good fortune. “Is there no one else waiting for ye back home, then, Mr. Hunt?”

“John.” He produced an infectious, lopsided grin when she glanced up at him.

Her face scrunched in confusion. “Who’s John?”

“No, Miss,” he said with a smile. “You can call me John.”

“Nay.” She shook her head, aghast. She was his landlady, and he was her customer. It would be unseemly to call him by his given name. “That wouldn’t be proper.”

He leaned forward, making her heart thump louder in her ears. “Proper girls don’t serve liquor, help orphans, or talk to men while in their night rails.”