The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(39)
She covered her mouth to stifle a gasp. So this was lust—an overwhelming need for something you weren’t meant to have.
What would her momentary lapse in control cost her, she wondered.
Everything, if Charles knew John held a special place in her heart.
Suddenly filled with urgency, Oriana threw off the covers and jumped to her feet, hot and bothered just remembering the humiliating way she’d offered herself to John.
Ye weren’t thinkin’, ye brazen fool!
He was a lowly fisherman, and by giving herself to him, she’d put his life in jeopardy. How in the world was she supposed to act around him now? He was no better or worse than any other man who frequented the inn. Except he wasn’t the same. And now the challenge would be to keep any man associated with her brother from noticing the difference.
Oriana padded to the oaken wardrobe and opened its doors, throwing them wide. She studied the two gowns hanging inside, longing to impress John. Her choices were limited to a prim and proper, modest brown or a lacy confection made of purplish-pink silk that had been pilfered from France. The first she kept for funerals; the latter she’d stowed away for special occasions. It was far too fine to wear while tending the inn. Luckily, she was having tea with Mrs. Pickering at Talland Church today, which gave her an opportunity to don her best gown when she delivered the purse she’d earned, thanks to Old Bailey.
But not yet.
Until then, she’d wear her normal, dismal, gray wool to do her chores. Anything else would rouse Girard’s and O’Malley’s curiosity. The two men knew her well enough by now to notice any variation in her schedule, and she didn’t want anyone to know about last night.
Her mind made up, Oriana closed the wardrobe doors. For the first time in her life, the thought of doing her daily chores didn’t bother her. And it didn’t escape her notice that John had brought about that change in her.
She turned toward the window and bit her lower lip. If Charles returned now to retrieve his gold and punish Oriana for her disobedience—as her dream had forewarned—at least she could go to her grave having known one moment of sheer and utter bliss.
Her eyes misted for what could never be, but she wouldn’t cry. She’d shed enough tears over her fate. She inhaled deeply and straightened her shoulders, resolute in her decision to live out her last days with as much dignity as she could summon.
The sea clawed its way to the shore. Monolithic Druid stones withstood the test of time, and like them, Oriana’s feelings would stay strong until she saw John again. Perhaps then she could ask why he’d denied his own release while guiding her to the precipice of ecstasy. ’Twas a selfless thing he’d done and a generous gift that left her virginity intact.
Frank or any other man she knew would not have been so charitable.
No matter. The inn would swell to life soon enough, and she had much to do before her patrons ventured downstairs to break their fast. Mr. and Mrs. Lovell would need sustenance before the morning coach arrived to take them to Exeter.
Determination fueled her as she opened the bedchamber door, and light of foot, she slipped silently into the hall. No one stirred, for which she was grateful. That alone provided minimal interruptions before breakfast could be prepared. She descended the stairs and wandered into the kitchen, where Girard and O’Malley were chatting over their first mug of ale, a normal morning occurrence since they’d come to work for her.
The fire had been stoked to a roaring glow. Typically, she left water in the kettle the night before, positioned above the low-banked fire, which would now be heated to a full boil. But last night, she’d traded the water for milk and then spoiled it. Come to think of it, John had heated some fresh milk for her and she hadn’t even had time to drink it before he had carried her upstairs.
“Good mornin’, Miss,” O’Malley said.
“Look at the two of ye, jabberin’ like geese.” She arrowed her way through the kitchen and patted each man on the shoulder. “A good mornin’ to ye both, and my thanks for preparin’ the hearth.”
“Ye’ve a pink tinge to yer cheeks this mornin’, Miss,” Girard grumbled over the rim of his ale. “Can’t recall seeing ye looking this radiant at dawn afore.”
“Haven’t I?”
“One minute.” O’Malley craned his neck, studying her curiously. “Come to think on it, neither can I.”
“Strange, that,” Girard said. “I’ve never known ye to spoil milk, warm some more, and not drink it when ye can’t sleep.”
“Never ye mind,” she told them, hoping to lure them off topic. “The jingle will be here soon, and we’ve got people to feed and important things to take care of today.”
Girard lowered his ale. “Last night’s earnin’s might explain yer mood.” He tapped O’Malley’s shoulder. “And ’elpin’ the wee ones at the orphanage.”
“Poor buggers.” O’Malley set down his mug, rose, then walked to the partially opened door near the larder. “I’ll milk the cow while ye and Girard talk about coin.”
“Ye ole coot,” Girard griped. “There isn’t enough ale in the world to make me forget about money.”
“Especially when it involves a woman.” O’Malley cackled as he opened the lower portion of the hepse door and shut it behind him.