The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(40)

Chuckling, Girard stood and crossed the room. “Is there another reason ye’re bright and cheerful this mornin’? Besides the coin, I mean?”

“No.” Oriana didn’t hesitate to answer as she grabbed another pot from the mantel. “Helpin’ the children at the orphanage gives me great pleasure.”

Oh, but what I experienced with John was decidedly better.

The ticking Dutch clock chimed as she waited for Girard to speak again. “The old crowder’s performance ’as definitely improved yer spirits, I wager. After what ye experienced last night, I wasn’t sure—”

“Last night?” Her breath caught. “What about last night?”

“With Frank, Miss.” Girard’s stare narrowed. “What did ye think I meant?”

“Nothin’ . . .” Oriana clucked her tongue before finishing the thought. It had never been easy to hide anything from these two men. “Frank, of course. I’m used to dealin’ with men like him, but I daresay, last night will be a night I will never forget.” She donned her apron and applied a coat of growder to the kitchen counter. As she began scrubbing the surface, she couldn’t help but think about what had happened in the kitchen the night before. She hoped the flush she felt rising over her body didn’t show on her face.

“I’m also eager to speak to Mrs. Pickering,” she said, steering the conversation away from the previous evening’s events.

“I ’spect she’ll appreciate yer donation, Miss. Find it most generous.”

“Aye.” Oriana finally relaxed. The two pirates didn’t seem overly suspicious of what happened last night at all.

Girard grumbled under his breath as he produced a basket of eggs and placed it on the counter.

She glanced at him curiously. “What did ye say, Girard?”

He rolled his eyes and cleared his throat the way he always did when he mumbled something he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “I said, until the vicar snatches the money right from ’is wife’s hands . . . I don’t abide misers.”

“Mr. Pickering can be hard to deal with at times, but he’s a businessman, too.” How could she find fault in the man when he ran the orphanage so smoothly? Or was that due solely to Mrs. Pickering’s involvement? “He has a shrewd grasp of numbers, and ye and I shouldn’t forget it.”

“I yearn for the sea every time ’e opens Fordyce’s Sermons, expectin’ a man to sit idle for ’ours.”

She walked over to a bowl of fresh water and rinsed her hands. “Mr. Pickering’s methods call for patience, I agree, but he’s done good things for this county. None can deny it, includin’ ye, Girard.”

“Aye,” he grumbled. “But ’tis tellin’ when the Black Regent thinks the man’s a smug fellow, inclined only to better ’is own livin’.”

“Girard!” Oriana fought hard to control her exasperation without allowing a smile.

“Don’t scold me, Miss. Ye know I attend Talland Church grizzlin’ like a badger goin’ to feast.” Girard burst out laughing.

O’Malley opened the door to the garden, carrying a bucket of fresh milk and followed closely by a squealing piglet. The brigand nudged the squealing swine’s pink hide with a boot to keep it from entering the kitchen as he closed the door.

Noting the laughter had died at his entrance, O’Malley glared at Girard. “What did I miss?”

“Naught but—”

“Breakfast,” she said, cutting Girard off. “We have guests to feed. I’ll pick more herbs and hang them to dry while ye feed the chickens. Nicholas Snow will be arriving shortly to escort me to the parsonage.”

“Ye’ve taken to the boy, haven’t ye, Miss?” O’Malley asked. “’Tis good his father allows him to drive yer delivery cart.”

“Aye.” She nodded. “He’s got a good heart, that boy. Does me good to know I can offer him work. Did ye know his parents have ten mouths to feed?”

Girard nodded as he laid leeks, fish, and potatoes on the counter. “Farm them out, they do, one by one, to the mines or, in Nicholas’s case, those willin’ to ’ire. The boy’s eleven. Perfect time to make ’is way out into the world,” he said. “Why, O’Malley ’ere went to sea at eight years young!”

O’Malley met Oriana’s gaze and smiled. “Ye be needin’ us to run the inn while ye’re gone, I take it?” he asked, deftly changing the subject.

“Aye. Ye know I do.” She flashed a smile back. Girard and O’Malley preferred it when Nicholas drove the wagon because that meant they got a plentiful supply of ale while they manned the tavern in her stead. “Now, as soon as our guests have broken their fast, I’ll need ye to start loadin’ the wagon.”

“There be naught upstairs but the Lovells, Miss.” O’Malley ogled the cask stationed near the buffet and licked his lips.

“Oh?” A wave of apprehension swept through her, and she fought to control her disappointment that John was no longer there. “Where have the fishermen gone?”

O’Malley shrugged. “Heard the huer’s cry, I reckon. Fishermen sail at first tide. Have to if they expect to net a shoal.” He smacked his lips and rubbed his belly. “I’m hungry. What have we got to eat?”