The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(49)
Confide your reasons for staying at the inn. Lay your soul bare. What have you got to lose?
Everything.
Walsingham lowered his torso over the bay’s neck, urging it into a controlled gallop. While he’d never agreed with Corbet’s ghastly tactics, the circumstances he now faced called for the same resourcefulness. When Carnage came back to the Roost, he’d be seeking retribution. But he’d find none. Days where Walsingham had been ruled by false purpose or fear of losing esteem in others’ eyes were over.
No matter the outcome, no matter the distance his actions put between him and Oriana, she deserved to know who he really was before any harm came to her. Unfortunately, the truth would impede the plans he’d made to outwit her brother. It would also lead her to believe that Walsingham was just like all the others who frequented her inn—a man seeking to take advantage of her, use her for his own ends. Hadn’t he done just that?
His chest tightened at the thought. No, what he did was far from it. The intimacy they’d shared had been the most authentic moment of his entire life.
God’s hounds, he was in a pickle. Oriana would never believe he cared for her if he told her the truth about his presence here now. And against his better judgment, he couldn’t allow himself to trust her . . . yet. She was his enemy’s sister; her family had fattened their bellies off the blood of innocents. And lastly and more cunningly, she had his heart in a vise.
The wind fought to snatch the tricorn off his head as he leaned farther over his mount and increased the pace. Lastly, to give in to his impulses now, to allow anyone to have power over him, dishonored the men, women, and children the Thorpes had killed.
To die unknown is dying twice over.
Tortured by this sordid truth, Walsingham crested another hill, loosening his grip on the reins and allowing his mount an extended stride. He was no longer a revenue man trying to expose a smugglers’ den. He was a pirate trying to outwit the devil himself at his own game, and he’d gladly sail into hell to do it.
He deftly hurdled over a hedge, and another thatched cottage came into view, this one different from the others with a lone supply wagon parked before it.
Girard had said a boy named Nicholas had come to help Oriana make her deliveries and that Walsingham would find her near Mrs. Newcomb’s cottage. He heeled his horse to a stop before he got too close. Effortlessly, quietly, he dismounted, then guided the bay to a clump of hawthorn trees behind a hedge. The barrier concealed him from his quarry, giving him ample opportunity to study the fidgety boy who sat atop the half-filled wagon. Slight in figure and sporting a precariously perched hat, the boy appeared weary as he laid his head over his knee.
Walsingham lowered his gaze to the casks stacked inside the wagon with various other supplies—home-brewed ale, spirits, and other bundles varying in size and quantity, which could be anything from tea to coffee to smuggled goods.
The door to the cottage opened, and Oriana stepped out into the sun.
“Take care, Mrs. Newcomb,” she said to an older, petite woman.
Oriana’s appearance was much changed since he’d last seen her. Her long red hair now tumbled down her back in waves. A hat shielded her face, and she was wearing a colorful gown, a great improvement over the dull-gray rag she always wore. Sunlight glimmered off the silk, which shimmered like stars about her as her skirts swished in the wind. She had on gloves and a smart jacket, and she was looking every bit the part of a genteel lady. And in that moment, he remembered all too well when she was naked and breathless beneath his roaming hands.
He drank her in and swallowed thickly, reining in his lust as she gracefully extended her hand. “I depend on ye to keep your word.”
The woman was half-shielded by the doorway as she reached out to accept a missive stamped with a red seal. “I will try, Miss. But me children come first.”
Air filled Walsingham’s chest, and his lungs squeezed in protest as the woman’s words reached him. He narrowed his eyes, studying the scene before him as Oriana climbed into the wagon seat and situated herself beside Nicholas. The young boy gave her a nod, clicked his tongue, and flicked the reins, setting the donkeys into motion and the wagon jostling along the uneven ground.
Walsingham eased the bay out from behind the hedge, put a foot in the stirrups, and swung into the saddle in one fluid motion. As he and the horse progressed slowly away from the hedge, Walsingham couldn’t help but wonder if Mrs. Newcomb was in such dire straits that she’d been forced to act as Carnage’s go-between. Watty Hammett’s and Fergus Argall’s activities were proof that local Cornish men, at least, were feeding information to Carnage. He’d have Girard and O’Malley investigate the situation further, and if this woman was involved, perhaps the Black Regent could offer assistance.
For now, however, he had to intercept Oriana’s wagon, which would rouse less suspicion than if he suddenly appeared at the church without Jarvis and McHugh by his side. He kicked the bay into a trot. From what he could see, there were six medium-sized casks of liquor and ale roped together inside the merchant cart. As he got closer, he recognized tashes of furze and turf, as well as sacks of grain, tobacco, tea, coffee, and cocoa.
Nothing looked out of the ordinary, except Oriana perched atop the wagon. Gone was the simple tavern barkeep dressed in a drab gray gown and an apron, her hair hanging free and loose about her shoulders. Before him now sat a lady who’d taken a great deal of care with her appearance. Part of him hoped their dalliance in her bedchamber had facilitated her transformation. But the pragmatic side of him, wary and aged by skepticism, understood that Oriana had dressed in her best for the journey to the church.