The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(50)

Walsingham’s eyes roamed over her body, caressing every inch of her. Spellbound by her beauty, he wasn’t sure what to think of this version of Oriana—a proper miss.

Prodding his horse into a canter, he pulled off his hat and closed in on the wagon. “Good morning, Miss Thorpe.”

“Ooh!” She touched her hat, to keep it on her head as a gust of wind threatened to snatch it, and then turned to stare down at him like an angel. “Mr. Hunt!”

A rosy blush crept over her cheeks, making it clear he was the last person she expected to see on the moors. Or had the light played tricks with his eyes?

Her chin lifted haughtily as she faced the road again. “I see the sea has spit ye back out.”

“You could say that.” She was, no doubt, referring to his disappearance after leaving the inn so abruptly, but he was alluding to his near-death experience aboard the Windraker.

Oriana dropped her probing eyes to his steady gaze, stealing the air from his lungs. “And did ye catch your quota of fish?”

“Not yet.” His own laughter surprised him. “But I’m not easily discouraged.”

“I should hope not.” She tightened her lips to keep from smiling and then glanced away. “If ye were, ye would not be successful.”

He detected a hint of mischief in her words or perhaps, dare he hope, an invitation to attempt to bed her again. Blood rushed to his groin.

He shifted his position in the saddle, hoping his body wouldn’t betray the lust coursing through his veins. “I happened to see you leaving the cottage and thought I could offer my assistance. May I escort you to your next destination?”

“What a gentleman, ye are. I’d enjoy your company, Mr. Hunt, but . . .” Her pause made him wonder if she was thinking of an excuse not to include him. “I’ve been invited to tea at Talland Church.” She bit her bottom lip, as if worried. Did she think he’d take back his offer? “Most men would not be agreeable.”

He offered his best smile. “I am not most men.”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth formed an O. “Ye are not . . . needed elsewhere? That is to say, your men . . . will they not be expecting ye?”

“They are preoccupied.” He let that sink in as he fought his attraction to her. “And they will be for some time.”

She turned and stared at him uncertainly. “Oh?”

“They’re priming our nets for our next foray at sea.” And anticipating a greater catch—Captain Carnage—than one single night’s good fortune of five thousand pilchards, fish heads butting against the mesh, unable to withdraw to freedom.

The delivery wagon’s wheels hit a rut in the road. “Oomph!” she yelped in surprise. “If ye are willin’ to endure it, I’d be happy to have ye about.”

“As I said, I’m not most men. I’m more than willing to escort ye.” His gaze locked with hers. “And up to the task.”

“I have one more stop to make nearby before we head for the church.” She lifted one hand to safeguard her hat as hair whipped about her face and then arrowed her other arm north. “It’s just up ahead.”

Walsingham glanced in the direction she pointed. There, just beyond another hedge, a cottage similar to Mrs. Newcomb’s emerged. This one boasted a well, a barn, and several other dilapidated outbuildings.

“This will do, Nicholas,” Oriana said.

Nicholas immediately answered by reining the wagon to a stop.

Oriana turned toward Walsingham, her face glowing brilliantly in the sun. “Mr. Hunt, allow me to introduce Nicholas Snow. The lad helps me make my runs.”

Smuggling runs?

Tightness filled his chest. He did not like being so suspicious of her, but he could not risk ignoring the possibility.

He nodded to the boy. “How did you come into Miss Thorpe’s service, Nicholas?”

“Me father said I’d make more money out of the fields, and Miss Thorpe offered me a job.” The boy gave his head a shake. “A good woman, she is.”

Walsingham mulled over the boy’s admission as he dismounted. Why, he seemed to be staking a claim of some sort on Oriana, as if to say, Don’t take advantage of Miss Thorpe or you’ll regret it. An unhealthy obsession that made Walsingham stiffen and clench his teeth.

“Don’t let him fool ye, Mr. Hunt,” she said, her voice skimming over him in a soothing, honeyed caress. “Nicholas only works for food.”

He nodded and disregarded the youth, moving to hitch his horse to the wagon. Before Nicholas could emerge from the other side of the wagon cart, Walsingham used his size to his advantage and reached up, offering to help Oriana descend from her royal perch. She raised a brow at his gentlemanly behavior, then held out her arms in anticipation. When he didn’t move, she produced a sassy smile that read I will not beg ye to touch me again.

Nicholas appeared beside the wagon. “Let’s go, Miss.”

Walsingham lifted her weightlessly into his arms, taking great pleasure in holding her longer than necessary and grazing his thumbs against her breasts, all beneath the scrutiny of her expressive green eyes. “It appears I have a challenger for your affections,” he said.

Heat flushed her cheeks. “Take care, he’s a good lad.”

“And you’re good enough to eat,” he whispered. He lowered her slowly to the ground, ensuring that every inch of her brushed against him.