The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(51)

“Mr. Hunt,” she protested breathlessly.

“John,” he reminded her, aching to kiss her plump mouth. He’d given her permission to use his given name, or at least the moniker he was using to deceive her. So why didn’t she use it?

“Ye know it’s not wise to speak so familiarly to ye in front of the boy,” she said.

Was this the Oriana Thorpe he’d made moan with delight, the adventurous barkeeper who fought off men in droves and ran a tavern amid impossible odds? “And why not?”

“It might confuse him.”

“Confuse a boy who is almost grown? There is nothing more confusing than that.” If she didn’t recognize the way Nicholas hovered, she was blind.

She blanched, broke away from him, and then marched toward the back of the wagon, leaving him to admire her backside. “Nicholas?”

“Aye?” the boy replied without hesitation.

“Run along to the well and refresh yourself. This will be our last stop before we travel to the church.”

“Aye, Miss.” Nicholas didn’t need any further encouragement. He agilely disappeared behind the cottage.

Oriana tilted her beautiful face to him. “If ye mean to continue on to the church with me, John, ye cannot draw anyone’s suspicion.” Her teasing eyes blinked coquettishly after she’d spoken his name. “I cannot have the vicar’s wife wonderin’ what’s transpired between us.”

“What transpired between us,” he teased, “was positively delicious.”

She pressed her lips together in anger. “A gentleman wouldn’t remind a lady of such things.”

“I am not a gentleman, and you are not a lady.”

“Nevertheless . . .” Defiance flashed in her eyes. “It isn’t right.”

“And yet your body sings when I touch it. Here.” He traced a line from her breast to her hip. “And here. That is right enough in my world.”

“By the saints!” She eased away from him, her eyes widening. “Ye are in my world now.”

“Do you have . . . regrets?” Women often bemoaned their actions, especially when they didn’t get the outcome they usually desired—marriage.

“I am a respectable woman, Mr. Hunt,” she said, reverting back to formal address and avoiding his gaze. “I don’t . . . That is to say . . . I’ve never—”

Her flustered attempts to explain the intimacy they’d shared were so unlike her that he burst out laughing.

“Ooh!” She bristled angrily. “I knew last night was a horrible mistake.”

“No mistake.” He grabbed her arm and drew her close, but not so close that anyone from the cottage would be given cause to wonder what was happening between them. “Has anyone ever told you how beautiful you are when you’re angry?”

“I . . . We . . .” She bit her lower lip. “Men make me angry all the time. ’Tis nothin’ new.”

Indulgently, he held her stare longer than he should have. Entranced, he watched her lips part slightly and lazily drank her in as he leaned close, closer . . .

A severe-looking woman exited the cottage and shielded her eyes from the sun. Walsingham stiffened at the unfamiliar presence and immediately separated himself from Oriana.


“Good morning, Mrs. Farley.” Oriana waved and then turned to him, speaking just above a whisper. “Mrs. Farley looks tough on the outside, but she’s softhearted within. Can ye fetch me that parcel?” She pointed to a large brown-paper package in the back of the wagon.

Walsingham moved to do as she had asked, retrieving the package and then handing it to her.

She smiled and nodded at Mrs. Farley as if nothing was out of the ordinary and then bowed her head as he transferred the package into her hands. “She lost her father, her husband, and her son on the same ship durin’ a squall. She’s not been the same since.”

Consumed by sympathy, he nodded at Mrs. Farley. The woman’s tragic loss reminded Walsingham of his parents, who thought he was dead. What kind of hell were they enduring?

The weight of Mrs. Farley’s loss closed over him. He’d heard many stories just like this along the Cornish coast, which made it imperative that the Black Regent come out of the fracas with Carnage unscathed. If that feat could be achieved in order to help people like Mrs. Farley, who struggled to live a meager existence without a man who could support her, he must find a way to tell his parents he was alive without scaring them to death.

“Hello, Miss,” Mrs. Farley said, her voice full of with awe and respect.

Oriana moved toward the older woman, her hand outstretched. “How are ye, Mrs. Farley?”

Receiving a soft pat on her forearm from Oriana, Mrs. Farley turned her dark, searching gaze on Walsingham. “And who is this ye’ve brought along with ye, besides Nicholas?”

Oriana smiled with genuine enthusiasm. “This is Mr. Hunt, a fisherman stayin’ at the inn. He has offered to help me make my deliveries today.”

“Hunt? Never heard of any Hunts in Polperro or Looe.” The widow flattened her hand over her brow to blot out the sun, gazing at him thoughtfully, fatigue giving her an ethereal stillness. “Where are ye from?”

Walsingham worked fast to ease her curiosity. “I come by way of Fowey.”