The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(53)
Talland’s vertical bell tower, crowned with arrow-shaped slats, rose above the landscape to survey the coast like a protective sovereign, holy and unrivaled on the hill for all to see. A second tower shadowed this Norman spire, and when aligned, the two turrets served as markers fishermen used to gauge sailing speed between Talland and Hannafore.
Whether awed by the majestic scenery or not, John had ridden beside the wagon in silence—almost gravely—since they’d left the widow Farley’s cottage. With Nicholas seated beside her, Oriana had not questioned John’s behavior, though the emotional and physical distance building between them was bothering her greatly.
No one had ever fascinated her as intensely as John Hunt did. She’d never met a man who’d stirred her senses until she no longer felt in control of her own body. One look from him made her do things she shouldn’t, desire what she couldn’t have, ache to be joined with him even though the intimacy would only put him in danger.
Fearful of where her emotions were leading her and embarrassed by the fever governing her body, Oriana shifted on the wagon seat, pretending to adjust her skirts. She dared a sideways glance at John, though he didn’t seem to notice. He was just staring at the church tower as if pulled by an unseen thread, making her wonder if Saint Tallanus himself and the mystical ley line the original altar had been built on were holding a magical sway over John’s wits.
Keenly aware of the man astride his horse beside the wagon, Oriana drank him in, feeling her composure weaken. Dressed as he was in a blue knit-frock and a scruffy overcoat with his tall seaboots fixed in the stirrups, he rode a horse quite well for a fisherman. With his tricorn pulled low, his unbound hair touching his shoulders, and shadows falling over his bearded face, she couldn’t make out his expression.
Insecurity churned inside her, twisting her belly into knots. John had encouraged her to take personal risks she’d never dreamed possible. He made her yearn for tomorrow when there was none to be had, to wish for things she shouldn’t—passion, love, companionship, and family. What use were these things to a woman condemned?
Her chest felt as if it could burst, filling her with the need to loosen her stays. By the saints, she was undone. She desired tomorrow with all her might. Needed this man in her life. Coveted the euphoric sensations he ignited inside her. She wanted to be able to make promises and keep them.
Her eyes misted as she swallowed back her sorrow.
The donkeys pulling the wagon snorted from their exertions as they progressed up the hill toward the church. The cumbrous cart jostled over the rough terrain as they started up the drive to the vicarage where an old fig tree in the front garden was bordered by apple trees. A well in the adjacent field provided cold drinking water, and gooseberry, blackberry, and raspberry bushes lined the garden hedge.
After what seemed like an eternity, John finally glanced her way as Nicholas brought the wagon to a halt before a pair of trees—copper beech and poplar—that snowed silvery seeds about the vicarage steps in the spring.
The heat of John’s stare burned into Oriana. “Does Nicholas know what to deliver to the church?” he asked.
“Aye,” she answered, noticing a dogged determination glinting in John’s eyes, one she couldn’t readily identify. “Ye need not concern yourself with the particulars, Mr. Hunt. I have no intention of takin’ up more of your time. Nicholas can take care of deliverin’ the supplies to the church.”
“I can, and I will.” Nicholas gave his head a proud shake. “Earn me pay that way.”
Oriana laughed and elbowed the boy. “’Tis a tasty morsel you’re after, and do not deny it.”
“I’m a bear with a sore head without food.” To emphasize what he said, Nicholas’s stomach churned loudly.
She laughed again. “That would make ye testy all day long, then.”
“Aye.” Nicholas giggled, the sound reminding her how young he actually was.
John, however, stayed on task. “I can help the lad. Our seine nets have already been cast, and I’m available, if needed.”
“Truly?” She smiled weakly, trying not to focus on the word needed, for she needed John more than she dared admit. “As I said, I’m having tea with the vicar’s wife. I cannot give ye a time we’ll be headed for home.”
John chuckled—a most endearing sound. “No need to worry, Miss. My men know what to do until I return. I’m happy to be of service.” He glanced at Nicholas. “The boy and I will find something to occupy our time until you finish with the vicar’s wife.”
An alarming voice cried out that she couldn’t afford to trust anyone. Why couldn’t she accept his help and be done with it? He’d done nothing to thwart her trust . . . yet.
A battle waged inside her as the velvet purse hung heavy in her hand, a reminder to be thankful they had made it to the church without any catastrophe befalling them.
Like Charles.
Thanks to Old Bailey and Samuel, she could donate twenty pounds for the children’s sake. No small amount, that. It was more than a poor man’s yearly stipend. All the same, her gift wouldn’t have lasting impact on the children. Twenty pounds was barely enough to help the orphans in Mrs. Pickering’s care survive one winter. And in this, Oriana’s heart swelled with troublesome emotion, allowing more of the walls buttressing her heart to collapse.