The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(54)

Charles’s threats affected more than her sanity. If she died, how would the widows in her charge earn a wage? Where would the orphans get freshly knitted stockings and sweaters? What good could come from his blood money once Charles stole it back?

“Are you all right, Miss?”

At John’s prodding, she realized she hadn’t responded. “I’m well, thank ye.”

She averted her gaze to keep the meddlesome fisherman from reading too much into her thoughts, focusing instead on the big bald fir standing guard outside the vicarage. Mrs. Pickering claimed that the tree, crowned by a tuft of needles, bowed mercilessly in gale-force winds without breaking, and she had suggested that Oriana should do the same. And in fact, she’d done just that. She’d been living for the moment until now, until John’s voice, his kindness, and his touch made her go weak in the knees, reminding her how little she’d actually lived.

“The furze and turf goes in the rick outside the vicarage for the Pickerings and the one over there for the church,” she said, trying not to respond to the smile John was giving her, though it made her pulse race. “Supplies go inside the vicarage pantry, and all but one of the casks of ale need to be set aside for the Seatons.” She glanced at the coach house’s open folding doors, spying several horses that were not normally present. The beautiful horseflesh could only mean one thing: the Seatons had come to call.

“It appears we are not the Pickerings’ only guests,” she noted aloud.

“How so?” John asked, his eyes roaming to the coach house.

“The Earl of Pendrim’s sons, the Seatons, are here. The casks of ale are for them. They’ll show ye where to put them.”

“Aye.” John dismounted and tethered his horse’s reins to the wagon. Before she could climb down, he was there, and his big, broad hands, the very ones capable of making her body sing, were outstretched to guide her to the ground.

Her gaze locked with his before she accepted his help, and she tried not to appear too willing to feel his arms about her, even as she yearned for it.

John gave her no time to luxuriate in his touch. Jaw clenched, he set her down and quickly left her side. “Let’s get started, Nicholas. We have much to do.”

“Aye, sir,” the boy instantly responded.

“Well then, Nicholas.” Oriana bit her lip and pressed her hand to her throat. “I’ll leave ye in Mr. Hunt’s capable hands.”

Nicholas glanced at Oriana over his shoulder. “Aye, Miss.”

She hesitated as she watched Nicholas and John work together, a tide of restlessness and longing taking hold. What would life have been like if she’d gotten to witness this scene every day?

“I’ll see ye both when it’s time to head back to the Roost,” she said as she forced her body to move. She turned swiftly away to dab her misty eyes and began walking toward the vicarage.

The rectangular cottage was flanked by two massive chimneys. Lemon verbena climbed the granite facade, releasing a citrus scent that followed her all the way to the doorway where a vase of bryony and ivy decorated a wide wooden trunk that sat beneath the stairs. Bedchamber candlesticks, tallow candles, lamps, and brackets for sconces were stored in the cedar box. Beyond this chest, a long hall led to the back of the house. It was here, in the vicarage, where the servants prepared the Pickerings’ retirement each night.

Mrs. Pickering appeared at the end of the long corridor, dressed in yellow like a ray of sunshine, and she moved toward Oriana, her arms outstretched. “My dear girl, you are here at last!”

Oriana rushed forward to embrace the woman. “Ye know I would never miss tea, Mrs. P.”

Mrs. Pickering gently squeezed Oriana in her motherly arms. They held each other for several minutes. Oriana resisted the urge to cry, knowing this might be the last time she ever saw Mrs. Pickering, a woman whose kindness and generosity had impacted Oriana’s life tremendously.

It was Mrs. Pickering who stepped back and peeked around Oriana’s head. “Who is that with Nicholas?” she asked.

“A man.” Oriana knew perfectly well that Mrs. Pickering wanted a name. She also knew her attempt not to appear eager to share it produced the opposite effect and made the woman more curious.

“I can see he’s a man, ninnyhammer,” she teased. “And a handsome one, too.”

“His name is John Hunt.” A heated flush inched up Oriana’s neck. “He’s a fisherman stayin’ at the Roost. He and his crew followed the pilchards here from Fowey and are hopin’ our shores will yield a greater reward.”

Mrs. Pickering narrowed her eyes, studying John before glancing back at Oriana. “If he is here—as you say—to fish, he’ll be greatly rewarded. The fish houses in Port Looe are already full, and the season isn’t over for a fortnight. I overheard several fishermen telling my husband we’ll have a full larder for winter, thanks be to God.”

“I am happy to hear that, Mrs. P. There is nothin’ dearer to my heart than knowin’ you’ll be able to provide for the orphanage.”

“When I saw Mr. Hunt, I had hoped . . . well . . .” She shook her head as if erasing her thoughts. “I had hoped you had hired more men who could protect you from . . . him.”

“The Regent left Girard and O’Malley to protect me.” She bit her lip to keep it from quivering.