The Pirate's Duty (Regent's Revenge #3)(10)

Heat rushed to her cheeks as she realized her would-be rescuer was Mr. Hunt. Something oddly familiar about the power fueling his angry voice coiled around her. She’d heard it before, but in another time, another place, somewhere she knew she should remember. But where?

“Get yer hands off me,” Frank bellowed, swinging his fists at empty space.

Mr. Hunt cinched Frank’s collar until his curses were no longer audible. “Apologize to the lady.”

The lady? Oriana’s heart melted at the way Mr. Hunt addressed her, but she wasn’t so impressed she’d allow a brawl to happen in her tavern.

“Mr. Hunt.” Oriana glanced around the inn, feeling the night’s contentment slip away. “Please stay out of this.”

“Where I come from,” Mr. Hunt said, “a man doesn’t bite the hand that feeds him.”





Three




Beware, KING GEORGE has declared CORNWALL’S free trader, the BLACK REGENT, a menace. RUMORS circulate that the TREASONOUS pirate has hung up his ROBIN HOOD. Who will PROTECT Cornwall and Devon now that CAPTAIN W has been THWARTED and the HIND is in dry dock in PLYMOUTH?

~ Sherborne Mercury, 22 September 1809


God’s teeth, why did Mr. Hunt believe Oriana needed protecting? By all that was holy and unholy, she could take care of herself. Girard and O’Malley had seen to that, and she was a little put out—albeit slightly relieved—that the fisherman had taken matters into his own hands before she’d been able to prove it.

Frank’s pockmarked face contorted as he struggled against Mr. Hunt. “Mark my words. One day, there will be—”

“No place for you here,” Mr. Hunt finished.

“Until that day comes—” she pointed to the door, cursing Mr. Hunt for creating another enemy she’d have to combat “—clear out!”

Didn’t he know fending off inebriated men was part of operating a tavern? That she’d been educated in dealing with men? An infuriating heat swept over her, rushing through her veins like a riptide. She’d seen her fill of violence, been on the wrong end of a fist countless times.

Oriana sighed as she slipped the dagger into the sheath between her breasts and watched Mr. Hunt practically drag Frank out of the tavern. But life didn’t abruptly stop like a fiddle’s musical note because one rowdy customer imbibed too much and created a scene. Countless patrons had come to hear Old Bailey’s folktales and music.

She nodded to the droll teller, who threshed to life a snappy tune for the crowd as she walked behind the bar to a pine cask. There, Oriana filled a pitcher, watching the ale steadily rise, envisioning Eliza’s sightless eyes staring up out of the surf. Holding back tears, she tapped off the cask and moved swiftly back around the counter, forcing the image of Charles holding Eliza’s limp body from her mind.

She was no longer helpless to defend herself against her brother. Girard and O’Malley had seen to that. In fact, she was so against any intervention that she’d warned them never to defend her, and if she didn’t want them defending her, why would she want a stranger doing it?

Fighting back her unease, Oriana smoothed her apron, tightened her grip on the jug, and hastened her steps, snaking her way through the crowded tavern, past pillars and tables, until she was standing before Mr. Hunt’s two companions.

The front door opened, ushering in another burst of cold night air. Mr. Hunt filled the doorway, his eyes no longer roiling like a furious sea but reflecting an unnatural calm. His broad shoulders and height filled the doorway, the angles and planes on his face chiseled like limestone after a storm. He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and walked toward her.

If Mr. Hunt wanted to ply his trade here, he’d have to stay out of everyone else’s business, especially hers. “Mr. Hunt,” she began, “ye are not to interfere with my customers unless it’s to protect your own skin. Outlanders are viewed with distrust here.”

“Who’s to say my safety wasn’t at risk?” He grinned as he pulled out his chair and sat down.

Clever, cunning man. “Ye were never in any danger and ye know it.” She set the pitcher down and fisted her hands on her waist. “If I have to, I’ll ask those men there—” she pointed to Girard and O’Malley, who hoisted their tankards and smiled broadly as if enjoying the spectacle “—to escort ye off the premises. But I don’t want to lose your business.”

“And is it hard to keep the Roost running?” he asked.

“On the contrary, Mr. Hunt. There will always be a need for an inn here, but losing money means I cannot contribute to the orphans at Porthallow.” If she didn’t contribute to Mrs. Pickering’s School for Orphans, the wee ones might not make it through the winter. “It is a cause very dear to my heart.”

Did he understand her concerns? Was he a family man with children of his own? For all she knew he had a family somewhere, anxiously awaiting his return. Irritated by the path her thoughts traveled, she pushed away the image of another woman’s arms about the man’s shoulders.

His brows knit together. “You are . . . giving your earnings away?”

“Aye.” Pride burst forth from her heart with a vengeance as she stood before this man. “I have what I need to get by and enough left over to share.”

“You do?”