When a Rogue Falls

by Caroline Linden

  How quaint! Or wicked . . .

  Had the decorative cabin paneling and hull ribs with rusted, protruding pins come from a wrecked ship or several wrecked ships? Were these people part of the trade? She groaned inwardly, hating how jaded she was becoming.

  Judge not, lest ye shall be judged, Chloe.

  It took her a moment to realize she hadn’t responded to the woman’s warm greeting. “Thank you,” Chloe rushed out. She grimaced. Was that strangling sound really her voice? She cleared her throat and tried again. “We are certainly chilled through and through and relish a quick thawing.”

  The redhead slanted a dubious look at Fiske and Kelly, who entered the tavern and lumbered over to a table in the corner nearest the door. “’Tis a wicked night to be about on these cliffs. Far too dangerous for a lady as fine as yourself,” the woman said, her gaze settling on the intricate buttons on Chloe’s pelisse.

  Images of the Mohegan and of Markwick hopping to the deck, heroic perfection coming to her rescue, flashed through Chloe’s mind.

  Wicked and dangerous, indeed.

  “There are worse things to endure,” Chloe said.

  In the barkeeper’s eyes, Chloe saw a whispered sadness she’d only read about in her books. What was it like to live in this kind of isolation? She shuddered, knowing not if it was from the cold or a fear that snaked its way down her spine.

  “Aye, ’tis true.” The redhead nodded, her voice a sultry blend of Cornish with a raw and sensual, easy femininity. “Should I send someone to see to your horses?”

  Owens rose. “There’ll be no need, thank you.”

  “We walked,” Madden offered, making Chloe snap her gaze to him.

  What was he thinking revealing that information? Weren’t they supposed to look as if they’d traveled separately?

  “Walked? We don’t get too many people arriving on foot here.” Intrigued, the woman’s perfectly arched brow rose, but she wisely asked nothing more. How many times had she dealt with unscrupulous people?

  Her attention returned to Chloe, scanning her head to foot, making Chloe fully aware that she wore not just any man’s clothes beneath her pelisse but the Black Regent’s. That knowledge made her stand a bit taller, but it also filled her with dread. During the melee at sea, she’d forgotten the clothes she was wearing. No wonder everyone stared when she’d entered the inn. And she couldn’t take off her pelisse. If any of these men recognized the garments or held a grudge against the Regent . . .

  “Rest now, miss,” the soft-spoken barkeeper said. “Ye must be tired from your journey. I’ll bring ye something to warm your bones.”

  “That would be lovely,” Chloe quickly responded, hoping to draw attention away from Madden’s irritable frankness. “Thank you for your kindness.”

  Jane moved toward their table before turning back to address the woman at the bar. “My mistress ’as gone too long without kindness.”

  The redhead nodded, her green eyes sparkling like emeralds, compassion obviously her natural response. “You’ll be wantin’ tea, then.”

  Chloe released a heavy, hopeful sigh. “A cup of hot tea would be delightful.”

  “Perhaps,” the barkeeper added, “laced with a bit of brandy, too.”

  Jane gave a brief nod as if the two women—maid and stranger—resolved to address Chloe’s dilemma.

  It would take more than bracing tea for Chloe to forget that Markwick and Pierce were far below the cliffs and in an unknown condition. No, she didn’t think anything so strong existed.

  “My name is Oriana,” the woman said, once more breaking through Chloe’s thoughts. “Should ye need anythin’ at all, ye have only to ask.”

  Oriana prepared their tea, and Chloe followed Jane to their table, taking her place on the wooden bench across from Owens.

  “Oriana seems approachable,” Chloe said, curious.

  “She plies her trade, nothing more.” The boatswain frowned. “Don’t get too friendly. Remember what I told you: things are not always what they seem. The people here are very protective and leery of what they do not know.”

  How could Chloe forget? Reserve was a plot motivator in every gothic romance. Oriana’s reaction to their presence here relieved all doubt that her intelligent stare missed anything of importance. Occasional glimpses Oriana’s way bore fruit that the woman seemed just as fascinated with Chloe and Jane as Chloe was with the stranger.

  “I am more concerned with what you haven’t told me, Mr. Owens,” Chloe went on.

  “No names.” He looked over his shoulder.

  One of the men in the crowded section of the tavern pushed back his chair, the screeching wood disrupting conversation as he stood.

  From her position against the paneled wall, Chloe drew in a ragged breath. Her pulse raced as the glowering man approached Fiske and Kelly, who were still seated by the door.

  “Ye be sailors?” he asked, his deep baritone off-putting to Chloe.

  Fiske nodded warily. “Aye.”

  “From whence do ye hail?”

  Kelly answered this time. “By way of Portsmouth.”

  “I didn’t ask ye, lad.” The burly man, whose soiled shirt sagged open over his exposed chest, directed his attention back to Fiske. He puffed on his pipe, a swirling, coiling stream of smoke lifting over his head. “I’m a sailing man meself. Still at it, then?”

  “Aye.” Fiske nodded again.

  “What ship do ye serve, eh?”

  Madden’s and Jenkins’s gazes jerked up to look at Owens.

  “We do not get many strangers here.” Oriana suddenly reappeared, making Chloe jump. The redhead acted as though she didn’t notice, but Chloe had no doubt in her mind that the woman studied her patrons carefully and could practically read their minds.

  “I’ve opened the inn as a tavern to villagers nearby, which is the reason why those that do come here don’t typically stay long,” she said, placing two steaming tankards of aromatic liquid in front of Chloe and Jane. “These men boast a loud cry, but I can handle them. Ye needn’t be afraid.” Reaching across her tray, her slender fingers grasped another tankard, this one filled with frothy ale. She set the brew before Owens, the action revealing a large yellowish bruise on her right wrist.

  Oriana caught Chloe’s curious stare out of the corner of her eyes. She pulled her sleeve over her wrist before turning away.

  Chloe worried the inside of her cheek and considered whether or not the information was worth Owens’s attention. That wasn’t a normal bruise. It was more like the markings left by fingers gripping a wrist too forcefully. Had an unruly patron caused it? But Chloe had no way of knowing who, if anyone, had harmed the poor woman. Besides, she didn’t plan on being here long, even if darkness had already fallen. Foraging her way down the cliff on her own would be treacherous, though no one could stop her if there was a need. In the meantime, what right did she have to jump to conclusions and draw more suspicion than they’d already aroused?

  “I’ve seen them before.” The redhead slanted her head to Madden and Jenkins. “But ye . . .” She stared at Owens. “Never.”

  “I sailed on the merchantman Remus.” Owens regarded her for a moment longer. “Have you heard of it?”

  Her hand stopped midway to her tray. “No.” She paled almost imperceptibly. “Should I have?”

  “I don’t expect anyone to remember her now. She was wrecked off Porthleven.” Owens fussed with his neckerchief as if he couldn’t breathe. “’Twas several years ago.”

  “Just the same. I never forget a face.” Oriana smiled, revealing a perfect row of teeth and a white scar on her ample lower lip.

  “It isn’t strange that those men would return here,” she said, motioning with her head again at Madden and Jenkins. “What’s stranger is ye arriving here with them, especially while several ships are fightin’ below.”

  Chloe tried to rid the fear from her voice. “Yes. We couldn’t help but hear the cannon. Dreadful pity so many men’s lives are in danger.” She took a
sip of tea, eager to learn what the woman knew. “Do you know what happened?” Her heart seized in her chest, her breath hinging on what Oriana revealed.

  “Disastrous end for two of ’em, I fear.”

  Chloe touched her lips. Panic coiled inside her, hardening her limbs. “Disastrous?” Her vision clouded. “How?”

  “Couldn’t help but hear the guns. Deafening creations. That man there”—she pointed at the man who’d approached Fiske and Kelly—“swears a revenue cutter was involved.” She crossed her arms over her aproned breast. “Where did ye say ye came from again?”

  Chloe pasted on a smile. “This is Owens. I hired him to escort me to my husband’s ship.”

  Oriana’s gaze flitted to Chloe’s left hand before she could hide it. The woman had seen her untenanted ring finger.

  “We’ve fallen on a bit of bad luck, I daresay.” She pretended to smooth hair out of her face. “Circumstances forced me to sell my wedding ring several months ago in order to fund my journey. With my husband away, I’ve had limited access to pin money.”

  Tiny threads of doubt tickled the back of Chloe’s mind. Would the astute woman with the all-seeing eyes believe her lies? Chloe glanced at the large man speaking to Fiske and Kelly, her distrust leavening. The potent odors of tobacco and ale wafted toward her, making her stomach roil.

  “Those two men near the door . . .” Oriana motioned with her head, keeping her eyes trained on Chloe. “Are they with ye?”

  Chloe’s heartbeat drummed inside her chest, warring against the air she labored to breathe. Her lungs squeezed cruelly against her ribs as she fought to project an outward calm. She had the distinct impression Oriana saw through their fables, as her questions leaned toward that frightening truth. But there was no need to involve the young woman in her misfortunes. Not when Chloe meant to rectify them as soon as possible.

  She nodded as she lifted the steaming mug to her lips again so she didn’t have to speak and her words couldn’t convict her either way. Oh, how my soul abhors a falsehood!

  Markwick had rightly provided Owens and the four other men to rally to her defense should the need arise. Would it?

  “I imagine a woman as fine as yourself needs several brawny companions. Dressed as ye are now,” Oriana said, her eyes glinting impishly, “ye don’t appear to be a woman who would make it in this harsh terrain alone.”

  Oriana’s assumptions gave Chloe pause. Pierce had made sure she could take care of herself. He’d taught her to fence, swim, ride, and box. And yet somehow she’d become dependent on these five men to return her to Markwick.

  Chloe had a sneaking suspicion Oriana saw through her masquerade. She took another sip of the spiced brew, focusing on a mundane task that would hide her mounting distress. The tea trailed smoothly over her tongue and down her parched throat.

  If it weren’t for Jane’s fear of drowning and the dark, and that Chloe wasn’t familiar with these cliffs, she’d excuse herself and start the downward climb to the beachhead. But she couldn’t row a boat alone . . . And where would she go anyway? She had no idea what had happened to Markwick. Without Owens’s expertise, how would she ever learn what had happened to her brother aboard the Windraker?

  God save him!

  Chloe choked.

  “Too strong, is it?” Oriana asked, her brow furrowing as she reached for the tankard.

  Chloe swallowed, attempting to gather her wits. “No.” She appreciated the woman’s concern but raised her hand to protest. “It’s more bracing than I expected, that is all.”

  “Spiked tea is exactly what the lady needs,” Owens said, staring at Chloe with a annoyed expression on his face.

  Oriana smiled kindly, then hurried off to answer a summons from a man elsewhere in the room.

  “Are ye well, m’lady?” Jane whispered. “I know that look better than anyone does.”

  Had her thoughts been that transparent? Good heavens, if she intended to marry Markwick and keep his secret, she needed to work on keeping her composure.

  “I’m fine,” she answered, though her shaking hands indicated otherwise. She set the mug on the table and put her hands in her lap.

  Owens flattened his lips into a thin line. “Best control yourself, my lady. Else we stand to lose everything, including being able to leave this place.”

  “Whyever no—”

  Fiske cursed loudly, stopping Chloe midsentence, and the room became deadly quiet. Fiske’s chair toppled to the floor behind him as he bolted to his feet.

  “Gentlemen! Gentlemen!” Oriana said, her simple gray wool gown and wrap apron swinging side to side as she rushed toward the front of the inn. “’Tis a fine brisk night—perfect for a fire, good company, and grog.” She touched the man who’d instigated Fiske’s sudden outburst, coaxing him away from Fiske and Kelly’s table. “How about an ale on me, eh?”

  The agitated man flashed a sneer. “These men be lying about their purpose here. Ye cannot expect me to believe their being here is a coincidence when cannons are blaring offshore.”

  “If they are here because of the pounding out there, Clyde Barstow, how can they be involved, eh? Haven’t ye for one moment considered they might be trying to escape the thunderous noise?”

  “We cannot abide liars, Oriana.”

  “I own this inn.” She turned to the other seated men with keen interest. “And I decide what I can abide and what I cannot.”

  “I ’spect I don’t have to remind ye the government be workin’ against us hardworking folk.”

  She slanted a worried glance at Chloe before setting her hands on her hips. “I know the tax man better than most, Clyde. I’ve dealt with him aplenty since opening this tavern, and I consider myself a good judge of character. These men are helping the lady there. If they be tellin’ lies, I’m certain it’s to protect her.”

  “Who is she, then? A fine lady like her, bedecked in shiny buttons, isn’t apt to stray far from home. No. I ’spect the redhead’s stolen that frock, and with mischief on her mind, too. Look at her muddy boots!” Clyde threw an accusatory stare toward the hearth, pinioning Chloe where she sat. “Ye know, traitors often disguise themselves as dainty flowers.”

  “Are ye that cynical?” Oriana asked.

  Clyde released a low growl. “Do not mock what ye choose not to understand.”

  “I understand perfectly.”

  “Do ye?” Clyde asked, his voice a hairsbreadth from her face. “Charles might have somethin’ to say about that.”

  “Charles doesn’t own the Roost,” Oriana snapped. She launched a fist at Clyde, who easily sidestepped her. “Ye are not free to assault me or any of my patrons with that tongue of yours, Clyde. A tired woman tryin’ to find her husband shouldn’t be punished for doin’ her proper duties. Would ye begrudge a woman’s love? Your Marion might have something to say about that, I reckon.”

  Clyde gruffly brushed off Oriana’s attack. “Damn your temper! Keep my wife out of this.”

  He took a step toward Fiske and Kelly, then stopped, shooting Chloe another distrustful stare and pointed to his face. “A Cornish nose doesn’t lie.”

  Oriana produced a dagger and stepped between Clyde and the two men. “As sure as God sees me, Clyde, I will have peace here.”

  He swatted her knife away. “Ye couldn’t hurt a flea, but I can smell danger.”

  “Mayhap ye smell yourself,” one of Clyde’s drinking partners cackled.

  Clyde pointed to the man with his pipe. “And I’ll be seein’ to ye later.” He turned back to Oriana, his expression radically serious. “What guarantee do we have that these strangers haven’t come from those ships, eh? Who knows if any of them are from his ship?”

  “Why would any of my customers work with excisemen?”

  Several men laughed as if she was daft. “What makes ye believe they aren’t?” Clyde asked.

  Oriana glanced around the room wildly, eager to hold on to the ground she’d purchased. “I take back my offer.”

  Clyde put his
pipe in his mouth, then released a swirl of smoke, blowing it in Oriana’s face. “What offer?”

  “Of a free drink,” the man’s friend reminded him.

  “You’ve imbibed too much already, Jonas,” she said, training her attention on the other man who’d been drinking with Clyde.

  “Rubbish!” Clyde stomped to the corner.

  “You’re not thinkin’ straight. Would ye have Marion suffer a cold, dark night—cannon thundering about, giving a woman a fright—with no place to go to get out of the bitter wind?”

  “I told you not to mention my wife’s name here,” Clyde shouted.

  “Why not? Ye seem quick to disparage that poor woman,” Oriana said, shaming the man in front of his friends.

  Laughter erupted from the men in the corner.

  Fiske and Kelly grinned. They shook their heads nervously, lifting their tankards in Oriana’s direction.

  Oriana inhaled a weary sigh, gave them a consolatory nod, and then laid her hand on Clyde’s arm. “It’s good to question what we don’t know. But leave these poor wretches be while I go get ye another pitcher of ale.”

  Jonas gasped. “Ye just told him he couldn’t have another drink.”

  “I changed my mind. It’s been a long day, exhausting all of us, and these poor souls need a warm place to ease their bones, as well as a good meal to fill their bellies so they can be off come morning.”

  Clyde slipped Chloe a look over his shoulder, his angry eyes softening. “The new redhead is looking at me like a cornered rat.”

  “Aye.” Oriana grinned. “Might it be because ye cornered her?”

  Another voice emerged louder than the others, the owner obscured in shadow. “Rats have their purpose, Clyde.”

  “Not them that’s infested St. George’s.” Jonas’s gruff response seemed to ignite more laughter. “At least,” he added, “that’s meat we don’t have to pilfer for our children’s bellies.”