noted the way the men were laughing and joking with them in a familiar manner they'd definitely not afforded her. A problem indeed. Still, there were only a few women as compared with a roomful of men. Surely one of those men wouldn't mind feigning a night of passion rather than pursuing a real one—especially if it meant earning money rather than parting with it?
That gave her an idea.
"Did you say I've paid for dozens of rounds?" she asked the tavern keeper.
"Um-hum. At least."
"Good. Then distribute them among the men."
Another startled look. "All right. Should I say who they're from?"
"Of course. Say they're a gift from…" A pause. "…The newcomer amongst them."
"Does this newcomer have a name?"
Not one she can provide , Aurora alerted herself silently. At least not yet. Once these sailors learn I'm a Huntley, they'll run for their lives. And if that should happen before I convince one of them to stage my ruin, all my plans will have been for naught .
"Rory," she supplied, reverting to the pet name her dearest friend, Mr. Scollard, had bestowed upon her years ago.
"Rory," the tavern keeper repeated. "All right, Rory. I'm George. And I'll fill the men in on your generosity."
"T hank you." With a brilliant smile, Aurora perched on a nearby stool, openly surveying the pub and its occupants. Sailors and fishermen, she thought with great satisfaction. Just as she'd surmised. Ranging in age from young to old, and in stature from large to scrawny. Which of them would be the one to serve as her necessary cohort?
That spawned another concern.
"George—you do have rooms here, do you not?" she questioned anxiously.
His jaw dropped. "Yeah, I have rooms."
"Good." Sagging with relief, she took two enthusiastic swallows of ale … and shuddered. How could anything so golden and frothy taste so horrid? Steeling herself, she gulped down the remaining brew, suppressing her distaste to appear as nonchalant as possible. She must fit in if she wanted to elicit the assistance of one of these sailors.
"Fill everyone's mug," she heard George call to his barmaids. "Courtesy of…" A broad grin. "…Rory." He gestured toward Aurora, who raised her tankard in tribute.
A chorus of enthusiastic t hank s ensued, and Aurora congratulated herself on her victory, dutifully guzzling down the second glass of ale George poured her. Actually, she mused, the brew didn't taste quite as bad as she'd originally thought. In fact, with enough patience the flavor rather grew on you.
"I'll have another," she informed George, holding out her mug. Blowing wisps of hair from her face, she shifted on the stool. "Is it warm in here?"
He chuckled, refilling her tankard. "Yeah, and it's gonna get a lot warmer if you don't slow down. Take it easy, Rory—this stuff's strong."
"I loathed the flavor at first," she confessed in a conspiratorial whisper. "But no longer. Now I'm enjoying it thoroughly."
"I can see that." George shook his head and resumed polishing the glasses. "What made you come in here?" he asked offhandedly.
"Oh, dear." Aurora rose, clutching her mug. "T hank you for reminding me. I have an end to achieve. And very little time to achieve it." Teetering a bit, she made her way over to the table of the nice bald fellow who'd addressed her earlier. He looked like the kindly sort. Perhaps he'd understand her dilemma—and her monetary offer— and agree to help her out.
She dropped into a seat beside him.
"'ey, Jackson ," one of the sailors at the table prompted the bald fellow. "I think our new patron is waitin' for ye."
Jackson turned toward her and grinned. "Did ye want something … Rory?"
Self-consciously she chewed her lip. How could she blurt out her proposition in front of all these men, without any preliminaries?
She couldn't.
Her gaze fell to the cards in Jackson 's hands. Whist, she concluded. They were playing
That gave her an idea.
"Did you say I've paid for dozens of rounds?" she asked the tavern keeper.
"Um-hum. At least."
"Good. Then distribute them among the men."
Another startled look. "All right. Should I say who they're from?"
"Of course. Say they're a gift from…" A pause. "…The newcomer amongst them."
"Does this newcomer have a name?"
Not one she can provide , Aurora alerted herself silently. At least not yet. Once these sailors learn I'm a Huntley, they'll run for their lives. And if that should happen before I convince one of them to stage my ruin, all my plans will have been for naught .
"Rory," she supplied, reverting to the pet name her dearest friend, Mr. Scollard, had bestowed upon her years ago.
"Rory," the tavern keeper repeated. "All right, Rory. I'm George. And I'll fill the men in on your generosity."
"T hank you." With a brilliant smile, Aurora perched on a nearby stool, openly surveying the pub and its occupants. Sailors and fishermen, she thought with great satisfaction. Just as she'd surmised. Ranging in age from young to old, and in stature from large to scrawny. Which of them would be the one to serve as her necessary cohort?
That spawned another concern.
"George—you do have rooms here, do you not?" she questioned anxiously.
His jaw dropped. "Yeah, I have rooms."
"Good." Sagging with relief, she took two enthusiastic swallows of ale … and shuddered. How could anything so golden and frothy taste so horrid? Steeling herself, she gulped down the remaining brew, suppressing her distaste to appear as nonchalant as possible. She must fit in if she wanted to elicit the assistance of one of these sailors.
"Fill everyone's mug," she heard George call to his barmaids. "Courtesy of…" A broad grin. "…Rory." He gestured toward Aurora, who raised her tankard in tribute.
A chorus of enthusiastic t hank s ensued, and Aurora congratulated herself on her victory, dutifully guzzling down the second glass of ale George poured her. Actually, she mused, the brew didn't taste quite as bad as she'd originally thought. In fact, with enough patience the flavor rather grew on you.
"I'll have another," she informed George, holding out her mug. Blowing wisps of hair from her face, she shifted on the stool. "Is it warm in here?"
He chuckled, refilling her tankard. "Yeah, and it's gonna get a lot warmer if you don't slow down. Take it easy, Rory—this stuff's strong."
"I loathed the flavor at first," she confessed in a conspiratorial whisper. "But no longer. Now I'm enjoying it thoroughly."
"I can see that." George shook his head and resumed polishing the glasses. "What made you come in here?" he asked offhandedly.
"Oh, dear." Aurora rose, clutching her mug. "T hank you for reminding me. I have an end to achieve. And very little time to achieve it." Teetering a bit, she made her way over to the table of the nice bald fellow who'd addressed her earlier. He looked like the kindly sort. Perhaps he'd understand her dilemma—and her monetary offer— and agree to help her out.
She dropped into a seat beside him.
"'ey, Jackson ," one of the sailors at the table prompted the bald fellow. "I think our new patron is waitin' for ye."
Jackson turned toward her and grinned. "Did ye want something … Rory?"
Self-consciously she chewed her lip. How could she blurt out her proposition in front of all these men, without any preliminaries?
She couldn't.
Her gaze fell to the cards in Jackson 's hands. Whist, she concluded. They were playing
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