Miss Minerva's Pirate Mishap by Maggie Dallen (to read list .TXT) 📗

snapped at the little girl whose name he unfortunately knew to be Polly. Polly. It was a name fit for a bird, not this tiny little creature with the too-big eyes and the toothless smiles. Polly flashed him that toothless smile now, no hint of remorse.

He didn’t scare this little waif any more than he frightened her teacher. And that was what Abigail was, he’d come to realize these past weeks. With no schools nearby and likely not nearly enough money for a governess between all the families combined, it seemed Abigail had taken it upon herself to teach the little ones in her spare time and theirs.

Nicholas, the largest of the lads and the most talkative, was making himself at home at Caleb’s makeshift kitchen table where he’d strewn some of his tools that he’d no doubt need to get this shack into some sort of habitable state.

“Oy.” He jabbed a finger at the boy. “Those aren’t toys.”

Nicholas was alarmingly unfazed.

Caleb glowered.

Nothing.

Unbelievable. Nicholas was just as unfazed by his glares as the other little ones. Just as immune as their fearless leader.

Her sister Minerva had warned him about this. She’d told him the first time they’d met that these little critters followed her sister with the utmost loyalty and faith. If she deemed him to be harmless, then they would follow suit.

He swung his glare to the beautiful blonde who was setting down a basket and taking in the new abode with a keen eye. “You did not tell me you were moving to your own spot.”

“Hmph.” By that he meant, with good reason.

Truth be told, he’d hoped this change of location would buy him a day of respite. That was all he needed. One day to get his head on straight. One day without this little enchantress messing with his mind and making him feel all twisted around. Without her making him want things he couldn’t have, and wishing for a life that wasn’t his.

She might have thought she was nursing him back to health, but at this rate, she would be the death of him.

Her lips hitched to the side as her gaze narrowed. “Why, if I had not run into Mr. Laslow yesterday afternoon, I would not have known where to find you.”

He grunted.

That was the point. Did she not see that?

She gestured to the basket. “How would I have delivered your biscuits?”

His gaze fell on the basket as he let out another growl, but this one lacked heat entirely because...biscuits.

Dratted girl. She knew these were his weakness. Sure enough, when his gaze lifted to meet hers, there was an unmistakable flare of triumph in those pretty blue eyes.

And also...

His brows drew down as he moved closer to see what was different about her today. There was something off. Something unsettling.

She looked away before he could say, her hands efficiently unwrapping the treats she’d brought, as though he were some small child who could be won over with a—

“Biscuit?” She held it out to him on a napkin and he wished he could say his mouth did not salivate.

With a huff of resignation, he reached for the treat with a mumbled thanks. He might not have been gently raised, but he was no ingrate either. He had some manners...when he chose to remember them.

Over the years, Marcus had taught him about the rules of society. The etiquette. The games by which the gentry lived and breathed. He knew of them, he’d just never had occasion to use them.

Until Abigail. Now she was forever in his space and on his mind, and it made him permanently aware of how little experience he had interacting with ladies. Well, with ladies like her. And she knew it. She must. There was no way she couldn’t see how brutish he was next to her easy elegance and charm.

There was no way she didn’t spot the darkness in his soul when she stood there so brilliant and...and good.

No, he’d been right all along. But she wasn’t a sprite sent from the gods of the sea, she was an angel sent from above. An angel sent to show him all the ways he did not measure up.

This was torture, he decided.

He shoved the biscuit in his mouth, crumbs falling as he inwardly cursed. She wasn’t just his penance. She was his own personal torment.

“There now.” She smiled beatifically. “Feeling better?”

He glowered at her. “I am not some irritable child who merely needs to be fed.”

Even as he said it, he realized that he did indeed feel better. He had been rather hungry, come to think of it.

As if she could read his mind rather than hear the words falling from his lips, her smile widened. “I thought so.”

He changed his mind once again. She wasn’t an angel. She was a devil.

“Now, shall we have a look at your injury?” Her eyes were wide with innocence and he froze with the last bite of biscuit hovering in front of his mouth.

“I told you. I don’t need a nursemaid.” And he certainly did not need her. Staring at his thigh. His bare thigh.

No. No, sir. He knew where to draw the line of propriety even if she did not. He looked around at the chaos that surrounded them. Polly was bouncing on the settee—the one piece of decent furniture, Nicholas was once again perusing the tools with a seriousness he’d never seen from the boy before, and the other handful of heathens were racing around and laughing as though his home were some sort of fair attraction.

But there was one person noticeably missing. “Where’s your chaperone?”

Abigail’s brows hitched up. “Hattie?”

He grunted. He didn’t care which sister accompanied her, just that she had someone. Someone who was not under the age of ten, preferably. Someone who would look out for her reputation and her safety.

His brows drew down again. “You came here—to my home—and you did not bring a chaperone?”

She blinked up at him, and he did not miss the way her lips twitched with