“For you, Captain Smith, there’s stew on the coals in the hearth.”
Without further word, Emmaus turned on his heel and made his way to the cottage. Cheverley unhooked himself from his horse’s reins and moved quickly to catch up.
“You don’t look like a man at ease here,” he said.
Emmaus glanced askance.
“On land, I mean,” Chev added hastily. “That is to say, you have a sailor’s gait.”
“I was a sailor.” Emmaus gestured toward the shelter. “Iama sailor.” He disappeared inside the cottage without further elaboration.
Chev settled his horse inside the shelter and then ducked inside the low door.
Though the cottage was small, excellent workmanship was evident in the hewn timber and glass windows. The furnishings were simple but sturdy. Two chairs. A serviceable table. A few racks. A multitude of hooks. For sleeping, a single hammock spanned a corner by the hearth, suspended between two beams.
Chev slid into one of the chairs as Emmaus set down two bowls. A curl of welcoming steam rose from the broth. With a spoon of silver-over-copper, he stirred chunks of meat.
Pigs.He identified the scent he’d smelled before.Pigs.
Of course, Pen would begin with animals she knew.
“You’ll have to make do with runt meat,” Emmaus said. “The sows cannot be spared, and only a few boars remain.”
Chev frowned. “Why is that?”
Emmaus did not answer. Instead, his eyes moved from Cheverley’s worn cuffs, to his pinned sleeve, to his dusty, worn breeches.
“A shame, isn’t it, the way the Admiralty forces officers to survive on half-pay? Theycanpay, of course—a point made obvious by Admiral Stone’s funeral.” Emmaus’s speculative gaze came to rest on Chev’s. “Wasn’t too long past. Were you there?”
“Yes,” Chev replied carefully. “I was there.”
“Did you know him—the admiral?”
Chev looked out the window to the pens beyond. “In passing.” He understood Emmaus’s probing. But to simply comply? He started his own line of questioning. “What manner of estate is this?”
Emmaus faintly smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. He flexed the biceps visible through his homespun linen shirt.
Always white linen and animal skin for Emmaus. Never cotton.
Never dyed.
“I find it hard to believe,” Emmaus said, “you haven’t heard about Pensteague.”
Cheverley shook his head no. “What should I have heard?”
“You’d have me believe you just happened to be traveling through western Cornwall and stumbled upon an estate well-known for employing injured sailors?”
“Injured sailors?”
Penelope.
Had she turned their home into a haven for men like him? Hurtheven hadn’t told him. A rigging knot locked into place, roughing his throat
“If I were to guess,” Emmaus said, “I’d say you are about to tell me I don’t look injured.”
“I wouldn’t presume.”
Emmaus snorted. “You’d be the first. Lady Cheverley takes in any wounded sailor, especially one who claims some connection that might lead to her lost husband.” He threw his arm over the back of his chair, a posture that belied the intensity in his gaze. “I happen to have known her husband. When I heard, I appointed myself a sort of gate-keeper, if you will.”
