He finished stacking the foodstuffs on the shelves and then lifted a bottle of rum and uncorked it before he took a drink.
“They are young and impressionable,” Tempest reminded him.
Respectable gentlemen poured their spirits into a glass, and if they were polite, offered their guest a drink. Though no proper Englishman would offer a miss rum, and she suspected that there was nothing at all that was proper, polite or respectable about Rhys McNaught.
She had also only been around Englishmen who had traveled to the Caribbean from England, but she assumed they were a better representation of England than Mr. McNaught.
He took another drink not at all concerned by what she was saying.
“They will need as much normalcy as can be provided, given the frightening circumstances they have endured.”
McNaught said nothing, only raised an eyebrow and offered her the bottle, which she most certainly declined.
She knew about her uncle’s secret activities and his network of British contacts in the Caribbean and assumed that the enemy had learned as well. Why else would a merchant cutter be targeted and sunk by the French?
Was Mr. McNaught also part of the network or was it just an odd coincidence that the captain of the ship chose this piece of land along Martinque’s shore on which to deposit her and her sisters?
No, it had been intentional because the ship had been heavily damaged, but they were not allowed to abandon the cutter right away. Instead, Captain Goodard had sailed further, taking on water, sluggish against the waves with a torn sail, but he was insistent that he needed to get to a specific location before the rowboat could be put into the water. Either the captain had not wanted to risk them arriving at a populated portion of the island, or he already knew that McNaught was here, and thus could provide protection for Tempest and her sisters.
Except, McNaught had no interest in protecting or assisting them.
She also could not ask if he was here to spy on the French because if he wasn’t…Except, she was almost certain there had been a brief light of recognition in his brown eyes when she mentioned the captain of the cutter, but not when she named her uncle nor Cornelius.
Blast! She wished there was a way for her to know for certain.
“You are British. Why are you living on Martinique?”
“My mother was from here,” he answered.
“Do you still have family on the island?” If so, he could go live with them until she and her sisters were rescued.
“No. I am all alone in the world. Or I was until I came home to find you.”
“Is it because you want to be alone or because you are too rude to be wanted.” It was unlike her to be so unpleasant but McNaught continued to be boorish and it wasn’t as if she had a choice over her circumstances. “Do the people of Fort-de-France think it odd that you live alone out here?”
“I would not know, nor do I care to know their opinion.” He pulled his suit jacket off and tossed it on a chair.
Tempest was not certain what to do because she had never seen a strange man in just his shirtsleeves and trousers.
Mr. McNaught then pulled the linen shirt over his head, revealing a tanned and muscular chest.
Tempest grew suddenly warm. Then again it was late afternoon and the sun was high.
His chest and abdomen were as tanned as his arms. Did Mr. McNaught make it a habit of going about unclothed?
He turned and waved a hand in front of her face, and Tempest’s cheeks began to burn when she realized she’d been staring at him. Not his face, but his body.
“Excuse me. I am going to bed.”
“In the middle of the day?” She pulled back in alarm.
“It was a long walk back from Fort-de-France. I am tired and hot and want to rest.”
He climbed onto the bed and bunched the pillow before lying back. “Either find another hut to live in or be quiet while I rest.”
Tempest gasped. “There is no other place for us, thus you will be the one to leave.”
Mr. McNaught sat up and glared at her, which was not a surprise.
