Which was precisely why he broke out whisky and cigars last evening and read the majority of The Mysteries of Udolpho.
He folded the letter up and tucked it away before dressing. He would sleep in another lifetime; he was far too used to being up for sunrise on the ship.
The sun was finally in the sky as he rounded the bend on the gravel walk toward the Chapmans’ cottage. Their cat, Tulip, followed close on his heels, chirping as if Rafe was late for the visit.
The door to the small stone cottage wrenched open, shaking the ivy by the trembling thick red sashes. A robin flew out and settled into the apple tree in the front garden. A short elderly woman, twisted from old age, stood in the doorway and grabbed his hand.
“Oh, it’s a lovely morning now that you’re here.” She adjusted her cap, her smile frail but warm. “Come in now, come in. Have a seat, Mr. Davies.”
“What a warm welcome, Mrs. Chapman. A lovely day indeed.”
“Och, now.” The elderly woman turned around, a blush heavy on her creased cheeks. She swatted him playfully before leading him into the small kitchen area of the three-room cottage in the village.
The last earl had dragged the entire Cliffstone estate into near ruin, running up bad debts and neglecting tenants’ needs. It was a nightmare to untangle. Luckily, Henry considered combing over ledgers and re-establishing lines of credit among pleasurable activities. He rarely ventured into the village, however, so those duties fell upon Rafe for the time being.
Mr. Chapman shuffled forward, clasping a pie plate. Rafe admired how the man’s hair always looked as if he had storm clouds on his head, with wild tufts of white and gray raging about over dark, fluffy eyebrows. “Mr. Davies, so good of you to come.”
“How are you feeling today, sir?”
“Well, I couldn’t sleep a wink from the cough. Woke up early this morning and decided to try my hand at gooseberry pie. Have a slice, won’t you?”
Rafe’s stomach growled.
“That would be kind. Thank you.” He sat down at the table and cleared away a stack of books for the incoming pie plate.
“I told him it was too early to bake. Told him gooseberry pie was a shame when the rhubarb came in like a wild flush in the garden this spring.”
“Husbands,” Rafe said, volleying between the bickering married couple. “What would we men do without you lovely women?”
“Starve,” the old woman answered with a wheezing laugh. Even Mr. Chapman chuckled. “You wait,” Mrs. Chapman warned. “One day you’re going to lose that handsome heart of yours, Mr. Davies, and you’ll find yourself a bride who turns your world upside down.”
“I’m married to the sea, Mrs. Chapman.”
After eighteen years in the Royal Navy, Rafe knew more about brothels than love. And he was fine with that. Rafe didn’t wish for a bride any more than he wished for a piece of the gooseberry pie when Mr. Chapman cut into it. He nearly gagged as the runny, gold green interior of the pie oozed onto the plate.
“Hmm, not sure it took.” Mr. Chapman’s sloped shoulders rounded forward in defeat. “Should have stuck with strawberry.”
“I think it admirable to learn to bake at your age.” Rafe reached for the offered plate and forced a grin. He never wished not to be eating more in his life, unless it were kippers. Then he would detest those more.
“Must keep young, my boy. This body of mine is wearing out, but I’m stubborn and won’t go without a fight, and my brain is still in it.”
“As it should be.”
Rafe smiled, so utterly charmed by the kind couple who embraced his efforts to help in the village. Others didn’t trust him yet, and perhaps they shouldn’t. He almost always let everyone down. And besides, he didn’t plan to stay on. He and his brother were barely speaking any longer after London. And he would need to decide on his next posting soon.
“Now, where is my patient?” Rafe asked around a mouthful of revolting gooseberry pie.
Mrs. Chapman clapped her hands together. “Oh, he’s eating it, darling. See. You made a wonderful pie.”
Rafe forced down a bite, then stood, welcoming the distraction as Tulip brushed against his legs.
“Go on now,” Mrs. Chapman said, leading him to the back room. “She’s doing so well.”
He poked his head into the small room, struck with gratitude and something else… that same ringing hollowness that had followed him around lately. He set eyes on the mother goat, recovering from being struck by a wagon, and her two nursing kids.
Mr. Chapman stood behind him, beaming. “Well done, Mr. Davies. Our Carol is well on the mend, and these two kids will be back to health in no time.”
They never asked where he had acquired the skill of stitching up wounds, and it was best they didn’t. But there was a reason the floors were painted red in the officer’s quarters on a ship. He had seen too many bleed out after cannon fire ricocheted in the air, and men screaming while enemy fire pierced the hull and expelled deadly splinters through the air.
He’d never forget those screams, or the blood staining his hands, or the way his body plowed forward through the chaos to make meaning of a shambolic existence.
Rafe nodded, proud to have helped but wishing more than anything to disappear for a while.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
USA Today bestselling author Rebecca Paula writes steamy, emotional historical romance featuring strong heroines and broody heroes with a penchant for talking dirty.
Rebecca is a former journalist and news editor who once lived in a Dutch castle haunted by a ghost named Sophie. Luckily, she never met said ghost. She fell in love with writing at 10 years old and secretly wrote romance for years before publishing her first book in 2014. Rebecca lives in New Hampshire with her husband, two young daughters, and cats Gracie and Luna.
When she’s not writing, Rebecca can be found sipping iced coffee and dreaming up her next broody hero or tackling another DIY project in her 127-year-old farmhouse.
Rebecca loves hearing from her readers. One of the best ways to stay in touch is by signing up for her weekly newsletter where she shares exclusive content, sneak peeks, and giveaways. You can sign up for her newsletter here.
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