With a growl he turned away from the window so he wouldn’t be tempted to stare.
His snarl wasn’t intended toward Mr. Laslow, but the older gentleman backed away all the same, his eyes widening with alarm. It was with effort that Caleb forced his features to relax. He knew what sort of image he struck. A tall, dark beast of a man. Too dark-skinned to be mistaken for a proper Englishman, but not easily identifiable either. He was a mutt, as his first captain liked to remind him. It was the name he’d heard along with a whip’s whistle just before he was beaten for whatever infraction he’d been accused of last.
A mutt and a beast. With too-long black hair, a flat nose that had been broken once too often, and the large, muscular build of a man who’d made a life at sea. The scar across his jaw was an additional reminder that his life had not been pretty. Nothing about him was soft or kind or—heaven forbid—genteel.
But if he meant to stay in this town for any length of time, he couldn’t very well frighten off his landlord, who also happened to run the tavern down on the main road running through Billingham.
No. Caleb certainly could not survive this boring little town if he frightened off the man who put a roof over his head and supplied him with ale.
He glanced toward the window. Besides, Mr. Laslow was not the one he wanted to frighten off, but the one he wished to drive away was either the bravest woman alive or had no sense in that pretty head of hers.
He suspected it was the former.
“I know this old cottage could use some work,” Mr. Laslow started haltingly. “But it’s sound enough—”
“It’ll do.”
Mr. Laslow’s brows arched and his expression brightened. “If you’re looking to stay in these parts, I’d be willing to sell the place.”
He gave a grunt of acknowledgment. He had no plans to stay. But then, he had no plans to go anywhere else, either. In short, he had no idea what he was going to do next. He didn’t belong in a quaint, homey village like this one.
There was no work here, for one, and for another, he didn’t belong.
He would have been driven out of town with whispers and glares if it hadn’t been for Miss Abigail’s father stepping in and telling the town that he was a family friend. He and Marcus. Of course, no one believed it entirely, but after they ran off the smuggling traitor Roger and word spread that Caleb had saved Abigail’s life—he still hadn’t forgiven her for telling that tall tale to anyone who would listen—the town as a whole seemed to have accepted him.
Even Mr. Laslow.
Especially Mr. Laslow as he’d given him shelter at the inn above the tavern, up until Caleb had grown too restless in his small room with the constant surge of people in the hallways and down below.
He’d grown used to his own men being around, of course. On a ship one couldn’t escape them. But normal folks. Townspeople. They were a whole other breed all together.
And, as Abigail continuously reminded him—he wasn’t on a ship any longer. So, why not enjoy the open space and some slightly larger quarters?
Mr. Laslow, with his windblown brown hair and his creased features, backed away toward the door, looking horrifyingly eager. “I’d only ask a fair price, of course.”
Caleb grunted again, this time with amusement, though few seemed to know the difference. “A fair price for this place?”
The older man’s laughter was rueful. “Like I said, it ain’t much. But all it needs is some care.” He glanced toward the window, and Caleb didn’t have to follow his gaze to know what he saw. A blonde-haired, blue-eyed angel, too sweet for her own good.
And the children.
Heaven forbid they forget the children.
“Well, I see you’re busy, Mr. Calhoun—”
“Caleb.” It came out as a growl and he just barely held back a sigh of exasperation as Mr. Laslow paled.
“Yes, of course.” Mr. Laslow sidled toward the door, reaching for the knob just as Abigail first knocked.
Laslow and Abigail struck Caleb as those characters in the theater, always seeming to know the others’ timing. Between the two of them, he couldn’t escape their nosy kindness if he tried.
And he did try. Often.
“Oh, hello Mr. Laslow,” Abigail sang as she waltzed into Caleb’s home.
To note, she did not literally sing but when Abigail spoke she might as well have been accompanied by a pianist. Her voice was that melodic. And when she walked, she might as well have been on a dance floor, gliding effortlessly.
He didn’t realize his lips had curled up in distaste until her bright blue gaze collided with his and her smile broadened.
That was how this dreadful woman greeted his snarls and sneers.
With a smile.
Heaven help him, the girl was clearly mad.
“Miss Abigail.” Mr. Laslow gave a smile and a small bow as he slipped out the door, turning back for one last parting word to Caleb. “Think about what I said, Mr. Calhoun.”
“Caleb.” His growl went unheeded as Miss Abigail’s voracious little army stormed inside right behind her. Her army of waifs, that was what her father, the captain of this naval stone frigate encampment, called the children who followed her about.
“It’s awfully cold out there,” she said by way of explanation. “You don’t mind, do you?”
He made a noise and not even he knew what it meant. Did he mind that his home was now overrun with dirty, mangy little urchins with wet noses and loud voices?
Of course he did.
But could he say as much to the woman who’d taken it upon herself to nurse him back to health?
Of course he couldn’t.
One of the children picked up his hat and twirled it in her hands.
“Put that down,” he
