Storm (2 page)

Chapter Two

He'd shocked her into silence, it seemed. At least she was no longer threatening him with bodily harm and he could assess the situation while she sat there holding her whip, only her eyes moving to follow him from side to side. Green eyes, watchful and wary as a cat's.

She might have been a displaced aristocrat running from the guillotine in France fifty years ago, he thought. Certainly the woman had an elegant way about her, even trapped as she was in a less than elegant predicament. Her garments were ill-suited to travel in an open cart. Indeed, that impractical blue riding jacket, embroidered with a breeze-blown meadow of flowers, and nipped tightly in at the waist, seemed more like a theatrical costume than anything made for the rigors of real life.

His "fair game" was definitely not a local lass. More... exotic. But fair she certainly was. It had been a while since an interesting woman fell into his world and piqued his curiosity.

This, however, was no time to get distracted. The river, already high after several days of rainy weather, was rising at a good rate. When the flow gained strength like this it could push objects of some heft downstream.

"Aye...as I thought...you're trapped fast, Ma'am." He gestured at the wooden stumps sticking out of the earth at precarious angles. "When you saw the wooden bride was down you should have taken the stone bridge farther on. This bridge has been down all winter."

The uncertain curl of her lips stiffened rapidly into a downward bow of annoyance. Her voice was sharp, the words clipped as if she couldn't spare a lot of breath. "Of course I would have taken another bridge, sir, had I known one existed."

"Should have stopped and asked me then."

"I was in haste."

Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue against his teeth. "A peck of caution saves a pound of misery. Hope you learned a lesson here, ma'am. Now see, I'll have to get you out of this and catch my death o' cold in the process."

Clearly under duress, her lips popped open again, like a seam breaking. "Please don't trouble yourself."

"But I must. It's my lot in life, as a male, to get reckless, giddy females out of the puddles in which they find themselves. Since the beginning of time man has rescued woman from many a plight. You're lucky to have us." He saw the need for humor to put her at ease and hopefully relax those slender fingers, where they were wrapped so tightly around that whip. Usually a little playful teasing worked well for him.

Today, however, it would not.

Her eyes were full of hot sparks, spitting and simmering as her temper boiled over. "Thank goodness we have men to tell us the error of our ways and save us from ourselves. I'm surprised we women can breathe and function without you telling us what to do and how to do it."

Apparently he'd said the wrong thing.

Trouble. Just as he thought when she went racing by. He ought to leave the hot-head there and let some other fool help her. Someone would be along eventually. But Storm knew he'd never be able to enjoy his breakfast if he thought of her still sitting in the rain, trapped. It was a bane of his— this tender side. His father had warned him no good could come of it.

Expelling little puffs of steam, like a train engine ill-equipped to haul its load uphill, she rattled on, "I suppose we must be grateful that you have time to spare to set us right, whenever you're not out causing all the world's wars. How would we manage without you?"

Somewhere in the last few minutes he'd gone from a mere "unkempt ruffian" to the symbol of all male failings across the great empire. She had some nerve and a bad temper, to be sure, but wild creatures that suddenly found themselves trapped usually did.

"Well now, I don't know what you'd do without us," he replied wryly, surveying her grounded cart. "But it looks as if you wouldn't get very far while you were doing it."

* * * *

He smiled again. This strange, filthy fellow had the gall to smile at her while she sat there suffering in deepest humiliation. She shouted at him and he didn't even raise his voice. It was infuriating.

"Snakes preserve us," she heard Flynn whisper from the seat behind her. "Don't smile, mister. Don't smile, if you know what's good for you."

Apparently the fool didn't hear this warning. He was focused intently on Kate.

"Seems to me, Ma'am," he said slowly, in that deep, country drawl, "you managed to get yourself into this sorry predicament without a man anywhere near. All your own handiwork."

It was, much to her chagrin, quite true. Not that she was in the mood to admit it. "I could hardly care less what it
seems
to you, sir. That's beside the point. Debating the matter of how I ended up here isn't going to get me out again, is it?"

He eyed her through the rain in a slow, deliberate manner, until she felt the heat melting the embroidery on her lovely riding habit, and consorting with the rain to destroy the curl in her hair.

"We'll need to shift some of this burden off the wheels," was his final assessment. After a brief but pregnant pause, during which she sat rigidly, he rested both forearms on the cart, scratched his unshaven cheek with long, grimy fingers, and said, "Ma'am, there is no other way around the problem. You're going to have to trust me to carry you to dry land. The water rises by the minute."

Trust him
? How could she?

"I'm sure I can manage alone, sir." She had, after all, travelled a great many miles already without assistance and a little bit of rain was not going to stop Kate Kelly for long. With one hand she checked the dependability of her jacket buttons. "Thank you for your concern, but it's not necessary. I see I've interrupted your day. Please go about your business and leave me to mine. I'd like to get on."

He sniffed, pushed back from the cart and turned away slowly, his coat swirling in the water around his knees. "By all means, don't let me keep you, if you think you know what you're doing."

Kate flexed her fingers, then squeezed them around the whip again.
Now what, Missy Proud-foot? You've really let that prideful sharp tongue get you into a deeper pickle, this time.

But the stranger suddenly looked back over his shoulder and said, "Not being local, you won't know about the Bumble Trout, of course."

"The what? Speak up, man!"

"Flesh eatin' fish that lurk in the river. Can strip a leg to the bone in five minutes."

Kate cautiously surveyed the water around the cart. "You still have all your parts attached. So do the horses."

He waded toward her again. "The Bumble Trout has no taste for horseflesh and I'm wearing thick leather boots. The meat of women is their favorite, being all soft and sweetly seasoned with soap and perfume. They must be saving their appetite for you." He added, low, "Can't say I blame 'em."

She scowled. "Do I look like I was born yesterday? There is no such fish."

"That's what the last poor wretch said. I believe those were her final words. Before the screamin' started. The stonemason carved it on her headstone—
Beware false pride and the fangs of the Bumble Trout
." He paused, eyes narrowed. "I could show you the grave marker and that'll put your doubts to rest."

"Most amusing." She arched an eyebrow. "While your story holds a certain morbid appeal, I remain unconvinced of its veracity."

After a moment he shook his head and turned away again.

Kate heard her son sigh heavily under all those wrappings. Her shoulders drooped. Oh dear, she must do something. The need to prove to her son that she could take care of him and that women were not weaklings was an excellent cause, but her choices at that moment were severely limited. When it came to physical strength she was at a disadvantage and there was no getting around the fact.

Behind her on the seat, Flynn swung his feet and muttered glumly, "There goes that then. It were a good six years while it lasted."

She looked down at the churning water. Once, years ago, she'd heard about a drunk who fell into the river Thames and was eaten by a sea monster. All that was left of him were his boots, so it was said, with the bloody, pus-filled stumps of his feet still inside. Something had got at him right enough— whether it was a sea monster or his angry wife when she found he'd spent all the rent money on ale.

Having desperately assessed the situation and the potential in those broad shoulders moving away from her, Kate finally shouted, "Very well then, sir."

He stopped again and turned around.

She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I have no other choice, but to accept your assistance on this occasion. Under the unfortunate circumstances of my quandary." For her son, at least.

Lurching forward in a half bow, he tugged a pretend forelock. "Well, thank you, ma'am, for granting me permission to rescue your ladyship's fine ankles from the Bumble Trout. I'm honored."

Unfortunately, selfless acts of kindness were few and far between in her experience, and Kate faltered over how to be properly gracious about it. A simple thank you for such a rare deed seemed inadequate. While she still fumbled over an impressive word to use, the puzzling gallant pursed his lips in a nonchalant whistle and came back to the cart.

"Thank the lord, we shan't be drowneded after all, Mama," Flynn shouted happily.

Their rescuer's eyes widened in surprise. "You've a passenger with you? I didn't see him there."

Before she could make an introduction to the bundle of scarves at her side, the boy exclaimed, "I'm Flynn Michael Kelly, mister. How d'ye do? I'm right hungry. Have you got any food, please? What, ma? Why d'you look at me like that? I said please. I minded my manners."

"Funny how you pick and choose when to use them."

"Then why ain't you laughing, Ma?"

"It's a different sort of funny."

The man
did
laugh, however, and heartily. The sound rumbled out of his chest and would surely frighten off any such thing as a flesh-eating fish. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, young Master Flynn. I'd best take you first, lad, while the Duchess here finds her gumption." He sloshed his way around the horses, rubbing their muzzles with a reassuring hand as he went.

Kate looked again at the whirling water and contemplated saving him at least one burden by stepping down herself, but this part of the river was probably up to her thighs and, as the man had said, it was rising fast. In her skirt and petticoat she'd struggle to keep her footing. The rain showed no sign of easing and, if anything, the clouds had grown darker and thicker just in the few moments they'd sat there trapped.

Soon Flynn was deposited on the bank side and their rescuer returned for Kate. By then the water almost reached over his tall boots and the horses were nervous, snorting and flinging their heads about.

"My lady? I'm ready for you, if you're ready for me. I'd say we're just in time." As he held his arms up to her, his eyes twinkled in a very disturbing way. It felt as if he'd tickled her.

Although she usually equated the color blue with tranquility and innocence, today Kate had cause to rethink that idea.

"Ma, your face is all red again," her son bellowed unhelpfully from the riverbank.

"I might weigh too much for you," she muttered.

The man looked askance. "I can carry two newborn dairy calves on these shoulders and I've never dropped any."

Since she had no idea what a calf weighed, this meant nothing to her. Kate had a vague inkling that she ought to be insulted by the comparison, but she was too anxious to bother confirming it.

"Leave the whip, Duchess," he suggested pleasantly. "You won't need it for me. I'm fairly tame. Sometimes even obedient. But only in gloomy weather like today. In fact, you're lucky the sun's not out, because then I'd be in a less helpful mood and more lively. Feeling my oats, you might say."

She exhaled a quick huff, set her whip on the floor of the cart, and shifted to the edge of the seat, which— being wet— was slippery. He grabbed her as she slid off and in the next moment she was in his arms, being carried with ease across the raging river.

His chest was warm and solid. She could feel his heart thumping away under her shoulder, steady and reassuring. So far. But what if he fell while carrying her? He might slip. Was she heavier than he thought? He smelled of the wet earth and some less pleasing odors.

"Where are you headed?" he asked. "There's not much out this way. Or did the stars align in my favor for once and send you for me?"

Kate stiffened. "We are on our way to the Reverend Coles," she replied warily. "He offered to find employment for me."

"Coles?" He stopped walking and looked at her. A more tentative smile curved one side of his mouth. It reminded her of the expression on Flynn's face when he was given a birthday gift to open— when he didn't know yet if it would be something fun like a spinning top, or dull but useful, like a knitted cap. "Then you
are
mine."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Reverend Coles was sending me a new housekeeper today. You're early. Damn and blast! I meant to change my shirt before you came."

She stared at his profile as he resumed his stride through the water.

A shirt
? A shirt was all he thought to change before she came?

Well, this wasn't what she'd expected at all.

"Poor Coles," her rescuer added. "His passing is a great loss to the community."

"
Passing?"

"Aye."

"Reverend Coles is
dead
?"

He looked askance. "Well he'd better be, since we buried him yesterday. Didn't you know?"

Know? Of course she didn't know. How could she? For the last eight days she'd been on the road and it was a month at least since she'd had a letter from him. The Reverend had only mentioned a little sore-throat, perhaps not wanting to worry her.

Kate's heart sank.

Two years ago, just before Reverend Coles left the East End of London, he gave a stirring sermon from her local pulpit, inspiring her imagination when he spoke of Cornwall's fresh air, away from the filthy, Cholera-stricken streets of London. His words had given her hope and something to aim for. The Reverend took an interest in Kate's attempts to better herself and encouraged her to practice her letters by writing to him in his new parish. When she finally had the means to escape Bert Soames, the Reverend suggested she head this way herself and he kindly offered to help her settle there.

"You'd best apologize for threatening me with a whip, Duchess. I don't know many housekeepers allowed to get away with such insubordination to their master, and we ought to begin as we mean to carry on. I'll be in charge here. Needn't think to flutter your lashes and rule the roost."

"Yes, of course." She sighed, her mind preoccupied. "I suppose so."

"Be warned, I'm a hard task master."

"No doubt."

"And don't think I'll always have time to get you out of trouble whenever you get yourself into it. I haven't heard you thank me yet for saving your behind today."

Now she paid attention. He seemed to be walking slower, taking longer to get her to the riverbank. Looking into his eyes and finding a distinctly mischievous gleam there, she suspected the slow pace was deliberate. He had let her think the situation was urgent and now, suddenly, it was not.

"I'm not saved yet, sir," she said warily. "Once I'm on dry land again I'll thank you then."

He looked surprised and then laughed. "Steady on now! I'm the bashful, self-effacing sort and such an excess of gratitude might cause me to drop you."

Bashful? As a fox in a chicken coop, she suspected.

When he looked at her again, Kate felt the melting influence of his smile. Before her lips were inclined to soften and curl in the warm rays of his sunny regard, she turned her head away.

Apparently her angry frowns and sharp comments bounced off him like rubber balls. It was most disconcerting for a woman who had learned the efficacy of insults and scowls when dealing with over-eager gentlemen.

Finally he set her down on the wet grass and asked, "What's the heaviest thing in the cart, Duchess?"

"There's a chest with my... linens. That probably weighs the most."

He waded back to the cart, heaved the large chest onto one shoulder and brought it safely across the water to set it down beside her.

"Linens?" he grumbled. "Sure it's not a few dead bodies?"

"It's very superior bed linen. The best quality."

He sniffed. "I'll bet it is."

Not knowing quite what to make of that remark, Kate closed her lips in a firm line and watched him wade back to the cart yet again.

After several tense moments— and a great deal of grunting— the trapped wheel finally moved and the horses pulled the cart up through the rustling reeds and onto the grassy bank.

With a deep sigh she looked at the sorry collection of damp possessions they'd brought along to this place she'd optimistically thought of as Hope. A place which turned out to be the middle of nowhere, and inhabited by a giant, blue-eyed man called "Storm". A man with a smile that ran truant across his face like a naughty child with no fear of being caught.