Storm (4 page)

* * * *

When his new housekeeper slowly removed her bonnet and set it on the table beside her plate, a single lock of hair fell adrift of its pins and spiraled down her sleeve. He saw how long it was, thick and curled, but he tried not to notice, because then he might have to spurt out another comment which would, once again, be unwelcome. She professed to be angry because he called attention to her good looks, yet she liked pretty things, clearly— her riding coat for one, and those hidden stockings with the climbing roses.

He wasn't meant to have seen those, of course, but that simply added to their allure.

She didn't look like any housekeeper he'd ever seen. Certainly different to sturdy Mrs. Blewett, who had served both him and his father for years.

Odd that she hadn't tried to fib about her work experience. It was almost as if she wanted him to send her away again.

Not a chance.

Finders keepers.

Now she removed her gloves and he noticed a bandage wrapped around her wrist. "You hurt yourself," he said, pointing.

She paled and gripped it with her other hand.

"Ma cut her arm when she was choppin' wood," the boy explained.

"Chopping wood?"

"Of a sort," she replied, eyes down.

"At least I know there's one job you can do then," he teased. "Might have known it would involve a bladed weapon."

She shot him a look.

"I've a salve to help the cut heal," he offered.

"Don't concern yourself." Then she added in a softer tone, "I'm alright, thank...thank you."

"That must have cost you," he muttered, bemused.

"I beg your pardon?"

Storm changed the subject. "When you've eaten, I'll show you to your room. I wasn't expecting a boy too, but there is plenty of space upstairs and he can take his pick. I usually get my forty winks here before the fire. I don't care much for beds and the like." For sleeping in, he might have added.

"My son can sleep in my room with me," she replied hurriedly, very tense again now, her expression guarded.

"If that suits you."

"He won't be any trouble."

"No." He had a feeling his new housekeeper would cause him more trouble than her son. And the sort of trouble he had not foreseen.

Simply put, he liked looking at her. She brought a bit of color to his house. In the light of the fire her hair had a shining copper tint to it, tempted his fingers unbearably.

Storm knew nothing about art— thought it was a waste of time and money mostly— but suddenly he could appreciate the pleasing effect that possession of just one beautiful piece might have on a man's mood.

Even if the piece was stubborn and prickly.

"I am in possession of weaponry and wholly prepared to make use of it!"

He didn't doubt that for a moment.

"What are you looking at, sir?" With nervous fingers she touched her cheek and the fallen lock of hair.

"Your lips," he replied honestly. Well, she did ask.

She looked askance. "Please don't. It's not polite or proper to stare."

Oh, so she could stare, but he couldn't? He sighed. "Suppose they do things differently in London, Duchess. You'll have to forgive this country boy who never learned society manners." Smiling across at her, Storm tried his best with the charm again, but she looked down at her plate, those admired lips tightening rather than loosening. He shifted, tapping his fingers on the table. "Although, we're not in London, are we? So that means you ought to abide by our country customs and rules. In which case, I can look at your lips to my heart's content. Fair game since I found you on my land, remember?"

Her gaze snapped up at him again, the jade color afire with scorn, as if she might take a lump out of his flesh if he made the wrong move.

"Good lord, Duchess," he muttered. "You needn't be afraid of the Bumble Trout; it is they who should fear you."

Suddenly hearing hooves in the yard, he looked over at the door, expecting his plowman. The rain had eased. It was nothing now but a fine mist hovering in the air. A thin, early sun, struggling to make itself shown and felt through the lingering clouds, reached over his doorstep with tentative fingers, and through this light came a figure he did not expect.

"Deverell, I want a word with you."

He got up immediately, chair legs scraping loudly across the flagged floor. His neighbor, Joss Restarick, stood in the doorframe, feet apart, fists at his sides, eyes angrily assessing the interior of the farmhouse.

"You and your—" Joss stopped when his dark gaze alighted upon the woman sat there. His eyes widened and then slyly narrowed again at once. Storm could almost hear the man's mind ticking over as he measured the attractiveness of the strange female.

"What's your business here, Restarick?" He moved to block the other man's view of his housekeeper, extremely possessive suddenly when he'd never suffered the sensation in his life before.

"I see you've got company. I'll come back later."

"Not necessary." He gestured toward the yard and then followed the other man out.

* * * *

Kate didn't like to eavesdrop, but their raised voices were hard to ignore.

"I just heard you mean to bid on the Putnam place, Deverell. But I'd advise you and your father to stay home, save your time and your coin."

"Thank you for the counsel, Restarick, but I'll see you at the auction tomorrow. Wouldn't miss it for the world."

"Aren't you farming more than you can manage now? I've got my brother to help me, and one day soon I'll have sons."

"Have to get a wife first, don't you?"

"I'll have no trouble doing that. Unlike you, I'm not afraid of marriage. I'll find a good, strong, sturdy wench before too long."

"I wish you luck with that." Deverell chuckled.

"Don't need luck. I know what I want and I can set my mind to it. Your problem is you've got a wandering eye. You'll grow old, all alone, with no sons to help you on the land. Should have settled with Sally White."

"I appreciate your concern for me. Go home, Joss, while you still have one to go to. Before the bank calls in your debt."

"Been listening to nasty rumor again, eh? I suppose it makes a change for you to hear gossip about a family other than your own. Who's the petticoat sharing your breakfast then? Doesn't look local."

"She's not."

"Sally won't think much of you taking up with a fancy town lass."

"Sally can think what she likes."

"Where did you find
her
then? She's a sweet piece. A bit dainty and ladylike for you."

Realizing that Flynn was listening to the men too, Kate snapped hurriedly, "Eat your breakfast. It's none of our business."

The boy nodded and she got up to wipe his chin with her handkerchief. Although she assured herself that she wasn't interested in their debate, she looked out through the open door anyway and had a clear view of the two men standing with a puddle between them.

"Mind you don't break her," the one called Restarick continued, choking with laughter. "I daresay she's accustomed to the hands of a gentleman, not the great clodhoppers of a clumsy plow horse."

The reply was a tranquil, "She's my new housekeeper, so you can wash your mind out."

"
Housekeeper
?"

"That's right. Mrs. Blewett spends most of her time at Roscarrock now working for my father, so I decided to hire someone new." Deverell folded his arms, which made his shoulders seem even wider. "Best of luck to you at the auction tomorrow...plucky little fellow. I can't help but admire your optimism against all odds."

"We Restaricks were here long before your family came along and started buying up the land with your crooked coin, taking over."

"Everything must change eventually. That's what keeps the world turning."

It was somewhat amusing to see one man standing there placidly, while his competitor danced about as if he had hot stones in his boots. "Let me know where you hire the help these days, Deverell. Wouldn't mind a housekeeper like that one myself. Although I'd wager she was expensive, eh? Probably too costly for everyday use."

"I've warned you before, you get what you pay for. Cheap labor is false economy."

"Ma," Flynn protested, "don't scrub me skin orf!"

She hastily returned to her chair and a few moments later Storm Deverell came back indoors.

"Bloody Restaricks," he chuckled, and then proceeded to whistle that jolly tune again. He finally finished tucking in his shirt, slipped into a corduroy waistcoat plucked from the back of his chair, and then dropped his seat to a low footstool by the fire and began scrubbing his boots with a hand brush. "Can't help pitying the fool. He and his brother have their hands full trying to pay off the debts their no-good, horse-thieving father left them. But Joss won't take charity. Too proud."

She looked down as she buttered the second slice of bread he'd cut for her. "You mentioned your father...he lives nearby?"

"At Roscarrock Castle, out on the small island a few hundred yards from shore. You would have seen the place if you travelled along the coast road. When the tide is in, Roscarrock is cut off from the mainland, except by boat."

"That's the place we saw, Ma! It's like a fortress in a story," Flynn warbled through a wide yawn. "Like an ogre's castle, you said. Remember?"

Of course she remembered the sight of that sinister, dark silhouette against the blood red sunset last evening as they traveled along the coast road. And now she realized where she'd heard the name "Deverell" before. As the name was matched with the image of that castle, it all clicked into place with a jolt.

"Your father is
True Deverell
?"

He didn't look up from scrubbing his boots. "Aye. Try not to hold it against me." Then he laughed and resumed his tuneful whistle.

"What's a True Deverell?" her son murmured sleepily. "Why'd ya say it like that, ma?"

"I didn't say it like anything, for goodness sake! He's just a man...a well-known man of business." How did one describe True Deverell? He was a filthy rich, self-made man with a scandalous past that included divorce and being shot at by one of his own children.

He was also the creator and owner of "Deverell's"— the most exclusive gentleman's gaming club in London. Kate knew all about it, because hardly a day had passed without Bert Soames mentioning that place and his grievances against its notorious owner. He was jealous of Deverell's success, naturally. Although Soames considered himself a man of great cunning and business acumen, in truth he couldn't get out of his own lumbering way. His personal, clumsy greed, grubby business dealings and the inability to think ahead meant that Albert Soames remained in the gutter, while the mysterious True Deverell— who also came from poor beginnings—continued to rise up.

These days, so the newspapers said, Deverell was wealthy enough to do anything he wanted, and so dangerously hot-tempered that nobody dare try to stop him. His offspring were said to be no tamer than he.

Yet here one of his sons lived in humble style, pretending to be a working man, innocently leaving his door open, chatting genially, cutting her a slice of bread ... and all that time a Deverell. He wasn't at all what she would have imagined from the rumors.

Kate watched as he brushed his boots. Weak sunlight kissed the top of his bent head, slowly drying a few strands of hair and painting awns of golden wheat among the brown.

"
I keep my life simple,
" he'd said.

And he seemed content. She suspected the disarray of his house didn't bother him unduly. Someone, perhaps, had urged him to get a permanent housekeeper so he went along with the idea just to keep the peace. But from what she could see the man lacked nothing and looked after himself capably. Certainly whatever she could contribute to his life would be minimal.

"Sorry, Mrs. Kelly, but I've got to go out already," he said, shrugging back into his damp greatcoat. "It's market day in Truro, and I'm taking a friend as I promised her. But you and the boy stay by the fire and finish the bacon." There went that smile again. "I'll leave Jack to stand guard."

A female friend. Ah. The previously mentioned Sally White, perhaps.

"And when I return we can get your cart unloaded."

Kate stood abruptly. She had to speak now, before he left. The man had no idea what he'd taken on and it was only fair to warn him. Now that the feeling was back in her toes and fingers, good sense came back to her head too. "Mr. Deverell, I fear I am not the right housekeeper for you. I think it would be a mistake for—"

He placed a finger to his lips and then pointed to where Flynn had fallen asleep, head on his plate, a crust of bread still clutched in one fist.

She whispered, "For both of us." He knew nothing about her or the trouble from which she'd escaped. He liked his life simple, but her presence would only complicate it. As he would certainly complicate hers.

What was the Reverend thinking?

"Is this because I'm True Deverell's son?"

Startled, she replied, "Of course not."

"You seemed to have changed your mind suddenly about staying. The moment you realized who my father is—"

"It's not that, sir. It's just...not...suitable. For you and I."

He put his head on one side again, as if pondering a deep thought. Then another smile shot across his face. Apparently a new one was never far away— or was it the same one, never quite vanquished and disturbingly irrepressible? "You mean you could never work for me because there is something between us?"

"I don't—"

"You're attracted to me. Now you've met your employer, you're afraid you wouldn't be able to keep your hands off him or your mind on the work"

She whispered crossly, "Certainly not!"

"Forgive me for being straightforward, but as I told you, that's my simple way. And we've a spark between us. I feel it and I believe you do too."

Her pulse quickened. "I'm not looking for entanglements of that nature, sir."

"I thought I caught you looking at me with a bit of flame in your green eyes, Duchess."

"I sincerely hope you're teasing again, Mr. Deverell. I have a son to raise, and he is the only male in my life now. I'm a respectable widow...and celibate."

He shook his head. "Well that's a damned waste."

In a rush of shocked breath she whispered, "I'm sure other ladies here swoon before you in great number, but I am not attracted to you in the least. I'm sorry if you are wounded by
my
honesty, but there it is."

He thrust his hands into the outer pockets of his greatcoat. "Then I must have been wrong."

"Yes. Indeed."

"I'll not be getting that kiss then."

Hand to her throat, she exclaimed, "What kiss?"

"The one I've been imagining since I first saw you."

So that was what he wanted in exchange for the rescue. She knew there would be something more than a plain "thank you" required. He was a man, wasn't he?

"Like I said," he added, "I have a tendency to blurt out whatever I'm thinking, as it comes to me."

Kate stared. "I suggest you see a physician about that."

"Will he fix me, Duchess?"

"He might try. Although I cannot guarantee his success. A man who has got away with it for so long will surely continue in his happy, uncensored state as long as he is able. One cannot teach an old dog new tricks."

His cheeks sucked inward for a moment, while he studied her with quietly bemused eyes. "I suppose you've got nothing that needs mending? Such as a tongue that strikes before battle's been declared, and a pretty face that's wasted—you don't want it admired, because any man you come across must be just as bad as those you've known before. For a young woman, Mrs. Kelly, you're remarkably swift to think the worst of a man. Perhaps a physician can give you something for
that
."

Again, he said all this in a low, even tone, which somehow made it more powerful than if he'd shouted.

There was silence, but for a cock crowing somewhere outside.

He took an audible breath. "Well, that's us sorted then."

"Sorted?"

"We both know where we stand. You can't tolerate the sight o' me— evidently the fact that I'm a Deverell will count against me, as usual — and I think you're a proud, prissy wench in line for a fall." He strode to the door, but stopped, hesitated, spun around on his heels and gave her an awkward, stiff little bow, as if he belatedly remembered an etiquette lesson from long ago. "The spark— if it ever existed— need never be mentioned again. So I'd say you can stay and work for me without danger."

After her last little speech she'd expected Storm Deverell to toss her out on her ear. She could have departed easily and gladly while under a cloud of anger. But instead he was quite calm and polite in the face of her rudeness. He didn't even raise his voice, let alone give her a good reason to leave.

"But the decision is yours to make, Mrs. Kelly." In a brighter tone, he added, "When the plowman comes, can you give him that envelope on the mantle to pay him?" With that he walked out through the open doorway and she listened to his firm, long stride crossing the yard to the stables.

Left standing stupidly, she struggled to collect her thoughts and her breath.

What a strange place this was. A very different world to the one she'd left behind her. But was that not the plan?

Hens squawked in the yard. The dog barked. Sunlight brightened the doorstep, but a breeze soon blew a cloud over and shaded the stone again. Crumbs blew across the table. The fire crackled softly. Somewhere water dripped. But she could not hear another person anywhere near— no churning sea of angry, impatient voices yelling through the walls, no vendors desperately hawking their wares outside, no hungry babies crying, no shrill disagreements scraping at her nerves until they were bloody and raw.

Just the sounds of nature.

And slowly her pulse resumed a steadier rhythm.

Kate lifted her son and carried him to the chair by the fire. Disturbed by the motion, he opened one drowsy eye."Let's stay here, Ma. I like it here."