Storm (7 page)

But her mind kept returning to the man who saved them from the river yesterday. The first man to do her a good deed in many years. Perhaps ever, if she stopped and thought about it.

Which she was much too busy to do.

"
How can you manage this farm by yourself? With no man about? You'll go under, Mrs. Kelly. You've made a mistake
."

Euphony, indeed. Mr. Storm Deverell might have a voice that was rich and rather ticklish to the ear, but if he thought he could use that voice to tell her what to do, he may as well be mute for all it mattered to her. As for telling her she was pretty, she certainly didn't have time for that nonsense. She'd been down that path before and look where it got her.

Chapter Six

"It was a ship from Portugal," Reverend Coles had said to him one night over a few glasses of Storm's homemade wine. "They reckoned the cargo was only cork and wine, but there was sixteenth century Spanish gold smuggled in that hold. And when it washed up to shore, Steadfast Putnam— then just a young man—stole it from his fellow wreckers."

Usually Storm would discount such fables as mere entertainment. However, Reverend Coles was a sensible fellow, not one to let his imagination run away with him, and it was well known that smugglers and wreckers had worked along the Cornish shore years before. Even the previous owners of Roscarrock Island had been involved at one time. So when Coles sat by Storm's fire on that chilly evening and told him of Steadfast Putnam's deathbed confession, whispered in his ear just a few days before, it was impossible to ignore.

"He didn't tell me what he did with the gold, or where he hid it. The dying man whispered this much with his last breath and then sank into unconsciousness. I suppose, in extremis, the crime weighed heavily on his mind. I must say I was surprised. He never struck me as a man with much conscience."

Only a few weeks after this conversation, Reverend Coles was dead too. That left Storm the guardian of a dark secret, and he began to wonder where old Steadfast might have put his treasure.

It wasn't the idea of financial gain that appealed to him; it was the mystery and adventure of buried plunder, of smugglers, pirates and all those stories from his childhood. He supposed this fascination was inherited from his father. True Deverell always loved a good tale and since amassing his fortune he'd become a keen collector of some of the world's finest treasures.

As a boy Storm would sit on the highest point of the cliffs and look out at the rough waves for hours at a time, his mind caught up in the fantasy of ghostly pirate ships engaged in battle. When he was ten his father had bought him a small telescope, which quickly became his most beloved possession. At one time he'd thought he might join the Navy, but that idea passed. He loved farming and animal husbandry too much, and his few experiences of travel had put him off the idea of exploring the world. Putting that aside, he had thrown himself into working the land, making his mark there instead.

But when Coles, under the influence of too much gooseberry wine, confided in him about those whispers so shockingly slipped into his hairy ears by that crotchety scoundrel, Steadfast Putnam, it reawakened a dormant passion inside Storm— the quest for adventure.

Now, just as he was about to get his hands on the Putnam farm and find out for himself, Kate Kelly sailed in and hijacked his treasure.

Was it deliberate? Had Coles told her too? If so, who else had he told?

Storm didn't know what to make of this woman who came out of nowhere.

What made her think she could manage a place like that all alone? Evidently the same spirit that led her to imagine she might make it safely across a fast rising river with an overloaded cart and without the aid of a bridge. Just as likely to end in disaster. Well he wouldn't rescue her again.

Predictably, Mrs. Kelly caused a stir among the locals already. An attractive young woman leasing a farm with no man at her side was bound to raise eyebrows and questions. Some voiced doubts that it was a legal transaction without a man's signature on the lease. How could it be, they said? But Steadfast had left the property solely to his widow, with no male relatives or trustees to hinder her disposal of it in any fashion she chose.

At The Fisherman's Rest one evening he heard Joss Restarick drunkenly exclaiming that old Mary Putnam must be addled and that someone ought to look into her state of mind.

"That fancy cuckoo came along and swiped the place out from under us. Who is she and where did she come from? That's what I'd like to know. And then I'll send her back there. I'll not make her welcome and she'll soon learn she don't belong." But he ended his tirade with some remark about "those dewy pink lips and long, copper-kissed curls", which suggested not all his interest in the young widow was negative.

Storm's father was of the opinion that time would see the lady off without anybody's help. "Once she realizes the hard work and long hours involved she'll move on and then we can step in and make our offer to Putnam's widow."

Storm agreed. He had all the time in the world to wait her out. He wasn't going anywhere.

"Besides," his father added, "a good-looking woman like that one will soon find another husband."

"I doubt it. She doesn't have a great opinion of men."

"Men in general or just you?" his father replied with a chuckle. "Mark my words. She'll be snapped up before the year is out."

Having mulled over this idea for a few minutes, Storm decided two things. One; he didn't care what the damn woman did. And two...he didn't care what the damn woman did.

He didn't need Restarick to stir
his
pot with suspicions. His temper might not bubble quickly, spitting and splattering all over the place, but it simmered beneath the surface, mounting unseen and silent.

"Best order another jug of ale," said his father, patting him hard on the shoulder.

Although he tried to ignore her presence in the next valley, Storm quickly found it quite impossible. More often than ever before, his gaze wandered over to the Putnam farm, picking up little clues of the strange life that had invaded his tranquil valley and upset the balance. Sometimes, when the wind blew from the south east, his ears picked up evidence of her presence too, for whenever she pumped water in the yard the woman apparently liked to sing or hum.

It was his dog who noticed the sound first, pricking his ears as he sat by the door waiting to go hunting rabbits. The usually attentive mutt was completely distracted by the sound and when Storm tuned his own ears to it, he realized where it came from and who caused it.

So now she was distracting his dog too.

But whenever he came near the Putnam property— not on purpose, of course, but purely because work took him that way—and she caught sight of him, the woman stopped singing at once, pressing her lips shut and jealously guarding the sound.

Not long after she moved in, Storm happened by as she was hanging out laundry. Again, she was humming until she caught sight of him between the fluttering sails of linen petticoat. He glimpsed a pale face, a pink nose and two watery eyes, just before he heard her sneeze, and then he stopped, only because it was the neighborly thing to do.

"Mrs. Kelly," he shouted, halting his horse by her gate. "It sounds as if you caught a Spring cold. Perhaps I could bring you some of my special remedy. If you wouldn't consider that too forward." He'd offer an olive branch, he thought. Why not?

Her face peeked between two flapping petticoats.

"It's an elixir infamous in these parts," he added. "Has kept me clear of colds for ten years at least."

"I am quite well, sir," she lied, her voice breaking with a croak, making his heart miss a beat. That bloody pride of hers would put her in a premature grave if she wasn't careful.

He glanced over at the house and the chimney that belched soot. "Have you got that range working?" He knew it was a temperamental piece of equipment that old Steadfast was always in the process of "fixing". If working properly the range would heat her house, cook her food and boil her water, but if it was in one of its less cooperative moods the farmhouse would be a cold and drafty place, the air in it barely breathable. "I could look at it for you," he offered."Seems to be a lot of smoke."

Suddenly her son appeared, running up to the gate and grinning. "That's only when she burns the scones."

He leaned down to the boy. "Good afternoon, Master Flynn. I trust you're settled in. How do you find your new home?"

"The roof leaks when it rains."

"Ah."

"And there's mice, but at least they eat her scones. I reckon that'll kill the poor wretches soon enough."

Mrs. Kelly marched up to her son, turned him by his shoulders and shooed him back toward the house. "Kindly finish weeding the herb garden."

"But I don't know what's weeds and what's herbs," the child protested.

"I think it's safe to say it's all weeds." As the boy returned, supposedly to his task but with a painted wooden soldier clutched in each hand, she said, "We can manage, Mr. Deverell. Your concern is quite unnecessary."

He straightened up and gathered his reins in one hand. "Of course it is. You don't need a man about. You can steer yourself into rivers without our help. Well, you know where to find me, should you decide to lower your haughty pride and admit you need assistance. Even from a Deverell."

"I'll bear it in mind."

Although he turned his horse to leave with no further conversation, he felt the need to say one more thing. "By the by, you look like a month of wet Sundays."

"Why thank you." She gave a curtsey. Before he could ride off, she stepped up to the gate and added, "At least you're not still trying to flatter me with silly compliments."

"I never tried to flatter you. I spoke the truth. Perhaps you're not familiar with it."

Her eyes darkened, her hands came to a fluttering rest on the gate. "Your meaning?"

"You deceived me about your purpose here."

"I most certainly did not!"

"You let me think you were my new housekeeper." He was still angry about that mistake. Whoever might be to blame. Coles, of course, couldn't answer for it, so she'd have to. He certainly wasn't about to blame himself for leaping to conclusions.

"I didn't know what the Reverend had planned for me here," she protested, "but I could see that working for you would be quite impossible. It wouldn't be proper."

"Why not?"

"You know very well, why not." She sneezed.

"On the contrary, I don't know anything."

"Well," she replied archly, "you
are
a man, and they do tend to feign ignorance when it's convenient."

He glared at her. "What I meant, madam, is that I don't know anything about
Mrs. Kelly
. Except that no one else does either. The one man she claims she knew here is now dead and buried so he can't speak up."

"Yet curiously you were willing to take me on without a single good reference. It didn't bother you then that you knew nothing about me."

"You pulled the fleece over my eyes, didn't you? Flashed your ankles at me deliberately and I couldn't think straight after that." Leaning down from his horse, he continued, "You could be an escaped convict for all I know. You might have chopped up your last employer, put him in a pie and run off with his fortune."

Her lips parted, but before she could reply to the accusation, another sneeze shot out of her.

He added smugly, "I'd take that washing in if I were you, I can smell the rain coming."

With a handkerchief clutched to her face, she mumbled, "You can
smell
rain?"

"I've lived here all my life, remember? I can read these skies like the back of my hand. Good luck with that leaking roof."

As she looked upward at the stringy trails of cloud, he resisted the near overwhelming desire to offer help again. She'd have to learn the hard way, which was, it seemed, the way she wanted it. He tipped his head, turned his horse and cantered away.

It did rain, about ten minutes after he got home. Well, he'd warned her. No doubt she wasn't thankful for it, but probably cursed his name as she dashed about her house, searching for pots and pans to catch the drips.

Although he'd decided not to extend any further offers of help to the truculent woman, he did send his shepherd over the next day with a bottle of his homemade wine, a strong brew that he believed cured most ills. If her cold got worse she would soon fall behind with the farm.He shouldn't care, of course. She'd made her bed and would have to lie in it, under that leaky roof. But he sent his wine anyway, fully expecting to see it returned with an angry note. It was not.

On the next market day he saw her with her son, buying hens for the farm. In her flowery blue coat she stood out, but if she saw folk whispering and pointing, she ignored it very well and kept her eyes and her attention on the task at hand. The tradesmen, of course, would cheat her. Certainly no one was very helpful to her. The locals were always wary of strangers in any case, and thanks to Joss Restarick's "muck spreading" she had even less chance of making a good impression. But she kept her head high and soldiered on, that little boy's hand clasped firmly in hers— much to the lad's apparent irritation and frustration. He was constantly pulling in another direction, but she did not allow him to go farther than her arm's reach.

"Ma, there's Mr. Deverell!"

She looked just once over her shoulder and caught Storm's eye. Annoyed to be discovered staring and measuring the sweetly curved shape of her— distracted yet again by her feminine wiles— he quickly looked down at a bag of seed as if that was far more interesting. The next time he glanced her way, she had tugged her son closer and walked on.

Storm's frown deepened.
Aye, stay away, woman
.
Stay well away
.

But, as it happened, he had to walk in the same direction to conduct his own business, and before too long they were facing each other when she made a sudden, unexpected turn to find him directly behind her.