Storm (9 page)

Mrs. Monday passed her a clean handkerchief. "That is something else you and I have in common, then. We are also both from London. I was born and raised in Chiswick."

Kate kept her head down, dried Flynn's feet and then helped him into his shoes. "We had better get back to the farm," she muttered. "We have stayed longer than I meant to already."

"Yes, of course. It is easy to lose track of time here. I hope to see you again soon. And then Master Flynn can sample some of my lemonade."

She managed a tense smile, thanked the woman for finding their shoes and then hurried up the cliff path to their cart.

"When can we go to the castle, Ma?" Flynn wanted to know.

"I don't know," she replied, still short of breath. "We'll see."

Sand itched inside her corset and her shoes. A most uncomfortable sensation. She even felt the grittiness in her hair. And there was a saltwater stain on her skirt. What a mess she must have appeared to the tidy and composed lady from Roscarrock.

As their cart moved away, she glanced back, looking for that jagged piece of rock that had fooled her into thinking it was a sinister man observing them with cold detachment. The sky had altered color again now— something that happened swiftly here, she'd discovered. As the light shifted, the scenery appeared to move, the hills and valleys becoming as lively and changeable as the sea itself.

"Are we playin' hide and seek, Ma?" Flynn's voice broke into her thoughts and gave her a start.

"Why would you think that?"

"Because you're always looking over your shoulder and you said we ain't running from the Peelers, so what else could we be doing?"

She sighed heavily, still trying to get her breath back, tasting salt on her lips and the ends of her hair as it blew across her mouth. "It's just a habit. Kindly stop inferring we're fugitives."

"What's a fugitive?"

"You can look it up in the dictionary when we get home."

Hide and seek, indeed! The idea that they might have been followed was a very real fear and not a game.

Sometimes at night she lay awake wondering what Bert Soames had done when he found his cabinet broken into and his captive songbird flown. After promising Kitty Blue's private and intimate attentions to one of his wealthiest, most influential patrons, Soames would have been left with some excuses to find, and quickly, when she disappeared. He wasn't very good at thinking on his feet. Without a doubt she was a marked woman if she ever returned to London.

"Don't you want to make friends here, Ma?" Flynn demanded.

"We'll see," she murmured.

The truth was that she didn't know who really was a friend here, and who might be dangerous. The sudden turning of the waves that day had served a useful reminder never to let her guard down. Or start day-dreaming about Storm Deverell.

* * * *

She had a terrible nightmare— of Flynn running ahead of her down a narrow cobbled street, the scene lit only by a single gas lamp at one end. She tried to run after him, but her feet were too heavy and the cobblestones bubbled up to trip her. And at the end of the street she saw a man waiting. He was shrouded in black shadow, a hunched figure in a tall hat. He reached out a long arm toward Flynn, fingers like octopus tentacles. There was a carriage behind him, blocking the alley. Its door gaped open slowly, waiting to swallow her son.

Kate tried to scream, but only a slight squeak emerged. Flynn did not hear, did not stop running. She thrust with her hands and feet, desperate to chase after him, but she was sinking into the ground, choking and suffocating. Now seawater came, flooding the street, sweeping her back farther, her limbs useless. She was drowning, lost in the swell.

Waking with a start, she sat up, sweat beading on her brow, her heart thumping so hard she felt it in her toes and fingertips. Flynn slept peacefully, sprawled beside her in the bed, moonlight shining on his face. His lashes twitched and his lips popped open, but he slept on, oblivious. Thank goodness.

She drew her knees up to her chest and waited for the fever of panic to subside. The fear would not go away completely; it never did. But it would become muted after a while and the tightness in her chest would loosen to let her breathe again.

Until the next time she closed her eyes for sleep.

Chapter Seven

The lamb staggered after the other ewes, bleating impatiently, but they were not interested in the orphan. These mothers had their own youngsters to manage.

"It's no good, sir," said the shepherd, "we've tried everything to get one of the others to let him feed. He's a wily feller. Manages to sneak in and take a sup once in a while, but he won't thrive at this rate."

Storm watched for a moment and then made up his mind. He climbed into the pen, approached carefully and scooped the unwanted lamb up into the warmth of his own coat.

"I'll tend to the little lad," he said. After all it wasn't the first time he took in an orphan. Busy as he was, he always had time for those to whom fate dealt a hard hand.

With the lamb snuggled under one arm, he made his way back across the fields to his farmhouse, trudging through the mud. Suddenly he heard a shout and turned his head to see the boy, Flynn, galloping over the ruts toward him.

"Oy, Mr. Deverell! What's in your coat?"

There was no sign of the boy's mother. Why was the child out all by himself this early in the day? She usually kept him close. "Does your mother know you're out here?" he demanded, stopping to let the boy catch up.

"O' course she does," came the pert reply. "What's in your coat?"

"An orphaned lamb, needs looking after."

Immediately the boy wanted to know where he was taking it.

"Inside, to the warm fire."

"Can I carry 'im?"

"Not just now." He saw the boy's crestfallen face and softened. "If you come inside with me I'll let you hold him while he drinks some milk." He hesitated again. "You're sure your mother knows you're here?"

"I said so, didn't I?"

So man and boy walked on together toward the farmhouse, Flynn struggling to match his steps to the much longer stride of his companion. Storm glanced down at the boy and saw an opportunity to find out more about the mysterious Mrs. Kelly. He'd be a fool not to take the chance, wouldn't he?

"How's your mother getting on at the farm? I see she hired Tom Lott for the plow."

"Aye. She says he's a
Lot o' No Good
." He mimicked his mother's stern frown as he said it.

"Pity she didn't think to ask advice before she hired him. She might have found out why he was free to work for her at such a busy time of year."

"Ma would never ask advice. She always knows best."

He shook his head. That pride again, he mused. "If she needs help, she should come to me. I won't bite her." Even if she looked as if she'd bite him.

"But Mr. Restarick comes by to help."

Storm tripped over a lump of mud. "I'm sure he does," he muttered, kicking the troublesome clod aside and holding the lamb tighter to his chest. "Helpful fellow, Joss blo—Restarick."

"Don't you worry though. She don't like 'im, anymore than she likes you."

He supposed that ought to be a comfort.

"You shouldn't 'ave told her she was pretty," the boy added.

Yes. He'd ascertained that with some alacrity.

"She's not always so pretty. First thing in the morning sometimes she's a right fright."

Storm swallowed a chuckle to reply solemnly, "I find that's often the way with women."

"What do you like best about her?"

He looked up at the sky and sorted through his possible responses to find one suitable for her son's ears. "Red hair. Makes me think of a warm fire on a frosty morning."

They walked across the yard and into the house. Storm showed the boy how to sit in a chair and hold the lamb while he fed it milk from a bottle.

"He's hungry!" Flynn exclaimed.

"No doubt, poor mite."

After a moment, the boy said, "I'm hungry too now. What yer havin' for breakfast? Got any o' that good bacon, mister?"

Storm banked the urge to laugh. "Your mother's not feeding you breakfast?"

He replied with a solemn sigh. "Sometimes she tries to make scones. It's a sorry mess at the best o' times. Today she found something called rhubarb and threatened to make a pie. I came away to save meself."

Again he swallowed hard and turned away so he wouldn't laugh out loud.

"Still it's better than London," the boy added. "We ate a lot of boiled mutton in London. Sometimes fish pie, but only if the landlady brung it. She looked after me at night, when Ma worked."

He almost dropped the pan and placed it quickly over the fire. "Your mother worked? At night?"

"Someone had to make money to feed us, like she says. She didn't want to go to the workhouse, because she said they'd take me away from her. But as soon as I'm old enough, I'll find a good job to pay her back. Then she can put her feet up and be a lady o' leisure."

Storm looked over at the boy, who was carefully holding the bottle of milk to feed the lamb nestled on his lap. His feet dangled several inches from the floor and, small as the lamb was, it almost swamped the lad.

"Can you hire me, mister? I'll work hard."

He smiled at the boy's ruddy cheeks and that hopeful grin. "We'll see."

The grin faded. "Ma always says that too, all the time.
We'll see
."

Dropping some bacon into the pan, Storm said casually, "So...you were saying your mother worked at night?"

But his dog suddenly barked in the yard and he heard hens scattering in a panic, then Kate Kelly rushed through the open door. The red-faced whirlwind, shouting in a panic for her son, stumbled to a halt when she saw the boy seated with the lamb. Her hair was long and loose, tumbling over her shoulders. With the dawn light lifting behind her she was framed by a misty, opalescent glow that made her even more beautiful. So much for the idea of early morning being less kind to her looks.

"Snakes preserve us! What's the matter, Ma?"

She fell against the doorframe, gasping for breath, one hand pressed to her side as if she had a stitch. "How dare you?" she sputtered, glaring at Storm.

"Me?" The bacon sizzled in the pan behind him. "What did I do now?"

"What are you about with my son? How dare you steal him away?"

Storm said calmly, "He followed me home across the fields, woman. I have done nothing to the boy."

"Flynn! Come here at once
. Come here
!"

"But I'm feeding the lamb. See? Mr. Deverell said I could. I ain't done nothin' wrong."

She stumbled into the house a few steps. "I told you to come here!"

"But I'm feeding the lamb, Ma."

Storm put down his fork. "He asked to help. Calm yourself. He's quite safe here."

She rounded on him. "
Safe
? How could I know—I had no idea where he'd gone. What would you know of a mother's concerns? Don't you tell me to calm myself!" He saw tears in her eyes and felt his heartbeat falter. "Dear God! I imagined—."

"What the devil could happen to him out here?" The sight of her tears made him cross, since he knew she would never let him comfort her. He didn't like feeling powerless and it shortened his temper.

"He could have fallen into an animal trap!"

"I don't use traps on this land. I never have."

"How would I know?" she sputtered. "In this rough, wild place! With people...like you!"

"People like me? What did you think I would do to him?" He stared at her, trying to cool his anger and failing. He scratched his cheek, fingertips rasping across the stubble. "What do you accuse me of, Mrs. Kelly?"

"I don't know what you might do! He's only six. And you... you're a Deverell. You're a bad influence! It cannot come to any good."

Now the blood rushed through his head and he lost his temper. It usually took longer, but today it must have been building for a while. "I suggest you keep him on a damnable leash if you think I might eat the boy. I didn't ask him to come here. I don't want him here. Or you either!" Although furious, he kept his voice steady and low. Shouting was a waste of energy, he always thought. It was for troublemakers like Restarick, or actors on a stage. "I've got enough work to do. And yes, I may be a Deverell, but I don't eat children."

He became aware then that although she looked at him, her eyes were not focused. She saw something— or someone— else. "Flynn Michael Kelly, come here at once."

"Don't be angry at Mr. Deverell, Ma. I told him you knew where I was."

She raised a hand to head as if it ached. "Leave Mr. Deverell to his breakfast and come with me at once."

Apparently the boy knew that tone in her voice. He let Storm take the lamb from his arms and then he followed his mother to the door, dragging his feet the whole way there.

She grabbed Flynn's hand and tugged him out.

In the pan his breakfast sizzled and spat. With the lamb nestled in the crook of one arm, Storm spun around, dug his fork into the bacon and flipped it over. Damn woman! What did she think he would do to her son?

He could barely breathe, he was so incensed with rage. Walking to the window, he looked out and saw her rushing across his yard, head down, hair blowing in the wind. She clung to the boy's hand tightly again. She'd been in such haste to find him that she hadn't even put up her hair or grabbed a hat and coat.

Slowly he scratched his cheek again. Should have shaved earlier. Would have, if he'd expected a visit from the Duchess. Not that a clean face was likely to improve her opinion of him. He supposed he might have tried.

What would you know of a mother's concerns?

As if he'd never had a mother, never seen her worry, never fretted for her himself.

Storm hugged the lamb as it licked his chin. He shook his head and turned his back to the window.

Of course, he knew she was a nervous creature, suspicious and wary.

But he had just learned something new about his neighbor— that she was the first woman in his adult life whose opinion actually mattered to him. The only one whose good regard he cared about. The only one for whom he would bother to shave.

* * * *

"Don't ever go off like that again," she shouted at Flynn, as they arrived back at the gate of the house. He pulled his hand from hers and ran to the privy, slamming the door shut.

Kate pressed one hand to the stitch in her side and gathered her breath, leaning against the gate post. A stiff wind dragged a thick lock of uncombed hair across her face, reminding her of the harried state in which she'd gone hunting for her missing son. No wonder Storm Deverell had looked at her that way. What a sight she must be!

Straightening up, she marched across the yard and thumped her knuckles on the privy door. "Don't think you can hide in there long enough that I shall forget this! I've told you before never to go wandering off alone."

After a moment a small voice came back to her through the door. "But that was in London."

"It doesn't make a difference. Bad things can happen here too, just as they could there."

"Then why did we come all this way?" he yelled. "What was it for?"

Kate stepped back from the privy door, wind pulling on her skirt and slapping hair across her face.

In a quieter voice, he added, "I was with Mr. Deverell. He's nice, no matter what
you
think, Ma."

She swallowed and used both hands to smooth her hair back, tucking it behind her ears. "I didn't know where you'd gone or what you were doing. You should have asked me—"

"If I asked you, Ma, you would 'ave said I couldn't go."

"Mr. Deverell is a busy man. You heard him. He doesn't have time to waste. I suggest you stay away from his farm and don't get in his way."

Finally the door swung open with a groan and a grumble. Her son came out, pouting. "He only said that because you came in makin' a bleedin' fuss!"

"Flynn Michael Kelly! I shall scrub your mouth out with soap."

"Go on then. It'll taste better than them scones!"

The boy dodged around her, but she caught him by the collar. "There is nothing wrong with my scones, young man. Some poor boys have nothing at all to eat. Now wash your hands at the pump and go inside." Watching him splash water on his hands— and on his shoes, as usual— Kate took a moment to gather her thoughts and wait for her pulse to slow.

Closing her eyes she saw Storm standing there again, calm as a mill pond, scratching his unshaven cheek with those long, capable fingers. Did he never raise his voice for anything?

It had begun to get irritating. How did one argue with such a man? How did one ever clear the air?

She followed her son into the house and slammed a plate of scrambled egg onto the table before him. "Sit there and eat." It was probably cold, congealed and unappetizing by now, but he'd have to learn his lesson. "You can have your spanking later."

"Mr. Deverell takes care o' baby lambs when they're hungry," Flynn exclaimed. "He let me hold one. He wouldn't hurt me.
He
wouldn't spank me!"

"Don't you believe for a minute that he wouldn't spank you if you made him angry. I'm sure his hands would be considerably harder than mine."

But she couldn't even make it sound convincing to herself. She'd seen the tender way he held that tiny lamb under his arm and petted it so gently... barely raising his voice to her when she accused him of awful things.

Well, regardless of that, she had a right to be anxious when she couldn't find her son. Deverell ought to understand. He would, if he had any children.

Besides, she'd heard the gossips talking about his youth as a troublemaker with fists like "sledgehammers". People didn't reform overnight. She ought to know how hard it was.

Catching her reflection in the window, she hastily began braiding her hair over one shoulder. Unable to look herself in the eye, she focused on this task. Her fingers trembled slightly. Certainly didn't feel up to delivering a spanking at that moment, but then they never did, that was the trouble. She threatened the boy and never went through with it. Hence he talked back to her this way and ran off, causing her to chase him down and become all wretchedly windswept.

A father wouldn't let him get away with half the antics she did. Flynn had no idea since he'd never known a father. But having been on the receiving end of such punishments herself, Kate could not bring herself to deliver the same to her son. It was hopeless.

Suddenly, through the window, she spied a visitor riding up to her gate in a dog cart. It was the woman they'd met on the sands recently. Olivia Monday.

She couldn't pretend to be out. The smoke from her chimney would betray her, even if Flynn did not. The best she could do was finish pinning her braid up and pray that the odor of burnt scones had dispersed somewhat since she first took the offending fare out of the cast iron range.

Olivia Monday looked like the sort of woman who knew how to do everything properly and hadn't the regret of a solitary burnt cake in her history.

"Good morning, Mrs. Kelly! I hope I don't call at an inconvenient hour, but I was just passing on my way to visit Storm. It is not the expected calling hour, of course. You may send me sharply on my way, if you wish." She was at the door, smiling warmly, holding a heavily laden basket before her. "I shall not take offense and can come back another day, if that is more convenient."

Kate took a deep breath and then opened the door wider. "Please do come in. Of course it is not inconvenient." A visitor any time of day would have made her equally nervous.

Mrs. Monday— soon to be Deverell— came in and placed her basket on the table.

"I bought you a jug of lemonade, young Master Flynn, since you told me it is a particular favorite of yours. And three loaves of Mrs. Blewett's bread. She's Mr. Deverell's cook and a much better bread baker than I could ever hope to be." The basket also contained biscuits, cake, jam, pickles, clotted cream and a large cheese. "I thought you might not have had the chance to stock your pantry shelves yet and that you would welcome a gift basket."

Still nursing a stitch in her side, hoping she wasn't too flushed, Kate gripped the back of a chair. "You must allow me to pay you—"

"Certainly not! We are neighbors, Mrs. Kelly, and this is merely a gift to say 'welcome'. It is so lovely to see another new face here. I hope we can become friends." The lady waited politely, her small hands clasped before her. Her face was honest and keen, her eyes lively and clever.

Oh dear, what terrible things had she inferred about Deverells just now? Those few moments had passed in a blur. One thing stuck in her mind— the hurt in Storm Deverell's eyes as he held that lamb in the crook of his strong arm.

"
I may be a Deverell, but I don't eat children."

She bit her tongue and her eyes watered. Guilt and regret were bitter spices.

As Flynn had said, how could they enjoy a new life if she continued to look at her surroundings with the same distrusting eye?

"
Then why did we come all this way? What was it for?"
He'd knocked her back a step with his question.

She ought to make an effort. Why let the grim specter in her nightmares spoil this new life for which she'd worked so hard? Otherwise why had they come here?

"Yes," she managed finally. "Please call me Kate."

"Excellent! And you must call me Olivia."

Together they unloaded the rest of the basket and lemonade was poured for Flynn to give his "expert" opinion. With the addition of a ginger biscuit, he pronounced it to be the best he'd ever tasted.

"Just like Mr. Deverell's bacon," he added, before taking another hearty slurp from his cup.

She felt Olivia's steady gaze fixed upon her. "My future stepson is being a good neighbor, I hope? I understand he was not particularly happy to find this house rented out."

"I don't see much of him," she replied cautiously. "We're both busy."

Her guest had suddenly caught sight of the little spinet by the bench under the window and strolled over to admire it. "This is very fine."

"My mother's," Kate explained hurriedly, following her. "When she died it was passed down to me." Again she thought how odd it was that her father had known where to send the instrument. He had never sent her any other communication in the years since she left his house in disgrace.

"It is quite lovely. Do you play?"

She shook her head. "My mother tried to teach me, but I was a poor student. Always distracted. And it's broken."

"Ma sings like an angel though," said Flynn proudly.

Olivia looked at her with interest. "I should love to hear you one day. We're always looking for new entertainment at Roscarrock, especially when the children are home, as they tend to be easily bored. Of course, they are not children now. The youngest is soon to be seventeen."

Kate tried to imagine this small, tidy woman taking on the scandalous past of True Deverell and the wild litter he had produced. "How long have you lived here?" she asked tentatively.

"Almost two years. I came here at the end of summer in eighteen forty-two, as secretary to Mr. True Deverell." Olivia walked over to examine the bookshelves next, her hands behind her back. "I was hired to help him write his memoirs."

"Then you are an educated lady?"

She pointed to the neatly arranged books. "And you are too it seems?"

"Oh, no. That's just curiosity." Kate rubbed her arms, feeling even more windblown in the presence of this calm lady. "I never had formal lessons in anything."

"What about your son? He seems very quick of mind."

"Yes." She sighed. "Often too quick of tongue too."

Olivia laughed. "Well, I would be happy to help Master Flynn with some lessons," she offered.

"I'm sure you have many other things to take up your time, Mrs. Monday."

"
Olivia,
if you
please! And no, not at all. I can help with his penmanship, arithmetic... even some Latin. If you would like."

Kate could not raise a single objection to this kindness. What danger could there be in books? Books were safe. And Flynn did need an education— a better one than she could give him herself— to keep the boy busy and stop his mind from turning fallow.

"That would be most kind, but are you sure you have the time to spare?"

Olivia leaned closer, whispering, "I like to be useful, and I fear Mr. True Deverell would prefer me to be completely at his beck and call, so I am determined to keep a little independence when we are married."

"I see."

The visitor now returned to the spinet by the window, touching the keys and hearing the muffled thud.

"It needs repair," Kate muttered.

"You could send it to Truro. I'm sure there must be someone there who could look at it for you."

"Oh, it's not necessary," she assured the lady. "I cannot play it and I keep it really as a memory of my mother."

"Sentiment is a waste of time," Flynn reminded her smugly.

She glowered at the boy and he went back to enjoying his lemonade.

Mrs. Monday swiftly changed the subject. "Will you join us at the Spring fete down in the cove next week?"

"I don't know if I—"

"Flynn will have a chance to meet other children from the surrounding towns there. Do say you'll come, Kate. I will be able to enjoy it so much more if you are there. Otherwise I shall have few ladies to talk to." She winced. "I'm afraid, being about to marry True Deverell has made me something of a curiosity for some, while others— those who starch their petticoats rather stiffly— prefer to give me the cut when they can. I find it rather amusing, since he put a new roof on the church last year and is always the first to give money when it is needed. Apparently his money is acceptable, even if he isn't. So please do come. I shall need a friend there!"

Once again she hesitated, uncertain what to say to such a warm entreaty, but Olivia suddenly consulted a gold watch on a chain. "I must go, I fear. I still have to visit Storm and I'll be trapped by the tide if I don't get on."

Kate licked her dry lips, a twinge of sickness returning when she thought of her angry encounter with her neighbor that morning. "I'm sorry that he and I did not get off on the right foot," she muttered. "There was a misunderstanding in the beginning and we cannot seem to get beyond it."

"Oh, I wouldn't worry. Storm never holds a grudge for long. While he would cringe at the term
gentleman
, I believe he is an old-fashioned one of that very sort. Beneath that gruff exterior he has a gallant, tender and forgiving heart."

A glowing endorsement, indeed. But what else might she expect from the woman about to marry his father?

A Deverell was still a Deverell. As that gossip outside the church had said
'blood will out'.

Olivia added, "He means no harm, but, rather like his father, he doesn't know his own strength and can give the first impression of an overgrown, overeager puppy."

An amusing image, and quite accurate. She squeezed her lips together, fearing she might laugh out loud.

"The truth is, Kate, you're very different to the sort of women he's always known here. It may take him a while to learn how to behave himself. He has the best will in the world, but his clumsy actions do not always measure up to those chivalrous intentions. He hasn't had a lot of practice. Hasn't needed to."