True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (23 page)

"The farmhouse is nothing fancy," he
continued, "but I can put on a good spread if I know to expect
visitors. For you, Mrs. Monday, I'll even wash my hands and wear a
clean shirt." His smile broadened, a mischievous twinkle sparking
in his eyes. Oh yes, that was familiar to her too now as a Deverell
trait.

"How lucky for me," she replied wryly.
"But I'd hate for you to go to so much trouble."

"I'll be on my best behavior. You
won't know this yet, but I am, in fact, the best of the litter. I
don't bite and scratch and hiss like the others."

"That's useful to know."

"And I never lose my temper. Patient
as Job, that's me. Read the Bible every night by my fire, and bathe
all over once a week, whether I need it or no."

"I am impressed."

"So when you get tired of my father's
antics, you come over to the farm for dinner. I'll light the best
candles for you."

"Shall we read Bible verses
together?"

He hesitated, his eyes simmered. "If
you wish, Mrs. Monday. We'll see how the mood takes us."

She had to laugh then as he attempted
an innocent countenance. Those blue eyes must have helped him out
of sticky situations many times, for they gave him the look of a
pious choir boy. Oh, yes, she could quite see how Storm Deverell
charmed the local young ladies, just as the cook had warned her.
His father would have been the same at that age. Still was now, for
pity's sake— scattering her heartbeat all over the place. Carrying
her so easily. Teasing her. Kissing her. Assaulting her poor,
innocent bonnet with his manly parts. Fixing her bent
spectacles.

"Mrs. Monday?"

What had he said? Storm was waiting
for a reply of some sort and she was utterly lost.

"You will come to the farm one evening
and I'll entertain you," he reminded her.

"But I would not like to get
underfoot. Are you not always busy at the farm? I hear it uses up
all your energy and doesn't leave time for courting the local
girls."

Now his gaze shifted slyly toward Mrs.
Blewett and his father who were still in deep conversation, and he
whispered, "Well, I can always make an exception for a very special
lady."

"There has never been
a
special
lady?"

"Not until now." He looked at her
again, thoughtful, his voice lowered. "Not like you. The way that
you are."

"The way that I am?"

His sun-kissed brows rose. "I would
have thought it was obvious."

"I'm afraid not. I'm a very ordinary
person, quite unexceptional."

"Yes." He paused, rubbed his lower lip
in a gesture identical to one she'd seen his father use. "We
Deverells don't know much about ordinary people. So we're curious.
Can't help ourselves." Storm lowered his voice again. "I knew you
were different to his usual company the moment I heard my father
worrying that I might say something to offend you. He doesn't
generally give a damn what any woman thinks."

Olivia realized she'd been pulling at
the already frayed ends of her bonnet ribbons, making them look
even worse. She quickly knitted her fingers together to keep them
still. "He needn't concern himself. I'm simply a secretary and in a
few months I'll be gone."

"That's if I don't sweep you off your
feet in the meantime, Mrs. Monday." Storm gave her another wide
smile that seemed to be lit from within. Like the power of a sun
god. "My father is very keen for me to make a good impression, and
we Deverells love a challenge. Something...different."

"Actually I'm very capable on my own
two feet. Very steady. Not likely to get swept off
them."

He pointed to her ankle. "Until today,
eh?" When he saw her expression, he assured her gravely, "Fret not
Mrs. Monday, you are far from the first woman to fall foul of my
father."

"It was an accident."

"That's what they all say."

* * * *

The visit from his son provided her
slippery employer with yet another reason to delay their
work.

"May as well go out for a ride," he
exclaimed merrily. "It would be a shame to waste an unexpectedly
fine day— perhaps one of the last this year— by sitting
indoors."

Why couldn't it be
his
ankle that got
twisted, she thought peevishly. It might have kept him at his desk
that day.

Deverell turned to the cook. "Now, you
make certain, Mrs. Blewett, that my secretary stays off that dainty
ankle. Don't let her go wandering about the place. It seems she's a
trifle accident prone, but I can't have her lame and we must send
her back to Chiswick in one piece at the end of six months. Extra
precautions are required while we have custody of her delicate
person."

Olivia glowered at him.

He sighed. "Is a man never free of
responsibilities?"

His son gave her another funny, jerky
little bow, which made her think he must have learned the gesture
from pictures in an instructional flip-book, but never tried it
himself. Then he kissed her hand and exclaimed that he hoped to see
her again very soon. With that, father and son left the kitchen,
shouting loudly back and forth in a manner she could only assume
was the usual method of communication in their family. Among the
men at least.

She wondered if her employer meant to
go riding in the same state as he went swimming that day, and it
was some relief when he came back two minutes later to collect his
riding breeches from the drying rack beside the fire. As he leaned
over to grab the clothes, his dressing gown gaped open at the chest
and she glimpsed that dark, damp hair against which he had held her
half an hour ago. Perhaps she'd left a little of her perfume on
him.

"Remember," he winked at
her, "don't go off having any adventures without me. I shall need
you when I return. The
moment
I return. Keep yourself in readiness to fulfill
my needs, madam."

"Where else would I go?"

For just a moment he seemed serious.
"One day you might run away."

"Not until the task for which you
engaged me is complete," she said.

His eyes narrowed. "You haven't
changed your mind then."

"Mr. Deverell, I never change my
mind."

"I'm not too much for you?"

Oh lord, how did one
answer that? She thought for a moment and he waited, watching her
mouth. Finally she replied, "As long as I am not too much
for
you
,
sir."

His lip quirked. "I'm sure I can
tolerate your saintliness for a few more months."

"Then we should both come out of this
unscathed."

His eyes glittered down at her.
"Unfortunately."

Again, when he left her, she thought
she heard the walls sigh gently. Or did the sound come from inside
her?

"Well, they'll be out for the rest of
the day," said Mrs. Blewett, shaking her head and smiling
indulgently, as if they were nothing more than two schoolboys
playing truant, "and come back ravenous for my cheese scones, I
daresay."

"I think I'll go up to my room and
fetch a book." Olivia looked around for a makeshift crutch and saw
a besom broom leaning by the wall. Reaching for it, she added,
"Don't worry about me, Mrs. Blewett, I'll—"

"You will not, young lady! Like the
master said, you stay off that ankle." The cook swiftly moved the
broom away, very prim. "He charged me with the responsibility of
looking after you and so I shall."

Even Jameson, who entered the kitchen
shortly after, had evidently been warned to keep her busy while
Deverell was out, for he pulled up a chair, took off his cap, and
over several cups of tea, regaled her with a series of tales about
shipwrecks and smugglers of "backalong" days. He promised later—
once her ankle was better— to show her the beacon at the top of the
tower, which was lit each night for the good of passing vessels
whose Captains might otherwise venture too close to the
shore.

"But you keep that foot up today,
young woman," Jameson exclaimed, his big face creased in gentle
concern. "The master needs you in full health and one piece. You're
not to go off wandering without him, he says. We're to look after
you like fine china. Woe betide any of us if some part of you gets
broke while he's out."

It was almost comical. Her father had
never made such a ruckus over one of his daughter's injuries. Her
mother had been the same, caring in a quiet way, but reserved and
always dignified. In Olivia's family it wasn't fitting to
overindulge in one's illnesses or to be extravagant with sympathy
for trifling little wounds— or even death. They would not coddle a
twisted ankle any more than they would walk about the house in a
state of undress. And they certainly wouldn't talk about private
matters between a husband and wife.

True Deverell didn't understand
dignity, boundaries or taboo subjects. He rode right over them.
Another reason why she shouldn't find him at all
likeable.

But it was too late.

Chapter Seventeen

The boy ran in the meadow
where the grass was almost as tall as he. There he could hide when
the farmer was in a temper, or when the gamekeeper was after the
"stray menace" for lifting from the traps before he could get to
them. But he ran there too simply because he loved the soft stroke
of the grass, the scent released by the wild herbs crushed under
his feet, the gleam of the sun catching on feathery, floating
seeds. And he liked to lay among the tall strands, on his back, and
watch the clouds sail by, unhurried, slowly turning into new shapes
as they passed.

After it had rained,
large, glossy drops hung among the blades of grass, perched on
daisy petals and nestled in the buttercups, waiting for the tip of
his tongue to find them, as if he was a bee seeking out nectar. It
was better tasting water than the slightly rusty kind he drank from
the trough in the yard or the rain barrel beside the barn. He
considered those fresh, new-fallen rain drops his personal
treasure.

In later years, as a grown
man, whenever he saw diamonds or pearls hanging from the ears of a
lady, he felt the same enchantment. It brought back to him those
happy moments from his childhood. There had not been many of those.
Perhaps that was why they mattered so. The little things were what
counted most. The things no one else noticed, but he
found.

* * * *

True slowly grew accustomed to the
secretary's small, pale face hovering at his elbow, waiting
impatiently to work on another Chapter of his memoirs. He expected
it to be a vast annoyance, worse than a tailor's pin stuck in his
backside, but he was wrong. Yes, she had her irritating points: the
way she managed to nibble her food without spilling a blasted
crumb; the tiny sips she took, nursing a single glass of wine for
hours; the unrelenting dreariness of all her gowns; the tense way
she tightened her mouth from time to time, deliberately denying him
the pleasure of seeing her smile. The speed with which she moved
her hands away from his, even when his intentions were perfectly
harmless.

She made him a new ledger— one without
any blots, doodles, torn pages and violent scratching-outs. One
that tried to make him stick to a proper schedule, as if he was a
bloody mail coach. If he wasn't careful, the woman would organize
him right into a coffin. But he could barely remember any longer
what it had been like without Olivia Monday hanging about like a
good conscience, shadowing him around the house, reminding him to
do things he had deliberately tried to forget.

Storm visited for dinner, often
calling in at other times of the day too, as if he hoped he might
take the two of them by surprise again. But True was careful after
the incident with the twisted ankle. From then on he warned her if
he meant to go swimming the next day. When Storm pointed out that
his father was making unusual efforts to be polite around the
woman, he dismissed that remark with a careless shrug. She was one
little woman and only under his care for six months. How hard could
it be to behave himself that long? Besides, he wasn't always good.
A man had to have some relief and stretch in the paddock once in a
while, so occasionally he couldn't resist making a comment to see
her rather stunning eyes widen in scandalized shock.

That novelty did not fade over time.
Neither did the pleasure of teasing her. If anything, it
increased.

When his son took Mrs. B into Truro on
market day, True suggested Olivia go too in case there was anything
she needed to purchase. He meant to slip a few coins into her
reticule when she wasn't looking.

"I do not need anything, sir," she
said, looking puzzled when he mentioned a trip to the mainland.
"Unless there is some purpose I can fulfill for you in
town?"

"No, no. I thought you might want to
buy a few lengths of some...pretty material."

"Why would I do that?"