True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (25 page)

Deverell constantly pried for her
opinion, wanting to know what she was thinking, what she felt. But
she remained guarded. He was a man with less than flattering
opinions about women, and she had been trained to keep her feelings
tucked out of sight. So they circled each other — she being wary,
and he bemused, curious.

Since he preferred to work in the
evenings, Olivia had to give up her usual routine to accommodate
his odd hours. Going to her bed so late made it harder to get up
early, of course, but she refused to let him call her a slug-a-bed
again. If he did not need much sleep, then neither should
she.

When Storm Deverell took her over to
Truro for market day, she found him good company. He patiently
tolerated Mrs. Blewett's chattering gossip all the way there and
back with a kindly smile and the occasional, "You don't say" or "He
never did!" He dealt with every trader at the market in a pleasant
but no-nonsense way, making it clear that he would treat everyone
the same, always be fair and never be cheated. Olivia saw many
similarities to his father, but Storm did not possess the same
unpredictability. He was more content, much less
restless.

He may have been safer to spend time
with, but he did not make her skin sizzle.

There was only one person with whom
Storm Deverell shared cross words that day— an unshaven,
dark-haired young man they encountered in the marketplace. Olivia
did not know what their angry discussion was about, but she did
hear Storm exclaim under his breath,

"Bloody Restaricks. They're all the
same. Horse-thieves, cheats and smugglers."

Mrs. Blewett explained later that the
Restarick family lived just over the valley from Storm's farmhouse.
They had feuded with the Deverells over land ownership and polluted
streams for at least a decade.

"Young Joss Restarick just buried his
father and took over as the man o' the family," the cook added.
"He's got twice the gunpowder and a much shorter fuse. It'll be
trouble for the Deverells, you mark my words."

The subject of their conversation had
looked over at Olivia and sneered openly before turning his
back.

Mrs. Blewett whispered. "They're a bad
lot, them Restaricks."

Even worse than
Deverells
? she wondered, amused by the
cook's blind loyalty.

But Joss Restarick was not the only
soul to stare at Olivia that day in Truro. She caught the tail end
of many inquisitive glances thrown her way.

"Father doesn't generally keep company
with respectable young women," Storm explained. "Don't mind them.
They can't help wondering."

"But Mrs. Blewett is
respectable."

"You're not Mrs. Blewett, are you," he
replied with a meaningful look that swept her like a flare of
sunlight.

She began to wish
she
was
that lady
and thus apparently immune from all this speculation.

When she discovered her reticule
suddenly much fuller than it should be, Olivia knew someone had
added to it. Both men denied it when she confronted them, but only
Storm was convincing. His blue eyes did not hold the power to
deceive even partially.

"I expect my father wanted you to buy
something for yourself," he said. "He likes to give people
money."

"He did mention something
about me buying material for a new gown." She was still mystified
by that. Surely he had many other things to worry about other than
what
she
wore.

"Well, there you are then." He
shrugged. "He has probably grown tired of seeing you in that old
thing. He always says a woman should take pride in her figure and
not hide it."

A woman's figure, indeed! As if it
mattered what she looked like. As if he should even be aware of her
figure. Just because he was paying her a wage, he seemed to think
that gave him rights to take ownership in everything about her,
from her ankles to her hair.

Olivia tried to give the money back
but her employer refused to take it, swearing it wasn't his. She
would have put it back in his desk drawer, if he didn't keep it
locked and the blasted key hidden on his person. When she left the
money inside his ledger, she found it back in her reticule the next
day, with no hint of how he'd returned it behind her
back.

* * * *

When the harvest was safely in, Storm
Deverell held a party in celebration at his farmhouse on the
mainland. Olivia did not really want to go; she was never very fond
of large, boisterous parties and she would have preferred a quiet
night in with her books. But her employer insisted she
attend.

"Put your books and your spectacles
away for an evening. And put a bow in your hair, or something," he
said, waving a hand airily in the direction of her head.

"A bow? Now, it's a bow? What sort of
woman do you think I am? I'm not five."

"I've seen women wearing
bows— women who were most definitely
not
five. All manner of bows in all
sorts of places."

"Bows are not my province. Mercifully,
they never shall be. I'll leave them to you, sir."

Now he tried on a vexed expression,
meaning to mask his amusement. "Pah! Have it your way, woman. I
don't know why I bother."

"Nor do I. So please
don't."

But she did bind her hair a little
looser that evening and picked out her least grey gown— which was
more of an orangey brown. For a moment she was tempted to put on
her best frock, but she didn't want to make it look as if his
criticism bothered her.

Watching her employer that evening,
she admired how he moved through the crowd with ease, just as
informal with his field laborers as he had been with her. However,
there was something about him— that strange, inexplicable air —
that kept folk at a respectful distance. He could not be mistaken
for one of them, even if he tried to blend in and act as if he felt
at home there. He stood out like a black sheep amid a flock of
white. Or a wolf among them, she thought, remembering her first
impression of the man. His pacing restlessness kept him apart, not
to mention his sheer male beauty.

It must be just the same for him when
he walked into a group of blue bloods and aristocrats at his club.
The man who had named himself True Deverell wouldn't belong among
them either. He was one of a kind. Had to be. There couldn't
possibly be another like him anywhere.

"Mrs. Monday, you are not dancing," he
said, when he drew near to the bench where she sat watching. He
wore all black this evening, except for his shirt. It looked very
smart, made him appear even taller.

"You are observant, sir. I am indeed
not dancing."

"My son has asked you twice, he tells
me." He sat beside her.

"He has."

"And you refused. Mrs. Monday, I
command that you dance with my son."

"Is everything in life that simple for
you?" she exclaimed. "You command and it is done?"

"Usually. It was until you came along
and refused to be cowed by my magnificence."

She had to smile at that. "Yes, I'm
sure I was quite a shock. But there you see your son enjoying a jig
with another young lady. He looks very content, so I don't believe
my refusal has injured his confidence. He is much in demand as a
partner and only asked me to be polite. Now that he has done his
duty by asking, his conscience is served." For a fleeting moment
she wondered if her employer would ask her to dance too. Would he
think she hinted? Her heart thumped uncertainly, breaking its
gentle canter.

But no, she was safe. He had not
danced all evening, despite the wistful glances of several pretty
women of all ages. Dancing was clearly one form of exercise in
which he did not partake. She was feeling rather relieved about it,
which was selfish of her. Just because she didn't care to dance,
didn't mean the other ladies present shouldn't have the pleasure of
his company for a reel.

From the side of his mouth, he
whispered, "All work and no play, Mrs. Monday? You know what they
say about—"

"I didn't come here to play. You did
not engage me for that."

"Good lord, woman," he laughed, "are
you sure you're only eight and twenty?"

Olivia kept her face stern, in case
anyone was watching them together. His hands rested on his knees,
only inches from her.

"What do you do for amusement?" he
demanded.

The image came to mind of that parsnip
finger placed upon the pianoforte keys in a puddle of jam. She
shook it off. "I read."

"For pity's sake," he
muttered.

"What, pray tell, is wrong with that?
You said yourself that you enjoy stories, sir."

"I do. But I enjoy many other things
besides. I don't limit myself."

"So I've noticed."

"Mrs. Monday, that tone of censure
will get you into trouble with your employer one day. He does not
care to be chastised by a woman more than ten years his
junior."

It was not the first time he'd
admonished her, but rather than deal out any punishment for her
"disrespect" he continued being exceedingly generous. Olivia had
begun to wonder exactly what she would have to do in order to win a
sincerely cross word from the man.

"I believe, young lady, that every
soul needs to play once in a while. There is a child inside all of
us. Except you. It seems you were born with the wisdom and maturity
of Old Father Time. "

"Some folk are mature for their age,
while some folk never grow up at all. Some don't want
to."

"I suppose by the latter you mean
me."

She glanced sideways. "If the shoe
fits..."

"Ah! That reminds me. We really must
do something about those terrible old boots of yours. Is that why
you are reluctant to dance? Can't have you twisting your ankle
again, can we?"

Hastily she drew her feet under the
bench. "My footwear is perfectly adequate. And no concern of yours,
sir."

He swayed closer, his breath warming
her ear, the sweet scent of cider tickling her nose. "Since you
came to my island and put yourself in my hands, everything about
you, Mrs. Monday, became my concern. Everything. From your doe eyes
to your cold toes. And all the delectable delights that come
between. If you set aside your fears and put yourself into my
hands, I could look after you as you should always have been looked
after. Other men may have been remiss. I would not be."

Olivia found herself unable to respond
without her voice betraying her unsettled pulse. Then, after
another moment he added, "If you are mature for your age— so wise
and sensible— while I am unable to grow up, you do realize that
makes us a perfect partnership?"

She concluded that he must have drunk
too much scrumpy cider. There was an excess flowing that
evening.

"A working partnership, of course," he
added, straightening up, squaring his shoulders. "You didn't think
I meant anything else, I hope, madam."

"Certainly not."

"Because, my son Storm is very...much
more suited."

She stole another quick glance and saw
him frowning into the distance. Eventually he stood and walked
away, leaving Olivia to get her heartbeat under stricter
control.

It was becoming more difficult to
repair her defenses after every conversation. He had laid siege to
her. Each time he made a concerted effort he succeeded in breaching
her borders a little more and yet he seemed not to know why he was
doing it. He advanced and then retreated.

Olivia wondered if this was his usual
habit— if he was amusing himself at the expense of her blushes— or
whether he meant the things he said.

No indeed, there was no one else like
him in the world. Thank goodness! One was quite enough.

* * * *

She wrote to let
Christopher know she had arrived at Roscarrock in good health, and
to reassure him that she did not regret her decision. There was
hardly anything she wanted to tell him about Deverell— even fewer
things she
could
tell him— so she filled the paper with inanities about the
weather, and local flora and fauna. She also made polite inquiries
about Chiswick and, of course, Lucinda. As she read it through
before sealing her letter, Olivia realized it was a very dull,
dutiful essay. Its dryness might cause Christopher to suspect her
of hiding something, therefore she added a hasty line at the bottom
to tell him how only his paint brushes could do the scenery here
much credit. There, that was better. More like her old
self.

He was probably still angry with her
for leaving. Christopher could be very ill-tempered when things did
not go his way. Fortunately, Mr. Chalke had arranged for her to
travel immediately, the same day she told Christopher of her plans,
which meant there was really nothing he could do but stifle his
fury. It cut down on the unpleasant scene she might otherwise have
faced.