True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (29 page)

She was not surprised that he'd found
a woman to marry. After all, he was effortlessly handsome and could
be charming if he wished to be. But it did make her smile inside
that he had to find a "worthy" bride— as if he had so much more
than his looks to offer. "I am very happy for you."

"Yes, well..." he brushed a hand over
his knee, clearly pleased with his accomplishment, "you must meet
her soon, when she comes to Chiswick. I shall invite you to
luncheon one day."

She felt a little pang of sadness as
she looked at him sitting there, talking about Lucinda, the woman
he meant to marry. The young woman he thought would fit his perfect
ideal of a bride. No doubt she was a flawless beauty, confident and
shining. Like him.

Olivia had never forgotten how her
first sight of him took her breath away. That first fleeting smile
as they were introduced. He was the most handsome young man she had
ever seen. Instantly she—not the sort of girl anyone noticed unless
she did something shockingly bad— fell under his spell.

Perhaps, somewhere in her wicked
heart, she had hoped her stepbrother would never marry. Once he
did, he would never need her for anything ever again— even that
little bit of use she had been to him, could never be
again.

But that was selfish of
her.

"I am glad you have found love,
Christopher," she said with great warmth of feeling.

"Love? Sakes, one does not
marry for love, Livy. It will be a most advantageous match for me
financially and socially. You see, that's where you always went
adrift. Not that you can possibly claim to love that tight-fisted,
bore, William Monday, anymore than you
loved
the drunken buffoon who
couldn't pass up a wager, or the penniless old dandy who didn't
chew his food properly and choked on that fish bone."

She folded her hands before her and
said softly, "William is a good husband, very kind."

"And look how he makes you live." He
waved his gloves around, gesturing at the damp walls and chipped
furniture. "In a state of grim poverty that grinds you down like an
old nag kept too long at the plow. Clearly he has no more liking
for you than he would have for a housekeeper. You never married to
get anything for yourself."

"I am content. He is a good man who
can teach and guide—"

"You will never see sense, I know. You
never did, Livy. Stubborn as an ox." He got up out of the chair and
laughed, patting her cheek with his cool hand. "'Tis a jolly good
thing you have me to look after you. Well, we all have our own
reasons for marrying. I have mine and you had yours. But I daresay
you'll be back again one day, my burden."

When he left she was so distracted and
angry that she wandered around the house for some time before she
continued cleaning the grate with a great deal of violent
scrubbing. And so she forgot the potatoes that day, leading to
William's indigestion later when they were not properly cooked in
time for luncheon. She didn't even notice that Christopher left his
umbrella behind.

Two days later her third husband was
dead.

* * * *

She was bad luck for men, that much
was certain.

Freddy —sweet Freddy— undone by a fall
from a broken curricle that should never have been
raced.

Allardyce, who choked on a fishbone at
the same tavern in which he had dined in solitary splendor every
Saturday for his entire adult life. A habit he had not broken when
they married, much to Olivia’s gladness, for it gave her a precious
evening alone once a week.

And finally, William, falling from a
rotted bridge, dragged under by his vestments and with no one to
help him.

No, there could be no more husbands
for her.

Like Deverell, she wasn't safe to be
around.

Chapter Twenty-One

When he began winning at
cards and dice, the other fishermen thought it was sheer luck. But
then it happened too often and they became suspicious. They didn't
believe him when he told them how he remembered numbers, how he
read the probability and made calculations in his mind.

How could he, a boy who
barely knew words, be so astute with numbers? No, he must be
cheating. So they challenged him, accused him, threatened him with
repercussions.

The boy did not shy away
from winning, and he learned to protect himself — and his
winnings—with his fists. Or with anything else he had nearby. He
was labeled as a boy with a bad temper, but in his eyes he was only
protecting what was his. That included his strange
talent.

A rumor went around on the
fishing boats that the feral boy had escaped the gallows. For some
that was enough to give him a wide berth. Others looked to bully
and belittle the boy.

It was a rough, harsh
world, but then it had never been anything else for him. So he
grew, like a hardy weed between cracks in a stone path. Not
welcome, but too determined and stubborn to be
eradicated.

The young man didn't seek
friendships, for he had learned to trust no one.

But he was fascinated by
women. Not girls. Women. And he went after what he wanted. As he
grew up, they eventually stopped running away from him. He didn't
know why they suddenly sought him out— it seemed to happen almost
overnight— but he didn't care. He made the most of it.

Just as he knew a man had
to eat whenever he had the opportunity, he felt the same way about
women.

* * * *

Olivia had sent a note over with Mrs.
Blewett to accept Storm's invitation to dinner, so he was well
prepared, the long table already set and a large pot of stew and
dumplings— made by the chuckling lady herself no doubt— kept warm
over the fire.

It was a cold, windy evening with rain
hovering in the air, but the farmhouse walls were sturdy and squat,
built of thick stone to protect the inhabitants from those harsh
storms that sometimes blew over the headland. Tonight inside it was
cheery, the main focus being an enormous chimneypiece from which
the blast of fire warmed the entire house.

"My father finally released you from
servitude for one night then?" Storm exclaimed, dashing forward to
take her coat and bonnet. "I began to think he would never give you
up."

She tried to smile, even as she
imagined True Deverell back on his island, preparing to greet a
boat full of eager lovers. "He was most insistent that I come. I
think he wanted me out of the way."

Storm laughed carelessly. "Probably.
That sounds very much like father."

And all hope fell out of her. Feeling
no such inclination to laugh, Olivia's struggling smile soon died
away completely.

"You look damn cold, Mrs. Monday.
Here... take a bench by the fire."

The journey by horse and cart across
the causeway had been icy-cold indeed. It had also been fast and
bumpy. Jameson wanted to get back to the island while he could
still walk across, because he had to leave the horse at the farm.
There was nowhere to stable horses on the island itself. Now she
was, in effect, stranded here until the tide came full in and he
could row across to fetch her. The handy man could have stayed with
her at the farm, but, of course, he was needed to row some other
woman back and forth, was he not?

She didn't have to be told the details
to know what was going on. Even his son didn't try to hide
it.

"It must feel odd to be away from the
constant pounding of the waves," said Storm, pouring her a glass of
something clear and very fragrant.

"I suppose so." She did feel a little
giddy and uncontrolled. Like one of Deverell's paper bullets shot
out of his slingshot, whirling through the air, wondering where she
would land. Perhaps she was already accustomed to life confined to
that small island. The sea air was in her veins now. How odd it was
to think she'd never even seen it— in real life— until she came
there. She had lived on a river, which was different. Quite
different. Her knowledge of the sea came from books and paintings.
Thoroughly different to being able to touch and smell and
hear.

The sea was something that no one
could control. Man had to learn how to live by the tides; no one
had control of it.

Like Deverell.

Olivia had thought her fortress
well-equipped to face the siege against its walls, but she sadly
over-estimated her defenses. Now that she was away from True
Deverell for one evening, at his own insistence, she realized how
much she had fallen under his spell.

"Drink up!" Storm pointed at the glass
in her hand. "It's some of my own recipe. Made by my own fair
hands."

She took a sip and her eyes watered.
"Goodness."

He chuckled. "Some wines creep on you.
This one runs you to ground and slaps you in the face." With one
foot, he kicked a stool closer to her and dropped his backside to
the seat. His casualness was very like his father, of course. As
was his desire to see her inebriated.

Stop thinking about him.
Stop seeing him in everything. Stop wishing he was
there.

Damn the man. He sent her away, so he
could enjoy an uninterrupted evening of sinful pleasure. Without
her. Olivia wasn't certain which part of that bothered her
more.

She licked her lips. "I like it. At
least, I think I will. When my taste buds have recovered." Again
she tried to smile, but found her lips too heavy.

Storm Deverell's blue eyes perused her
with great warmth and he told her again how pleased he was that she
accepted his invitation. "It can be a lonely life on this
farm."

"I'm sure there are many other young
ladies you could invite to dine." At the harvest dance, and on
their trip to Truro market, Olivia had seen the local girls gazing
at him wistfully. No, if he spent an evening alone it was by
choice, so she found it mystifying that his father thought he
should try and match-make for his son by using her. Of all
people.

"How has my father been treating you?
Well, I hope?"

Aargh! She didn't want to
talk about
him.
"I have no complaint." Olivia wished she did. She ought to
have plenty.

"He isn't working you too hard? He can
be a terrible task master."

"Not at all." Another sip of
blistering heat from that little glass of clear liquid.

"I wondered how father would manage,"
said Storm. "He hasn't had a woman around every day for a long
time. Perhaps never." He got up to check the stew in the pot. "But
you must know all about his marriage to Lady Charlotte by now. How
they were seldom under the same roof."

"I know a little," she replied
cautiously. "But they were under the same roof often enough to have
three children."

"That much is true. Although I have my
doubts about Rush— the youngest boy."

"Doubts?"

Storm winced and then shrugged, "I
suppose it does no harm to tell you. Father must have decided
you're trustworthy or he would have sent you home by
now."

"Tell me what?"

"Lady Charlotte was not exactly a
faithful wife, particularly in the last years of their
marriage."

"Your father knew?"

"I'm sure he did. She was not
discreet. Had she hidden her affairs better he might not have
divorced her. Since they led separate lives anyway, he could have
let things continue as they were. But she embarrassed him
publically one time too many and when her behavior began to effect
the children— when they were old enough to know what was going on—
that was when he decided to put an end to it."

Olivia listened to all this, quite
certain there must have been infidelity on both sides. Storm,
faithful to his father, would never say that. He would prefer to
think his father blameless. Or as close to blameless as he could
be.

"Not that his brats out of Lady
Charlotte have ever recognized how he tried to save them from her,"
Storm added. "His daughter, Raven, has caused him endless trouble.
He was never very comfortable raising a girl. Didn't know how to
treat her. As for Ransom, he idolizes his mother. You know, of
course, that he shot at father." He drank an entire glass of his
own recipe in one gulp and then smacked his lips. "Fortunately he
didn't hit any of the important parts. As far as we know.
"

"As...as far as you know?"

"Well, Ransom was in his cups at the
time. He doesn't know what he shot at. Fool boy."

Olivia was amazed at how easily he
spoke of his father being shot. Even True had mentioned the
incident as if it was another practical joke. She could not
comprehend ever wanting to shoot her own father, but she had to
admit shooting at teasing, infuriating Deverell would be a
different matter.

"Why did he shoot his
father?"

"Ah..." Storm dug a poker into the
fire. "Ransom has always had a bee in his bonnet. Felt ignored. I
suppose that was one way to get father's attention."