True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (30 page)

"I see." Olivia had heard a rumor that
the shooting happened over a woman, but she kept that to
herself.

"Ransom also wanted to punish father
for whatever sins he thinks have been perpetrated against his
mother. All of it false, of course. As children we fashioned
ourselves swords and helmets, pretending we were knights of
Camelot. Ransom was always valiant Sir Galahad. I believe he never
shed the idea and still sees himself the same way. As father says,
it makes him an easy mark for ladies with a sad story to tell and
an abundance of clever tears to spend."

"And which Knight of the Round Table
were you?"

"Sir Gawain, of course! Rough around
the edges, but the true and rightful heir of Camelot. Fiercely
loyal to his king and family, compassionate defender of the poor.
And maidens." He laughed.

"So that makes Mr. Deverell King
Arthur?"

"The mysterious boy, taken into hiding
by Merlin for his own safety, raised in obscurity until he pulled
the sword from the stone and became a great king. It is father's
favorite story. Naturally."

She was amused by Storm's eagerness to
paint his father in such a golden light. King Arthur, indeed! It
was touching. But Storm was not disingenuous. He was honest,
warm-hearted and spared no time for fools. So whatever he said
about his father, she knew that he, at least, must believe
it.

"When Lady Charlotte left the first
time, Ransom was not quite two, but she was willing to abandon him.
Didn't want the boy. She had no motherly instinct."

"But Mrs. Blewett said—"

"Yes, the general gossip is that he
wouldn't let her take the child. Truth was, he told her she'd get
no money from him if she left. Charlotte didn't think he meant it.
When she discovered that he did— and she ought to have known by
then that my father always means what he says— she had to come
back. It was nothing to do with love for her son. My father cared
for those children more than she ever did. And he only wanted her
around for their sakes. He made that clear to her."

"Why doesn't he say that? Why not tell
people like Mrs. Blewett the truth?"

He sighed heavily. "Folk believe what
they want to believe about my father and he always had this
infuriating belief that he doesn't ever need to explain himself, or
apologize for what he is. He's held on to a lot about his life,
mostly to protect the children from being hurt, I
suppose."

"But now he means to tell everything
in his memoirs."

"He thinks they're all old enough to
hear it. He wouldn't tell it all for anyone except
them."

Yes, Olivia had noted True's fondness
for his children. It was in the way he spoke of them, the pride in
his eyes, even when he would deny it. "Them? But you are one
too."

"I suppose I am." He laughed and
jerked one shoulder upward, almost shyly. "I often forget. Seems
like me on father's side and them on the other."

"Perhaps because you're the eldest and
he was so young when you were born. Really only a boy
himself."

"Or because I'm a bastard?" He laughed
easily over the word, but his eyes were too blue. Olivia had never
known that "too blue" was possible until she looked into his gaze
that night.

Blue could be something other than
calm and summery. God help any woman who tried to tame that. "He
does not discriminate between his sons born out of, or in,
wedlock."

"He may not. But the world doesn't
follow his rules." He looked away for a moment and she suspected he
was calming his temper. "You do a lot of that, do you?"

"A lot of what?"

"Thinking about the meaning of things.
Searching for causes?" He chuckled as if nothing ever troubled him,
but she was not fooled. "With those big questioning eyes you must
be driving father to distraction."

"I'm sure he finds me tiresome company
occasionally."

"But I believe you're doing him some
benefit, Mrs. Monday."

"Why?"

"He's been in a much better mood
lately."

"Gracious, what is he usually like?
I'd hate to see him in a worse mood."

"You're a good influence. He calls you
an eye of tranquility. It's a novelty for him."

"A novelty?" she scoffed. "Then it
will soon pass."

"No doubt," he replied breezily.
"Women don't stay around for long. His attention invariably wanders
to the next pretty new thing."

She took a braver sip of the burning
liquid in her glass and tried not to show any effect. A little
homemade wine would not get the better of her.

"That's why my father likes the
solitude of Roscarrock. A woman has to be pretty damned determined
to get there if she wants him and most concede defeat after a
while. There's only so much they can put up with and even the money
isn't enough inducement for some." He leapt to his feet. "Now that
stew had better be ready, I don't want to keep you away from him
too long."

Olivia moved to a seat at the table,
hungry again. Her appetite had seldom been as lusty as it was since
she arrived in Cornwall. Must be the sea air.

"Why doesn't you father celebrate
Christmas?" she asked.

Her host thought about it for a moment
and then replied, "I don't think he knows how."

It might have been be the saddest
thing she'd ever heard, but she refused to let it pluck at her
heart strings. The man was rolling around in his bed with a handful
of light skirts at that very moment. He did what he wanted all the
time, and was despicably smug about it. He made all the commands
and followed none himself.

It was Christmas every day for a man
like Deverell. The boy who came from nowhere to rule as king of his
own island.

"Would you like another?" Storm held
out the jug of wine.

She nodded. "Yes. Thank
you."

Why not? Perhaps it was time she let
her hair down a little. Who cared? Who was there to
disapprove?

* * * *

Sweating after the exertions of his
evening, True tucked in his shirt, returned to his desk and wrote a
hurried letter. He signed it, blotted it, folded the paper and
sealed it with wax. There it was done. May she now be bloody
satisfied. He poured himself a large glass of brandy in some hopes
of assuaging his thirst.

How quiet the damnable house was
without Olivia, he thought suddenly. She'd been gone a few hours.
It felt like days.

Strange. He'd never missed a woman's
company before. Usually he felt great truth in the saying
"familiarity breeds contempt". He was glad to see the back of most
women after a brief while, although, in the case of Olivia Monday,
there had been no physical intimacy beyond a few kisses. Theirs was
a connection of a different kind. There was always something new to
discover about her and he was still unfolding all her
layers.

Poor woman had looked "all in"
yesterday. He hoped her evening with his son would return her
spark.

Something stung the back of his hand.
Ah, a scratch. Bleeding now, a brilliant red drop falling to the
sealed letter on his desk.

* * * *

Jameson was late with the boat. When
they finally spied his lantern swaying in the wind, Storm
exclaimed, "I thought they'd forgotten you."

"As did I," she replied,
grim.

It had begun to rain again and all the
warmth of the farmhouse had long since left Olivia's limbs. She
huddled beside her host on his cart, waiting under the semi-shelter
of a gnarled tree branch that overhung the narrow, muddy
path.

"Well, good evening, Mrs. Monday, and
thank you for sharing the time with me." Storm jumped down and
reached up to help her. "Come again, anytime you need
escape."

The next time your father
wants rid of me, you mean
, she thought
icily. "I shall. Thank you. It has been most pleasant."

She walked down to the beach, one hand
holding on to her old bonnet to save it from the slanted gusts of
rain. Jameson waded to shore in tall boots and an oilskin coat,
dragging the little rowboat behind him.

"My apologies for being late, Mrs.,"
he gasped out, rain shining on his big face.

"That's quite alright," she replied
tightly. "I'm sure you were busy fetching and carrying for Mr.
Deverell."

"Yes, Mrs."

Another who didn't even try to deny
it.

Olivia stepped into the boat and sat
with her hands in her lap while Jameson tugged the little vessel
back out into the sea. Once she was bobbing afloat, he too climbed
in, the boat rocking violently.

"What a night to be out," he
exclaimed, shouting against the wind and rain as he hauled on the
oars.

"It was your master's
idea."

"Aye."

"You must be exhausted with all the
rowing tonight."

"Aye, Mrs. Been a fair bit of to and
fro for the master while you were gone."

"He keeps you hard at work at all
hours, it seems."

"The master keeps 'imself busy too.
Been going 'ard at it in the bedroom since you left."

She stared, rain getting into her
mouth until she had the wits to close it. While she'd convinced
herself of this fact already, hearing it in such plain terms made
her sick to her stomach. The wild pitch and yaw of the little boat
didn't help matters.

Yet again she told herself it was none
of her business what he did. Or with whom he did it. She was
getting too fond, too close, letting her eyes and heart see and
feel things that weren't there. Begun to hope he might feel some
affection for her. It was the same mistake other women, including
his wife, had made.

After that last comment, Jameson saved
his breath, putting his all into the task of rowing them back to
the island.

Olivia looked over her shoulder toward
the shore and saw the lantern on Storm's cart slowly disappearing.
She closed her eyes and sighed, her shoulders sagging. That warm,
cozy farm seemed far away already, and here she was being knocked
about on a choppy sea, blinded by rain, going back to her strange
existence on "Devil's Hell".

On a night like this it lived up to
the name the locals had coined.

And its wicked dictator had the cheek
to suggest she might one day be "in charge" there. As if she had
any power over him. Or that much desire for revolution.

She gripped the sides of the boat and
scowled up at the rugged silhouette of Roscarrock, almost invisible
against the churning darkness of the sky, but just traced by a
slender flicker of moonlight.

It would serve that
scoundrel right if she
did
stage a coup.

Then she'd make him follow a few of
her commands. She'd take that riding crop out of his hands and use
it in a manner that might surprise him.

Hmm. She felt better
already.

But the closer the little boat drew to
the steps at the base of the rocky island, the hotter her blood
boiled.

Chapter Twenty-Two

He heard her in the hall as he
sprawled in a chair by the parlor fire with his brandy. True was
tucked down so far that she wouldn't see his head if she looked
through the open door.

"I suppose your master is still abed.
So he won't require me tonight."

"Oh no, Mrs. You go on up to your own
bed and get some rest."

"I'm sorry you had to come out in the
rain to fetch me, Mr. Jameson."

"That's alright, Mrs. You can't
predict the weather."

True heard the clank of a lamp handle
and then the handyman's shuffling steps leaving the hall. He
waited, expecting to hear the stairs creak as she went up to bed,
but all was silent.

The air shifted and he sniffed. Her
scent. Unmistakable.

She must have entered the parlor.
Probably because there was still a low fire in the grate and the
amber glow drew her into the room. If he hadn't drunk so much
brandy, he would have thought to get up and shut the parlor door
before she came in, but after his busy evening he had melted into
the warm embrace of that chair and felt no inclination to get
up.

Until he smelled her fragrance he was
relaxed, but now he went very tense, hand curved tightly around his
brandy glass. How long had she been gone? Must have been six hours
at least, he thought grumpily. Surely it was after midnight and she
was still gallivanting about. For once he wished he had a clock to
prove it.

Perhaps it was the brandy's fault, but
he was starting to feel...angry. Bitter. Jealous? Why the hell was
he jealous?

It was his idea for Olivia to dine
with his son, and he'd even told her to stay as long as she liked,
but she was so damned conscientious about what was proper, he'd
expected her to be gone just a few hours. Not all bloody night.
He'd entrusted her to Storm's hands for an evening. Had that been a
mistake? It did not feel like such a good deed as he'd expected.
And why the blazes was he handing her over to that boy who couldn't
seem to get her for himself? Storm certainly wasn't putting that
much effort into it. Did he expect his father to do the hard work
for him, tie her up like a present and deliver her for
Christmas?