True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (34 page)

Rather than appear cowardly, she
gathered her wits. Gripping his hand and his sleeve, she prepared
to mount the beast. Jameson gave her a boost from behind and
suddenly she was up there, clinging around Deverell's waist as if
her life depended on it. He didn't wait a moment longer, but turned
the horse toward the beach and they were off.

So much for not going "too fast".
That, of course, was a relative term.

The cold air whipped by her face, even
when she took shelter by resting her cheek to his back. Her bonnet
soon slid off her hair, unable to hold its place, the knot in her
frayed ribbons being the only thing that kept it attached to
Olivia. Every bone in her body shook and rattled. Sea foam sprayed
up, wetting her stockings.

But after the first few moments she
dared open her eyes and she saw the clouds tearing by— dark,
bubbling clouds that came as heralds to a storm. Their beauty swept
her breath away. Quite literally.

The sea was a mass of froth today,
churning waves to match the sky above, all of it merging and
swelling around them as they tore onward across the sand. Salt air
filled her nostrils. The screech of the gulls echoed through her
ears, made her heart beat faster. And the man sitting before her
was warm, solid, just as powerful as his horse.

Would someone traveling in a passing
carriage up on the cliff road look down and see them? They might
think she'd been stolen away on a pirate's horse, she
mused.

They would envy her.

Suddenly Olivia felt as if she was
absorbed into the scene, part of the horse itself, a creature of
nature, just as wild, free and beautiful.

Yes, beautiful. For the first time in
her life.

And belonging there in the picture,
wanted, not out of place or superfluous.

The nausea was gone, her headache
eased as if someone slowly turned a winch and unclenched her tight
skull again.

It was a glorious day, after
all.

And True Deverell admired her, lusted
after her. Made no bones about what he wanted to do with
her.

She ought to be appalled, but
honestly, how could she be? How could any woman?

But it wasn't
any
woman he wanted. It
was her, the girl who'd been told he would never look twice at
her.

The horse thundered across the sand
and through the water until it felt as if they were
flying.

She squeezed her companion ever
tighter, but not from anxiety— from the childish, wild joy that
thudded through her. Olivia wanted to laugh into the wind, even
with tears in her eyes.

This was what it felt like to be
unfettered.

Now she knew why he liked to ride so
much.

He was a man who did not believe in
the need to explain himself or apologize, so this was his way of
opening her eyes, making her see the world as he saw it. The best
way he knew how and the only way he thought she would let
him.

* * * *

They reached the far curve of the bay
and here he slowed the horse to a canter, then a trot.

Olivia was silent, clinging to him,
leaning against his back. Would she be angry with him
now?

He wasn't sure whether the tight arms
around him were a good or bad thing. They felt very good, but she
could be about to rage at him and beat him about the head with her
fists.

He hoped not. True wanted her to
experience this just as he did. Wanted her to
understand—

"Thank you," she gasped against his
ear. "That was wonderful."

He felt a smile playing over his lips.
An unusually shy, relieved smile, because he knew she didn't use
words like "wonderful" unless she really meant it. She was a woman
sparing with her praise, which made it all the more valuable. "Head
still aching?"

"A little. But it is much better than
it was."

"We can go back, if you want. Or we
can ride on."

She didn't hesitate. "Oh, let's go on!
What's around the next bay?"

"We're supposed to be
working on my memoirs." Usually she was the one reminding
him
of that.

"We can work later," she whispered,
hugging him tighter still, her chin resting on his shoulder. "You
know what they say about all work and no play."

He laughed. "Hold tight then, my
sweet."

"You shouldn't call me
that."

"I am your employer and I shall call
you whatever I want. Remember? My rules!"

"But we're not on your island right
now. Your sovereignty is suspended out here."

"Aha." He turned his head and his lips
almost touched her cheek. "That's why you want to stay out here
longer, Olivia?"

"Yes."

"Call me True. Please. Even if it's
only for today, just now, out here away from the
island."

"Very well." It was barely more than a
whisper, but it touched his lips with a soft breath finer than any
caress he'd ever known. "True."

He urged his horse forward again and
the beast launched into another gallop, happy to stretch its legs,
tearing up the wet sand and scattering seagulls in all
directions.

* * * *

Even when the rain started, she didn't
care. Olivia wanted to go on riding. Just the two of them on a
horse, as far as they could go, leaving everything else
behind.

They could catch fish to eat, as he
had done when he was a boy, she thought. They would manage
together. Start life in a new world.

Like Adam and Eve.

But reality set in when the rain came
down harder and colder. The dark clouds linked and dipped low,
threatening to obscure daylight several hours before night was
expected.

True steered his horse away from the
sea, up a sandy path and along a coastal road to the coaching inn
that she remembered from her journey to Roscarrock. It was a
whitewashed building, low and squat with wide chimneys, a slate
roof, and a painted sign announcing “The Fisherman's Rest" swinging
wildly in the wind. Warm light shone at the little windows and
steady noise from within suggested it was a busy place, perhaps
because it was the only inn on the road before Truro.

He helped her down and handed his
horse to a stable lad who seemed to know him well, greeted him by
name.

"You must be hungry by now," he said,
wiping wet hair back from her brow with surprisingly gentle
fingers.

She was, in fact, ravenous and
apparently her countenance told him that, because he laughed,
grabbed her hand and tucked it under his arm— very firmly— then
took her through the door of the inn.

He whispered from the corner of his
mouth, "They have a splendid pasty here and that will replenish
everything my son's brew stole from your blood
yesterday."

"A better pasty than Mrs. Blewett's?"
she whispered back.

"Yes. But don't you dare tell her I
said that."

Instead of steering her through to the
private dining room of the inn— a place for grander customers to be
apart from the general rabble— he took her into the crowded public
salon. Feeling the draft from the open door, a few folk looked up
from their cards or dominos, and nodded respectfully when they saw
Deverell. He didn't stop to converse with anyone. Instead he led
her directly to a corner table by the window and ordered two
pasties and some beef broth. The settles had high backs, affording
a degree of privacy from the other customers. If not for the low
rumble of conversation, she could have imagined they were quite
alone.

Olivia hadn't realized how wet she was
until she sat down and dripped all over the table. Her bonnet
ribbons were stuck to her shoulders, her hair drooping down around
her face.

"I must look a sight," she
muttered.

"You do," he agreed
placidly.

"Why thank you."

He grinned. "Were you fishing for a
compliment?"

"Good lord, no. I am aware of my
limitations. I am useful, not ornamental, as we both
know."

"Now, now, Olivia," he shook a finger
at her and put on a grave face. "That is not entirely honest. I may
have considered you plain when first we met, but you know full well
that my opinion of you has changed. I have, after all, asked you to
come to bed with me."

"You have? I only recall the
earrings."

"Then like most women you have a
selective memory. And me asking you to be my lover is a compliment,
whether you might think it is or not."

"Hush." She felt her face heat up,
despite the cold rain that still dripped down her cheeks. "Someone
might hear."

"So what?"

She stared.

"Why should I care if they know how
much I desire you. They'd be more shocked if I didn't try to seduce
you. And you'd be offended if I hadn't."

"You are incorrigible," she whispered.
"Dratted man."

"Now that you're insulting me again, I
know you must be feeling better than you were earlier this
morning."

She sighed, falling back against the
high wooden screen behind her in a relaxed manner Great Aunt Jane
would never condone. "I am much improved."

He waited, brows high. "Thanks to
me."

"Yes. Thank you...True."

A smile ripped quickly across his
face. "I like my name on your lips."

"But when we get back I cannot call
you that. Not before your other staff."

"When we are alone then."

"Perhaps.

"When we are alone then," he repeated
firmly.

Fortunately the inn-keeper arrived
with food at that moment, so she had no need to reply. Olivia
watched as he ate his broth, and she marveled at how far she had
come with him, feeling comfortable in his presence, joking with him
as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He who should not be
mentioned.

True Deverell might be the wickedest
sinner that ever disrupted a drawing room conversation, and be
unfit for the term "gentleman" according to Great Aunt Jane, but he
ate his broth like any other man. Spilled it too sometimes on his
chin. And she very much appreciated the fact that he didn't hide
his nature, but put it all out there. Take him or leave him, he
didn't care. He was unafraid to be himself, say what he wanted,
admit to his faults.

"Tell me, Olivia, now that you're
finally being open and honest with me...what was your first thought
when we met?"

Just like a self-conscious boy he kept
wanting to know her impression of him. So strange and yet endearing
in a man who must have been told, many times, by many women, how
handsome he was.

"If you must know, I thought it was a
very good thing that I didn't have to do your laundry."

"That's all?" he exclaimed.

"I've always been the practical
sort."

He shot her a dark look.
"Fibber."

"I beg your pardon?"

"If you were practical rather than
romantic, you'd come to bed with me and take me for every penny—
which I'm more than willing to give you."

"That wouldn't make me practical. It
would make me a—"

"Woman of business?" He
smirked.

"Something like that."

"Damn you. Why must you be so proper?
And why did I have to find a conscience last night while you were
soused as a herring?"

For a while they were quiet, enjoying
their luncheon. Olivia thought over her conversation with Storm
last night and how he had tried so hard to give her the glowing
image of his father as noble King Arthur. Both men, it seemed, had
been pushing her at each other. Clearly Storm hadn't given up on
his father's heart. Perhaps he saw something there that no one else
did. And which True would ferociously deny.

"What now, Olivia the merciless?" he
grumbled.

"Your son is very fond of you," she
said, feeling a warm glow inside as she curled her fingers around a
napkin and fought the temptation to wipe his chin for
him.

"Good. He should be. I do a lot for
that boy."

"He's not a boy, he's a man. And he's
not fond of you just because of the things you've done for him, or
what material things you give him. He loves you because you're his
father and he looks up to you. He won't hear a word against
you."

"Oh, tried to speak badly about me to
my own son last night, did you?"

"No. I couldn't get a word in
sideways. He was too eager to assure me of how wonderful you
are."

"Hmph." He tore a lump off the end of
her pasty and stuffed it into his own mouth, scattering crumbs
across the small table.

"I don't believe you really know what
love is, True Deverell. That's why you don't think you're capable
of the emotion. Perhaps you feel it already and don't recognize
it."