True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (41 page)

"I'm sure it does."

"I didn't realize he was such a plum
pudding. I have never, in the course of my life, known a man who
changes his breeches so many times in one day." Then Raven added
suddenly, "My father never wanted to celebrate Christmas before. Is
that your doing?"

At that moment Damon, who declared
himself bored, entreated her to play for them at the pianoforte and
so she had an excuse to get up. "I really couldn't say, Miss
Deverell, although I would like to think I had a positive influence
on your father while I was here."

"But you're not leaving
yet?"

"No." She looked over at her employer,
who was now in deep and earnest conversation with Storm. "Not yet.
I'll stay as long as I'm needed."

She prayed no one would hear the
wistfulness in her voice.

* * * *

On Christmas Day, Olivia went down to
the kitchens with knitted gifts for the other members of
staff—gloves for Jameson, a bookmark for Sims and a long scarf for
Mrs. B.

"This has turned out to be a very good
Christmas indeed," exclaimed the cook, her cheeks already crimson
from an early glass of sherry— probably one that should have gone
into the trifle.

"I hope we have many more of them,"
said Sims with his usual somber tone, despite the
sherry.

But Olivia could commit to nothing of
that sort. Who knew what would be happening next year, or where she
might be, she thought with a pensive sigh.

The day was very pleasant. It was good
to see True surrounded by at least most of his children, and
especially heartwarming to know that she had played a part in
helping him to reunite with his only daughter. Raven was a handful
and no mistake, but it was not too late for the two of them to make
peace. They had both made an effort, showed themselves willing—
True by writing a letter he would never otherwise have penned, and
Raven by leaving her fiancé and traveling into bad weather just to
be there for her father.

Olivia, having been blamed by True as
the "instigator of this Christmas business", was called upon to
show them the games she had learned in childhood during the
celebrations in her own house. The young Deverells repaid the favor
by teaching her a fast game of cards. It was very loud,
occasionally violent, and there were quite a few curse words thrown
back and forth, but she had to admit she had never had such a
lively Christmas day.

While they were all involved in a
noisy game of spillikins that afternoon, True took her to one side
and asked her if she would have a word with Raven about her
clothing.

"She does, as you see, tend toward the
bright and gaudy and...well, she is much more...rounded...and
full... in certain parts... than she was. I mean to say, she's not
a little girl anymore. It doesn't....it
isn't...quite..."

Tenderly amused by this fumbling for
words, she smiled warmly up at him. "You mean she's a little too
curvaceous for a low cut gown of that nature."

"Yes." He looked relieved. "You can
say it much better than me." Then he shook his head. "I fear her
mother is a bad influence."

Not wanting to step on anybody's toes,
Olivia approached the subject with great care, suggesting to Raven
that a lace tuck might help retain some ladylike
modesty.

"And why should I take advice from
you?" came the retort. "You dress like a blind nun."

"Well, I'm sure I—"

"I suppose my father sent you to tell
me this."

"I don't think—"

"I'll wear one of those silly lace
tucks, Mrs. Olivia Monday, on one condition."

Olivia eyed the girl
cautiously.

"You let me take your dress in
hand!"

"My dress?"

"That's right." Raven's eyes sparked
with excitement and she laughed huskily. "For dinner tonight, I'll
dress you and you can dress me."

So she reluctantly pulled out her best
gown— the one she had never expected to wear here— and Raven got to
work "improving" it with some silk flowers from her own frocks. She
also insisted on dressing Olivia's hair. In return she allowed
Olivia to sew a lace tuck into one of her own gowns and remove some
of the bows. Raven was forced to admit that she looked, "Not too
dreadful" when she assessed her appearance in the
mirror.

"It is actually quite nice to have you
here, Mrs. Olivia Monday," the girl exclaimed. "You're very quiet
and don't bother anybody, but you're also jolly useful when
needed."

"I do try to be."

"I can see why father likes you so
much."

"Does he indeed?"

"More than anyone. I can see it in the
way he looks at you. Despite the sad dress. As mother says, there
is no accounting for taste."

Her face hot, Olivia busied herself
putting everything back in her sewing box. And then accidentally
sticking her finger with a needle.

"If I didn't know him incapable,"
Raven added, "I'd think he was in love."

They both laughed.

Foolish girl was only
seventeen! What did
she
know about men?

Watching Raven parade about before the
mirror, smoothing hands over her abundant bosom and flashing a
brilliant, confident and mischievous smile, Olivia decided it was
probably best not to answer that, even in her mind.

* * * *

At dinner that evening, True could not
take his eyes from Olivia. For once she wore a color other than
ditch water. Her gown was dark burgundy velvet, a little
old-fashioned, but spruced up with some silk ribbon roses at the
shoulder. Her brown hair was worn high in softened coils, decorated
with more silk blossoms— white, so they looked like hopeful
snowdrops peeping out of spring earth. He recognized his daughter's
handiwork and saw that Olivia had succeeded in taming some of
Raven's fashion sense too.

"Thank you," he said, taking his
secretary's hand and kissing her fingers.

"Whatever for?"

"For bringing Christmas to
Roscarrock."

She shook her head. "I didn't. It was
here all the time. You just didn't see it."

Her eyes shone as she chatted with
Storm and his other children. And whenever she glanced his way he
felt showered in warmth, as if caught out in a sweet spring rain
shower. Looking around his table, True felt proud and
blessed.

Oh, no. Was he getting old?

He ran a quick hand over his torso.
No, all was firm as it should be.

When his children had retired to bed,
he went to her chamber door and knocked. After a slight delay she
opened it, still in her pretty gown, but with her hair loose, a
brush in one hand.

"I wanted to wish you a Merry
Christmas," he whispered. "Properly."

She smiled. "Merry Christmas,
True."

He reached into his waistcoat and took
out a small parcel. "Here," he muttered awkwardly, holding it out
toward her, wishing he had more finesse when it came to gestures
like these.

"But...you already gave me a gift. My
boots."

"This is something else."

With trembling fingers she opened the
paper and found her father's watch, polished clean and nestled
there like a big, plump silver coin.

"I got it fixed for you," he
explained, scratching the back of his neck. "I saw how important it
was for you to know the time. Though I've no idea why. "

When she looked up at him her eyes
were misty and huge, two pools overflowing.

"I suppose now you'll keep looking at
it, waiting for our time together to pass and—"

She grabbed him by the cravat and
pulled him into her room.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Strange how she knew, even with so few
experiences to compare in her own life, that the way he touched her
could not be like any other man's caress. He explored her as a wolf
would examine its mate, employing all his senses, relishing her
slowly to make no mistakes. To imprint himself upon her.

"Do you believe me guilty of murder?"
she asked.

"No," he said, this time without
hesitation or teasing. "I have trusted my secrets to you, my life
to you, and my children to you. I know you are
innocent."

He spoke steadily, firmly. Her heart
filled with his words and his trust. It lifted her above
everything.

"You must be the only soul on earth
who is sure of that," she whispered. Sometimes she wasn't even sure
herself. Inspector O'Grady could be very persuasive.

Pulling her into his arms again, he
kissed her. "I ought to be the only one whose opinion matters to
you."

"You are arrogant, True Deverell, and
bold. And impulsive." She touched his forehead, ran her fingertips
over his eyebrows, over his lashes, down the sharp edge of his
sculpted cheek, past a small scar, to his lips. A long time ago she
had imagined his mouth and what it would feel like to kiss it. To
kiss the scandalous man she'd read about in the newspaper. Now she
knew. "But I cannot resist you."

"I know," he replied proudly. "You've
broken your first rule, Olivia— tsk, tsk!"

"There are no rules on this
island."

"Hmm. Let's see...we've
broken the rule about
only
once
. We've broken the rule about not
mentioning
it.
"
His eyes glittered. "What shall we do about that other
rule?"

"Oh, no. Do not even consider it. I
cannot be an unwed mother. I would be ruined forever." She reached
up to squeeze his chin. "And one would think you have more than
enough children to manage."

Suddenly he became solemn. "I ought to
marry you, Olivia."

That was an odd way of putting it, she
mused. "Why? Do tell. What possible reason could you have for
thinking that?"

"Because you are a respectable lady.
And you need me."

It took her breath away for a moment.
"No."

He had trapped her fingers between his
lips, but he released them to speak again, "Why not?"

"Because marriage has not been good
for either of us."

"I can protect you from the
rumors."

She scoffed at that. "Out of the
frying pan and into the fire."

"Marry me," he said again.

"No."

"I'll give you time to think of it, at
least let me—"

"No." For his sake she couldn't risk
it. Three good men dead already. Where would it end? "I do not want
to marry you. Good lord, you would send me mad."

He flinched as if her refusal had
finally stabbed through his hard skin.

Olivia stroked the dark hair back from
his forehead. "You keep that portrait above the stairs as a
reminder never to wed again. You don't want another wife, and I did
not come here to find another husband."

Light from the one candle yet burning
made little stars under his lashes. They danced, simmered and
played, before they died away as he slowly closed his
eyes.

Was he sleeping? She couldn't tell. He
didn't snore.

Nestling closer to his chest, she
listened to his thrusting heartbeat and eventually that rhythm put
her to sleep.

When Olivia woke the next day he was
gone from her bed. At breakfast she learned that he had left for
London on business and to see Ransom. He left no note for her. Was
he angry at her refusal?

One of them had to be sensible. Surely
he understood.

"He said you're to wait here and be
ready to work again when he returns," said Raven. "You're not to go
anywhere, and we're to make certain you don't."

The man probably thought nothing of
dashing off without an explanation. He didn't care about manners
and could come and go on a whim.

How long would he procrastinate this
time, she wondered glumly. The man simply would not stand still.
But why should he, when he expected everyone else to stand still
for him?

* * * *

Several cold days blew by and the
younger boys returned to school.

"Will you be here when we come home
again?" Rush wanted to know.

"If there is still work to be done,
yes. As long as your father needs me to help write his
story."

"He'll probably never let you go then.
How can he until his story is finished, and he's still living it?
Doesn't make sense."

Having said this the boy immediately
spun around on his heels and chased after Jameson across the
causeway, yelling for Bryn to make haste.

Damon stayed a little longer and then
he too left. Only Storm and Raven then remained and she listened at
dinner as the half-siblings teased and tormented each other. There
was a sweetness about the relationship. With almost a full decade
between them in age, Storm took his role as big brother very
seriously, and Raven often acted nonchalant or brazenly
disobedient, but if Storm mentioned that a certain ribbon didn't
suit her bonnet, the next time that particular headwear made an
appearance it was altered with something he liked better. No one,
not even Storm, would dare point that out to her.