by JayneFresina
"So who is this man you went to visit without a care for the weather?" he demanded abruptly. "You think you're in love with him, I suppose.”
"Jonathan is—" She blinked. "What makes you think I'm in love with him?"
"Because you immediately began talking of emotions and tenderness. Feelings." He grimaced in a comical fashion. "Obviously, despite your declaration of not wanting any man to spoil your independence, you imagine you're in love." He drawled the words, smirking. "Don't look so worried. It's a feminine failing, and I suppose it couldn't be helped. You were bound to succumb eventually, like all your sex."
"When you are in the mood to talk you can be dreadfully pompous. I think I prefer it when you're being all somber and brooding and sparing with your conversation. There is much to be said for a silent man." And she laughed.
"You're in love," he persisted, his tone taunting. "That's why you braved the storm today to visit him. Passionate feelings lead to irrational deeds." He sat up straighter. "I had better have a word with this fellow you've taken to visiting in snow storms. I must uncover his intentions. Your father would expect it."
"Dear Jonathan is the sweetest and kindest of men. There is no other like him."
"I'm sure there are folk who think there'll never be another like me, but they don't see that as necessarily unfortunate."
"Jonathan Lulworth," she told him primly, "is the vicar of Thorford, a special gentleman, always mindful of where he puts his feet and where he drives his horses. He does not pry into people's pasts or goad them into arguments—" She sneezed violently. "He is always patient and polite."
Deverell choked out a mirthless laugh. "Sounds very dull. The very worst man to handle you."
"Handle me? I don't believe he would be stupid enough to try."
No, Jonathan was always very proper with her and kept his distance. In fact, it was a little frustrating that he was so well behaved and upright. She'd seen him cast odd looks her way sometimes, but she didn't know whether he was afraid for her or of her.
Pip raised her chin and quickly dragged that limp, wayward feather out of her face again. "Why don't you stop this carriage and let me out, man?"
"Because I don't feel inclined. You're a danger to yourself, and somebody has to watch over you."
But suddenly her hand, feeling around inside Deverell's coat for a handkerchief, had discovered the cool metal of a pistol. She caught her breath, shocked. He must have forgotten it was there when he gave her his coat.
Aha! His temporary loss of memory had served to nudge her own. Abruptly she recalled her father's story about the cheating rogue who once escaped a riverboat under pistol fire. It was as if her father was right there beside her, whispering that tale in her ear again. Never seen silver eyes like his on any other man. True Deverell he called himself, but I doubt it was his real name. There was a rumor that he was really a wolf that taught himself to walk upright, then stole a suit of clothes..."
The cold metal slid under her palm.
"Such an extraordinary coincidence."
"Coincidence?" he said, not sounding very interested.
The carriage bounced and swayed, so she could barely keep her seat. "Your father once cheated mine out of a small fortune at cards. On a Louisiana riverboat. Did you know that?"
He barely even paused in surprise at this information. "Madam, if I had a shilling for every time somebody claimed my father cheated them out of something, whether it be a fortune, a horse, or their virtue, I'd be a richer man than he."
"Your father is True Deverell, is he not?"
"Yes." He exhaled the word so that it was almost a groan, and now he was tense again, his eyes suddenly full of creeping shadows so dark they might have belonged to a demon that clawed its way up from Hell. "He's my father. Why?"
"And he was in America once, years ago?"
"So the legend goes."
"My father never forgot, and I bet your father didn't either, since mine aimed a pistol at him just as the wretch dove overboard into the Mississippi river. My father swore he saw True Deverell out-swim an alligator that night. I always thought maybe he'd drunk too much bourbon, but here you are... so I guess the scoundrel really did exist and he survived the river with all his parts intact. Enough to procreate at least."
A new look came into his face then, more deeply engaged. She knew at once that he'd heard the story before. Although perhaps he, like Epiphany, had not believed it until now.
She felt steadier suddenly, more in command of the proceedings, but still excited, a rapid heartbeat leaping and bouncing through her.
"So this won't be the first time a Piper has aimed a real gun at a Deverell, will it?" She withdrew his pistol from the coat and pointed it across the carriage. "Now you can order your coachman to stop and let me out. No need for any further debate. I don't require a man to watch over me, and since you're being so damnably pig-headed I must resort to these measures to get free of you." With her sweetest smile, she added, "I've been practicing my aim, as you suggested, and I am, after all, considerably closer to you than my father was when he had his chance with a Deverell. And I'm stone cold sober."
Chapter Sixteen
Damon looked at the muzzle of his own pistol and then at the woman pointing it at him. Careless of him to forget the weapon in his coat. She was a dangerous distraction. But he knew that already.
"I'm afraid I can't possibly comply with your wishes," he said evenly. "You'll just have to shoot me." Of course she would threaten extreme measures which were totally unnecessary. That love of drama again, with a hint of violent tendencies. Very like her aunt.
"Don't talk rot, Deverell. Stop the carriage at once."
"Sorry. Can't do it." He spread his arms along the back of the seat. "Like I said, you'll have to shoot me and properly this time. If you really want to get away."
Even at gunpoint Damon found himself in the mood to tease her again. It was rare for him in general, but around her it came naturally, no matter what their situation. He liked the way her brows wriggled with consternation and her lips puckered, as if she wasn't sure whether he meant his words or not, but she was determined to be outraged either way. Her face was so expressive she could never hide her thoughts from him and that made a welcome change.
"What do you mean— if I really want to get away from you?" she demanded.
"Well, you may as well admit, Miss Piper, that this was your plan from the beginning, was it not?" he said. "Your scheme."
"My scheme?"
"To seduce me."
Her eyebrows arched high. "I beg your pardon?"
"Am I supposed to think it's a coincidence that this carriage before which you hurled yourself belongs to me?" he muttered. "Now you hold me at gunpoint and I am powerless to escape."
She frowned. "But I'm the one escaping."
"Go on then."
"You have to tell the coachman to stop the carriage or I can't get out, can I?"
But he ignored that. "I should have known it the first time we met...the shawl...the revealing ball gown, like a baited hook to draw me in....the kiss foisted upon me...the improper suggestions bandied about. You mean to make me besotted, so you might then break my heart and toss me aside. Was this all a vendetta because my father once beat yours in a game of cards?"
"That would be an extremely flimsy reason for a vendetta."
"You're a hot-head American and an irrational woman," he shrugged, "and we, neither of us, like to lose. What other reason do you require?"
She laughed then, but kept the pistol surprisingly steady. "I hadn't thought of the name Deverell in years, until you told me who you were at the Courtenay's ball. Until then True Deverell's miraculous escape was nothing more than another of my father's fables, brought out of its box every time he drank too much and wanted to reminisce about his younger days."
Sounded like his father, he mused.
"As for vengeance, Deverell," she added. "If I wanted that from any man I wouldn't use seduction as my weapon
. I wouldn't know how to begin."
"Wouldn't you?" he murmured, a little hoarse.
She waved the gun about in a rather worrisome fashion. Good thing it wasn't loaded and ready to fire. "Instead, if I was on a quest for revenge for some outrage committed against my family, I would—"
"Give him a black eye?"
"Since I have a gun, I could shoot him in the kneecap."
"Interesting choice."
"For a start." Her eyes twinkled with that lush, unusual color, as her gaze swept up and down his body. "If he begged for mercy, I might take pity before I reached any parts he really needed."
He felt a laugh working its way up his throat. Once again she had lightened his mood when other women usually darkened it. In her presence he felt his stresses and worries drift away, replaced by the urge to play games, carefree as he once was. She claimed not to like him, but she certainly enjoyed herself in his company, waving that gun about, eyes shining with delight at the capital idea of causing him bodily harm.
She was a puzzle. A captivating puzzle box he didn't quite want to solve, because he wanted to go on playing with her, running his hands, and his mind, over her parts. Calculating her potential wickedness and how he might match it, lick for lick, bite for bite. Thrust for thrust. He pictured his fingers around her wrists, his tongue in the little hollow at the base of her throat, slowly working its way downward...
He groaned under his breath and wiped hot fingers across his equally overheated brow.
At that moment the carriage turned sharply and jolted Miss Piper to the side. Damon quickly grabbed the muzzle and took the gun from her. As he sat back again, holding the weapon, she glowered across the carriage, looking attractively disheveled.
Needing to cast his eyes elsewhere before he did something he would later regret, Damon glanced through the window again, composed himself and said evenly, "Looks like we arrived at the inn finally. I'm ravenous. We'll dine together." One dinner couldn't hurt, surely. He had to eat, did he not? So did Nonesuch, if the low rumblings of her stomach were anything to go by.
"Don't you ever ask a girl's permission before you make decisions for her?"
"Why should I? Obviously, I have the advantages of maturity, superior wisdom and masculine excellence."
"You really are despicable, aren't you?"
"You'll dine with me because you're hungry, woman. Be practical for once. I know it must be hard for you to make a rational decision and set emotion aside—"
"Are you mad? You would truly dine with a woman who just aimed a gun at you?"
"I'm accustomed to it. In fact, I've had a great deal worse treatment."
"All of it well deserved, no doubt."
He shrugged, putting his gun away inside his cutaway. "Obviously. I'm a Deverell. Angry women come with the territory."
* * * *
Damon ordered a roast chicken dinner for the two of them.
"What about your coachman and the horses?" she inquired pertly, as if he might be too mean to think of their comfort.
"The coachman will eat well in the kitchens, don't fret. And the horses will be well tended in the stables. They'll get a good night's rest."
"A night?" she exclaimed. "I can't stay here for the entire night. I must get back to Darkest Fathoms. I don't need any more rumors begun about me."
"Darkest Fathoms? What the devil might that be?"
"The Mortmain estate. It stands on the cliffs, overlooking Whitby Bay. A rather grim sentinel and aptly named."
"That is where you and your sisters are staying?"
"Yes." Her expression was apprehensive for a moment.
He poured wine from the jug between them, urging her to drink. After considering for a moment, she took her dented, pewter goblet and drank, wincing slightly. The wine was, indeed, an acquired taste and strong, possibly the innkeeper's own creation. "So tell me more about these... Mortmains."
"Must I? It's a very dreary subject."
"It's my job, remember? I'm supposed to be watching out for you and your sisters. Unless you prefer to sit in silence, which would be most unlike you, madam."
Once she'd taken a few more sips, and benefitted from the warmth of the hearty fire, she began to talk a great amount, the tension dissipating, dripping off her with the melting snow, words spilling out of her as if there was no way to separate them. As if it was a relief to tell somebody. Damon suspected that unless she suddenly fainted or fell asleep, he'd have to be very quick to get a word in. And she was not the fainting sort.
"The Mortmains wanted my father's money— my sister's dowry— for the estate, of course, but really only to keep it running the way it is now. The way it has been for two hundred years, I'm sure. They're not terribly interested in improving or changing anything, and they must be terrible money managers. My father would be appalled. The Mortmains have owned trading ships for centuries and once had a very successful whaling business, so I'm told, but with the market for whale bone and blubber falling off over the past twenty years, they really have little now but their ancient name and the crumbling ruin they call home."
"But your sister is happy with the match?"
"At first she was quite delighted with the idea of one day becoming a Viscountess. I believe she thought mostly of what her stationary would look like when she wrote home to old friends and enemies, rather than what married life to such a dull man would daily entail." She paused, staring off into the distance. "I must say I was rather disappointed in her lack of imagination." She shrugged. "But Serenity has always been dutiful. She does what is expected of her. Of any woman. And, in all honesty, there were not so many prospects here as she'd hoped."
"Are there not?"
"Your countrymen are not really sure what to make of us. Oh, we are entertaining company for the more adventurous of landed gentlemen— those seeking a little excitement. But marriage isn't what they have in mind. For that they want a quiet, meek, unquestioning English rose, whom they won't have to explain to anybody or apologize for. Preferably a rose without thorns."
"Naturally. Why would a wise man want to complicate his life with a woman like you? A self-professed undesirable who threatens to put a bullet in his kneecap at the first opportunity."
She rolled her eyes and then continued. "In addition to all that, I'm not certain our father's business is deemed entirely respectable."
"Why not?"
Hesitating again, she replaced a fallen lock of hair, tucking it back inside its black net, and glanced nervously around the crowded room. "I probably shouldn't tell you any of this. My sister would say it's wrong to talk about oneself so much. Look at all these people! Where were they when I was alone on that road, waiting for somebody to come by? Nowhere to be found then, were they? Thus I was stuck with you. The dangerous young lawyer with whom I am not supposed to mingle socially."
"It is the very limit, isn't it? Where was everybody else? I ask myself that all the time, when you keep turning up under my feet."
"Now they will look at us and wonder what we're doing together. I'm sure they will imagine many wicked things."
They weren't the only ones he thought darkly, watching her lips as she licked her fingers. But he reassured her. "Feel no anxiety on that score. They're strangers to us, as we are to them. In a place like this nobody knows your past and, in a storm like this, nobody much cares. We're all in the same difficulty, all cut down to the same size and reminded of our insignificance by nature's wrath."
"I suppose so." Refreshed mischief twinkled in her eyes as she leaned forward and made the candle putter with her excited breath. "We could pretend to be other people entirely."
"Indeed. We could be an old married couple for all they know."
"Or young lovers on the run, with a fortune in stolen gems."
"Or a pirate captain and his hostage princess."
She arched an eyebrow. "Or a pirate captain and her hostage prince. I pulled the gun on you."
"It was inevitable sooner or later."
She laughed.
"Tell me about your father," he persisted, refilling her wine goblet to the top.
So she conceded to his curiosity. "He began his working life as an errand lad for a grocery and provisions store. That tends to make the high and mighty turn up their fine aristocratic noses." Miss Piper then told him about the whiskey still, started by her father in his own backyard when he was a boy, and the various other enterprises by which he expanded his fortune since. "Suffice to say he has many a finger in many a pie," she concluded with a smile of fondness for the large chicken leg in her hand. "My father is a resourceful and inventive man and can make money out of most things."
Again, it sounded very like his own father.
Magical as the whisper of friction one felt across one's skin before a lightning storm, she trailed invisible fingertips across his thoughts and tickled them out of their dour mood.
Damon cleared his throat, abruptly ceased drumming his own fingers against the table and refilled his goblet. He ought to be thinking about Elizabeth and his unborn child. That was enough trouble for him.
Yes. Elizabeth. Focus. The child for which he was responsible.
Ransom had confessed to him that Elizabeth left London to stay with her Grosvenor relatives on the Yorkshire coast, near Whitby, so Damon had followed the road north, hoping to catch up with her at this inn— one at which all carriages stopped to change horses after crossing the moors. But she had a few days head start on him, of course. She could already have reached her destination and gone to ground. No matter; he would find her. He had time. No hurry.
See, he was patient. His father didn't know him as well as he thought. Nobody did.
"He doesn't have the patience to wait and see whether the brat even looks like him. He can't wait to ruin his bloody life."
In truth, Damon had begun to wish he never met Elizabeth. If only one could go back in time, turn back the clocks. But he had met her, he had stupidly pursued her, and now he must pay the consequences.