Love's Patient Fury (The Deverell Series Book 3)

by Susan Ward

  Twelve months in Cornwall with Merry and look at his life. Here he was, baby in arms, baby in wife, son settled in America, and about to engage in an act of treason with the Merricks, yet certain all the days of his life were ahead of him to share with his family without worry and fear. Gads, he had even made a peace pact with Lucien Merrick. It was preposterous in every way.

  Varian was halfway down the stairs before he began to laugh. The force of it hit him so hard he sank with an uncharacteristic lack of grace onto the steps and surrendered to the laughter, savoring his love for Merry, the joy of his children, and the enchantment simple pleasures could bring to a man’s life. He was laughing like a madman.

  Kat tensed, frightened by the loud, rumbling waves from her father. She looked at him, wide eyed and face taut, about to cry and then she didn’t. She gave him a smile instead. Merry’s smile. He laughed harder. Merry’s daughter in every way. Kat loved laughter.

  He let the humor run its course, not giving a damn what anyone thought of him. Face pressed into Kat’s dark curls, eyes closed, he felt each presence as it arrived. Ah, the shouting had been heard. Too alert of a response from the troops to be here from only his laughter. The glass comment will never pass without a lecture.

  At last able to speak, not opening his eyes, he said in a voice a trifle unsteady, “Moffat, you may have Tanner take the carriage away and bring in the luggage. We are not going to Falmouth today.”

  His words brought a proper response and immediate action from Moffat, who had certainly been shocked by Merry beyond showing reaction to His Grace being sprawled on the steps laughing like a lunatic.

  Varian opened his eyes to find Lucien studying him.

  Presently, Varian remarked, “How certain are you in your success of this manipulation you and Andrew are attempting so my past will never come to light?”

  Lucien’s answer came on a stern voice, confident and direct, “I love my daughter. If I thought I couldn’t manage this, I wouldn’t try. I am very sure of success, Varian.”

  Lucien Merrick sure of success. It was something a man could count on, even with those things most precious to him. Merry. His growing family. There was no need to probe it further.

  Varian said instead, “I am going to London tomorrow to meet with my agent and look at farms... most probably. I am in dire need of a home... most definitely. I think a farm is what Merry will tell me she wants when she is ready to stop shouting at me. She is like Rhea. Except Merry prefers the dirt on me. America is out of the question this year. What do you think of your daughter living on the outskirts of London on a farm, throwing dirt at me and not being treated like glass, Lucien?”

  He was still Lucien Merrick, peace pact or not, so there was stiff-neck composure, but those icy blue eyes held a faint softening of their sternness as he said, “I would think she finally told you of your newest blessing and Rhea will be overjoyed to have her daughter and grandchildren within reach. As for the farm, dirt, glass, and its location, I leave that to you and my daughter. I have no want to meddle in your marital affairs.”

  Varian fought more laughter. The hell you don’t, Lucien. Varian watched in patient wait as the older man almost left the room and then turned back to say, “Though I think Cornwall would suit Merry’s fancy better. If you settle upon a farm, I would suggest a large farmhouse, Varian. Very large. One year married. Two children. It is apparent you treat my daughter not like glass too frequently. I hope you don’t intend to put my Merry through this every year.”

  The ‘very large’ made Varian smile in spite of himself, his blissful mood untouched by Lucien’s parting jibe. It only added to his happiness and humor. One year married. Two children. My thoughts exactly, Lucien. A very large house.

  Varian sat on the stairs until he was alone again. He stood up and adjusted Kat in his arms. It was then he noticed that all the jiggling from his laughter had caused his beautiful daughter to spit up. A lovely streak ran down the shoulder of his crisp, formerly flawless coat. Merry’s sweet voice danced in his mind. Imperfection. Touch of Kat.

  Black eyes met black. “You are your mother’s daughter. Let’s go lay down and I will tell you a story about a beautiful girl who returned to a sad man his heart.”

  Kat made another utterance. “Mama, Mama...”

  Quick and clever. “Yes, Little One, Mama. But we should start at the beginning...”

  ~~~

  The invention was illogical and full of blatant inconsistencies. It proved when a story was told with enough whimsical embellishment, boldness and dash it could readily pass as truth.

  The fiction began circulating through England by the hand of Andrew Merrick shortly before Rensdale’s burial. It was widely believed as absolute fact before he was cold in his grave. That Rensdale bore no physical resemblance to every known report of the notorious pirate Morgan was given only mild passing notice in England’s greater desperation to believe they were safe at last from such villainy.

  After all, no one would ever claim to having ever seen Morgan, unless one wanted to give credit to the ravings of fisherman and smugglers and the Irish rebels. The Merrick’s believed it as truth, so whatever elements could not bear close scrutiny were unlikely to be overly scrutinized at all. It was a belated wedding gift from Lucien Merrick to Merry.

  Ten years later, still in England and still in love, the Deverells had passed a decade of marriage, in some ways hardly touched at all. They still maintained the shocking and readily displayed affection they had as a newly married couple. They still behaved badly, usually moving outside of the strict rules of fashionable society rather than within it, but the flower of ton had long ago forgiven them past misdeeds and did not bother to tally the newer ones.

  They were a compelling couple. Varian was now tempered in his imposing dark looks by a touch of age, and Merry, well settled and less wild at his side, was a creature who sparkled magnificently with happiness.

  They lived on a modest working farm outside of London, in a whimsical little brick cottage covered by vine, surrounded by children, and if there was a reason why they had never taken up residence in the ancestral estate that had been in the Deverell family for centuries, no one outside of the couple were aware of it. Most believed it simply the result of Varian’s devotion to his young wife and his indulgence of her everlasting unconventional whim.

  They lived in blissful, near isolation, and did what they pleased. They intrigued and fascinated people all the more with their happiness, their secrets, and their lack of interest in anything beyond the tiny private world they created for themselves.

  The Deverells were as much a thing of fascination as envy.

  On this warm September day, the Deverells were in Cornwall, at Bramble Hill, visiting Merry’s family as was their custom this time of year.

  James Deverell leaned against a tree on a small rise watching the madness that was his father’s family. Ten years had passed, but he still did not feel completely comfortable in his father’s world, but at twenty-nine he was getting closer.

  He lived in America. It suited him. It was the land his mother had been from. He was the captain of a merchant ship, his past legend and notoriety a thing that had faded with time, like his father’s myth and legend. And like his father, who now leaned back in his chair, with his beautiful young wife against him, surrounded by children, James could not be reconciled to that man of long ago.

  “Why do you never come to the door? Why do you always hang back and watch until either I or Mama come for you. I could feel you watching,” said a sweet voice in a confident, demanding tone.

  James opened his eyes and smiled. Ah, she sounded like her mother. How long had he been here, eyes closed, listening to his brothers and sister? Very long. He was almost asleep, so drowsy the girl had slipped under his the guard. Kat had found him.

  His black eyes swept his sister in a single, fast moving glance and he laughed instantly. Dark curls. Dark eyes. Pretty face. There was a strawberry jam streak that went fro
m lip to chin, feathers poking from hair, and grass stains on the hem of her simple faded gown. She was shoeless, grubby feet, grubby hands, and by the looks from afar, grubby parents. He laughed again.

  “Oh, Little One, I prefer to watch the madness from afar. How many of you are there? I only count four. But I know there are more.”

  Kat made an exaggerated, comical expression that looked exactly like Merry’s, settling her chin in her palms with her elbows on the earth. “There are six. Me and five boys. Soon to be six boys. It is always a boy. I want a sister. I never get what I want.”

  James gently tugged on a curl. “Somehow, Little One, I doubt that. Our father adores you. He spoils you rotten. I can tell a little girl who is spoiled.”

  She pulled a feather from her curls, brushed her nose with it, and studied the interesting figure of her older brother. “I am not spoiled. Only last night I asked after dinner if I could sail with my brother on his pirate ship because I want to marry a pirate, but you see I am here, still in England.” Brows puckering, she asked in an eager little whisper, “Are you a pirate?”

  James kept all emotion from surfacing. “Who’s been filling your head with such foolish whimsy, Kat? I am a merchant not a pirate. Why would you ask such a thing?”

  Those wide doe eyes that had black centers instead of blue opened to their fullest. “I was playing make believe, just having a fantasy, and pretending I would run away, sail on a pirate ship with my brother until I found a pirate Captain, and let him kiss me, then marry me, but the reaction of the grownups was very odd. Grandmamma turned red like a strawberry. I could not help but wonder, is James a pirate. Are you a pirate?”

  I bet it was an odd reaction, Kat. He lifted a feather from her curls and asked, “Tell me about the rest of the reactions, Little One.”

  “Grandpapa was not happy. He said I was spoiled and fanciful and willful and if Papa did not take me in hand he would rue the day he didn’t. It was very grim. Grandpapa can be grim with Papa. He is very imposing at times. Not sweet like Papa.”

  “No, your grandfather is a wise man. I remember your mother when she was little older than you. What was your mother’s reaction?”

  “She laughed. She laughed like a madwoman. At least that is what Papa calls it when she laughs that way.”

  A picture of Merry laughing came into his memory. “So, what did our father do?”

  Kat giggled. “He smiled and threw me in the air and when he caught me, he said…” mimicking their father’s voice to perfection with one dark brow arched, “…Little One, you are your mother’s daughter. I adore you. Give me a kiss on the cheek. Go wash your grubby hands. You’ve been enough of a vexing nuisance for one night.’”

  Ever patient. Ever tolerant. Yes, that was father.

  Wanting to divert his too curious sister, James pulled from his bag a small handful of leather. “I brought you a present, Little One. Real Indian moccasins, made by Indians in America near to my home. It is as close to bare feet as you can get.”

  Kat’s smile was stunning as she took them and put a fast kiss on James's cheek, just below the scar. “Thank you. They are wonderful. I have been playing Indians today. That is why I have feathers.”

  She studied them in a quick, smart way, every detail of how they were made, the feeling of the soft leather and the beads. Looking up at him, she asked, “Why do you not live with Mama and Papa? You are my favorite brother and I see you hardly at all. Once a year if I am lucky.”

  “I live in America. It is where my mother was from. It is in my blood. It is where I am comfortable.”

  Kat shook her head, perplexed. “But, if you are first born, why are you not heir? Are you a bastard? Is that why Thomas is heir?”

  “Lord, Kat, where did you hear that term? No, I am not a bastard. My mother was married to our father. Now your Mama is married to our father. I don’t wish to be heir. There are no titles in America. I don’t need one. It is better that Thomas be heir. He is being raised in England with all of you. I have never lived in England. Only America. Understand?”

  Kat shrugged. “There is more to it. Someday I hope you will explain it to me. No one will explain anything to me. It is very frustrating at times.” Kat pulled on the moccasins, sprang to her feet, took her brother’s hand and gave him a tug until he stood beside her. “Come. You’ve dallied enough. Mama will be angry I have not brought you sooner. If I can feel you. She can feel you. I want to show Papa my present.”

  “All right, Little One. I suppose I can’t avoid the madness forever.”

  Kat was pulling him by the hand, down the hill at a running pace as her longs curls streamed behind her. “It is not madness. It is happiness. That is what Mama says every time Grandpapa tells her we are becoming preposterous.”

  “You are preposterous, Little One. The whole Deverell clan is preposterous. It is the curse of Flava. But we are happy. And that, my dear, is your mother’s doing.”

  For all my current and future releases visit my website:

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  Enjoy one of my current contemporary romance releases:

  The Girl on the Half Shell

  The Signature

  Rewind

  One Last Kiss

  If you haven’t read all of the Deverell Series, start at the beginning:

  When the Perfect Comes

  Face to Face

  Or continue Indy’s story with:

  Love me Forever: Releasing Summer of 2015

  EXCERPTS

  Please enjoy the following excerpt from The Girl on the Half Shell:

  The room is so quiet it is deafening.

  I find Alan on his bed, casually reclined against a stack of pillows, dressed only in flannel pajama bottoms, and reading—of all things—the Wall Street Journal. There is a fire lit, the silver candlesticks flicker with flame, the bedcovers invitingly turned down as if in preparation for some sort of romantic scene. But he is focused on the Journal.

  He doesn’t look at me and I feel stupid hovering by his door, so I start to wander around the bedroom, trying to still my frantic pulse. It’s a good thing that it’s an interesting room, otherwise my deliberate study would seem silly.

  Even Alan’s bedroom is something I find weird and demands a certain amount of mental analysis. It looks like something from a nineteenth century English manor, elegant to the point of being almost a touch prissy. There’s an antique mahogany king-sized bed facing the fireplace; floral wingback chairs with pillows positioned before the hearth; and high-tech conveniences camouflaged in antique furniture. There’s a Monet on the wall; tall, polished sterling silver candlesticks; crystal; and fine, leather-bound, first edition books of classic literature. I sink down before a small, mahogany table where I find a stack of newspaper: Barons; the New York Times; the Washington Post; and the Daily Telegraph.

  The warmth of the fire surrounds me like a caress, but I am quaking like a leaf. I wasn’t sure what Alan expected after he walked out of the kitchen. It would have been logical to assume that I would leave. But he knew I’d follow him. I don’t know why he’s ignoring me now. I look at the lit candlesticks—he wanted me to follow him.

  I bite my lower lip and stare at my knotted fingers. I stayed alone in the kitchen for what seemed like ages, and now that I’ve done exactly what he expected me to do, nothing.

  I struggle for something to say to break the silence. “You do have seven bedrooms. I counted them twice. But there are seven only if I include yours.”

  He folds the Journal, tosses it on the table and fixes those penetrating, mesmerizing eyes on me. “Is this the room you want?” he asks, his voice gentle. “I meant it when I said you could have any room. It doesn’t have to be my room for you to stay.”

  Does he not want me in his room? A ragged breath forces its way from deep in my lungs.
“Do you want me to go?” I murmur.

  “Of course not. I want you here.” His voice is husky and his eyes are wandering in a leisurely hold that is tender and oddly comforting.

  Thank you for reading. You might enjoy a sneak peek into Chrissie and Alan’s future, with Rewind A Perfect Forever Novella. Available now on Amazon:

  He doesn’t laugh. Instead, his gaze sharpens on my face. “I am being nice, Kaley. I came to you. I got tired of waiting.”

  What? Did I just hear what I think I heard?

  Before I can respond, he says, “How’s your afternoon looking? Do you have time to take off and come see something with me?”

  My afternoon? There is something. I’m sure of that, but I suddenly can’t remember a single thing.

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “I want to show you where I’ve been living. What’s I’ve been doing? I think you’ll find it interesting.”

  Interesting? Why would I find it interesting?

  “So, do you think you can cut out for a few hours?” he asks, watching me expectantly.

  I focus my gaze on the table, wondering if I should go, wondering why I debate this, and what the heck I have on calendar that I can’t remember. God this is weird, familiar and distant at once, and I haven’t a clue what I should do here.

  I stare at his hand, so close to mine, on the table. Whoever thought it would be so uncomfortable not to touch a guy? It doesn’t feel natural this space we hold between us, spiced with the kind of talk people have who know each other intimately. What would he do if I touched him…?

  His fingers cover mine and he gives me a friendly squeeze. The feel of him runs through my body with remember sweetness.

  Suddenly, nothing in my life is as important as spending the afternoon with Bobby and for the first time, in a very long time, I don’t feel like a disjointed collection of uncomfortably fitting parts. I feel at ease inside me being with Bobby.