Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2)

by Susan Ward

  She could not bring herself to meet the heat of his gaze. How childish she must seem to him hiding here in the grass, for surely that was what she had done, and surely he knew it. His touch chided her it had been a pointless pretense to hide from him. It would not change what was in her. Hiding would not make her stop loving him.

  “Are you going to stay out-of-doors all night to avoid me or would you like to come see what I brought you?” said Varian softly.

  She thought of pug and the garments he had purchased for her in Bermuda. The memory of those nights taunted her. A present. Jealousy leapt through Merry like an exploding powder keg. The gift confirmed for her he had been with Regina.

  She snatched her palm away, grateful for her fast rising temper. It blocked out all other things she’d been feeling. Her face was red with fury when she turned to him. “You think I’m a child. Do you think I can be so easily managed? I am not a child and I do not care what you brought me.”

  The corners of Varian’s eyes began to play with a smile. “There is no cause for your jealousy, Little One. The present is not from me. I am merely the courier.”

  “I am not jealous. You are an arrogant and conceited man if you think I pass a moment’s thought over what you do.”

  She watched Varian lever himself upright, trying to concentrate on anything but the sensual moves of his limber body. “I went to Richmond to sell my cargo, Merry.”

  “If that is the best fiction you can think of, you could have saved yourself the bother. I am not the Devereauxs. I am not a fool. And it matters not to me if you pass your nights with that blond sow.” Then her temper getting the better of her, she added scathingly, “But really, you insufferable man, your taste in women is dreadful. Do you make it a habit to seek out every blond sow on every continent?”

  Varian stayed as he was, still, until Merry quieted. Then he said with quiet firmness, “When a man wants to care for nothing, he selects women he can never care for. That Regina could not ever matter to me was her only appeal. Even that appeal was abolished long before we reached Richmond.”

  “How extraordinary! I must be perfect in that regard. What could matter less than a vexing nuisance you kidnapped.”

  “Be fair, Little One. I did not kidnap you. You were given to me. I was merely wise enough to keep you.” He moved toward her, but did not touch her. The pressure of his eyes made it unbearable for Merry not to look at him. His voice was a soft caress against her face. “There have been no women in my bed for many months, Little One. I went to Richmond only to sell my cargo.”

  This time Merry looked at him. A quick inspection of his face told her he was speaking truth. She wasn’t sure how she knew it, but she did. And it was an untimely discovery because it made the anger gush out of her with the inflow of too many things she did not want to feel. Afraid she would let down her guard, she hissed, “Damn you,” and before she knew what she had done, she slapped him.

  Varian began to laugh and because he couldn’t seem to stop the laughter, she tried to slap him again. “No, Little One,” he finally managed to gasp. “You’ve got your clichés reversed. You do not hit a man when he professes he’s hopelessly captivated by you. You hit him when he’s been a rogue. Will you stop trying to hit me, if I promise to go commit a debauchery or two? What a vexing creature you are at times.”

  Merry shook off his gentle hand holding her arm and took a step back from him. “You’re a fine one to talk about having our clichés reversed,” she snapped, eyes flashing. “You deserve to be slapped for that comment alone.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, a smile teasing at his lips this time. “But I cannot make up for past misdeeds, only endeavor to do my best not to repeat them.”

  Gathering back her retreating dignity, she said, “Then return me to Falmouth and let me go, if you wish not to repeat your past misdeeds.”

  The leaves rippled in the trees behind him, as gentle was his gaze, holding her as he said, “Is that really what you want?”

  “Yes.” Once the word was out, it sounded childish, which was a disappointment. There was not enough conviction in her voice to fill a thimble.

  Varian held out his hand to her. “Why don’t you come see what I brought you?”

  Merry stood a frozen statue, her gaze a careful lock on the trees behind him. “Do you know how insufferable you are?” she asked.

  “You can tell me while we walk to the house. I’ll try not to incite you to violence a second time.”

  She stared at his fingers held out to her, let out an exasperated breath, and took them. Varian was in a good mood, and she was restless again, restless from head to toe. Damn him. They walked in quiet for a while. Halfway there, she chanced a glance at him.

  Frowning, Merry said, “I hit you. Why are you smiling? How is it possible never to lose your temper?”

  Calmly, he said, “I prefer to do other things than fight with you. Tom is awaiting me in Richmond. I return to sea before month’s end.”

  I? Merry felt her heart drop to her knees. He said ‘I’.

  It was as she suspected. Varian was leaving her here, leaving her in the sisters’ care. Instead of anger, sadness flooded her veins. She felt herself move closely into his arm beside her.

  His arm moved around her waist and tightened comfortably. Suspended in his gentleness and the feel of him, she held the memory of his lips against hers. As they walked, his warm male flesh close to her warmed her more delicate limbs. She took sharp notice that if left at Winderly, she would miss him. She did not want to be left behind and it had very little to do with the fear of such uncertainty.

  Glancing sideways at his shadowed face, she wondered what he made of her and wondered if the thought of leaving her made him feel as she did; this sharp displeasure and sense of impending misery. She wondered if he did feel thusly, why he was determined in this course.

  It was a subject she could not approach directly. It would betray too much of her feelings for him. She already betrayed herself at every turn. His leaving her at Winderly was, in a way, a kindness.

  From a distant magnolia tree mockingbird song filled the quiet like tuned bells. Inside the house he led her to the stairs, and she moved beside him without hesitation, even when their journey took her into his own bedchamber. He released his hold on her and clicked closed the door behind him.

  Somehow, it was not until she heard the click she wondered why he brought her here or why she had followed him so willingly. She had not been in his bedchamber before.

  To cover the uneasy riot of her senses, Merry pretended to study the room. It was a large room occupied by a huge four-poster bed. Carved into the headboard was the crest she had seen her first day aboard ship on the small leather box from his sea chest. As in her room, yards of mosquito netting was tied to the posters. The room was elegant and masculine, yet held an oddly inviting coziness which made Merry feel immediately content. As odd as it was, she felt she belonged in his room. She went to stand beside the desk, pretending to examine the neatly organized items covering his desk, and her heart with each moment pounded a little faster.

  A sound startled her, and she looked up to see Varian exiting his dressing room. He carried something long, wide and flat. Merry’s eyes flashed with surprise. “I’d forgotten you said you brought me something.”

  With a charming smile, he replied, “I deliberately did not remind you on our walk back to the house, in hopes of not inciting you to violence a second time. Please don’t hit me with the case. As I said before, the gift is not from me.”

  She made a face at him to mask all the other things she was feeling, as he motioned her to the chairs invitingly arranged before the fire place. Her curiosity was fully aroused now. Instead of sitting in the chair beside him, she settled on the floor at his feet.

  Varian set the package before her. “There is a note.”

  Her eyes widening as she stared at her name neatly penned on the face of the note, Merry recognized the writing instantly. The gift was from Ind
y. Surprised and perplexed, she broke the seal. She read the note silently: Happy birthday, Merry. I could think of no better person to entrust the care for this. Regards, Indy.

  She stared at the note. “It’s a birthday present for me.” She looked at Varian then. “How did Indy know it was my birthday this week? I never told him.”

  Varian shrugged as though the mystery was of no concern. He had wondered the same thing himself, but the boy was as unwilling to explain how he knew this as he was his purpose in bringing Merry aboard ship. Questioning Indy had only brought persistent silence. Merry was easier to read than the boy. It was clear she knew nothing about the boy’s motivation or how he had known this.

  Varian said, “Why don’t you see what he sent you? I think you will be pleased.”

  Merry opened the wrapping to find a leather portfolio. She gasped as she began going through the thick stack of sketches. They were of her. Dozens of them, in every mood and turn. She spread them out across the rug, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Did you know Indy was this talented?” she asked. “They are extraordinary.”

  “He is most skilled, Little One. I’ve seen but a few of his sketches. He does not share them willingly so it is a compliment he gave these to you. I would say this collection is among his best work.”

  Varian watched Merry float down to lay on her stomach on the floor as she smartly examined each one. The boy was in love with her. It showed in every stroke and line, though Varian did not doubt Merry failed to see that. Merry failed to see the obvious far too often. It was a blessing, though at times a curse.

  Varian gladly cut off the trek of his thoughts when Merry turned to look over her shoulder and smiled at him. What this situation did not need was one more level of complication. It was complicated enough as it was.

  Lifting a sketch from the ground, she eased up to sit with her back against his chair, holding the portrait beneath him. “What is a compliment is how the boy sees me. The sketches are so full of detail and life. Remarkable. But his perception of me.” She blushed. “Only an excessively vain woman would believe this image was how she truly appeared. No woman is as beautiful as the boy sees me.”

  Varian paused to pull into order his internal arrangement. The portrait she held was one of her in his shirt, sitting on the window bench in familiar pose, arms hugging knees. It was in profile, her face tilted to capture the light, her hair a magnificent cloud around her, and it breathed of her essence in every stroke.

  Whispering, “You are more beautiful, Merry. The boy is close. But you are perfection and even the most skilled hand could not capture that.”

  Merry felt her insides melt in response. Danger, Merry. Danger. She changed course quickly. “But how did Indy know it was soon my birthday?”

  ~~~

  Merry fell asleep on the floor in Varian’s bedroom surrounded by the portraits. The next morning she woke alone in his bed. Rolling over, she found his pillow undisturbed beside her, but she had sensed before spotting it that he had not joined her. The plush sheets were a pleasant cocoon around her, but they did not hold his warmth or scent.

  Tossing the blankets aside, she realized her gown had been removed and all that remained was her dainty, sheer chemise. Blushing at the thought of Varian undressing her, she saw the sketches had been carefully gathered and were now again secure in the case.

  Every day she went a little deeper into the trap and she could not seem to stop it. In those rare moments of honesty with herself, she was not sure she wanted to stop it.

  Padding barefoot across the chilly wood floor, Merry gathered the sketches and her gown, then cut through Varian’s dressing room to the adjoining door to her suite. She was almost through it when she spotted the coat and trousers he’d worn the day before. Cursing herself over her woman’s heart—a heart that propelled her often in fathomless acts—she rummaged through his pockets.

  Nothing. Then she surrendered to the impulse to lift his shirt to smell it. Nothing. Only his own scent and a hint of wintergreen. Surely, if he had lied yesterday about his purpose in Richmond, the cloying scent of jasmine Regina wore would have left a hint in the fabric. But there was nothing pressed into the shirt except his own scent.

  Dropping the sketch case on her bed, she realized why the boy had sent her this gift. He had known when she left the Corinthian she wasn’t returning to ship and had sent her this memento as a goodbye. So claimed by her thoughts and turmoil her final day on ship, she had not said goodbye to the boy when she’d left. She regretted that today. Indy had become a dear friend. A trusted ally. A cherished confident. She had not been as generous with him as he deserved. She had only been concerned with herself that day.

  When she joined the sisters in the breakfast parlor, April greeted her inquiry of the Captain’s whereabouts in a thrilled, sheepishly knowing way. The sisters knew everything that happened at Winderly. It was clear they knew she had passed a night in Varian’s bedroom.

  They would prove, if nothing else, amusing jailors for Merry. If she couldn’t outwit them in the coming days, then she merely was unwilling to be outwitting.

  Chiding herself for that last uncharitable thought, Merry said, “I’m sorry, April. What did you say?”

  “He left. Early this morning. Cousin Varian said not to expect him until late.”

  The sisters took her this day to a meadow with a small pond. April’s basket carried a lunch. Aline’s contained a silly collection of possession intended to amuse them. There were books, the necessities for embroidery, and Aline’s day ledger, which she seemed to carry everywhere.

  When the sisters made to return to the house, Merry declined and asked if it were permissible to set awhile alone by the pond. It was a beautiful day, the meadow spectacular, and the quiet a soothing balm for all that troubled her.

  Reluctantly, after a stern warning not to venture from view of the house, the sisters left her, their silly chatter fading on the gentle breeze. Quiet.

  Staring in wonder at the magnificence of Winderly, she could not shut down the worry that Varian was leaving her here. It was not that the thought of life at Winderly was displeasing. It was a glorious place he had built here, where every kind of happiness could dwell. It was knowing she would be here without him that made it a distressing fate. Why was he leaving her and would she ever see him again?

  No, Merry. No. Don’t go there.

  That question made her turbulent emotions a thing of even greater agony. She did not want to leave him. The possession of tears was no longer a thing she could avoid.

  Perhaps she should tell him she loved him. Would that change her fate in this?

  No, Merry, it would be a dangerous thing to tell him you love him. She shook her head. Too late, he knows you are in love with him.

  Lying back in the grass, she let the peacefulness around her soothe her heart. It would be as it would be. Life went on dragging you with it and men, it seemed, did so as well. A woman must learn to be patient, her mother had always said. She heard a bird in the tree.

  “Boo little bird,” she whispered up at the feathers in the branches. “I am not a patient girl. I cannot learn to be because life wishes it. ”

  The silliness of having voiced that last thought to the bird made Merry laugh. Laughter was a wonderful thing. It soothed her flesh and heart.

  She sat up from the tall grass and stared at the view. She looked in all directions. There was nothing to see not pleasing to the eyes. If one was to be left in America, she could not imagine a more remarkable place.

  She lingered at the pond all afternoon and made the trek to the house slowly. She paused to examine the trees, the flowers, and the wild life that darted in her wake. It was all so beautiful. Beyond anything she could have imagined.

  Her heart swelled with the wonder that she was walking on American soil not far from the soil her own mother had walked on at the very same age. Rhea, stylish and elegant perfection, had an odd vein of unconventional whim. She understood her mother b
etter walking here. It was not unconventional whim, at all. It was a touch of America in Rhea’s spirit.

  She was almost to the pasture gate on the dirt path. She had touched and smelled everything she could. Her senses were hungry and relished each exploration. Scooping up a handful of soil from the field beside her, Merry lifted it to her nose, smelling its pungent richness.

  It was still in her hand as she settled in a lushly deep meadow, the grass bright with pink clover, dandelion, and thistle. She laid back in its cushiony cradle, listening to the birdsongs and the vigorous melody of work from the fields. The spiky resonance of the fiery midday sun stroked her cheeks with the heady fragrances of the soft wind tempering it in a cooling caress.

  There was a vivid wakefulness to all her senses. America was sprawling and wild and untamed in all her extravagant splendor. Even here where a piece of her had been carved by a man. Nature’s color exploded in a brilliant mosaic for the eyes. All scents were spicy and bold in a blend of the Virginia’s essence. And the earth beneath Merry seemed to have a drumming heartbeat that never rested like her own.

  ~~~

  Varian watched from the porch rail until he caught sight of Merry. She was speckled from head-to-toe in the reddish and purple flower heads of thistle, lying in a deep bed of grass, by the time he reached her. The gossamer dark cloud of curls was spotted of their petals and a splattering of pink clover. One hand held a long leaf of sweet pasture grass, her tiny teeth softening the edge at tip. The other delicate palm was clutched in a ball where moist dirt peaked from between the creamy whiteness of her fingers.

  It was almost as though she floated above the grass, there was such peacefulness in the languid lay of her limbs. Every lush curve of body was detailed in the simple lines of her gown of faint shell-pink Flanders muslin. It melted and hugged her. The smile on her face was of bliss, eyes closed, inky long lashes casting shadows on softly tanned cheeks. She reached for a stem of dandelion, blew on it until the white particles fell on her face. She had never looked more ethereal.