True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  She turned her face so that he wouldn't see her smile. He shouldn't call her by that name. But it was too fine a day to worry about any of that.

  She didn't think she would ever be able to put on her bonnet again without remembering this strange moment. Including his boast about not needing the ribbons tied to hold it up.

  Crikey, as his son Damon would say.

  Olivia's gaze skipped across his damp, wide shoulders and she saw a scar where someone had stitched his skin together over a wound. No doubt there would be other scars, if she looked further. Quite a few people had taken aim at him, according to the rumors, and she had begun to understand why. He was the most infuriating man she'd ever known and firing a bullet at him might be the only way to keep him still.

  "I expected to find your trunk packed and waiting in my hall this morning, Mrs. Monday, after my terrible faux pas last night."

  Aha! So he had meant to chase her off.

  "Mr. Deverell, I am not afraid of you, or what you might do to me, any more than I am afraid of steam engines. I have been telling you that I am fearless since the first night. Hopefully you can believe it now and stop testing me."

  He laughed and she felt it rumbling through his chest. "I suppose I'm just a lot of inconvenient, rude noise and vulgar puffs of steam, eh?"

  "Precisely."

  "You really didn't think of me last night?"

  Aha, he threw that question at her again on the sly, probably hoping to catch her off guard. "I did not," she lied swiftly and pertly.

  "How did the kindly parson tell his wife that he wanted—"

  "Well, what would you say?"

  "I would say...Come to bed with me, Olivia."

  She had fallen asleep with those words playing through her mind, tickling her on the inside. Of course, she had asked what would he say to his own wife, not what would he say to her. Deliberately and mischievously he had misinterpreted.

  "I ought to drop you over the edge of this island," he grumbled. "Why am I carrying you without even the promise of a thank you?"

  "Something about trying to be a gentleman. Not that I believed a word of it."

  They rounded a corner of the stone wall and abruptly collided with a man coming from the other direction. The jolt caused Olivia to grab hold of his shoulders on instinct. Deverell almost dropped her, but in the next moment had gripped her even tighter against his bare chest.

  "Storm!"

  "Father." Sun shone down on a head of tarnished gold hair. A pair of deep blue eyes in a tanned face closed in on Olivia with a great deal of surprise and amusement. "I hope I'm not disturbing anything. Looks as if you have your hands full."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "I heard a rumor," his son exclaimed, grinning broadly. "Had to see for myself, didn't I?"

  "Mrs. Blewett, I suppose."

  "You know how she is. Couldn't wait to tell me about the extraordinary new woman in your life."

  "Extraordinary?"

  "Well, odd and funny were the words Mrs. B used. When I saw you with the lady in question I was obliged to reinterpret her description."

  True knotted the belt of his robe, snatched up a towel and briskly rubbed his wet hair. "Mrs. Monday is not a new woman in my life."

  "She looks like a woman. Smells like one too."

  "She's a secretary. It's perfectly innocent."

  Storm spun Mrs. Monday's bonnet around by the frayed ribbons, his bemused gaze assessing the debris from last night's supper. "Of course it is. No one can possibly think otherwise. At least the lady had her clothes on."

  "She twisted her ankle."

  "No need to explain. These things happen."

  True swiped at his son with the towel to move him aside and walked around his desk. "Glad as I am that you accepted my invitation, it was for dinner, not breakfast."

  "Thought I'd come and spend more time with my father, didn't I? After all, I never know when you'll be off back to London again."

  "I plan to stay a while at Roscarrock this time." He wrapped the towel around his neck, gathered up the wine glasses in one hand and pulled the bell chord for Sims with the other. "Ransom is doing well enough managing Deverell's, and I can oversee things from here. I've decided to write my memoirs, which is why I hired a secretary to help. So you can erase from your mind all suspicions about her." True set the glasses down on the untidy tray. He took a deep breath and straightened up. "She's a respectable parson's widow in reduced circumstances— which you must not mention— and she doesn't suffer fools gladly." He smiled ruefully. "Not the sort of woman for me at all. So I'll thank you not to embarrass her by suggesting there is anything like that between us."

  He'd made up his mind that morning to try a little better and behave himself. Last night he'd gone too far. As he'd said to Damon, they weren't accustomed to the company of women like her. It showed. Unfortunately his actions had probably proven everything she'd ever heard about him.

  But then she twisted her ankle and he couldn't let her limp into the house, could he? Jameson was still out fishing and Sims would never manage to carry her. So what else could be done with her? Putting clothes on first hadn't occurred to him until it was too late. She did have a habit of making him forget the best of intentions.

  Storm's eyes narrowed as he watched his father trying to tidy the room. Finally he ceased twirling Mrs. Monday's bonnet by the ribbons and remarked, "It's not like you, father, to suddenly become all proper. Or to worry about embarrassing a lady. What's she done to you?"

  "Actually, I rather thought she might make a splendid mate for you, son. A decent woman. Well-bred, but not too fancy. She's about your age and could keep you in line. Wouldn't take any of your nonsense."

  There, that would redirect the teasing. She was all wrong for him anyway. He would ruin her reputation and shatter her wide-eyed belief in "love".

  "Me? You got her for me?" Storm laughed loudly.

  True tossed the remnants of last night's supper so violently onto the tray that he chipped the edge of a plate. Damn. Never mind, plenty more plates in the kitchen. "I didn't get her for you," he glanced anxiously at the door, hoping she wasn't sneaking about on the other side of it again. Just in case, he lowered his voice. "She's not a toy or a puppy! It was quite by accident that Chalke sent her here instead of the older, plainer woman I asked for. But since she arrived, I was thinking she might be just the woman for you."

  His son folded his arms, Olivia's bonnet ribbons dangling from one fist. "Why would you think that, father?"

  "Because she's polite, well-mannered, quiet, but knows her own mind. Won't let you get away with any nonsense. She's clever, amusing, hard-working, sweet. A bit stubborn, like you."

  "You know all that about her already?"

  He knew more than that, he mused. She thought she was fearless. She was understanding and tolerant of impertinent children, holding her own when questioned by them. She was determined, liked her food, had fidgeting fingers when nervous, and— despite assorted husbands— she had never before been properly kissed.

  True decided he'd let his son discover all that himself. Except for the last thing, which, unfortunately, he took care of last night, while he was not in his right mind and suffering from an old cockerel's wounded vanity.

  "Men like us don't find her kind around very often. They don't grow on trees," he said with a deep sigh. "I suggest you sweep her up while she's here. If you know what's good for you."

  "You're making me exceedingly curious about this woman, father."

  "That's the idea, son." He forced a grin. "Now let me introduce you to her properly."

  * * * *

  "Does he swim... like that... all the time?" Olivia sat in the kitchen with her foot up on a chair and a cold compress wrapped around her aching ankle. "I wish I'd been apprised of the fact."

  "The master takes a daily constitutional very early, whether he swims or goes out riding. He believes it keeps him in good health," Mrs. Blewett explained. "I didn't think to warn you that h
e swims in nature's own. He told me you're a late riser by habit, so I didn't think it mattered."

  Exasperated by this lie he'd apparently spread about her being a lazy, sleepy-headed woman, she cried, "Late riser? I was late the first morning as I was tired from my journey and nobody saw fit to rouse me. I can assure you that I am generally up with the lark and prompt when it is required. In future I would like to be warned about what I might see if I venture outside."

  "No need to take on! Besides you've seen it all before surely."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  The cook skimmed over that. "I'm sure it's no skin off my nose when you get up. Now you sit still before that ankle swells up like bread dough."

  She poured Olivia a much needed cup of sugary tea for "shock", but really it was not so much shock, as it was amazement and awe that a man could swim so quickly and powerfully like that in the sea, then haul himself up a steep incline, and finally carry her as if she weighed no more than a bunch of flowers— and all while he was barely out of breath. As he carried her against his chest she'd felt his heartbeat and it was remarkably unperturbed. None of her husbands would have managed so much exertion in one morning. Freddy was never up before noon, and Allardyce saved his energy for escaping bill collectors. William, of course, had his troublesome bad back to consider, as well as the desire to keep a steady rhythm of breath.

  "The master keeps himself trim and lean as a good steak," said Mrs. Blewett. "I daresay the ladies are grateful."

  Olivia hoped her frown would be enough to discourage the woman from that subject. It did not.

  "There's always plenty about. Before you came, he often had Jameson row 'em over at night from the mainland. Two or three at a time on some nights. But I must say you seem different to the usual fare."

  "That's because I am not his usual 'fare'," she exclaimed.

  The cook rambled on without listening, as usual. "I thought he'd slow down at his age, but there's no sign of it. Now, here you are, a bit of a girl, to keep him on his toes. I daresay you'll keep him well exercised too, eh?" She erupted into more chuckles that shook her entire body. "If not, he'll be sending Jameson in the boat for a half dozen hussies again. My, you do look a bit peaky, young lady. Grey as a ghost! I'll make you some kippers. I don't suppose you've had any breakfast yet. Keep your foot up. Leave it to me."

  Olivia sighed in frustration and snatched up her teacup and saucer. She began to appreciate what her stepbrother and father must have suffered when trying to make her see sense.

  She had just taken a sip of tea when Deverell and his son appeared in the kitchen.

  "Mrs. Monday, I trust your ankle is being well tended, or should I send for a physician?"

  "It's only a sprain, sir," she assured him. "No need for a doctor."

  "I'll decide that," he muttered, quickly hunkering down beside her, removing the compress and grabbing her ankle before she could protest. It was desperately improper, but once again she was forced to put the gesture in line with all his other improprieties, from which it was difficult to identify the worst offense. When Deverell's hands made contact with her foot and ankle there was only a stocking between his flesh and hers. Thus she was silenced.

  How strong his hands were, how masterful his long fingers as they examined the hapless end of her limb, pressing and stroking to feel the bones within. Olivia dare not look up, but it was just as difficult watching his sun-tanned fingers holding her foot as it was to pretend it didn't happen.

  With those same fingers he had skillfully mended her spectacles. The first person ever to bother. A simple kindness she had not expected from a man like him.

  Now he meant to fix her body the same way.

  There was no clock in the kitchen, nothing to help mark the occasion.

  Finally came his assessment. "It is not broken. But rest, please, and don't get up." He stood, those powerful hands flexing at his sides, and then added, "I suppose I should introduce my son properly. It was a trifle inconvenient to do so before." When she looked up, his gaze darted sideways, avoiding her own, and he scratched the back of his damp head in an oddly sheepish fashion.

  Guilty, she thought at once. But of what this time?

  The other man bowed, smiling broadly and showing off strong white teeth. "Mrs. Monday, I have the honor of returning your bonnet." He passed it to her. "I am delighted to make your acquaintance. My father speaks very highly of you."

  She frowned. "He does?"

  "Oh yes, cannot stop singing your praises."

  "I can't imagine why. He's hardly put me to work yet."

  "My father has a tendency to make up his mind about people very quickly. He says it's instinct."

  She shot a glance at Deverell, who had walked away to discuss something with Mrs. Blewett. He wore an ankle-length robe in rich emerald velvet with a tall quilted collar. Naked beneath it, undoubtedly. His hair was still wet, wildly rumpled. His eyelashes held tiny prisms of light where they too were damp from his early morning swim. He could be the same age as his son, she thought. Indeed, younger. She knew of no men his age so active and bursting with vitality. In fact she knew no men younger who could keep up with him.

  Her heartbeat had gone from a lame nag's near halt to racehorse gallop.

  Rowing hussies over from the mainland under cover of darkness, according to Mrs. Blewett. Half a dozen at a time! He was impossible. A glutton in everything he did.

  "I hope you won't find life here too isolated, Mrs. Monday."

  Olivia forced her attention back to Storm Deverell. "Oh, I'm not the sort that needs to be surrounded by people and activity. I'm rather an introvert."

  "But when the weather is bad this island really is cut off from the rest of the world. You will find it eerie when the fog comes in so thick you can no longer see the shore."

  "I have my work to keep me occupied. And plenty of books with me to read." She smiled. "As an only child up until the age of sixteen, I'm very good at entertaining myself."

  The man's eyes were very blue and friendly as he studied her carefully for a moment. His face was sun-browned, his expression open and interested. She recognized his father in the line of the jaw and the sharp angle of that Roman nose, but where True Deverell's coloring reminded her of winter's stark beauty, Storm's gold-tinted aura was all harmless summer. The richest, warmest part of the season just before the wheat was harvested, when the sun rose early and the dusty days seemed to linger forever. She would have thought him very handsome, if she hadn't seen his father first. But Storm Deverell's sunlight had been eclipsed for her before they even met.

  "If you decide you need company, or my father gets too much for you, I can be found on the home farm. I never stray far from it, and the company of a pretty lady is always welcome. Send a note with Mrs. Blewett any time, and Jameson can bring you over for dinner."

  "Thank you. That's very kind." Pretty lady, indeed. How easily he threw those silly words out. Like his father saying she was witty and clever, as if she ought to be accustomed to hearing flattery of that kind— even in jest.

  "The farmhouse is nothing fancy," he continued, "but I can put on a good spread if I know to expect visitors. For you, Mrs. Monday, I'll even wash my hands and wear a clean shirt." His smile broadened, a mischievous twinkle sparking in his eyes. Oh yes, that was familiar to her too now as a Deverell trait.

  "How lucky for me," she replied wryly. "But I'd hate for you to go to so much trouble."

  "I'll be on my best behavior. You won't know this yet, but I am, in fact, the best of the litter. I don't bite and scratch and hiss like the others."

  "That's useful to know."

  "And I never lose my temper. Patient as Job, that's me. Read the Bible every night by my fire, and bathe all over once a week, whether I need it or no."

  "I am impressed."

  "So when you get tired of my father's antics, you come over to the farm for dinner. I'll light the best candles for you."

  "Shall we read Bible verses together?"


  He hesitated, his eyes simmered. "If you wish, Mrs. Monday. We'll see how the mood takes us."

  She had to laugh then as he attempted an innocent countenance. Those blue eyes must have helped him out of sticky situations many times, for they gave him the look of a pious choir boy. Oh, yes, she could quite see how Storm Deverell charmed the local young ladies, just as the cook had warned her. His father would have been the same at that age. Still was now, for pity's sake— scattering her heartbeat all over the place. Carrying her so easily. Teasing her. Kissing her. Assaulting her poor, innocent bonnet with his manly parts. Fixing her bent spectacles.

  "Mrs. Monday?"

  What had he said? Storm was waiting for a reply of some sort and she was utterly lost.

  "You will come to the farm one evening and I'll entertain you," he reminded her.

  "But I would not like to get underfoot. Are you not always busy at the farm? I hear it uses up all your energy and doesn't leave time for courting the local girls."

  Now his gaze shifted slyly toward Mrs. Blewett and his father who were still in deep conversation, and he whispered, "Well, I can always make an exception for a very special lady."

  "There has never been a special lady?"

  "Not until now." He looked at her again, thoughtful, his voice lowered. "Not like you. The way that you are."

  "The way that I am?"

  His sun-kissed brows rose. "I would have thought it was obvious."

  "I'm afraid not. I'm a very ordinary person, quite unexceptional."

  "Yes." He paused, rubbed his lower lip in a gesture identical to one she'd seen his father use. "We Deverells don't know much about ordinary people. So we're curious. Can't help ourselves." Storm lowered his voice again. "I knew you were different to his usual company the moment I heard my father worrying that I might say something to offend you. He doesn't generally give a damn what any woman thinks."

  Olivia realized she'd been pulling at the already frayed ends of her bonnet ribbons, making them look even worse. She quickly knitted her fingers together to keep them still. "He needn't concern himself. I'm simply a secretary and in a few months I'll be gone."