True Story (The Deverells, Book One)

by Jayne Fresina

  True stared. "I'm not sure whether to be flattered by that or annoyed."

  "I mean that you would cost me in other ways, sir."

  "Stop calling me sir like that!" He bounced up out of his chair, abandoning his decision to be calm. "I would not ask you for anything."

  "Yes you would."

  "Well..." He waved a hand through the air impatiently and walked in a circle, "nothing more than exclusive rights to your body whenever I needed it."

  Behind him she muttered dryly, "Now I'm not certain whether to be flattered or annoyed."

  "Very well then, you make the rules. You say where and when."

  "That is brave of you."

  True came to a stop before his window and stared out at the windblown garden. It always amazed him how some plants grew and survived on that rocky island, but he supposed they were like him. Stubborn and determined, they did not require tender nurturing. The more resistance they felt, the hardier and tougher they became out of necessity.

  "When I see something I want, Olivia," he warned her carefully, "I generally go after it until I get it. I don't give in. I don't lose."

  There was a pause, then she replied, "And once you have it, the thing quickly loses its sense of novelty. There is always something new you must have."

  "I haven't found anything that keeps my attention. Yet."

  "You don't want to. If you did you might have to stop moving and then you'd get old."

  Oh, this again? Apparently she wanted him in his grave already. Would probably dig it for him. He thought for a moment, hands behind his back. Then he spun around angrily, opened his desk drawer and took out a letter, which he tossed to her across the desk. "Here. This came for you today."

  She looked at it, a faint frown marring her brow. "Why was it in your desk?"

  "Because I didn't feel like giving it to you," he confessed sulkily and then turned away again, listening as she tore open the seal.

  "It's only my stepbrother," she said.

  "Hmph."

  * * * *

  She stared at the words penned in obvious anger across the paper.

  I have heard a most disturbing report about your situation in Cornwall and I am of a mind to come there at once and remove you from the place. I know now I should not have allowed you to go, had I been made fully aware of the disgraceful terms of your employment and that you would be living there with him quite alone...

  This was a most ill-advised enterprise and it will cause this family much shame if you do not return home immediately...

  Having read enough, she refolded the letter. The thought of Christopher arriving there to drag her home by the scruff of her neck— as if she was an errant child— might have amused her if not for her sad state of health that morning.

  Besides, her stepbrother was quite correct in imagining her descent into infamy and he only knew the half of it.

  "Well?" Deverell demanded, his back stiffly turned to her. "What news?"

  She sighed. "He thinks I am on the road to hell."

  Slowly he glanced over one shoulder. "You cannot leave yet. You promised."

  How like a boy he was, she mused. A spoiled boy who expected to get his own way. Christopher was the same, but things had always been given to him, he did not really have to work for them or put in any effort. True Deverell was this way because he'd always had to fight, always had to get what he wanted for himself.

  "Write to him," he demanded. "Tell him you're staying. Tell him I insist."

  "We'll see. Later today perhaps, when my head stops spinning and my stomach likewise."

  Relief warmed his expression as he turned fully to face her. "You know what you need for that sour headache, Olivia my sweet? Some fresh air."

  She winced up at him.

  "Trust me." He grinned. "With my reputation, I ought to know how to handle a woman with a sore head, don't you think?"

  * * * *

  "I'm not a very good rider," she exclaimed, warily eyeing his horse.

  "That's alright, because I'll be in command. You just ride behind me. And hold on with all your might." He was already swinging himself up, even without a saddle.

  The animal was huge, its coat black and shiny, muscles oozing with power; hooves the size of a child's head.

  Deverell looked down at her from the stomping, snorting beast. "I thought you said you were never afraid?"

  "It looked smaller from a distance."

  "Isn't that the case with most objects?" He reached down one hand, fingers twitching impatiently. "I won't go too fast. Come on! Help her up, Jameson."

  Rather than appear cowardly, she gathered her wits. Gripping his hand and his sleeve, she prepared to mount the beast. Jameson gave her a boost from behind and suddenly she was up there, clinging around Deverell's waist as if her life depended on it. He didn't wait a moment longer, but turned the horse toward the beach and they were off.

  So much for not going "too fast". That, of course, was a relative term.

  The cold air whipped by her face, even when she took shelter by resting her cheek to his back. Her bonnet soon slid off her hair, unable to hold its place, the knot in her frayed ribbons being the only thing that kept it attached to Olivia. Every bone in her body shook and rattled. Sea foam sprayed up, wetting her stockings.

  But after the first few moments she dared open her eyes and she saw the clouds tearing by— dark, bubbling clouds that came as heralds to a storm. Their beauty swept her breath away. Quite literally.

  The sea was a mass of froth today, churning waves to match the sky above, all of it merging and swelling around them as they tore onward across the sand. Salt air filled her nostrils. The screech of the gulls echoed through her ears, made her heart beat faster. And the man sitting before her was warm, solid, just as powerful as his horse.

  Would someone traveling in a passing carriage up on the cliff road look down and see them? They might think she'd been stolen away on a pirate's horse, she mused.

  They would envy her.

  Suddenly Olivia felt as if she was absorbed into the scene, part of the horse itself, a creature of nature, just as wild, free and beautiful.

  Yes, beautiful. For the first time in her life.

  And belonging there in the picture, wanted, not out of place or superfluous.

  The nausea was gone, her headache eased as if someone slowly turned a winch and unclenched her tight skull again.

  It was a glorious day, after all.

  And True Deverell admired her, lusted after her. Made no bones about what he wanted to do with her.

  She ought to be appalled, but honestly, how could she be? How could any woman?

  But it wasn't any woman he wanted. It was her, the girl who'd been told he would never look twice at her.

  The horse thundered across the sand and through the water until it felt as if they were flying.

  She squeezed her companion ever tighter, but not from anxiety— from the childish, wild joy that thudded through her. Olivia wanted to laugh into the wind, even with tears in her eyes.

  This was what it felt like to be unfettered.

  Now she knew why he liked to ride so much.

  He was a man who did not believe in the need to explain himself or apologize, so this was his way of opening her eyes, making her see the world as he saw it. The best way he knew how and the only way he thought she would let him.

  * * * *

  They reached the far curve of the bay and here he slowed the horse to a canter, then a trot.

  Olivia was silent, clinging to him, leaning against his back. Would she be angry with him now?

  He wasn't sure whether the tight arms around him were a good or bad thing. They felt very good, but she could be about to rage at him and beat him about the head with her fists.

  He hoped not. True wanted her to experience this just as he did. Wanted her to understand—

  "Thank you," she gasped against his ear. "That was wonderful."

  He felt a smile playing over his lips
. An unusually shy, relieved smile, because he knew she didn't use words like "wonderful" unless she really meant it. She was a woman sparing with her praise, which made it all the more valuable. "Head still aching?"

  "A little. But it is much better than it was."

  "We can go back, if you want. Or we can ride on."

  She didn't hesitate. "Oh, let's go on! What's around the next bay?"

  "We're supposed to be working on my memoirs." Usually she was the one reminding him of that.

  "We can work later," she whispered, hugging him tighter still, her chin resting on his shoulder. "You know what they say about all work and no play."

  He laughed. "Hold tight then, my sweet."

  "You shouldn't call me that."

  "I am your employer and I shall call you whatever I want. Remember? My rules!"

  "But we're not on your island right now. Your sovereignty is suspended out here."

  "Aha." He turned his head and his lips almost touched her cheek. "That's why you want to stay out here longer, Olivia?"

  "Yes."

  "Call me True. Please. Even if it's only for today, just now, out here away from the island."

  "Very well." It was barely more than a whisper, but it touched his lips with a soft breath finer than any caress he'd ever known. "True."

  He urged his horse forward again and the beast launched into another gallop, happy to stretch its legs, tearing up the wet sand and scattering seagulls in all directions.

  * * * *

  Even when the rain started, she didn't care. Olivia wanted to go on riding. Just the two of them on a horse, as far as they could go, leaving everything else behind.

  They could catch fish to eat, as he had done when he was a boy, she thought. They would manage together. Start life in a new world.

  Like Adam and Eve.

  But reality set in when the rain came down harder and colder. The dark clouds linked and dipped low, threatening to obscure daylight several hours before night was expected.

  True steered his horse away from the sea, up a sandy path and along a coastal road to the coaching inn that she remembered from her journey to Roscarrock. It was a whitewashed building, low and squat with wide chimneys, a slate roof, and a painted sign announcing “The Fisherman's Rest" swinging wildly in the wind. Warm light shone at the little windows and steady noise from within suggested it was a busy place, perhaps because it was the only inn on the road before Truro.

  He helped her down and handed his horse to a stable lad who seemed to know him well, greeted him by name.

  "You must be hungry by now," he said, wiping wet hair back from her brow with surprisingly gentle fingers.

  She was, in fact, ravenous and apparently her countenance told him that, because he laughed, grabbed her hand and tucked it under his arm— very firmly— then took her through the door of the inn.

  He whispered from the corner of his mouth, "They have a splendid pasty here and that will replenish everything my son's brew stole from your blood yesterday."

  "A better pasty than Mrs. Blewett's?" she whispered back.

  "Yes. But don't you dare tell her I said that."

  Instead of steering her through to the private dining room of the inn— a place for grander customers to be apart from the general rabble— he took her into the crowded public salon. Feeling the draft from the open door, a few folk looked up from their cards or dominos, and nodded respectfully when they saw Deverell. He didn't stop to converse with anyone. Instead he led her directly to a corner table by the window and ordered two pasties and some beef broth. The settles had high backs, affording a degree of privacy from the other customers. If not for the low rumble of conversation, she could have imagined they were quite alone.

  Olivia hadn't realized how wet she was until she sat down and dripped all over the table. Her bonnet ribbons were stuck to her shoulders, her hair drooping down around her face.

  "I must look a sight," she muttered.

  "You do," he agreed placidly.

  "Why thank you."

  He grinned. "Were you fishing for a compliment?"

  "Good lord, no. I am aware of my limitations. I am useful, not ornamental, as we both know."

  "Now, now, Olivia," he shook a finger at her and put on a grave face. "That is not entirely honest. I may have considered you plain when first we met, but you know full well that my opinion of you has changed. I have, after all, asked you to come to bed with me."

  "You have? I only recall the earrings."

  "Then like most women you have a selective memory. And me asking you to be my lover is a compliment, whether you might think it is or not."

  "Hush." She felt her face heat up, despite the cold rain that still dripped down her cheeks. "Someone might hear."

  "So what?"

  She stared.

  "Why should I care if they know how much I desire you. They'd be more shocked if I didn't try to seduce you. And you'd be offended if I hadn't."

  "You are incorrigible," she whispered. "Dratted man."

  "Now that you're insulting me again, I know you must be feeling better than you were earlier this morning."

  She sighed, falling back against the high wooden screen behind her in a relaxed manner Great Aunt Jane would never condone. "I am much improved."

  He waited, brows high. "Thanks to me."

  "Yes. Thank you...True."

  A smile ripped quickly across his face. "I like my name on your lips."

  "But when we get back I cannot call you that. Not before your other staff."

  "When we are alone then."

  "Perhaps.

  "When we are alone then," he repeated firmly.

  Fortunately the inn-keeper arrived with food at that moment, so she had no need to reply. Olivia watched as he ate his broth, and she marveled at how far she had come with him, feeling comfortable in his presence, joking with him as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

  He who should not be mentioned.

  True Deverell might be the wickedest sinner that ever disrupted a drawing room conversation, and be unfit for the term "gentleman" according to Great Aunt Jane, but he ate his broth like any other man. Spilled it too sometimes on his chin. And she very much appreciated the fact that he didn't hide his nature, but put it all out there. Take him or leave him, he didn't care. He was unafraid to be himself, say what he wanted, admit to his faults.

  "Tell me, Olivia, now that you're finally being open and honest with me...what was your first thought when we met?"

  Just like a self-conscious boy he kept wanting to know her impression of him. So strange and yet endearing in a man who must have been told, many times, by many women, how handsome he was.

  "If you must know, I thought it was a very good thing that I didn't have to do your laundry."

  "That's all?" he exclaimed.

  "I've always been the practical sort."

  He shot her a dark look. "Fibber."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "If you were practical rather than romantic, you'd come to bed with me and take me for every penny— which I'm more than willing to give you."

  "That wouldn't make me practical. It would make me a—"

  "Woman of business?" He smirked.

  "Something like that."

  "Damn you. Why must you be so proper? And why did I have to find a conscience last night while you were soused as a herring?"

  For a while they were quiet, enjoying their luncheon. Olivia thought over her conversation with Storm last night and how he had tried so hard to give her the glowing image of his father as noble King Arthur. Both men, it seemed, had been pushing her at each other. Clearly Storm hadn't given up on his father's heart. Perhaps he saw something there that no one else did. And which True would ferociously deny.

  "What now, Olivia the merciless?" he grumbled.

  "Your son is very fond of you," she said, feeling a warm glow inside as she curled her fingers around a napkin and fought the temptation to wipe his chin for him.

/>   "Good. He should be. I do a lot for that boy."

  "He's not a boy, he's a man. And he's not fond of you just because of the things you've done for him, or what material things you give him. He loves you because you're his father and he looks up to you. He won't hear a word against you."

  "Oh, tried to speak badly about me to my own son last night, did you?"

  "No. I couldn't get a word in sideways. He was too eager to assure me of how wonderful you are."

  "Hmph." He tore a lump off the end of her pasty and stuffed it into his own mouth, scattering crumbs across the small table.

  "I don't believe you really know what love is, True Deverell. That's why you don't think you're capable of the emotion. Perhaps you feel it already and don't recognize it."

  Now he slurped broth directly from the side of the bowl and burped, his eyes boring into her the entire time, looking for a reaction. Olivia knew he was being deliberately coarse, trying to remind her of his upbringing. Or lack of it. Using that misfortune, once again, as his excuse.

  "You don't wish to discuss it," she muttered.

  The bowl drained, he let it fall back to the table and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "Exactly. Just as you don't like to tell me what you're thinking and feeling. Just as you don't care to tell me about your husbands. I have to tease it out of you, don't I?"

  She shook her head, looking down at her hands in her lap. He wanted so much from her and yet he was willing to concede so little. Olivia would be the one to make all the changes, if she wanted to be with him.

  Suddenly a woman bumped into their table and exclaimed, "Why, it is you, Mr. Deverell! It's been a while since we saw you here." She was pretty, pink-cheeked, plump and bosomy. Her fair hair, full of wispy curls, framed her face like petals.

  "Ah... Sally. It has been a while, hasn't it?"

  "Aye." The woman rolled her hip against the table edge and gave a low, lusty chuckle. "Not like you to be stuck up there on that chunk of rock all alone with no female company for so many months. I thought you was ill. Rumor had it that bullet hit something vital after all." And then, as if she had not noticed anyone else seated there until he gestured with a nod of his head, she finally turned and looked Olivia up and down. "Who's this then? Not a local girl."