Storm

by Jayne Fresina

  From between the woolen scarves his eyes regarded her somberly. "Not everything has to be useful. Some things are just pretty."

  "Decorative objects which serve no purpose encourage pride and vanity. We can do without such fripperies."

  No reply.

  When she glanced at her son again, he was casting a salty eye over her pale blue silk brocade jacket, which was hardly a practical color— or material— in which to travel. Unblinking, he boldly met her cross frown with a determined look of his own.

  Kate straightened her spine. "This very fine coat gives my spirits a boost on dark days, so it provides an important service."

  "Because you know you look well in it. Ain't that vanity, Ma? And pride too?"

  Her scowl deepened. Oh, why did the sweet babies, with their toothless, drooling smiles, have to grow up and become know-all men? There were quite enough of those about already. Couldn't babies stay as they were, innocent and adoring? Men were everywhere, poking their noses into everybody else's business at any opportunity. And on this particular subject her temper rose as quickly as the river around them.

  "Once again, child, it's Mama, not Ma!"

  "That coat reminds you of my pa, so that's sediment too, ain't it?"

  "Sentiment is the word, for pity's sake."

  "But you just said we shouldn't 'ave none."

  Being reminded of the rake who fathered her son was not likely to improve Kate's mood, and where Flynn came by the notion of her riding habit bearing any romantic significance was beyond her. Probably another of his fanciful imaginings. The child could be terribly melodramatic and she had no idea where he acquired the capacity.

  "I daresay," he gave a woeful sigh, "that parrot would 'ave given my spirits a boost on dark days too."

  She groaned, turning her gaze to the low clouds and feeling the vicious, spiteful beat of rain on her face.

  This did not bode well for the wondrous "Fresh Beginning" she kept promising them both. The Cornish countryside, far from being the heavenly sanctuary she'd imagined, was wet, miserable and frustrating.

  Inside her head a gruff voice scoffed, Aye, so ye can look after yourself, can ye? That's how ye ended up stuck in the river, Missy Proud-foot. Impatient, stubborn and too hot-tempered to hear reason. Fine example for that son of yours. Should have stuck with what ye knew.

  Missy Proud-foot— that was the name her father used to call her, and he would never approve of this adventure. He believed in staying where one was put and he didn't like change. Whenever he'd seen young Kate struggling to copy out the letters from a book, or practicing the syllables of an unfamiliar word, he had teased her scornfully, "Know ye place, Missy Proud-foot. Or else ye'll only ever know discontent."

  She had to prove him wrong, didn't she? All these years later, here she was, still hoping to find something more, something better, especially for Flynn, her son.

  Although, as yet, the boy was none too impressed with her efforts.

  "If only we 'ad that parrot," he muttered. "The feller said it was a lucky parrot. But no, you wouldn't trust 'im, just like you never trust anybody."

  She sniffed. "I didn't like his face."

  "Why not?"

  "I simply didn't. I have an instinct for these things."

  "He was a happy fellow. I liked him."

  "He grinned like a jack o' lantern and his breath was rife. There is a difference, Flynn, between happy and in one's cups. Kindly take note."

  "If you don't want men smiling at you, then you shouldn't wear that coat."

  "I wear this coat for me, young sir!" The splendid riding habit happened to be the finest garment in her possession and it made her feel bold, capable of tackling any obstacle. It was, in effect, her armor.

  "So here we are, no lucky parrot just when we need one, and all about to be drowneded. Just because a man smiled at you. Snakes preserve us!"

  "It's Sakes preserve us. Not snakes!"

  "Should 'ave got that lucky parrot."

  "I'll not sit here in the rain discussing a wretched parrot, Master Flynn Michael Kelly. I am the adult here and so I get my way. When you are an adult it'll be your turn and you can have all the parrots you want. Although I sincerely doubt you'll ever reach adulthood if you keep talking back to your ma in this fashion."

  "You mean mama. "

  Exasperated she twisted around on the seat, preparing to hoist up her skirts and step down. It was then Kate realized there was someone already in the water, wading toward them. A large someone. A male someone.

  Of course. They were everywhere. Even out here, it seemed. Now here came another to lecture and ridicule her for getting stuck. He was already laughing at their predicament. She saw it in his very brazen, very blue eyes, and heard it in the low, country burr of a voice that seemed barely capable of containing amusement.

  "If you're planning on a spot of bathing this early in the year, ma'am, I hope you're wearing stout woolens to keep frostbite off your cheeks."

  Kate's fingers curled tighter around her whip. She'd heard all manner of horror stories about what happened to women traveling alone. In fact, she'd almost hired an escort to ride with them, but then at the last moment balked at the idea, unable to trust anyone she found willing. To her, the choices who put themselves forward had all appeared somewhat shady characters. But, as Flynn pointed out, if she tried hard enough she could find fault with anyone.

  The big, scruffy brute now coming toward her needn't think he could take advantage, manhandle her person and steal her mother's spinet. Or, even worse, kidnap her little boy and sell him into servitude as a chimney sweep. She still had that wood axe under her seat, within reaching distance should it be needed.

  The stranger had something spattered on his shirt that looked very much like blood. Any moment now he could be joined by his comrades who would emerge from the bushes to descend upon them like savages.

  Swept up in the horror of the moment, she flourished her whip and exclaimed, "Come no closer, unkempt, shifty-eyed ruffian!"

  Surprise lifted his brows. "Well, I've been called plenty before, but that's a new one."

  Thus, jovially ignoring her warning, the man resumed a steady progress toward them.

  He wore a shabby, stained coat that trailed in the water, and no hat over his hair. His face was browned by sun and a little beaten by the weather, but although he blinked hard against the rain, a calmly bemused, azure gaze was fixed upon her very determinedly between each downward swipe of lashes.

  Kate stood, intent on hiding her son from him. "I've nothing for you to steal. Go back, I say! Go back, villainous wretch!"

  He was probably a gypsy, wild and lawless. Heaven help them!

  Suddenly the cart lurched another good few inches down into the riverbed, bouncing her roughly off her feet and back into her seat. It did not, however, silence her tongue.

  "If you lay a hand on me, you'll be sorry. I am in possession of weaponry and wholly prepared to make use of it!"

  "Madam," he said coolly, "I've never laid an unwelcome hand on any woman in my life." Kate had barely allowed those words to sink in, than he added, "Unless it was self-defense."

  She stared, holding her breath, her lips pursed.

  "I won't suffer blows without some form of retaliation. So if I were you, I'd think wisely and sheath those claws." With one hand he swept wet hair back from his brow. "I don't hold with this business of treating women like fragile china. Especially not when they threaten my body parts with damage. And when I catch them trespassing on my land."

  "Your...your land?"

  He nodded. "Storm Deverell is the name, and everything within three miles of this spot belongs to me. That includes all the beasts found upon it."

  Her pulse was too fast. She almost dropped her whip, her fingers feeling numb.

  "Which makes you fair game, my lady." He grinned so suddenly it was like a burst of sunlight through the rain, dazzling her. "Finders keepers."

  Chapter Two

  He'd shock
ed her into silence, it seemed. At least she was no longer threatening him with bodily harm and he could assess the situation while she sat there holding her whip, only her eyes moving to follow him from side to side. Green eyes, watchful and wary as a cat's.

  She might have been a displaced aristocrat running from the guillotine in France fifty years ago, he thought. Certainly the woman had an elegant way about her, even trapped as she was in a less than elegant predicament. Her garments were ill-suited to travel in an open cart. Indeed, that impractical blue riding jacket, embroidered with a breeze-blown meadow of flowers, and nipped tightly in at the waist, seemed more like a theatrical costume than anything made for the rigors of real life.

  His "fair game" was definitely not a local lass. More... exotic. But fair she certainly was. It had been a while since an interesting woman fell into his world and piqued his curiosity.

  This, however, was no time to get distracted. The river, already high after several days of rainy weather, was rising at a good rate. When the flow gained strength like this it could push objects of some heft downstream.

  "Aye...as I thought...you're trapped fast, Ma'am." He gestured at the wooden stumps sticking out of the earth at precarious angles. "When you saw the wooden bride was down you should have taken the stone bridge farther on. This bridge has been down all winter."

  The uncertain curl of her lips stiffened rapidly into a downward bow of annoyance. Her voice was sharp, the words clipped as if she couldn't spare a lot of breath. "Of course I would have taken another bridge, sir, had I known one existed."

  "Should have stopped and asked me then."

  "I was in haste."

  Shaking his head, he clicked his tongue against his teeth. "A peck of caution saves a pound of misery. Hope you learned a lesson here, ma'am. Now see, I'll have to get you out of this and catch my death o' cold in the process."

  Clearly under duress, her lips popped open again, like a seam breaking. "Please don't trouble yourself."

  "But I must. It's my lot in life, as a male, to get reckless, giddy females out of the puddles in which they find themselves. Since the beginning of time man has rescued woman from many a plight. You're lucky to have us." He saw the need for humor to put her at ease and hopefully relax those slender fingers, where they were wrapped so tightly around that whip. Usually a little playful teasing worked well for him.

  Today, however, it would not.

  Her eyes were full of hot sparks, spitting and simmering as her temper boiled over. "Thank goodness we have men to tell us the error of our ways and save us from ourselves. I'm surprised we women can breathe and function without you telling us what to do and how to do it."

  Apparently he'd said the wrong thing.

  Trouble. Just as he thought when she went racing by. He ought to leave the hot-head there and let some other fool help her. Someone would be along eventually. But Storm knew he'd never be able to enjoy his breakfast if he thought of her still sitting in the rain, trapped. It was a bane of his— this tender side. His father had warned him no good could come of it.

  Expelling little puffs of steam, like a train engine ill-equipped to haul its load uphill, she rattled on, "I suppose we must be grateful that you have time to spare to set us right, whenever you're not out causing all the world's wars. How would we manage without you?"

  Somewhere in the last few minutes he'd gone from a mere "unkempt ruffian" to the symbol of all male failings across the great empire. She had some nerve and a bad temper, to be sure, but wild creatures that suddenly found themselves trapped usually did.

  "Well now, I don't know what you'd do without us," he replied wryly, surveying her grounded cart. "But it looks as if you wouldn't get very far while you were doing it."

  * * * *

  He smiled again. This strange, filthy fellow had the gall to smile at her while she sat there suffering in deepest humiliation. She shouted at him and he didn't even raise his voice. It was infuriating.

  "Snakes preserve us," she heard Flynn whisper from the seat behind her. "Don't smile, mister. Don't smile, if you know what's good for you."

  Apparently the fool didn't hear this warning. He was focused intently on Kate.

  "Seems to me, Ma'am," he said slowly, in that deep, country drawl, "you managed to get yourself into this sorry predicament without a man anywhere near. All your own handiwork."

  It was, much to her chagrin, quite true. Not that she was in the mood to admit it. "I could hardly care less what it seems to you, sir. That's beside the point. Debating the matter of how I ended up here isn't going to get me out again, is it?"

  He eyed her through the rain in a slow, deliberate manner, until she felt the heat melting the embroidery on her lovely riding habit, and consorting with the rain to destroy the curl in her hair.

  "We'll need to shift some of this burden off the wheels," was his final assessment. After a brief but pregnant pause, during which she sat rigidly, he rested both forearms on the cart, scratched his unshaven cheek with long, grimy fingers, and said, "Ma'am, there is no other way around the problem. You're going to have to trust me to carry you to dry land. The water rises by the minute."

  Trust him? How could she?

  "I'm sure I can manage alone, sir." She had, after all, travelled a great many miles already without assistance and a little bit of rain was not going to stop Kate Kelly for long. With one hand she checked the dependability of her jacket buttons. "Thank you for your concern, but it's not necessary. I see I've interrupted your day. Please go about your business and leave me to mine. I'd like to get on."

  He sniffed, pushed back from the cart and turned away slowly, his coat swirling in the water around his knees. "By all means, don't let me keep you, if you think you know what you're doing."

  Kate flexed her fingers, then squeezed them around the whip again. Now what, Missy Proud-foot? You've really let that prideful sharp tongue get you into a deeper pickle, this time.

  But the stranger suddenly looked back over his shoulder and said, "Not being local, you won't know about the Bumble Trout, of course."

  "The what? Speak up, man!"

  "Flesh eatin' fish that lurk in the river. Can strip a leg to the bone in five minutes."

  Kate cautiously surveyed the water around the cart. "You still have all your parts attached. So do the horses."

  He waded toward her again. "The Bumble Trout has no taste for horseflesh and I'm wearing thick leather boots. The meat of women is their favorite, being all soft and sweetly seasoned with soap and perfume. They must be saving their appetite for you." He added, low, "Can't say I blame 'em."

  She scowled. "Do I look like I was born yesterday? There is no such fish."

  "That's what the last poor wretch said. I believe those were her final words. Before the screamin' started. The stonemason carved it on her headstone— Beware false pride and the fangs of the Bumble Trout." He paused, eyes narrowed. "I could show you the grave marker and that'll put your doubts to rest."

  "Most amusing." She arched an eyebrow. "While your story holds a certain morbid appeal, I remain unconvinced of its veracity."

  After a moment he shook his head and turned away again.

  Kate heard her son sigh heavily under all those wrappings. Her shoulders drooped. Oh dear, she must do something. The need to prove to her son that she could take care of him and that women were not weaklings was an excellent cause, but her choices at that moment were severely limited. When it came to physical strength she was at a disadvantage and there was no getting around the fact.

  Behind her on the seat, Flynn swung his feet and muttered glumly, "There goes that then. It were a good six years while it lasted."

  She looked down at the churning water. Once, years ago, she'd heard about a drunk who fell into the river Thames and was eaten by a sea monster. All that was left of him were his boots, so it was said, with the bloody, pus-filled stumps of his feet still inside. Something had got at him right enough— whether it was a sea monster or his angry wife when she
found he'd spent all the rent money on ale.

  Having desperately assessed the situation and the potential in those broad shoulders moving away from her, Kate finally shouted, "Very well then, sir."

  He stopped again and turned around.

  She took a deep breath. "I'm afraid I have no other choice, but to accept your assistance on this occasion. Under the unfortunate circumstances of my quandary." For her son, at least.

  Lurching forward in a half bow, he tugged a pretend forelock. "Well, thank you, ma'am, for granting me permission to rescue your ladyship's fine ankles from the Bumble Trout. I'm honored."

  Unfortunately, selfless acts of kindness were few and far between in her experience, and Kate faltered over how to be properly gracious about it. A simple thank you for such a rare deed seemed inadequate. While she still fumbled over an impressive word to use, the puzzling gallant pursed his lips in a nonchalant whistle and came back to the cart.

  "Thank the lord, we shan't be drowneded after all, Mama," Flynn shouted happily.

  Their rescuer's eyes widened in surprise. "You've a passenger with you? I didn't see him there."

  Before she could make an introduction to the bundle of scarves at her side, the boy exclaimed, "I'm Flynn Michael Kelly, mister. How d'ye do? I'm right hungry. Have you got any food, please? What, ma? Why d'you look at me like that? I said please. I minded my manners."

  "Funny how you pick and choose when to use them."

  "Then why ain't you laughing, Ma?"

  "It's a different sort of funny."

  The man did laugh, however, and heartily. The sound rumbled out of his chest and would surely frighten off any such thing as a flesh-eating fish. "Pleased to make your acquaintance, young Master Flynn. I'd best take you first, lad, while the Duchess here finds her gumption." He sloshed his way around the horses, rubbing their muzzles with a reassuring hand as he went.

  Kate looked again at the whirling water and contemplated saving him at least one burden by stepping down herself, but this part of the river was probably up to her thighs and, as the man had said, it was rising fast. In her skirt and petticoat she'd struggle to keep her footing. The rain showed no sign of easing and, if anything, the clouds had grown darker and thicker just in the few moments they'd sat there trapped.