Storm

by Jayne Fresina

  She waited, lush lips slightly parted, eyes simmering.

  "I don't know if it's true. But the old man never let anybody onto his land while he was living— guarded it with a blunderbuss. I waited for the auction that was bound to come. I'm a patient fellow and I knew his widow wouldn't want to stay out here alone." He sniffed. "Then you came along and snapped it up from under me."

  "I see." An intrigued light shone in her eyes, as if the candle flames were reflected there several times over.

  "I suppose you think I'm an ass to believe in buried treasure."

  "No. We all have to believe in something. It keeps us going when times are hard."

  Storm looked at her, wondering what the hell she'd run away from. If she wouldn't tell him he couldn't help her. Perhaps that would account for his frustration and his restlessness lately. He didn't like feeling powerless any more than he liked the sudden sting of jealousy when he thought of her with Restarick. Or any other man.

  He needed to find out what it was she wanted in life.

  "What do you believe in, Kate? What keeps you going? I've never met a woman so determined to succeed against the odds." Her fields were, frankly, a mess, and her animals were running amok most days, but she'd already lasted longer than most expected. He'd watched her struggling with the plow herself when Tom Lott let her down. No obstacle seemed to get in her way for long.

  "It's my turn to ask the questions," she chided him again.

  "But I have so many."

  "Then you should have set the rules at more than three." She smiled quite suddenly. "You missed your chance for more." And then she got up to fetch a pie from the range.

  He felt slightly dazed. The wine didn't usually affect him this much, so it could be due to the fact that she'd just smiled at him. It was a lovely, shy sort of smile, almost ashamed of itself. A little sad.

  Sharing his secret with her had apparently softened her edges. The anxiety palpable when he first arrived for dinner was now dispersed, mellowed into something else.

  But while he sat there in a more contented frame of mind, she flung the pie down before him with a bang. Her mood changed that swiftly.

  "Well, I tried. I warned you."

  The crust was badly burned and a piece of it dropped to the tabletop as it landed, but he did his best to look impressed. Brown liquid sizzled and bubbled out of the edges, and there was a curious odor, uniquely unappetizing.

  The fact that she'd cooked for him, however, was surely progress.

  "There's custard too," she said with a sigh, "but it's full of lumps. I don't know why. If you want it you can have it. I suppose it will cover the burnt parts."

  "I happen to like burnt pastry. You're in luck."

  Kate stabbed the pie with a knife. "I daresay other ladies of your acquaintance cook you better meals than this."

  He chuckled, glancing up at her. "Is that your third and final question, Duchess? Because you won't get another, so use it wisely." In truth, he'd lost count, but he wouldn't admit that.

  Oh, he was tempted to reach out and put his arm around her. Tell her the pie didn't matter. Did she really think he came there for the food?

  She was close enough, her narrow waist level with his shoulder while he sat. But he held back, remembering his manners and that she was accustomed to gentlemanly behavior. If she didn't go back to her chair soon he'd have to sit on his hands to keep them out of trouble.

  No doubt she would only remind him again that this was a platonic relationship and nothing more. She might even stab him with the knife, he mused, watching her wield it with considerable vigor through that hapless pie.

  "There was something else I wanted to ask you," she said, slightly breathless. "I didn't only come to apologize this morning, but I meant to ask if I could pay you to mend the roof. I could ask someone in the village, but I don't know who to trust there."

  He sat back, admiring her profile and the candlelight weaving lines of copper through her hair. It gave him a thrill to discover each glimmering spark, as it must for the miners underground when they struck a new lode.

  "Pay me?"

  "How much would you charge?"

  Hmm. What would Olivia say? "I thought it was improper to discuss finances with a lady."

  "Well, you should think of me as another man then. A man running a farm."

  "I can't do that." He looked askance. "Makes me laugh too hard."

  Dropping her knife to the table with a clatter, she resumed her seat opposite. Then with steady fingers, she swept a curl of loosened hair back behind her ear, composing herself again. "Will you mend my roof or not? I can always strike a bargain with someone else if you haven't the time."

  Two fingers to his chin he looked upward, pretending to consider. "As it happens we might be able to make a trade."

  When he looked at her again her eyes narrowed. "A trade?"

  "My services for yours."

  "What sort of services?" She gestured listlessly at the murdered rhubarb pie. "Cooking?"

  He snorted. "No. I have other ladies of my acquaintance to cook for me— a lot of 'em— and they are quite skilled at the craft. How else do you think I keep this manly physique?"

  "I'm happy for you that you have so many female friends. I guessed you didn't really need a housekeeper at all."

  He stretched in his chair, making the wood creak. "Aye, I've got a lot o' ladies to feed me."

  "So it would seem."

  "I really don't need another who just wants to fatten me up like a sacrificial calf. But there is something I do need."

  Her brows arched high. "Oh?"

  "A respectable female companion for social events."

  "Social events?" Down came the brows into a quizzical frown. "I didn't know you had many of those out here."

  "I'm a Deverell," he reminded her. "Sometimes they force me out of the pig sty and dress me up like a dandy. Mostly to amuse themselves, because they know I'll say and do something I shouldn't. My father insists on making me participate. Ever since he discovered my existence when I was five he's been trying to make me feel like I belong with the tribe."

  "So he doesn't want you to feel left out. His motives are noble, surely."

  "I'd rather be left on my farm and not dragged into their drama."

  "Can't you tell them that? I know you can be candid." She blinked, her lips twitching.

  He chuckled dourly. "You haven't met my father properly yet, have you? Or any of his other cubs? There are six others— that we know of."

  She shook her head.

  "When you do encounter them, you'll understand why it's easier to draw in your sails and go along with the tide when you're a small boat on a rough sea." He leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "What I need is someone presentable, who'll look good on my arm without shackling it to her. A proper lady who cleans up nicely, won't embarrass me. A woman with no romantic intentions, no designs on my merry bachelor status."

  Her lips pursed.

  "I'll help you on the farm from time to time, and you can return the favor by being a companion for those events my family insists on dragging me to. That way I can keep everybody content. Olivia and my father will stop trying to marry me off to every eligible wench within fifty miles, and yet you and I will merely be...what was that word you used?"

  "Platonic."

  "That's right. Instead of being a companion to some old lady, you'll be mine." He grinned. "We can start with the Spring fete next week. See how we get on."

  Of course, he'd known all along that Olivia engineered this idea of him taking Mrs. Kelly to the Spring fete. She was up to her matchmaking tricks again. But he could turn this to his advantage, while also making certain his neighbor didn't go to the fete with Joss Restarick.

  "There'll be other functions," he added. "My father's wedding for one. If you accompany me I won't mind having to wear a silk cravat quite so much. Nor will I suffer the usual cannon fire of questions about my love affairs and when I plan to marry and produce o
ffspring. They won't dare ask, if I have a lady with me. It'll make a pleasant change to dance with someone who neither expects, nor wants anything more from me. Other than a new roof and a hand with the plow."

  Kate Kelly looked at him with a warmer, summery gaze and said, "I suppose so. At least we both know where we stand. As you said before, we're sorted."

  "Precisely." He cleared his throat. "I have women for all my other needs. Some to cook, some to knit my winter vests, some to entertain...the rough and tumble sort that don't mind getting dirty. If you get my drift."

  "Oh, I do," she replied tightly.

  "I just don't have one with the necessary ladylike manners that won't show me up in public. That's all I'd want you for. Like I said before, they don't grow your sort around here."

  He waited for some objection to this remark and he daren't look up for fear of exploding with laughter.

  But after a moment she responded softly. "And you'll continue comfortably in your unchallenged bachelor existence and I shall continue in mine as a respectable widow, without any sort of romantic expectation on either side. A business arrangement of a sort."

  When he looked up, she was smug, pleased with the scheme as if it had been her own and she'd talked him into it. Maybe he should have asked for something else in exchange for her new roof, he thought darkly, his gaze straying over her soft, full lips.

  "And in the meantime, since we are friends now, Mr. Deverell, and you've told me about that buried treasure, I suppose I'll have to share it with you. If I should find it."

  "Would you now?"

  "Of course," she proclaimed.

  "Hmm." He dug a fork into his slice of pie. "I'm not altogether sure I believe that."

  "I'm not a swindler."

  "I'm not sure I believe that either." He paused. "Anymore than I believe in that hat factory."

  Silence.

  Storm put down his fork and looked at her, waiting.

  "Well, goodness," she exclaimed in a rush, "is there anything about me that you do believe? I wonder that you want to be friends."

  "I don't know why I do either, but I do, so there it is." He reached across and caught a loop of her coppery hair between his fingers. "At least I know this is real. The only other woman I ever saw with hair close to this color had dyed it. But it was flat. Not full of this many shades and lights."

  Although he fully expected to get his venturing hand slapped, she made no move to stop him as he wound the curl around his finger. "You know a lot of women who dye their hair, I suppose?"

  "Just the one."

  "Did she cook for you too?"

  "Not in the kitchen."

  Her eyes sparkled and her lips parted in a gasp of exasperation.

  In a teasing mood, he whispered, "How do you suppose I found out that the hair on her head was not her natural, God-given color?"

  She finally brought her hands up to unwind her hair from his finger. The touch of her hand to his was soft and warm, sending a frisson all the way along his arm, across his shoulder and down his spine. But as soon as she was freed— with more hindrance than help from him— she stood. "It's getting late, and we both rise early. I hope you enjoyed the dinner. Some of it, at least."

  "I did." His skin was still hot from her touch. Burning. "I look forward to the next time. Do I get three more questions then?"

  "That was your rule, not mine." Reaching for the brass candle snuffer, she proceeded to put out the light on the table. Thin wisps of blue smoke wound upward from the blackened wicks. That was what he felt like, at that moment— smoke, drifting and hanging in the air around her. Reluctant to leave.

  "I'm glad we called a truce," he said, pushing his chair back and heaving upright with a sigh. "Should we shake hands on it?"

  Her lashes flickered uncertainly as she walked around the table toward him. "I don't think that's necessary."

  The candles were out now, but the oil lamp in the window remained lit, casting the room in a warm, muted glow. Her hair caught that light and trebled it so that she seemed to burn like a flame herself. "Good evening, Mr—"

  Storm stuck out his hand and caught hers before she could reach for the door handle to show him out. "Shake hands, Duchess. It's the way we seal a bargain in the country. Isn't that how they do it in London?" He had to touch her. He needed his hand on her skin.

  She relented, her shoulders sloping, head bowed forward. "Very well."

  But having shaken her hand he was loath to give it up. Instead he brought it to his lips and kissed her knuckles. He inhaled the scent of her skin and detected violets. Possibly Bourbon roses too.

  Unaware of how many seconds had passed with his lips pressed to her flesh, he was rather surprised when she said curtly, "What are you doing, sir?"

  He released her hand and straightened up. "Forgive me, Duchess. But it's unusual, in my experience, for a woman to smell and taste better than the food she cooks for me. I got a little carried away."

  "So I see." She folded her hands before her, the one he'd licked covered by the other. "Well, good evening."

  "Good evening." Composing himself with every shred of willpower, he stepped over her threshold and out into the cool night air.

  It was going to be a damned long, uncomfortable journey home in the saddle and, he suspected, a wakeful restless night alone by his fire.

  * * * *

  She watched his lantern moving away as he rode home across the valley on that still, peaceful evening.

  Somewhere within the last few hours she had felt herself melting again in his presence. There was nothing she could do to stop it. Storm Deverell was a singular force, unlike any she'd encountered before. His company made her feel like a proper lady for once. A person of substance.

  It amused her that he kept his female acquaintances in separate compartments— like colorful books on a shelf, each one providing a different purpose. Apparently he did not think there was a single volume that could meet all his needs. Or perhaps he was afraid of that possibility, since it meant he would have to dispose of all the others and put his hopes in one.

  Kate could fully understand the fear of trusting, but really he ought to be married with children. It was such a waste for a man like him to be alone. And he was alone, despite his myriad "acquaintances" and that large family of siblings. She sensed his isolation, probably because she had always felt the same way, fought her battles single-handedly.

  Now he had added her to his cluttered list of people he must help, despite that claim to want a simple life.

  Storm Deverell— reformed bad boy (according to local rumor) and now purveyor of good deeds— couldn't prevent himself from helping her too, it seemed.

  Part Two

  Beware small boats on rough seas and the men who sail aboard them.

  Chapter Ten

  The wide curve of Bothack Bay was dotted with striped canvas stalls and flags fluttering in the breeze. Along the cliff top and on the sand below, vendors had set up their wares in eye-catching displays, showing off the best the county had to offer— or so rang the claims shouted back and forth. It was a jolly scene, the weather sunny, people clearly enjoying a break from the hard toil of Spring.

  "Bothack is the Cornish word for hunchback," Storm explained, helping her down from his cart. "See over there...that outcrop of rock? Legend has it that a hunchback was once thrown over the cliff edge there and that's his ghost frozen in time."

  Kate shivered. "I've noticed that before."

  "When the day is overcast, it looks even more like a man standing there. Especially if you're looking up from the beach."

  Yes, she knew that only too well. Hastily turning her attention to the brightly colored stalls instead, she found Olivia hurrying toward them, smiling.

  "I'm so glad you came! It will do you good to get away from that farm and enjoy yourself for a few hours, Storm." And as she embraced Kate, she whispered, "I must introduce you to Mrs. Blewett, who is very keen to meet you. She's quite the unofficial town crier, so if
you ever want to get any news out you can tell her."

  "I'll remember that."

  "Now, young Master Flynn, I have some friends waiting to meet you too." Olivia took the boy's hand and looked up. "If it's alright with your mama?"

  "Of course."

  Of course. She didn't want to offend Olivia. Oh, but it was very hard to let him go out of her sight.

  Suddenly Storm held out his arm. "Come, Mrs. Kelly, we'll go too." And he walked her after Olivia, keeping a little distance but staying close enough so she could still watch her son and not worry. He did it without fuss or comment, quite naturally knowing her mind.

  Relief and gratitude swept through her. Taking several hearty breaths of the sea air, she let the sun warm her face, tipping her head back so that those bright, gilding rays reached under the brim of her bonnet. Like a flower unfurling its petals in the warmth she felt herself blossoming, letting go of her fears.

  They passed stalls of everything from haberdashery to cheese, fur hats to clogs. There were ironmongers, jewelers and toymakers. Something for all ages. Her senses filled with the sights, sounds and smells, but although the fete was crowded she felt no panic. With Storm Deverell beside her it was impossible to worry. There was an ease to his company because she didn't have to wonder what he was thinking. He told her the moment she asked.

  Although, as she'd learned already, sometimes it was better not to know.

  There was also the fact that, with him— as he'd assured her when they dined together— she didn't have to pretend to be anything other than herself. Unfortunately, she was not wholly sure what, or who, Kate Kelly really was.

  Storm had called her "a piece of work". Well, yes, she was a work in progress, she thought proudly. One of these days she'd be complete— no longer Mr. Kelly's stubborn, silly, disappointing daughter, struggling to learn her letters; or a "fallen" woman, abandoned, trying to raise her son, taking desperate measures to keep him safe; or "Kitty Blue" singing in her shabby gown to pickled gentlemen who were not really listening and didn't even care if she could carry a tune. It was a life full of trials and failures, like her cooking— a mess of burned edges and soggy middles.