Storm (11 page)

* * * *

She was standing at the range when he burst in, not even knocking on her door.

"Mrs. Kelly, I was calling to you. Didn't you hear?"

Still out of breath herself, she merely shook her head.

"You brought me a pie," he exclaimed, his tone the most accusatory she'd ever heard from his lips. "Why didn't you come in?"

Kate smoothed a hand over her bodice and turned to face him. "I saw you had company."

"That's no reason to leave. The more the merrier."

Of course he thought that. She shouldn't have been at all surprised, having heard him described as a man with many casual female playmates.

"Sadly, my dog enjoyed the pie before I could. I left him licking the plate clean."

She huffed. "I hope he enjoyed my apology then."

"You came to apologize?" He sounded scandalized by the notion.

Abruptly she became aware of an unusually quiet Flynn watching them both. "Go and feed the hens, please," she said.

"But I fed 'em already, Ma."

"Then they're in luck today, aren't they?"

Wrinkling his nose he slouched off to the task, leaving the adults alone.

She cleared her throat, took a deep breath and launched into her speech. "First, I wanted to make amends. For earlier today. And for before. I've been quick to judge, and I'm sorry. You see, I—"

"Make me another pie and share it with me."

Paused with her lips open, it took her a moment to close them again.

"If you're really sorry, eat dinner with me, Duchess," he said. "I'll even take a bath for the occasion."

Kate was silent.

He added, "That woman at the farm was Sally White, by the way. A friend in need of help. Thought I'd clear that up. Just in case you were curious."

"I wasn't."

"Wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea."

"Why would it matter?"

"Because I would prefer your good opinion to your bad. It took you this long to lower your pride and apologize to me, so I wouldn't want another misunderstanding coming between us."

Kate felt her shoulders fall. He cared about her opinion? What on earth for?

"Will you eat dinner with me, Mrs. Kelly? At my house or here, wherever you prefer."

The sun was coming out, creeping in through her open door to shine at his feet. A sweet trail of birdsong followed that light inside and lifted her heart on a whimsical, carefree tune.

"Yes," she said before she could worry about it too long. "Come at seven." And then, since she felt she ought to warn him, she added, "It won't be very grand, so don't expect anything fancy."

"You already advised me of your shortcomings. Now I'll see for myself, shan't I?" He put his heels together and gave her that funny, stiff bow again. "Until then...Duchess."

What have you gone and done now, Missy Proud-foot?

She was mending a foolish rift, that was all. Nothing amiss with that. Better to be at peace with her neighbor. It was dinner. Just dinner. Plain and simple, nothing fancy—as she'd warned him.

Oh! Kate realized she had not even got to the second point of her purpose with the pie. He had not given her a chance to ask him about the roof, but swept the words out of her mouth as soon as she mentioned an apology.

She walked to the window just in time to watch him ruffle Flynn's hair and exchange a few words, before he strode off, whistling and swinging his arms.

Sally White was just "a friend" he'd said. As if that mattered to her. Still, she supposed it was good of him to tell her, when he didn't have to. There was nothing between the two of
them
.

Catching her reflection in the glass she saw she was smiling a little and then, even worse, she began to hum.

Blame it on the Spring air, that was as good a culprit as any.

Chapter Nine

He was early by half an hour. She had just put Flynn to bed when she heard Deverell at the door. Scrambling to remove her apron, she let him in. The days were longer now and it was still light out, but she had an oil lamp in the window and lit candles on the table.

"Please come in." She stood aside, hardly daring to look at him.

"I brought some of my wine," he said, adding hastily, "a different vintage to the one I gave you before. This one is made with strawberries. I thought you'd like it."

Now, of course, she must look at him. As she took the bottle he offered, their fingers briefly touched. An alarming shiver fluttered across her skin.

His hair was tidy, his face shaven, shirt clean. Tonight he seemed even taller somehow, his shoulders wider. Perhaps it was because he fit the outdoors better than that small cottage, which was too confined for him. The roof beams were too low, requiring that he bend his head to walk under them.

"Before we begin, Mr. Deverell," she blurted nervously, "we must be clear that this relationship is merely platonic." When he looked at her as if he didn't understand the word, she explained, "Companionable. Not romantic in any way."

He looked askance. "No need to remind me. I know you think I'm all boast and breeches."

She blanched. "I don't think that's quite what I—"

"Unless you meant that warning for yourself," he added with a quick wink. "Perhaps you needed the reminder when you got a fresh look at me this evening, with the dirt scrubbed off."

Since she still stood there with the wine bottle in her hands, temporarily speechless, he took it from her.

"I'll pour it, shall I?" he said. "If that's how it's done in London?"

"We are in the west country now," Kate reminded him, recovering her wits. "So do as
you
would."

She took two crystal wine glasses down from a shelf — gifts from Mellersh Duquesne, long ago. They looked out of place in these humble surroundings, but she liked the way the candlelight caught on the cut crystal and made it glitter. She may have promised Storm Deverell that this would not be a fancy dinner, but that didn't mean she couldn't make the table pretty. No matter how desperate a situation, or how somber, or how simple, one should always put one's best foot forward.

After all, he'd made the effort of taking a bath.

While her guest poured the wine, she served turnip soup and a loaf of bread, saying a silent prayer of thanks to Olivia for bringing the loaves that day. "I'm not a very good cook," she reminded him, feeling hot under her corset. "Here is your proof."

"Well, there's lots of things I'm not good at either," came the jaunty reply. "And I came here with no expectations, so I can't be disappointed, can I?"

"I suppose not." But she had seen him do a great many things well. He was just saying that to make her feel better. Why on earth did he have to be so...nice?

Nice
. That was what Flynn had called him earlier that day. It didn't seem quite the right word. She glanced longingly at Dr Johnson's Dictionary.

"You don't have to try too hard with me," her guest added. "I'm an uncomplicated fellow. We'll just be ourselves together, you and me. Since we already know where we stand, there'll be no need for nonsense. I don't have to hold my stomach in, and you don't have to fret about that pimple."

Pimple? She knew very well she didn't have any. Wretched man. But she slyly checked her face in the back of a serving spoon, just to be sure.

Bravely he set to devouring the bowl of soup and she watched in some bemusement as he attempted to keep his face from any expression whatsoever. Must be a great trial, she thought, for a man with such expressive eyes to keep them blank. "What's in the soup?" he asked, with as much sangfroid as he could apparently muster.

"Bumble Trout," she retorted swiftly.

He eyed her with a gleam of amusement. "I knew they ought to be afraid of you."

She took a sip of the strawberry wine and gasped as flames travelled speedily down her throat. "Gracious!" Veins popping, she set the glass down again. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything like this."

"I'm told it's an acquired taste. Like me."

Kate felt another slow flush warm her cheeks, not sure if it was caused by his comment, or his wine.

"Have I done it again and spoken amiss?"

"No."

"I've been advised that you won't be used to men like me. Although I'm not entirely sure what that means."

"Ah." He had no idea how very different he was to the men she'd known, but that was not a subject she cared to embark upon.

"We ought to introduce ourselves from the beginning again, don't you think?" he said.

"Is that necessary?"

Apparently so. "I'll ask you only three questions and you can ask the same of me. How's that?

She scooped her spoon through the bowl of soup and raised it to her lips. "If you insist. If we must."

"Well, we can't just sit here and eat, can we? If we do that, we may as well eat in our own houses and not have the company." His eyes smiled at her across the table, sweeping over her skin like a warm sea breeze. "So, I'll begin, Mrs. Kelly. Flynn said you used to work. Where?"

Her spoon hit the side of her bowl with a clatter. "In a factory."

"At night?"

Oh, that chattering boy! "It seemed that way to him, no doubt. It was a late shift of odd hours, but I needed the money." This was the story she'd always given her landladies— whether they believed it or not.

Storm was looking at her very intently.

"It was a hat factory," she added.

"A
hat
factory?" Finally he looked down again, cleaning his bowl with a hunk of bread. "And Flynn's father. Tell me about him."

Despite its fiery taste, she reached for her wine and took another sip. She might need it to get through this interrogation. "He was a soldier on leave when we met. We were only married a few weeks before he was sent away. By the time Flynn was born he was gone." Again it was the story she always told. It was well practiced. Perhaps a little too much so as it rolled off her tongue with a weary, mechanical trundle.

"Must have been very hard for you, raising the boy alone. Did you have no relatives to help?"

Kate blinked and looked down at her soup. "No."

"Your husband's family took no interest?"

"No."

He thought for a moment and then shrugged. "So that's why you looked to Reverend Coles for help."

"Yes."

He said he wanted her good opinion, but would he still want that if he knew the truth about Kate Kelly? How she was a stupid girl, seduced and ruined, disowned by her father. How, alone and friendless, with no references, she'd been reduced to singing in that tawdry supper room, being indebted to the likes of Albert Soames for a roof over her son's head.

What would he think of her ability to empty a man's pockets without him feeling a thing? Of her talent for distracting a fellow with her shoulders and— hopefully— her singing, while she relieved his person of any valuable trinkets? Of Soames arranging private dinners in his grimy back room, where she was made to flutter her lashes and trick his prey into believing they might one day seduce her, just so they'd keep coming back?

"
You keep 'em danglin', Kitty
," Bert Soames would say with a leer. "
Keep 'em danglin' on that 'ook and let ol' Bert bring the big fish in."

Part of their success, of course, was that Kitty never succumbed to her ardent admirers. She was always just out of reach, but never too far. They competed with one another for her attention, but Bert always took the gifts they sent. In return he provided Kate and her son with the necessities of life— a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies.

How could she tell this soft-spoken, candid, hard-working man about all that? She was deeply ashamed and yet angry too, because the men involved in her fall — from Mellersh to Bert Soames, and all the drunkenly optimistic gropers in between—would never feel guilt or shame. She, in their eyes, was the sinner. They were merely tempted.

She had taken it all out on Storm Deverell from the moment they met. The rage and frustration she felt at being trapped in this world of men had to be directed somewhere. But he had only been kind and generous in return.
Duchess
he called her teasingly, because he thought her a lady of good society, respectable and chaste. He would not call her that if he knew.

His face was unusually grim now, as if he read all this on her mind. "I hear Joss Restarick's been helping you out," he said abruptly, reaching for his glass.

Startled, but grateful for a new subject, she replied, "I wouldn't refer to it in those terms, but he comes by occasionally to see what I'm up to."

He took a long swig of wine without flinching, apparently accustomed to the strength.

"I believe you have used up your three questions, Mr. Deverell. More than three. Isn't it my turn now?" Her heart was pounding hard, almost lifting her out of her chair.

Another loose shrug was his only response, but she saw a glimmer of annoyance had come into his eyes at the mention of their other neighbor. It was quelled again now, as he refilled his glass.

Kate cleared her throat and sat primly, determined to make the most of her three questions. "I met Olivia Monday, your father's fiancée. She spoke very well of you. So well of you that I'm shocked you haven't found a wife. But Joss Restarick said you have no fancy to get one. Why is that?"

He emptied his glass easily again with one swig. "You applying for the post, Duchess?"

"Certainly not. I am merely curious to know why a man who apparently has everything in his favor chooses not to marry? I hear you have many... acquaintances from which to choose."

"Did Olivia put you up to this?"

"No!"

Storm drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes considering her face, searching for something. "Perhaps I avoid marriage because I've never had a good example. My mother married a man who resented my presence and punished me for it. Then I watched my real father's hellish attempt at matrimony and that made me further disinclined to the idea."

"Your father was not married to your mother?"

"I'm the eldest bastard in the family. I thought you'd know that. His wife, Lady Charlotte, was a cruel, mercenary bitch, an unfaithful wife and a heartless, selfish mother. She still is all those things, of course, except for the wife part, since they finally went through with a divorce."

It was the first time she'd heard such a sharp edge of anger in his voice. "Then why did he marry her in the first place?"

"If you want to know about my father you'll have to ask him. Don't you have any other questions for me?" He laughed curtly and slung one arm over the back of the chair. "Or are you, like every other woman, more interested in my enigmatic father?"

Stunned by this accusation, which seemed to have come entirely out of the blue, Kate tried another question. "Why did you want this farm and land so badly?"

His eyes widened. The arm over the chair back ceased its swinging motion. "To extend my holdings, of course."

She looked at him for a long moment. "That's not true, is it?"

Victory! She'd caught Mr. "Nice" in a fib at last. He couldn't hide it. Not with those eyes.

"What makes you think that?"

"Because, unlike most men I've ever met, I don't believe you're driven by money and profit, Mr. Deverell."

* * * *

She sat with her spine very straight, hands in her lap, her wine glass only half empty. Her lips were pressed firmly together, but her eyes glittered with a passionate curiosity.

"You hadn't heard the rumors about Steadfast Putnam's ill-spent youth, before you came here?" he said.

"How would I? I'd never heard the name before."

"Not even on your travels through the countryside on your way here?" There was something she was hiding. He knew that. "Not even in a letter from your good friend the Reverend?"

She looked amused. "It may surprise you to hear this, Mr. Deverell, but the goings-on in this part of the world are not reported far and wide as you seem to suppose. An old farmer living on ten acres of Cornish moor is hardly likely to become newsworthy beyond the span of his own acquaintance."

"Aye, but he was more than an old farmer. In his younger days he worked with a gang of wreckers."

"Wreckers?"

"During storms they deliberately guided ships onto rocks along the coast, murdered any crew that survived the waves, then made off with whatever bounty they carried."

"How dreadful. Are you sure it's true? His wife seemed such a sweet lady."

"She probably never knew about his past." He gave a snort of derision. "Another reason not to marry. Never know what you're going to find out about the other person when it's too late. Or what dark secrets they might keep from you forever."

Her eyes dulled suddenly. "Perhaps she did know, but found forgiveness in her heart. Perhaps he was repentant and trying to make up for his past."

Storm chuckled. "Old Steadfast? Never. Timid little Mary married a murderer and never knew it. While she slept in their marriage bed, he could have crushed her skull with a rock one night, just like he did to those luckless folk down in the bay so many years ago."

She said softly, "But he didn't harm her, did he?"

"As long as she lived in ignorance he didn't need to."

Kate picked up her spoon again but let it drift aimlessly through the soup. "You don't believe a sinner can repent then? In your eyes they will always be guilty."

"There's a lot o' things I could forgive. Can't get a much bigger sinner than my own father and I forgave him long ago, but then he never deceived about what he was or what he'd done. As long as there's deception, how can there be repentance or forgiveness?"

A puzzled look had come over her face, so he explained further, "Nothing is ever beyond fixing, but the root of the trouble has to be found and mended first. Like that damp patch over there on the wall for instance. If you simply cover it over, it will always show through again eventually. A man has to find what's causing it and put that right. It might be a lot of work, inconvenient and costly, but its false economy to use a quick and temporary fix. It might deceive the eye, but not for long."

She grew impatient, her eyes sparking anew. "That's all very interesting, but will you answer my question? You're not playing fair, Mr. Deverell. I'm surprised at you. Don't you pride yourself on being honest? Why did you want this house so very badly?"

He considered his empty glass and then reached for the wine bottle again, but stopped. "Very well. I'll take a chance," he muttered, sitting back in the chair again. "Mayhap it'll help you learn to trust me with your secrets, if I trust you with mine. Something I've not told anybody else."

She waited, watching his face keenly. "Go on then."

The woman was even lovelier when listening to him so attentively, he thought with a considerable measure of irritation. Clearly he'd had enough wine, because he was suffering jealous thoughts about Restarick hanging around her. He'd never been jealous in his life and he didn't like it.

"A few weeks before you came, Duchess, Reverend Coles told me a story about old Steadfast Putnam hiding some of that stolen treasure— loot from a shipwreck— on his land."

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 offspring. 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."