Storm (12 page)

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.

But in the company of this man she felt as if anything was possible. Perhaps she wasn't as wicked and lost as she thought.

"You don't have to try too hard with me,"
he'd said. "
I'm a simple fellow."

What she really must do was follow his example and be calm, not flustered. She must learn to be patient and let her food cook before she took it out, but she was always too eager, too nervous, in a rush.

Time to slow down and take a breath.

Flynn was soon making friends with other local boys, thanks to Olivia's introductions. The Deverell's cook, Mrs. Blewett, had a niece whose eldest son was Flynn's age and similarly cheeky. The two boys became immediate comrades, running down to the sands to watch the conjurers and a rope walker who had, apparently, fallen twice already, much to the morbid delight of the audience. It was easier for her son to make friends, she thought enviously, for he did not have her experiences to hold him back.

"Shall we go down and watch this reckless fellow crack his head open too?" Storm asked jovially.

So they walked down the narrow cliff path to join the fun below, where there were jugglers, tumblers and a gypsy fortune teller. When they reached the bottom of the path, her companion leapt down first, turned and put his hands on her waist to help her. She had no chance to protest the gesture, because in the next breath she was in the air, swung around and deposited gently in the sand beside him.

"Will you dance with me, Kate?" he said, his eyes entreating her with a warmth dangerously hard to resist.

She looked over to where a casually assembled, rowdy group whirled about on the sands, accompanied by music from a fiddle and a harmonica. Her spirit was caught up in the jolly, carefree mood of the day, as if she was still in the air with his large, firm hands on her waist. "Was that part of our agreement?"

"Oh yes."

"Then if you would like to."

"I would."

She made sure that Flynn was nearby watching the rope walker, and then she untied her bonnet and let Storm tug her over to the dancers. He surprised her by dancing very well for a man of his size. Must have a great deal of experience, she thought, because he was a skilled, considerate partner. And tireless.

It was years since she'd danced like this— seven at least— but the steps came back to her quickly, and it didn't really seem to matter if she got a few of them wrong. Nobody else was perfect. Nobody minded. For the first time in all those years she felt youthful again, able to abandon her worries, at least for a while.

Storm held her gloved hand firmly, even a little too hard at times, and she was reminded of what Olivia had said about him not knowing his own strength.

She didn't mind it at all.

This is where Kate also learned what Olivia meant when she warned her about the local girls.

"
I think it's best if I let you see for yourself at the Spring fete
."

They were all rather forward and flirtatious, extremely bold and self-confidant, not in the least discreet about trying to catch Storm's eye. Now she knew that he'd never had to chase after a woman in his life, and she understood why he'd never had to worry about his own good manners and proper behavior. These young women chased
him
. They competed for his notice.

Her presence didn't put them off at all and as soon as Kate had enjoyed two dances with him, they were ready to sweep his talents away from her. In all honesty, she didn't mind because she needed to get her breath back, so when he made an attempt to resist the other women she sent him off with a breathless assurance that she was happy merely to watch.

There was no sign of Sally White, she realized. But there were plenty of others to take her place.

And now here came Joss Restarick and his brother.

* * * *

Storm spun his partner round and glanced over, looking for Kate. He might have known she wouldn't stay long where he'd left her.

There she was, dancing with Joss. Smiling. Her hair was falling loose from all the exertion.

"Look out!" his partner shouted, laughing. "You nearly stepped on my toe."

So he paid attention to his steps again, but only for a while. His eyes soon strayed back to where his neighbors danced.

He'd never been jealous in his life. Aware of other men, like Joss, sometimes trying to compete with him, Storm had only ever found it vaguely amusing and wondered how they had the time to spare worrying about what he did or had.

It was foolish, childish to envy other men.

But Joss was a handsome young man, when he made the effort. And, unlike Storm, he was in the market for a wife.

Why the devil was she smiling at Joss and being all obliging? It took
him
far longer to get a smile out of her.

But she wanted Storm to think of her as a man— of all things. Had said so to his face at dinner.

Abruptly he left his partner, complained of a toothache, and walked across the sand to stand where she'd left her bonnet. Aye, he thought morosely, crossing his arms and leaning against the rock, he should have made her keep that hat on so he didn't have every other man in the county admiring her hair.

More of it fell loose as he watched.

She'd just told him she was out of breath, and there she was skipping about with Restarick, her cheeks flushed pink, her bosom likewise colored where a little soft skin was exposed above the bodice of her gown. Was there a button missing? Perhaps some lace would have covered—

"I see you called a truce with Mrs. Kelly." Olivia was suddenly at his side.

"Hmm." He glowered at the dancers and shifted his feet in the sand.

"She dances beautifully."

"Hmm."

"Is something the matter?"

"Toothache," he managed tightly. Restarick had just touched Kate's waist. He groaned and ran a hand over his mouth.

"Oh dear. Sounds as if you need something removed."

He refolded his arms high over his chest and grumbled, "Is that frock entirely appropriate for a Spring fete?"

"Which frock?"

He nodded his head. "The one she's wearing."
Barely wearing,
he thought with a sniff.

"I think it's lovely. And entirely appropriate."

"You wouldn't wear it."

Olivia laughed gently. "I would love to, but it wouldn't suit me, I fear. It's a young woman's dress and I was never a young woman. Even when I was her age."

Sometimes it was easy to forget how young Kate was, he realized. But she was closer to Joss Restarick in age than she was to him.

No sooner did that dance end than Adam, the younger Restarick brother, had seized her hand and whirled her off again.

Well, this taught him a lesson, didn't it? Don't take her dancing in public and expect to keep her all to himself.

Deciding he'd suffered long enough, he walked off to expend his stifled energy somewhere else. There was always a competition of some sort at the fete. If he was lucky he might find somebody to dunk in the sea.

* * * *

When Kate finally escaped the dancing, she returned to the rock where she'd left her bonnet and looked for Flynn again. There he was with Olivia, who saw her and waved. She reached for her bonnet and suddenly found it pulled out of her grasp. There was a man behind her. He grinned, showing a set of crooked teeth.

"You must be the Widow Kelly. Now I see why that blackguard, the Deverell bastard, has his eye on you. "

His face was ruddy, his cheeks peppered with broken blood vessels, his brows full of straggly, too-long grey hairs. In his gnarled fingers he held her bonnet ribbons.

"My name's Joe," he said. "Katherine, isn't it? Now would that be Kate... or Kitty?"

She had seen him earlier, hanging around one of the stalls on the cliffs. He had lifted his hat to her, but Storm had steered her away at once. At the time she'd thought little of it, but his sudden reappearance— and that name "Kitty" on his lips— immediately put Kate on her guard.

"I would like my bonnet, sir." She held out her hand.

"Aye, to keep the sun off your pretty face and keep that fair, ladylike complexion."

She waited, but he made no move to give her the bonnet.

"'Tis a pretty face, to be sure. Irish blood, I suppose. You're from London, I hear. You and that boy. Where is he...ah...over there. A clever young lad, eh? His father must be proud. Oh no, he's dead, ain't he? That's what you said. Such a pity that he won't see the lad grow up."

"My bonnet, if you please," she snapped.

"In haste, are you? Can't spare a minute to talk to Joe?"

"I have no desire to talk to you, sir. We haven't been formally introduced."

"Don't get precious with me, wench. I'm not fooled by your fine and fancy act, even if these other folks are."

"What do you want, Dowty?" Out of nowhere, Storm was at her side, snatching her bonnet from the other man's fist. "You have no business with Mrs. Kelly."

"Business? Now there's an interesting word. If only folk around here would mind their own business and not interfere between a man and his wench. You must agree, Deverell. I see you don't like ol' Joe interfering with yours. Yet are you not the reason Sally took off last week without paying her debt to me?"

Storm passed the bonnet to Kate. His tone still quiet and even, he replied to the other man, "Turn around and walk to the other side of the bay, Dowty. I don't want to spoil the fete for children and innocent folk by beating your face to a pulp in front of them."

"Where did you send Sally White? I know she came to you on the moor that day and she ain't been seen since. How many times have you saved her skirt? More oft than not, eh?"

"Sally does as she pleases. I don't control her and neither do you."

"I do when she owes me fifty pounds."

Kate stared. She felt Storm flinch at her side, drawing a rush of breath.

"I wager she didn't tell you how much she's had from me, Deverell. But, aye, fifty pounds, plus interest. That's what she owes me and I'll get it from her the minute I find the wench. I'll be made whole, one way or t'other."

Storm reached over and grabbed him by the collar of his coat. It happened so suddenly that Kate jumped back a step, clutching her bonnet, the ribbons rippling against her skirt. "There's a reason why you can never be made whole, Dowty."

The other man said nothing. His eyes shrunk to mean slits in his flushed face, one hand reaching up to hold Storm's sleeve in some feeble attempt to pull his arm away.

"Because you're not a whole man," Storm added, slowly and carefully. "A man doesn't tempt troubled women with easy money and then call in the debt prematurely. A man doesn't look for ways to bribe and cheat and use women, prodding at them to find a weak spot he can turn to his advantage."

"Aye and you're such a saint, Deverell, rushing to their rescue when they shed a little tear. Always quick to comfort a lady in distress. Particularly a pretty one with a fine bosom. Never think of how I've a business to run. It's not fair. Joe Dowty's not a charity and they know that when they come to me for coin. They know the way it works."

"And so do I," Storm replied in that lethally soft voice. "But it won't work that way any longer. I'll have you run out of the county. It should have been done by now, but you stayed away longer this time and I'd hoped it was for good. Or that someone else had put a stop to you." There was a pause while he let go of Dowty's collar and then tapped him lightly on the cheek. "I'll give you one day to pack up your belongings and leave. That's
fair
, isn't it? After that, if I see your face anywhere around here, it'll be the last time it's in one piece."

By then two other men had walked up to stand with Storm, although they were not needed. Joe Dowty may have put on a good front, but his face had grown redder and his breathing shallower in the last few minutes. His blood-shot eyes did not dare focus long on Storm's face, but looked down at the sand, as he brushed his own collar with a trembling hand.

"You don't own this place. Not even your bloody father owns this place," he mumbled.

"We'll see, won't we?"

After one final sneer and a "Delighted to make your acquaintance, Kitty." Dowty turned and walked back up the cliff path.

Kate's pulse remained fast and uneven. Was it only a coincidence that he called her
Kitty
? Many Katherine's were called Kitty. Surely it was nothing significant.

But she felt sick and hot. The cliffs seemed to be closing in on her, the sands shifting under her boots. She looked down and saw that Dowty had left his big, heavy footprint in the wet sand and with it a hobnail from his filthy old boots.

"Your bonnet!" Storm dashed across the sand after her tumbling, breeze-blown hat, which she must have let drop from her fingers. The ribbons dragged along the sand and into the water before he caught it. She watched, unable to move her own feet, her sight blurred by sudden tears.

It had been a beautiful day until then. She should not have let herself get complacent. Should not have allowed herself to think they were safe.

Once again she was served a reminder.

But she would not be crushed. Kate Kelly refused to be weak and give in to her bad luck. She had tasted sunshine and fresh air now, and whether fate thought she deserved it or not, she would be happy.