True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (22 page)

"Mrs. Blewett, I suppose."

"You know how she is. Couldn't wait to
tell me about the extraordinary new woman in your life."

"Extraordinary?"

"Well,
odd and funny
were the words Mrs. B
used. When I saw you with the lady in question I was obliged to
reinterpret her description."

True knotted the belt of his robe,
snatched up a towel and briskly rubbed his wet hair. "Mrs. Monday
is not a new woman in my life."

"She looks like a woman. Smells like
one too."

"She's a secretary. It's perfectly
innocent."

Storm spun Mrs. Monday's
bonnet around by the frayed ribbons, his bemused gaze assessing the
debris from last night's supper. "Of course it is. No one can
possibly think otherwise. At least the lady had
her
clothes on."

"She twisted her ankle."

"No need to explain. These things
happen."

True swiped at his son with the towel
to move him aside and walked around his desk. "Glad as I am that
you accepted my invitation, it was for dinner, not
breakfast."

"Thought I'd come and spend more time
with my father, didn't I? After all, I never know when you'll be
off back to London again."

"I plan to stay a while at Roscarrock
this time." He wrapped the towel around his neck, gathered up the
wine glasses in one hand and pulled the bell chord for Sims with
the other. "Ransom is doing well enough managing Deverell's, and I
can oversee things from here. I've decided to write my memoirs,
which is why I hired a secretary to help. So you can erase from
your mind all suspicions about her." True set the glasses down on
the untidy tray. He took a deep breath and straightened up. "She's
a respectable parson's widow in reduced circumstances— which you
must not mention— and she doesn't suffer fools gladly." He smiled
ruefully. "Not the sort of woman for me at all. So I'll thank you
not to embarrass her by suggesting there is anything like that
between us."

He'd made up his mind that morning to
try a little better and behave himself. Last night he'd gone too
far. As he'd said to Damon, they weren't accustomed to the company
of women like her. It showed. Unfortunately his actions had
probably proven everything she'd ever heard about him.

But then she twisted her ankle and he
couldn't let her limp into the house, could he? Jameson was still
out fishing and Sims would never manage to carry her. So what else
could be done with her? Putting clothes on first hadn't occurred to
him until it was too late. She did have a habit of making him
forget the best of intentions.

Storm's eyes narrowed as he watched
his father trying to tidy the room. Finally he ceased twirling Mrs.
Monday's bonnet by the ribbons and remarked, "It's not like you,
father, to suddenly become all proper. Or to worry about
embarrassing a lady. What's she done to you?"

"Actually, I rather thought she might
make a splendid mate for you, son. A decent woman. Well-bred, but
not too fancy. She's about your age and could keep you in line.
Wouldn't take any of your nonsense."

There, that would redirect
the teasing. She was all wrong for
him
anyway. He would ruin her
reputation and shatter her wide-eyed belief in "love".

"Me? You got her for me?" Storm
laughed loudly.

True tossed the remnants
of last night's supper so violently onto the tray that he chipped
the edge of a plate. Damn. Never mind, plenty more plates in the
kitchen. "I didn't
get
her for you," he glanced anxiously at the door, hoping she
wasn't sneaking about on the other side of it again. Just in case,
he lowered his voice. "She's not a toy or a puppy! It was quite by
accident that Chalke sent her here instead of the older, plainer
woman I asked for. But since she arrived, I was thinking she might
be just the woman for you."

His son folded his arms, Olivia's
bonnet ribbons dangling from one fist. "Why would you think that,
father?"

"Because she's polite, well-mannered,
quiet, but knows her own mind. Won't let you get away with any
nonsense. She's clever, amusing, hard-working, sweet. A bit
stubborn, like you."

"You know all that about her
already?"

He knew more than that, he
mused. She
thought
she was fearless. She was understanding and tolerant of
impertinent children, holding her own when questioned by them. She
was determined, liked her food, had fidgeting fingers when nervous,
and— despite assorted husbands— she had never before been properly
kissed.

True decided he'd let his son discover
all that himself. Except for the last thing, which, unfortunately,
he took care of last night, while he was not in his right mind and
suffering from an old cockerel's wounded vanity.

"Men like us don't find her kind
around very often. They don't grow on trees," he said with a deep
sigh. "I suggest you sweep her up while she's here. If you know
what's good for you."

"You're making me exceedingly curious
about this woman, father."

"That's the idea, son." He forced a
grin. "Now let me introduce you to her properly."

* * * *

"Does he swim... like that... all the
time?" Olivia sat in the kitchen with her foot up on a chair and a
cold compress wrapped around her aching ankle. "I wish I'd been
apprised of the fact."

"The master takes a daily
constitutional very early, whether he swims or goes out riding. He
believes it keeps him in good health," Mrs. Blewett explained. "I
didn't think to warn you that he swims in nature's own. He told me
you're a late riser by habit, so I didn't think it
mattered."

Exasperated by this lie he'd
apparently spread about her being a lazy, sleepy-headed woman, she
cried, "Late riser? I was late the first morning as I was tired
from my journey and nobody saw fit to rouse me. I can assure you
that I am generally up with the lark and prompt when it is
required. In future I would like to be warned about what I might
see if I venture outside."

"No need to take on! Besides you've
seen it all before surely."

"I beg your pardon?"

The cook skimmed over that. "I'm sure
it's no skin off my nose when you get up. Now you sit still before
that ankle swells up like bread dough."

She poured Olivia a much needed cup of
sugary tea for "shock", but really it was not so much shock, as it
was amazement and awe that a man could swim so quickly and
powerfully like that in the sea, then haul himself up a steep
incline, and finally carry her as if she weighed no more than a
bunch of flowers— and all while he was barely out of breath. As he
carried her against his chest she'd felt his heartbeat and it was
remarkably unperturbed. None of her husbands would have managed so
much exertion in one morning. Freddy was never up before noon, and
Allardyce saved his energy for escaping bill collectors. William,
of course, had his troublesome bad back to consider, as well as the
desire to keep a steady rhythm of breath.

"The master keeps himself trim and
lean as a good steak," said Mrs. Blewett. "I daresay the ladies are
grateful."

Olivia hoped her frown would be enough
to discourage the woman from that subject. It did not.

"There's always plenty about. Before
you came, he often had Jameson row 'em over at night from the
mainland. Two or three at a time on some nights. But I must say you
seem different to the usual fare."

"That's because I
am
not
his usual
'fare'," she exclaimed.

The cook rambled on without listening,
as usual. "I thought he'd slow down at his age, but there's no sign
of it. Now, here you are, a bit of a girl, to keep him on his toes.
I daresay you'll keep him well exercised too, eh?" She erupted into
more chuckles that shook her entire body. "If not, he'll be sending
Jameson in the boat for a half dozen hussies again. My, you do look
a bit peaky, young lady. Grey as a ghost! I'll make you some
kippers. I don't suppose you've had any breakfast yet. Keep your
foot up. Leave it to me."

Olivia sighed in
frustration and snatched up her teacup and saucer. She began to
appreciate what her stepbrother and father must have suffered when
trying to make
her
see sense.

She had just taken a sip of tea when
Deverell and his son appeared in the kitchen.

"Mrs. Monday, I trust your ankle is
being well tended, or should I send for a physician?"

"It's only a sprain, sir," she assured
him. "No need for a doctor."

"I'll decide that," he muttered,
quickly hunkering down beside her, removing the compress and
grabbing her ankle before she could protest. It was desperately
improper, but once again she was forced to put the gesture in line
with all his other improprieties, from which it was difficult to
identify the worst offense. When Deverell's hands made contact with
her foot and ankle there was only a stocking between his flesh and
hers. Thus she was silenced.

How strong his hands were, how
masterful his long fingers as they examined the hapless end of her
limb, pressing and stroking to feel the bones within. Olivia dare
not look up, but it was just as difficult watching his sun-tanned
fingers holding her foot as it was to pretend it didn't
happen.

With those same fingers he had
skillfully mended her spectacles. The first person ever to bother.
A simple kindness she had not expected from a man like
him.

Now he meant to fix her body the same
way.

There was no clock in the kitchen,
nothing to help mark the occasion.

Finally came his assessment. "It is
not broken. But rest, please, and don't get up." He stood, those
powerful hands flexing at his sides, and then added, "I suppose I
should introduce my son properly. It was a trifle inconvenient to
do so before." When she looked up, his gaze darted sideways,
avoiding her own, and he scratched the back of his damp head in an
oddly sheepish fashion.

Guilty, she thought at once. But of
what this time?

The other man bowed, smiling broadly
and showing off strong white teeth. "Mrs. Monday, I have the honor
of returning your bonnet." He passed it to her. "I am delighted to
make your acquaintance. My father speaks very highly of
you."

She frowned. "He does?"

"Oh yes, cannot stop singing your
praises."

"I can't imagine why. He's hardly put
me to work yet."

"My father has a tendency to make up
his mind about people very quickly. He says it's
instinct."

She shot a glance at Deverell, who had
walked away to discuss something with Mrs. Blewett. He wore an
ankle-length robe in rich emerald velvet with a tall quilted
collar. Naked beneath it, undoubtedly. His hair was still wet,
wildly rumpled. His eyelashes held tiny prisms of light where they
too were damp from his early morning swim. He could be the same age
as his son, she thought. Indeed, younger. She knew of no men his
age so active and bursting with vitality. In fact she knew no men
younger who could keep up with him.

Her heartbeat had gone from a lame
nag's near halt to racehorse gallop.

Rowing hussies over from the mainland
under cover of darkness, according to Mrs. Blewett. Half a dozen at
a time! He was impossible. A glutton in everything he
did.

"I hope you won't find life here too
isolated, Mrs. Monday."

Olivia forced her attention back to
Storm Deverell. "Oh, I'm not the sort that needs to be surrounded
by people and activity. I'm rather an introvert."

"But when the weather is bad this
island really is cut off from the rest of the world. You will find
it eerie when the fog comes in so thick you can no longer see the
shore."

"I have my work to keep me occupied.
And plenty of books with me to read." She smiled. "As an only child
up until the age of sixteen, I'm very good at entertaining
myself."

The man's eyes were very blue and
friendly as he studied her carefully for a moment. His face was
sun-browned, his expression open and interested. She recognized his
father in the line of the jaw and the sharp angle of that Roman
nose, but where True Deverell's coloring reminded her of winter's
stark beauty, Storm's gold-tinted aura was all harmless summer. The
richest, warmest part of the season just before the wheat was
harvested, when the sun rose early and the dusty days seemed to
linger forever. She would have thought him very handsome, if she
hadn't seen his father first. But Storm Deverell's sunlight had
been eclipsed for her before they even met.

"If you decide you need company, or my
father gets too much for you, I can be found on the home farm. I
never stray far from it, and the company of a pretty lady is always
welcome. Send a note with Mrs. Blewett any time, and Jameson can
bring you over for dinner."

"Thank you. That's very
kind."
Pretty lady
, indeed. How easily he threw those silly words out. Like his
father saying she was witty and clever, as if she ought to be
accustomed to hearing flattery of that kind— even in
jest.