True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 21

  "Yes, Mrs."

  Another who didn't even try to deny it.

  Olivia stepped into the boat and sat with her hands in her lap while Jameson tugged the little vessel back out into the sea. Once she was bobbing afloat, he too climbed in, the boat rocking violently.

  "What a night to be out," he exclaimed, shouting against the wind and rain as he hauled on the oars.

  "It was your master's idea."

  "Aye."

  "You must be exhausted with all the rowing tonight."

  "Aye, Mrs. Been a fair bit of to and fro for the master while you were gone."

  "He keeps you hard at work at all hours, it seems."

  "The master keeps 'imself busy too. Been going 'ard at it in the bedroom since you left."

  She stared, rain getting into her mouth until she had the wits to close it. While she'd convinced herself of this fact already, hearing it in such plain terms made her sick to her stomach. The wild pitch and yaw of the little boat didn't help matters.

  Yet again she told herself it was none of her business what he did. Or with whom he did it. She was getting too fond, too close, letting her eyes and heart see and feel things that weren't there. Begun to hope he might feel some affection for her. It was the same mistake other women, including his wife, had made.

  After that last comment, Jameson saved his breath, putting his all into the task of rowing them back to the island.

  Olivia looked over her shoulder toward the shore and saw the lantern on Storm's cart slowly disappearing. She closed her eyes and sighed, her shoulders sagging. That warm, cozy farm seemed far away already, and here she was being knocked about on a choppy sea, blinded by rain, going back to her strange existence on "Devil's Hell".

  On a night like this it lived up to the name the locals had coined.

  And its wicked dictator had the cheek to suggest she might one day be "in charge" there. As if she had any power over him. Or that much desire for revolution.

  She gripped the sides of the boat and scowled up at the rugged silhouette of Roscarrock, almost invisible against the churning darkness of the sky, but just traced by a slender flicker of moonlight.

  It would serve that scoundrel right if she did stage a coup.

  Then she'd make him follow a few of her commands. She'd take that riding crop out of his hands and use it in a manner that might surprise him.

  Hmm. She felt better already.

  But the closer the little boat drew to the steps at the base of the rocky island, the hotter her blood boiled.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  He heard her in the hall as he sprawled in a chair by the parlor fire with his brandy. True was tucked down so far that she wouldn't see his head if she looked through the open door.

  "I suppose your master is still abed. So he won't require me tonight."

  "Oh no, Mrs. You go on up to your own bed and get some rest."

  "I'm sorry you had to come out in the rain to fetch me, Mr. Jameson."

  "That's alright, Mrs. You can't predict the weather."

  True heard the clank of a lamp handle and then the handyman's shuffling steps leaving the hall. He waited, expecting to hear the stairs creak as she went up to bed, but all was silent.

  The air shifted and he sniffed. Her scent. Unmistakable.

  She must have entered the parlor. Probably because there was still a low fire in the grate and the amber glow drew her into the room. If he hadn't drunk so much brandy, he would have thought to get up and shut the parlor door before she came in, but after his busy evening he had melted into the warm embrace of that chair and felt no inclination to get up.

  Until he smelled her fragrance he was relaxed, but now he went very tense, hand curved tightly around his brandy glass. How long had she been gone? Must have been six hours at least, he thought grumpily. Surely it was after midnight and she was still gallivanting about. For once he wished he had a clock to prove it.

  Perhaps it was the brandy's fault, but he was starting to feel...angry. Bitter. Jealous? Why the hell was he jealous?

  It was his idea for Olivia to dine with his son, and he'd even told her to stay as long as she liked, but she was so damned conscientious about what was proper, he'd expected her to be gone just a few hours. Not all bloody night. He'd entrusted her to Storm's hands for an evening. Had that been a mistake? It did not feel like such a good deed as he'd expected. And why the blazes was he handing her over to that boy who couldn't seem to get her for himself? Storm certainly wasn't putting that much effort into it. Did he expect his father to do the hard work for him, tie her up like a present and deliver her for Christmas?

  True began to feel quite indignant about the entire thing. He had spoiled his cubs. Well, that ended tonight. From now on they could hunt their own mates.

  Storm had all his limbs functioning. Storm had youth on his side. Let him fight for the woman if he wanted her. True had done enough.

  There she was, drifting into his side vision around the winged side of the chair. Soaking wet, dripping all over the place. She went directly to the fire and grabbed a poker to stir it up.

  "So you finally decided to come back to me." His words bit at her scent as it drifted by.

  She spun around, jumping a few inches, the poker swinging in her hand. Her face went white and she stepped back, almost stumbling over the fender.

  "Thought you might have decided to stay at the farm in this weather," he added.

  Olivia straightened up, clutching the poker like a weapon. "And I thought you'd still be abed."

  Still? What was that supposed to mean? Was she slurring her words? Surely not. Olivia Monday did not drink to excess. She could barely finish one glass of wine in an evening.

  Her fiery gaze, like a beautiful dragonfly, flew over his rumpled, messy, undone attire and then landed lightly, tentatively on the bandage wrapped around his cut hand. "Seems you had quite a wild evening, sir."

  "I did. And you? Did my son entertain you?"

  "He did."

  "Was he a perfect, courteous gentleman?" he demanded through gritted teeth.

  "Yes. Surprisingly. For a son of yours."

  He laughed lazily. "I see your opinionated tongue is in fine fettle this evening." What had he done to offend her? "I'd better not give you any more evenings off, if this is how you return to me."

  "But how else will you manage your affairs with women while I am here underfoot?"He sat forward, elbows on his thighs. "If I cared about that, why would I invite you to use the room adjoining my own?" He watched the spark in her eyes burning brightly. "If I wanted the company of other women, why would your presence bother me? This is my empire here at Roscarrock, and I do as I please."

  "Yes, you certainly do." She faced him boldly, just as she did on the night of her arrival, impressing him with her pluck. "For a man born a foundling with nothing — not even a name— it didn't take you long to cast humility aside and grow comfortable with great wealth. Now you act like one of those privileged aristocrats you purport to despise."

  This was perhaps more wounding than any other insult she might have used. "And how, exactly, do I act like them?"

  "Treating other folk like your minions! Not caring for instance that poor Jameson has been out all night in this rain, fetching and carrying for you and your urges!"

  "Jim Jameson is paid very well for his services. I don't hear him complaining."

  "Ah yes, as I am paid also and therefore I am not entitled to complain and question. I must turn a blind eye."

  "A blind eye to what? I have hidden nothing from you."

  "Until tonight. For some reason you thought it necessary to go through this charade to be rid of me for one evening."

  "Charade?" True was having a hard time following. Bloody women! He should have sent her home that first morning. Should have known she'd eventually show her claws too.

  "Money solves all your problems. Money keeps people quiet and on your side. Money pays off an unhappy schoolmaster for a broken curricle. Money
brought your wife back to you time and time again. If she only wanted you for your money, whose fault was that? Apparently that was the only thing you were willing to give her! Money moves folk around at your disposal like...like chess pieces! Money, money, money." She pointed the ash-tipped poker at him for emphasis with each repetition of the word. "And now it brings you hussies too. Jameson rows them across to Camelot for you. How many can you get per pound?"

  "Hussies?" He squinted at her. "Camelot? Are you drunk, Olivia?"

  "Most assuredly not." She squared her shoulders but tipped slightly to her left.

  He set down his brandy glass, suddenly aware of how volatile this conversation had become. In the hands of two people trying to keep their distance, but who had drunk too much, it could be dangerous.

  "Don't come near me," she exclaimed, gripping the poker in both hands and swiping it in an arc, like a sword.

  It might have made him smile if he wasn't so rattled himself that evening, besieged by new thoughts, ideas and feelings. "Put the poker down, Olivia."

  "No."

  He pushed up out of the chair. "Go on then. Strike me with it. I knew it wouldn't take you long to raise a weapon against me."

  She hiccupped. "I shall." But her swaying became more pronounced and her eyes turned glassy.

  "I don't approve of your behavior tonight, Olivia."

  "And I don't approve of yours!"

  "However I, being your employer, have an advantage. I can send you home to Chiswick tomorrow."

  "Good." She dropped the poker, almost on his foot. "Suits me! Because I refuse to be one of your devoted, blind minions worshiping at the altar of money. Putting up with...everything...just because of the fee you're paying me. I'll do without it. I'll manage. Just pay me what you owe me for the time already spent and I'll leave. Sooner that than let you torture me for your own amusement."

  Now he knew she had definitely drunk too much at the farmhouse, or she would never have spoken about her need of money.

  "When have I tortured you?" he exclaimed, scratching his head. He thought he'd treated her well. He'd been on his best behavior. Well, most of the time. "You said yourself that I've treated you with prodigious care, madam. I believe that was the phrase you used." He watched her expression and noted the trembling lower lip. Her temper was hot tonight, but so was his. "Or is that not what you wanted? Perhaps you object to being treated so well, because you don't want to like me at all."

  "Don't be ridic..ridiculous."

  "Would you rather I treat you with a firmer hand, Mrs. Monday? Have I disappointed you by not living up to my reputation? If that's the case, we can remedy the matter at once."

  Her lashes fluttered, her cheeks flushed. She raised both hands to her head as if it ached. "Ugh! You...you are impossible."

  "Funny, that's what women always say when they know they've lost an argument." He paused. "And a wager."

  She closed her hands into fists and they dropped to her sides. "What wager?"

  "I told you the night you came that you'd soon flee back to Chiswick."

  "It was never a wager. I refused to gamble with you."

  "But I proved myself right, didn't I?"

  * * * *

  Olivia knew she'd gone too far, but with everything fermenting in her mind that night— helped along by Storm Deverell's dreadful wine—then coming back to find her employer in a shirt hanging out of his breeches and dampened by patches of sweat, was more than she could bear. He was laughing at her, enjoying the sight of her like this. She was sure the only reason he pried into her feelings was to know where to wound her. He used his money to draw folk into his web and then kept them tangled there, cunningly tying them into knots, making them another plaything, another devotee.

  Now he gleefully celebrated the fact that he'd got her in this state of confusion.

  He stood before her in a state of half-undress, his hair untidy, his hand clearly wounded from his erotic adventures— he'd warned her that he enjoyed rough sport. When he moved closer she could even smell the lingering whisper of perfume. It was not too sweet and floral, but soft and fresh. Very similar to the kind she distilled herself, so she knew it was a woman's perfume.

  He had made love to someone who smelled like her— insult added to injury.

  But no he had not made love. He didn't believe in "love". What he had done was called something else entirely.

  Should that be a comfort to her?

  Oh, she didn't know anymore. She didn't know anything. Her head ached with trying to hold everything inside, trying not to show what she felt and thought. Her stomach twisted as if she was still on that little boat being tossed about.

  "Good evening, Mr. Deverell," she said stiffly, reclaiming some of her usual composure.

  "Going to pack your trunk then?" He stood in her way, feet planted solidly apart.

  She put her chin up. "Are you dismissing me from my post?"

  "Perhaps. Haven't decided what to do with you. Yet." He picked up the poker to set it back on its hook by the fire, and while his back was turned she made her escape, hurrying out of the parlor.

  Fancy thinking he looked at her with anything other than pity and bemusement. He teased her, took wicked pleasure in making her blush, but that was all it was. A game, like one of his wagers. Women, for him, were merely entertainment and in his mind he separated that from any sort of emotion. As the cook had said, it was exercise for him, like riding his horse and swimming in the sea.

  He had told her plainly that he didn't believe in love.

  Olivia's feet picked up speed across the hall and then up the stairs. Tonight she didn't pause to look at his faceless portrait. She wanted to get to her room and collapse on her bed. To think about nothing else until she woke tomorrow with a sober head.

  She turned the door handle to her bedchamber and walked in.

  And stopped dead.

  Somehow she'd gone to the wrong room.

  No. She checked. This was her bedchamber.

  The fire was roaring. A hearth rug had been placed over the stone slab before it and a thick satin cushion had been added to the comfortable arm chair where she often sat to read. At the window new drapes of thick velvet had been hung to keep out the drafts, and the walls were insulated likewise by two colorful, rich tapestries. The bed was no longer the narrow, lumpy thing upon which she'd laid her head before; it was a large four-poster covered with a thick quilt and far more pillows than any one woman with only one head could possibly need. The table beside the bed had been swapped for a larger cabinet with extra books lined up on a shelf behind leaded glass doors. Her perfume bottle had apparently been spilled and set back, with a crack in it. There were three new oil lamps and a large, brightly colored rug that must be almost brand new— not a single worn patch of threads in sight. And it looked soft. Exquisitely soft.

  So soft she dare not walk on it.

  Or dare she?

  Stumbling against the doorframe, Olivia quickly unlaced her wet boots, slipped out of them and ventured cautiously, in her stockinged feet, onto the luxurious carpet.

  Only something wicked could feel this good. She wriggled her toes into the deep pile and then looked anxiously over at the mantle. William was still there, still watching over her in his silhouette.

  He ought to be admonishing her tonight, but he was silent.

  She went to the mantle and took his picture in both hands. "Oh, William. I fear I've let you down. I drank too much and made a fool of myself. I let my terrible, lurid imagination run away with me. I spoke silly thoughts aloud and made an embarrassing display of emotion."

  "No, you didn't. You spoke your honest thoughts to me. At last." Deverell was standing in her bedchamber doorway, one shoulder propped against the frame. "Finally you let it all out. Everything that was festering inside you and held back behind those tight lips."

  "I didn't hear you follow me," she said, quickly blinking back the shameful tears that had threatened.

  "Caught you talking to yours
elf again, didn't I?"

  "No." She sniffed. "I was talking to William." She turned the frame to show him and he came into the room. Although she knew she should try to stop him, tell him to leave her alone, she also knew it would be futile. Besides, she didn't want to. "What have you done to my chamber?"

  "Since you wouldn't come to my former wife's room, I thought I'd better bring the room to you. It took us most of the evening. Jameson and I."

  The facts slowly formed shape in her mind, piece by piece falling together. This is what had exhausted him then. This is what Jameson had been fetching and carrying for him— all this furniture from the other wing of the house! The master keeps 'imself busy too. Been going 'ard at it in the bedroom since you left.

  Abruptly a bubble of laughter shot out of her. She raised William's picture to hide her mouth, but Deverell snatched the frame from her hand, turned it over and studied the silhouette. "That's him, eh? The Kindly Parson."

  "Yes." A rush of relief almost lifted her aloft.

  "His forehead's a little long, isn't it?"

  "Full of wisdom," she exclaimed proudly. "He was a deep thinker."

  "Huh. What would he think of you coming here?"

  "He always said a person should go where they are most needed. A person should find their purpose."

  "Well then, I suppose he was right, in this case." He set William's silhouette back on the mantle, cracked his knuckles and cleared his throat. "I do need you. Very much."

  "Oh." She gripped the back of the chair by her hip. No one had ever said such a thing to her before, but he was good at it— shocking her with sudden, unexpected compliments.

  "As a secretary," he added.

  Of course. He lifted her up only to drop her back to earth again. "Yes. That's... why I came."

  "And why you have stayed this long, despite my behavior and myriad faults?"

  "That's a little more complicated, Mr. Deverell. I'm not sure I—"

  He moved closer. "Call me True."

  "I...I can't."