Storm Page 9

But he was a hard man to ignore.

  It didn't take long to find out that Storm Deverell was a respected man of business. She'd heard him in the marketplace— in his calm voice— driving a hard bargain with the same tradesmen who tried to cheat her. Had she not been so insufferably stubborn she might have asked him to teach her that skill, but it was too late now.

  He worked hard and was up before dawn most days, for when she rose to light her range the lantern in his window was already aglow. But despite the long hours he kept she never saw him in an ill-temper. He treated his farmhands in a jovial, easy-going manner and appeared to have time for anyone who stopped to talk. On her way to market she passed him as he crouched at the side of the road, helping to mend a broken wheel. Not one of his own.

  Although frugal in business, he was extravagant when it came to the care of his animals. She overheard him turning down a very high offer for one of his horses.

  "I won't sell this girl," he'd laughed, petting the mare's neck with a gentle hand. "I promised her a good, happy retirement when I found her and she's mine for life."

  The horse whinnied and proudly tossed her mane, as if she understood her good fortune in finding such a benevolent master.

  "Storm Deverell cares more for his beasts than he does for his bank account," she was told.

  But it didn't seem to matter. She'd seen the humble way he lived and she suspected the money made little difference to him. He went his own way and did as he pleased. That mutinous nature, she supposed, was in the Deverell blood, but he was quiet about it, kept to himself, didn't make waves.

  The curious story of how he'd almost hired Kate Kelly as his housekeeper spread quickly through the local community of farmers and fishermen.

  She overheard the postmaster's wife outside church on Sunday, chattering with a small group of gossips, "Housekeeper indeed, what he needs is a wife."

  "He'll never marry. Enjoys his bachelor life too much. A Tomcat, to be sure. That family thrives on scandal."

  They were all in agreement, but for one dissenting voice, "Storm Deverell isn't like them. He's a good, steady fellow, honorable as the day is long. Keeps to himself for the most part, and wisely so, considering what his half siblings get up to. He's a kind soul and a good master, so they say. Never been any trouble, beyond the usual mischief of youth."

  "Aye, Mrs. Blewett, but although his temper is slow to burn, when it rages, watch out! The quiet ones are often more dangerous when all is said and done. I've heard tales of what he got up to as a lad. Many a split lip and broken nose can be laid at his door. Fists like sledgehammers."

  "And he's still his father's son," another muttered darkly. "Blood will out, mark my words, sooner or later."

  Kate walked on hastily, tugging her son along so fast he asked if the Peelers were after them.

  "For pity's sake, what a thing to say," she panted, hurrying him through the lychgate.

  Since the incident with the wine, Storm Deverell had made no further attempt to befriend her. In fact, he was the only local man between fifteen and forty who ignored Kate Kelly. In church she felt herself studied from head to toe— considered, measured and assessed from every angle. By the women too, and in a far more critical manner.

  "They stare because you're the prettiest woman they ever sawed," said Flynn as they rode back to the farm after the Sunday sermon.

  She eyed him warily. "Are you still after that parrot? I shan't change my mind, you know, whatever you say to flatter me."

  "Snakes preserve us! Like Mr. Deverell says, can't you take a condiment?"

  For once she didn't bother correcting her son. But she had to turn her face away so he wouldn't see her smile.

  The weather had been fine for several days in a row, the sun high, the air sweet and fragrant with just a hint of salt blowing in from the sea. Kate, despite her windblown hair, aching back, and the earth under her fingernails, had begun to appreciate the cleanliness of that air and the openness of the sky. It did smell "good", just as Flynn had said.

  As she drove their rattling cart along the coast road that day, Flynn pestered her to let him go down to the sand and explore. Since he had behaved himself that morning— neither fidgeting too much in the pew, nor yawning during the sermon— Kate agreed, turning the horses off the road in a quiet, sheltered spot. They both deserved a little fun, she thought. So mother and son then made their way down a rather steep cliff path and walked on the sand, taking their shoes off to paddle in the sea.

  Of course, this was not enough for Flynn, who —like any male— when given an inch, would take a yard.

  "I want to go swimmin'!" he exclaimed, breathless with excitement.

  Since Kate couldn't swim herself, she told him he'd have to stay with his feet in the sand. He complained, but when he heard that certain tone in her voice he knew he fought a losing battle. Still he went into the water as far as he dare, promising to find her some shells. She never liked letting go off his hand, but today his fingers slipped from hers, too wet to keep, too eager to hunt for shells in the glittering sand.

  She stretched her back, turning her face up to the warmth of the sun. Such a beautiful blue sky. It suddenly reminded her of Storm Deverell's eyes. He had been born here under these skies, so he said, and never wanted to go anywhere else. Like the land, he was rugged and weathered, but wildly handsome. A force of nature, in a way.

  She may as well admit that to herself. What harm would it do if she allowed him to be very fine indeed and something unique? He knew to keep his distance now and, as Flynn had said, he probably regretted ever paying her a compliment. Therefore it was safe to admire him. From a distance. No more watching him put on a shirt, for Heaven's sake!

  As her mood mellowed further in the warmth of the sun, Kate could also admit that she'd been a little harsh toward the man. But it couldn't be helped. Life had taught her that men's motives were usually suspect. If she had hurt his feelings she was sorry, but a woman in her position had to be wary.

  He wouldn't understand, though. No doubt accustomed to ladies fawning over him, he must think her cold and prim. Not to mention, inexperienced when it came to country life.

  "Not being local, you won't know about the Bumble Trout."

  Well, never mind what he thought of her. She had more than enough problems, without worrying about a Deverell's opinion, or his teasing, blue eyes.

  He wasn't in church today. Neither was his father. No surprises there.

  Kate shook her head and looked around for her son. He had ventured a little farther into the water. She called him back at once, but in the rushing roar of a particularly tall wave he didn't seem to hear. Or didn't want to.

  He was laughing and squealing alternately, sometimes together, as the foaming waves splattered up his legs and knocked him backward into the sand.

  Having never seen the sea before she came to Cornwall, nor felt its power before today, Kate was startled to see how quickly the reversing waves drew him back into the water.

  "Flynn Michael Kelly, come back here!" She hurried forward, but the sand sucked her stockinged heels down and in. It felt as if the ground was falling away beneath her. She lost her footing and the next wave swept hard into her side, preventing her from rising.

  The shining, sunny sky suddenly became menacing, the light too bright and gaudy. She always feared for her son— that he might fall under carriage wheels or be kidnapped in the street, or catch a fever and not recover. So many dark imaginings filled her mind. But now, in this place, there were new fears, new dangers to watch out for. Things never previously imagined.

  While she struggled to her feet again and fought against the waves, trying to reach Flynn, she caught sight of a figure watching from the cliffs, a grim, dark bulk against the eerily bright sky. The man— she was certain it was male— made no move, but continued watching her in that chilling way. She'd been stared at and studied ever since she arrived here, but this was different. There was cold malice in the shadowy figure's regard, not merely curios
ity.

  Terror pumped her blood faster. Bile rose up in her throat, joining the salt water to choke her.

  "Flynn!" she screamed.

  With terrible, wrenching certainty she knew the man on the cliffs meant them harm. He must. Why else would he stand there calmly watching them drown?

  They'd been followed there and found. There was no other possible explanation.

  Sputtering and gasping, Kate lunged for the wave-buffeted shape of her son and caught him before the next wall of water covered them both.

  He wasn't in the least grateful.

  "Ma! Let me go back. I'm swimmin'!"

  But Kate dragged the boy up out of the waves and held him close.

  Her heart was pounding too hard, too fast. She trembled with it.

  Glancing up at the cliffs again, she realized now that the ominous shape was merely a jutting slab of rock, framed by sunlight. In her panic it had temporarily taken on the form of a human to trick her.

  Well, that served her right for daydreaming about Storm Deverell's wicked eyes for even a few stolen moments. See where that would get her?

  Slowly she walked back across the sand toward the cliffs, carrying her son, while he continually protested their sudden departure and complained at all the "treasure" he might have found. They had reached the cliff path before she realized they'd left their shoes behind on the sand, but another soul on the beach that day had already found the discarded items and rushed after her to return them.

  "Good afternoon! You must be Mrs. Kelly, the young lady about whom I have heard so much. I saw you in church today, but you were gone before I could introduce myself."

  She turned, wet skirt and petticoat sticking to her legs, seaweed in her hair, Flynn still carried on one hip. "Yes," she gasped with a quick nod.

  Another woman stood there, holding their shoes. She was small, slight, well-dressed and, despite having hurried after them across the sand, quite composed. Her hair was dark, with a very straight center part and the smooth sides pinned back in a tight knot. She was, by far, the tidiest person Kate had seen here, and as such had stood out in church.

  "I'm Olivia Monday. I live at Roscarrock." She motioned with her free hand toward the distant island and the old castle that crouched upon it. "I walk here on the sands most afternoons, while the tide is out and if the weather is fine."

  Kate recovered her manners hastily. "I am pleased to meet you. This is my son, Flynn." She set him down on his own feet.

  The other woman smiled. "Delighted to meet you both. Will you come with me for some lemonade, perhaps? It looks as if you had a bit of a fright."

  "Yes, please!" Flynn shouted immediately. "I like lemonade."

  But Kate declined the offer, adding, "Perhaps another time." She wanted to get back to the farm and dry off, let her heart get back to a calmer pace. Besides, she'd heard the locals refer to Roscarrock Castle as "Devil's Hell". Not exactly encouraging her to visit the place.

  "I believe you met my future stepson already," the lady said. "Storm Deverell."

  "Yes. I... I have met Mr. Deverell."

  "His father and I will be married in June. Perhaps you heard?"

  Of course she'd heard about True Deverell's upcoming second marriage. It had been as much talked about outside church that day as Kate's very brief appointment to the post of housekeeper for the infamous fellow's son.

  Was it proper to offer her congratulations? Surely, yes, but on the other hand—True Deverell was a scandal few women would court. Especially the sensible, practical kind of woman, and Olivia Monday looked every inch a lady of sense and propriety. A lady who was never flustered, afraid of shadows, or caught running across the beach barefoot, like a savage.

  "I can see I have confused you, Mrs. Kelly, and you're not sure whether to offer congratulations or condolences. I am not what you anticipated finding at Roscarrock, I suppose."

  Disconcerted by the woman's ability to read her thoughts, she stammered, "Not...not as such. I do not know what I expected."

  "We are an odd lot, it must be said. But then most families are, so I've found." Olivia Monday held out the shoes again. "You are a widow too, I understand?"

  "Yes." Kate looked for something to dry her son's feet. She was suddenly all fingers and thumbs, her face hot. What a fool she must have looked, running away across the sand as if the waves would chase them down! She hoped this lady didn't think they were running away from her.

  Mrs. Monday passed her a clean handkerchief. "That is something else you and I have in common, then. We are also both from London. I was born and raised in Chiswick."

  Kate kept her head down, dried Flynn's feet and then helped him into his shoes. "We had better get back to the farm," she muttered. "We have stayed longer than I meant to already."

  "Yes, of course. It is easy to lose track of time here. I hope to see you again soon. And then Master Flynn can sample some of my lemonade."

  She managed a tense smile, thanked the woman for finding their shoes and then hurried up the cliff path to their cart.

  "When can we go to the castle, Ma?" Flynn wanted to know.

  "I don't know," she replied, still short of breath. "We'll see."

  Sand itched inside her corset and her shoes. A most uncomfortable sensation. She even felt the grittiness in her hair. And there was a saltwater stain on her skirt. What a mess she must have appeared to the tidy and composed lady from Roscarrock.

  As their cart moved away, she glanced back, looking for that jagged piece of rock that had fooled her into thinking it was a sinister man observing them with cold detachment. The sky had altered color again now— something that happened swiftly here, she'd discovered. As the light shifted, the scenery appeared to move, the hills and valleys becoming as lively and changeable as the sea itself.

  "Are we playin' hide and seek, Ma?" Flynn's voice broke into her thoughts and gave her a start.

  "Why would you think that?"

  "Because you're always looking over your shoulder and you said we ain't running from the Peelers, so what else could we be doing?"

  She sighed heavily, still trying to get her breath back, tasting salt on her lips and the ends of her hair as it blew across her mouth. "It's just a habit. Kindly stop inferring we're fugitives."

  "What's a fugitive?"

  "You can look it up in the dictionary when we get home."

  Hide and seek, indeed! The idea that they might have been followed was a very real fear and not a game.

  Sometimes at night she lay awake wondering what Bert Soames had done when he found his cabinet broken into and his captive songbird flown. After promising Kitty Blue's private and intimate attentions to one of his wealthiest, most influential patrons, Soames would have been left with some excuses to find, and quickly, when she disappeared. He wasn't very good at thinking on his feet. Without a doubt she was a marked woman if she ever returned to London.

  "Don't you want to make friends here, Ma?" Flynn demanded.

  "We'll see," she murmured.

  The truth was that she didn't know who really was a friend here, and who might be dangerous. The sudden turning of the waves that day had served a useful reminder never to let her guard down. Or start day-dreaming about Storm Deverell.

  * * * *

  She had a terrible nightmare— of Flynn running ahead of her down a narrow cobbled street, the scene lit only by a single gas lamp at one end. She tried to run after him, but her feet were too heavy and the cobblestones bubbled up to trip her. And at the end of the street she saw a man waiting. He was shrouded in black shadow, a hunched figure in a tall hat. He reached out a long arm toward Flynn, fingers like octopus tentacles. There was a carriage behind him, blocking the alley. Its door gaped open slowly, waiting to swallow her son.

  Kate tried to scream, but only a slight squeak emerged. Flynn did not hear, did not stop running. She thrust with her hands and feet, desperate to chase after him, but she was sinking into the ground, choking and suffocating. Now seawater came, flooding
the street, sweeping her back farther, her limbs useless. She was drowning, lost in the swell.

  Waking with a start, she sat up, sweat beading on her brow, her heart thumping so hard she felt it in her toes and fingertips. Flynn slept peacefully, sprawled beside her in the bed, moonlight shining on his face. His lashes twitched and his lips popped open, but he slept on, oblivious. Thank goodness.

  She drew her knees up to her chest and waited for the fever of panic to subside. The fear would not go away completely; it never did. But it would become muted after a while and the tightness in her chest would loosen to let her breathe again.

  Until the next time she closed her eyes for sleep.

  Chapter Seven

  The lamb staggered after the other ewes, bleating impatiently, but they were not interested in the orphan. These mothers had their own youngsters to manage.

  "It's no good, sir," said the shepherd, "we've tried everything to get one of the others to let him feed. He's a wily feller. Manages to sneak in and take a sup once in a while, but he won't thrive at this rate."

  Storm watched for a moment and then made up his mind. He climbed into the pen, approached carefully and scooped the unwanted lamb up into the warmth of his own coat.

  "I'll tend to the little lad," he said. After all it wasn't the first time he took in an orphan. Busy as he was, he always had time for those to whom fate dealt a hard hand.

  With the lamb snuggled under one arm, he made his way back across the fields to his farmhouse, trudging through the mud. Suddenly he heard a shout and turned his head to see the boy, Flynn, galloping over the ruts toward him.

  "Oy, Mr. Deverell! What's in your coat?"

  There was no sign of the boy's mother. Why was the child out all by himself this early in the day? She usually kept him close. "Does your mother know you're out here?" he demanded, stopping to let the boy catch up.

  "O' course she does," came the pert reply. "What's in your coat?"

  "An orphaned lamb, needs looking after."

  Immediately the boy wanted to know where he was taking it.