Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2)

by Susan Ward

  Livid with frustration, Indy snapped out, “Damn you for the stubborn, arrogant jackass you are and the suffering you’ve brought us both because of it. You still think you are more than other men, that you can shield us all, that you can navigate your way from this without having to choose. I have broken everything, the past, the present, the future, and I have left it in pieces at your feet. No one could pick up all the pieces and yet you will insist on trying. Damn you, gather what you can and let the rest go. Whatever I do to Rensdale is not your burden. It is mine. I will never know who I am, what I am, unless you let me discover it without your shadow leaving me in doubt for the rest of my life. Let me go—”

  Indy broke off, not recognizing the odd gasp that interrupted his words.

  He put a scarred hand over his eyes. He could no longer see through his tears and wished his father would leave him. Leave him to suffer this break on his own and the reality of where they would go from here.

  In a moment he felt himself being drawn into the powerful circle of his father’s arms. He had never allowed such an exchange between them before.

  When Varian’s voice came it was with a gentleness the boy had never heard before. “You are so much more than you think you are. I suspect in time you will understand on your own and I will have to trust it is enough to keep you from greater harm as you make your way without me guiding what you do.”

  On my own?

  Indy looked up then, searching those dark eyes and the face of the man he had never truly understood. “What will you do now?” he asked.

  Varian’s shoulders shook like loose jelly. When he released the boy, Indy could see how weary his father was. The effort of his laughter so drained him his father sank with an uncharacteristic lack of composure onto the soft bed of grass beneath them. Varian lifted the forgotten bottle of whiskey and took a long drink and then laughed once again softly.

  His great dark eyes stared out at the water and when he spoke his voice was a mixture of exhaustion and mockery. “What am I left to do? Tomorrow I will let you go alone as you’ve wished to finish what you will finish with Rensdale. And tomorrow I am going to marry your filly and pray neither she nor her father kill me because of it.” He looked at the boy and smiled darkly. “I think I am the one who has been left with the more dangerous battles to fight.”

  Indy smiled, sensing in his father’s jest was buried some truth. It occurred to him this was the closest thing to a normal conversation they had ever had between them. He wondered if he had stopped their struggle long ago if they would have found this peace between them earlier. And that was what he was feeling so strangely now, warm within him. Peace. Peace with this man who was his father. Peace with himself. Peace with the future. He wondered if his father felt it as well.

  “Do you want me to go with you to meet with the crew, lad?”

  Indy shook his head. “If I am ever to have absolute authority I must get it on my own.”

  His father did not argue, a subtle sign in the shifting of things between them. “Depend upon Tom, boy. Your Uncle is loyal in every way. He is more capable than you give him credit for. One of the others may challenge early on. Tom will give you wise counsel.”

  “You’ve prepared me well for this day. Were you even aware what you have truly done all these years was always to prepare me for the future without you? A future we both knew would never be in England.”

  Of course Indy had understood. Varian should not have expected otherwise, should not have expected Indy to misread his actions. In spite of how hard he had tried to bring the boy back to what he should have been, Varian had accepted the futility of it early on. It amazed him after all the years he had fought this moment, now that it was here, how un-troubling it settled upon him.

  “I was on my way to a tavern when I found you. Come with me, lad. I fancy getting drunk tonight. I don’t think either of us will be able to dare such recklessness again in the near future. Tomorrow you will be the Captain of my ship. And I will be…” Varian was staring at the stars and this time his smile came fully. “...a married man with an angry, young wife. Precious and fading are both our carefree hours.”

  ~~~

  Lady Meredith Ann Merrick wed the Duke of Windmere in the mansion of Earl of Camden in a fashionable section of London known as Portland Place. Their vows were spoken by a somewhat reluctant, stern faced, very proper Anglican Bishop.

  The vows had been preceded by a harsh lecture, lengthy, from the Bishop about the Duke of Windmere’s constant impropriety. The Bishop was beyond politeness after being roused from his bed before dawn, to be presented with a special license hastily obtained by Camden, with a rather brisk demand from the earl to come.

  Merry had been startled from sleep in Indy’s cabin by Varian, was without ceremony wrapped in a cloak, carried to a carriage, and taken under the cover of darkness into the city. For all the good it did, she would have preferred to sleep until morning or at least be given time to dress.

  Camden’s aged and reserved butler had recognized her at once. Even his expert impassivity had not kept his eyes from widening at the ragged picture Lucien Merrick’s daughter made clad in a simple, dark hooded traveling cloak over bare feet— what would his reaction have been if had known only Varian’s shirt was beneath it? His expression seemed to scream what the devil has the girl done this time.

  It was apparent he knew of her disappearance, plain her past wild escapades were known even among the servant class, and equally obvious he laid blame for this night’s business on her. He collected himself, with effort, before turning in proper greeting to His Grace.

  Varian was the image of sophisticated British elegance. He had made a smooth transition from villainous pirate to handsome nobleman with nary an effort. Fresh faced and impeccably groomed, he maintained just enough hint of straining tolerance in those black eyes to confirm the impression that he was the injured party in all this.

  Humiliated and simmering with rage, Merry gave Varian a harsh damning glare which he answered with a dark smile. By noon, this tale would be regaled over tea in every drawing room in the city. It was unbearable, this beginning to their marriage she had never wanted. Even if he didn’t care for her, surely he could have spared her the indignity of this.

  Staring down at her hands while she listened to the Bishop, Merry watched as the tears plopped one by one and rolled to fingertip then floor.

  If she had an ounce of pride left, she would have run from the room screaming. Larger tears began to fall. But what good would running do her? Varian wanted to marry her and he would marry her. His reasons, as cruel as they were, had proven as unavoidable to him as her own reason were to her.

  “Dearly beloved…” the words floated around her, as strange a presence in the room as she was. “…we are gathered here in the sight of God, and in the face of these witnesses, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony, which is an honorable estate, instituted of God...”

  The words passed in a rapid blur, and all Merry could think of was that she was here in circumstances too horrible to have ever imagined, losing her freedom a second time at the hands of the man she had been foolish enough to fall in love with.

  A tear slipped down her cheek. What would become of her? What would Varian do with her now? Where was he taking her with this act of marriage?

  She searched Varian’s eyes as he began his vows, his voice low and without affection. “I, Varian Charles Deverell, take thee, Meredith Ann Merrick, to be my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I plight thee my troth.”

  Merry turned toward him, speaking her own vows in a soft, stricken tone. “I, Meredith Ann Merrick, take thee...”she faltered and his eyes fixed on her severely warning. Would she ever remember to call him Varian Deverell and not feel foolish doing it? “... Varian Charles Deverell, to be my wed
ded husband, to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love, cherish and obey till death us do part, according to God's holy ordinance; and thereto I give thee my troth.”

  His warm hand lifted her icy fingers. “With this ring I thee wed.” He placed the band over the top of each finger on the left hand until he would slip it on her ring finger. “In the name of the father, the son, and the holy spirit. Amen.”

  She looked up at the Bishop as he announced that they were man and wife. It was over. In a blur of a few words she was Varian’s wife. The word banged unmercifully within her brain. His wife. Even in eternity she would belong to him.

  Varian did not try to kiss her as was the custom at the end of the vows, and it was the Bishop who came to her with eyes soft and gentle, calling her ‘Your Grace.’ In worried tones, he instructed her to sign the documents.

  Whatever he had seen on her face during the ceremony had moved the man from outrage toward Varian to concern for her. She would have welcomed the unexpected kindness if it hadn’t made her feel so damn pathetic.

  It was made worse when she could not seem to stop the shaking of her hand to place her signature on the necessary documents. Varian’s large, dark fingers closed over hers, assisting her gently swirling strokes.

  Merry stared at the signature next to her own. She had stumbled across the truth of who he was back on Isla del Viento, and hadn’t known it so skilled he was in his deceptions.

  This man she was now married to was Varian Deverell, Duke of Windmere. Quite a remarkable catch by society’s standards, given what they must think of her these days. Regardless of his scandal-ridden past, he was exactly what her parents had expected of her, and she was his wife. He was, in fact, one of the two men her father had considered for her on that last night at Bramble Hill, part of the threat to get her to surrender to her duty, a possible fate even before she’d been taken by Indy from Cornwall.

  Reality was proving only to continue to be a snapping, impossible to grasp concept. In a blur of words, I am no longer the mistress of a man of myth and legend, but I am instead the Duchess of Windmere with a child in my belly, a husband at my side, back in my proper, unwanted, loveless fate.

  It was overwhelmingly amusing. She brushed at her tears. There wasn’t even laughter in her any more. Nothing could break through the all devouring sadness surrounding her heart.

  Varian took the documents, gave a curt nod to the Bishop, allowed the congratulations that were perfunctory at best, and then quickly escorted Merry to the waiting carriage. The city was bathed in bright sunlight, the streets full of activity, and the road crowded with elegant town coaches as she was taken on another journey unexplained.

  Blinking rapidly against the intensity of light, she looked out the window and realized they were back at the docks. She made to join him as he climbed from the carriage, but Varian pushed her back against her seat without comment, snapping the door closed between them. A clearer gesture could not be made; it seemed to underscore with miserable clarity her position in his heart.

  Camden said quietly, “It is better, in your current state, we allow as few people to get a look at you as possible.” He settled in waiting, closed his eyes and rested his arms on his girth. His tone had been kind; the effect of his words had not.

  The docks had come alive with daylight. Merry could not have joined Varian without risking the chance of someone recognizing her. Vendors swarmed selling their wares to sailors, rich merchants mixed with common fisherman, doxies and noble ladies moved at will on the arms of noble men among the throng.

  The most infamous pirate ship ever to sail the seas blended innocuously among the hundreds of ships that bounced about in London port. Today, the Corinthian was the Windsong. She knew she would never see it again.

  Varian was gone less than a quarter hour, and when he returned Indy was with him. The boy had gone through a metamorphosis of his own. Only the long, swishing black braid, the legacy of a hundred scars and the diamond in his ear betrayed he was anything more than a son of an aristocrat.

  The young pirate stared at her with black eyes and Merry wondered how the truth had never occurred to her.

  James Deverell, Varian’s son.

  Given time, he would be every inch the man his father was. Seeing him thus, she had been a fool never to realize he was Varian’s son. The black eyes alone should have told her. Perhaps her heart and mind linked as shielding allies. Perhaps she could not see what she was unwilling to see.

  She listened to their quiet conversation, the ease of its flow not escaping her. She wondered at the transformation in that as well. Everything was changing around her too quickly to find a comfortable hold.

  Indy reached for her hand to give it a gentle squeeze and she jerked it back too abruptly, in a manner harsher than she intended.

  She turned away, not wanting to look at him. The pirate hesitated. Then, “Be well, Merry. It’s not as hopeless as you fear. Perhaps in time you will forgive me.”

  She said nothing. She would regret this moment often in the year to come.

  ~~~

  They made the journey over land to Falmouth in three days, interrupted only by quick meals and short sleep. Throughout the long hours in the carriage, Varian’s voice droned in instruction on what Merry was to say and reminded her to call him Varian Deverell.

  Varian Deverell.

  Merry pressed her fingers against her sore eyes, trying to listen, unable to focus. Why was it so painful to think of him in her mind as Varian Deverell?

  Then, she understood why as she frantically studied his unfamiliar new persona. If he were only Varian Deverell then the lingering hope was gone that the blissful days she’d shared with him on ship might return. As pathetic as it was, she was desperate to keep hold of that hope.

  Desperate even in her pain.

  Desperate even in fury of him.

  Desperately needing not to believe she had meant nothing to him. At present, she had more to deal with than she could manage.

  Varian’s mechanical voice filled the carriage with a melody she’d already heard too often. He had taken bits and pieces of the true elements of Merry’s escapade and woven it together into a perfect fabrication her parents would believe. He had repeated it a dozen times today alone, wanting to assure himself that no part would be forgotten. It was both insulting and mortifying to endure it again.

  He’d left the beginning of it as truth. She had gone to Grave’s End to find Rensdale, wanting him to cry off of his offer of marriage. Furious and willful, she had gone to Falmouth to find them. In Falmouth she had crossed paths with a group of ruffians with ruttery on their mind and had run onto his ship to hide from them. She had stowed away by accident, falling asleep in the galley.

  She had refused to tell him who she was, not wanting to be returned to marry Rensdale and had sailed to America with him. Only on their return to England had he learned who she was from Camden, and he had promptly corrected the error of having allowed her to sail with him by marrying her.

  Thin, perfect, proper. Enough true reflections of her to make it believable. Enough truth to be readily remembered. Vague enough not to overly enrage or cause speculation.

  Averting her face from him, pretending to watch the blur of passing landscape, Merry could not stop the custody of her most recent hurt. Two nights she had lay at Varian’s side as his wife; two nights he had not tried to touch her. Not that she was ready to let him touch her, but there would have been some restored pride in spurning his desire for her.

  Looking down at her tightly knit fingers, Merry knew in disappointment she wouldn’t have spurned him at all. A bewildering part of her wanted the comfort she knew she would find laying with this man, desperately needing to soothe the bitter pain of all he had said her. The more bitter pain of still loving him and needing to find a moment’s peace inside herself. Even if by means of sharing those acts with him in bed, which were not a reflection of
his heart, had never been, but of only his needs as a man, his desire of her to satisfy them, and her humiliating willingness to let him.

  Fingering the folds of her gown, which had mysteriously appeared on the foot of her bed at the inn they had slept at the prior night, Merry wondered where Varian had gotten it. They were a day out from Falmouth in the middle of nowhere.

  It was a highly stylish and elegant pale blue silk gown, with matching calfskin slippers and delicate adornments for her hair, all fitting and suiting her looks to perfection. So he had noticed she had only been dressed in his shirt when he had dragged her from his ship for that ghastly farce of a marriage ceremony.

  Obviously he had thought better of taking her to her parents looking like that, though not before allowing her the humiliation of traveling for a day in her ragged state before noting and correcting the error. Effortlessly, with never failing thoroughness of his heartlessly methodical mind, he had transformed her into the perfect and properly dignified image of his wife.

  She chanced a glance at the austere face of her husband. He looked more frightening to her than he ever had on his ship. Had youthful foolishness blinded her to this man? Was it youth or the willingness of a loving heart that had betrayed her at every turn?

  If she lived for one thing now, it was the day she could cut him from her heart. Loving him was a trap now that went nowhere. The man she loved existed in that store of men and she no longer believed he was any more real than the others.

  She was being returned to her family after a year as Merry Deverell, Duchess of Windmere, trapped by all the things that had forced her from the walls of Bramble Hill that last night. That her husband was the infamous Captain Morgan would have no consequence to her now.