He looked puzzled, but only at his reflection in the mirror. "Do you think this neck cloth is too bright? The print too bold?"
"I think it needs to be considerably tighter," she said. "You should thank God that we are not married, because if we were, I might feel the need to adjust it. While you slept."
He went white. "What?"
Raven turned and walked out of the room.
* * * *
Her brother arrived the next day, after receiving a letter from Mary Ashford.
There were raised voices in the Marquess of Revders' library, but Ransom was not one to spend long on an argument. He walked out of there loudly shouting for Raven, much as their father would have done.
"Come, my one and only sister! Don't make me punch anybody in the face or rip out their throats slowly with a soup spoon. We must be going about our devious Deverell business. You have had fun long enough tormenting these people."
Two footmen and a butler might have stopped their way, but Ransom had a very special expression for anyone who got in his way. Lady Charlotte used to say that it came from the devil— meaning her husband. Perhaps.
So no one apprehended Ransom Deverell when he took his sister's hand and pulled her into the fresh air, out of that dismal house.
Raven decided she might actually adore her elder brother. But to tell him that, would only cause his head to swell.
* * * *
"Papa insists that you go home to Roscarrock," said Ransom.
"What?"
"I had a letter from him soon after the note from your friend Miss Ashford arrived. He insists. He wants you there immediately."
Raven sank to a chair in her brother's office.
"This...Miss Ashford of yours, is apparently taking care of our mother. One can only assume she has the patience of a saint." He smirked. "But she says she will escort Lady Charlotte back to London as soon as she is well enough. Must be a glutton for punishment."
"What...what happened to Hale? I have seen no word... heard nothing."
"Oh," he waved their father's letter through the air, "he survived. No great harm done."
Thank God. Never ever had she thought those words with so much meaning. Hale was alive. No one had thought to tell her, because they did not know how much she loved him. Tears sprang into her eyes, and she could not stop their wretched progress this time.
"What's the matter with you?" her brother asked. "I did not think you even liked the man. Why are your eyes watering and making that wretched mess?"
Raven sobbed into her sleeve into her brother finally passed her a handkerchief, muttering under his breath at the weakness and changeability of a woman's heart.
"Apparently the lust-addled fool has written to ask our father for your hand in marriage. He says he has your written agreement. Something about the two of you and a business partnership."
And then she began to laugh, even through her tears.
* * * *
In time it was discovered that Douglas Bourne— elder son of the Marquess of Redvers— while abroad in hiding, had begun a scheme to cheat money out of some hopeful "investors" in a railway that was never to be built. He invented a company and put on a great front to make it seem, in every way, legitimate and trustworthy. To add heft to his fictitious company, he used the Earl of Southerton's name and forged his signature on several official looking documents. Alphonse Reynaux was one of the unfortunate men he cheated with this scheme.
It was Reynaux's daughter, a pretty young lady in her best lilac silk, who took to the stand in court to tell her father's story, hoping to provide some defense for the sad, misled fellow when he stood to be tried for the Earl of Southerton's attempted murder. Her gentle plea, and a word of mercy from the Earl himself, won Alphonse a reprieve. Rather than be executed, his sentence was commuted to transportation.
As for Douglas Bourne, he, of course, was already dead and could not be brought to justice. And the Marquess of Redvers' remaining son, Matthew, having failed to win back Lady Louisa Winstanley, was married to Lady Jane Newcombe in October of 1847.
Some folk considered that quite punishment enough.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Fisherman's Rest
Cornwall
Christmas Eve, 1847
"'Tis said that on nights like this 'un, mischievous piskies do walk abroad."
The couple who had recently sought shelter by the wide fireplace, turned to observe the old fiddler warily, the man drawing the shivering woman closer to his side. "Piskies?" they both murmured.
"Aye. A tribe of little creatures from the beyond. Troublesome creatures that live only 'ere, in this part o' Kernow. Be wary, sir, if ye be out and about, for they be fond o' wicked trickery."
"That's enough o' your tales, Jethrow." The landlord walked by with six empty tankards clasped in this thick, crab-like claws. "'Tis Christmas Eve!" he reminded them all briskly, a quick smile lifting the wings of his sandy whiskers and plumping his ruddy cheeks. "There'll be no piskies out tonight." Then he shouted at the fiddler, "Earn yer ruddy keep and play some good yuletide cheer for the customers or I'll put yer out in the snow, ye old scoundrel."
Raven Deverell, seated by the fire playing solitaire, observed the newcomers as they approached to warm their hands in the flickering light. Not local, clearly. On their way to one of the big towns, no doubt, and forced off their route by high winds along the coast road. Like her they were obliged to take shelter here until the storm eased.
There was a time, not so long ago, when Raven would not have cared about the dangers of traveling through bad weather. When there was somewhere she wanted to be, she struggled onward until she got there, come hell or high water. But tonight she did not have the heart for that adventure. Instead she huddled by the fire and turned over cards, trying to be patient. The landlord was right, she thought morosely, no naughty pisky would be out in that snow. Not even her.
Suddenly the inn door blew open with a crash and a thick whirl of snow danced across the stone floor, causing immediate and raucous protest from every customer in the place. Flames in the great hearth dodged and crackled, spitting angrily as that chill blast unsettled their dance. The elderly fiddler paused in his off-tune rendition of Good King Wenceslas, his gnarled fingers, poking through holes in a pair of woolen gloves, apparently frozen mid-note.
It seemed as if those naughty Cornish imps were at large, after all, for there was no one in the open doorway. Only a spinning cloud of sparkling white flakes.
The landlord hurried over to close it again, muttering under his breath about how winter weather grew worse every year, and how he shouldn't be surprised if it didn't mean the end of the world was nigh.
But before he could shut the door and return to his ale taps, a tall figure, seemingly formed out of the snowstorm itself, stepped across the threshold and swept off his snow-topped hat.
Two fiercely dark eyes quickly surveyed the tavern and then he tugged a scarf from his mouth and croaked, "I'm looking for Roscarrock Castle. Is this the right road?"
Raven turned her face away and pulled the fur-trimmed hood of her cloak further forward over her brow. Her heart, previously fluttering with lackluster spirit, slammed into life again. Hard, thrusting life that almost brought her up off the wooden seat.
"Roscarrock? You mean, Devil's 'Ell," the landlord told him. "'Tis what folk hereabouts call it. You won't get across there tonight in one piece. Best stay here until the storm eases." She heard the croak of the door closing and the rattling shudder of a heavy bolt drawn across. "Anyone else who comes to this door tonight will 'ave to ring the ruddy bell."
"But I'd like to try to get across to the island. If I can find a boat to hire, I can row myself."
"There's no-one who'll lend you a boat tonight, feller," the fiddler assured the newcomer. "Not till morn. You take a seat by the fire, sir, and put some heat back in your bones."
Hastily puffing out the nearest candle, Raven slid back into the shadows as far as she could
, although it meant sacrificing some light to finish her game of solitaire.
Although she didn't dare look, she knew he was moving through the room toward her with a firm, powerful stride, dripping melted snowflakes all over the floor. The landlord, recognizing a fine set of clothes and a man of consequence when he saw one, noisily dashed about with comical concern and far more efficiency than he usually showed, trying to find out what the gentleman cared to eat and drink, how many horses he needed stabled tonight, and whether he might like one of the beds above stairs. Although they were currently all taken, the landlord explained that he would gladly cast somebody out to make room for his new guest.
But the sullen gentleman did not require anything other than a mug of ale. And this, quite probably, was merely a request made to rid himself of the obsequious fellow at his elbow.
"Very good, sir. A tankard of my best ale, it is!"
"Splendid," he muttered, dropping to the wooden bench at the fireside and stretching out one booted foot.
Raven held her breath and drew her own feet away from the pool of firelight. She tasted the wood smoke on her tongue, mingling with the sweet warm cider she'd drunk earlier with her supper. But now there was something else too, another note of spice in the air. A very costly spice.
Oh, that brought back memories.
"Tis a bad night ye chose to travel in," the fiddler exclaimed, leaning over his shoulder. "What business could ye 'ave at Devil's 'Ell?"
She thought he would not bother to answer such an impertinent inquiry. But he surprised her.
"I came to catch a villainess and make her pay the consequences of her crime."
"Villainess, eh? Well, no doubt you're on the right path. They're a bad lot, them Deverells — them what lurk out there on that island."
"Yes." He exhaled a deep sigh. "Of this I am well aware."
"What be 'er crime then?"
There was a pause.
Raven had to breathe again, but she did so as quietly and inconspicuously as she could.
"She stole something of mine," he said finally.
"And you've come to get it back?"
"No. It's no good to me now." He stretched out his other leg and crossed both at the ankle. "But I'll take hers in exchange."
"Eh? I don't follow."
He sighed. "No matter." Glancing up and noticing the old man's instrument, he muttered, "Don't let me keep you from your music."
The fiddler readied his bow and then leaned over again to whisper a warning, "They say that on such a night as this 'un, wicked piskies do walk abroad."
"Yes. I can well believe it," the man replied dryly. "There's one of them sitting across from me now."
Cards fell from her hand and he, quite calmly, stooped forward to retrieve them.
"What are you doing here, Hale?" she muttered.
Still bent forward, he looked up to where Raven huddled under her hood in the shadows. "I came for my winnings, madam."
She gave a terse sigh. "You must be a very foolish person to traipse all this way in a snow storm."
"Not nearly as foolish as you, thinking you might get away from me."
"I owe you nothing, Hale."
"On the contrary, madam. You owe me everything. And I mean to collect it tonight. Here and now." His eyes narrowed as he handed her the fallen cards and then sat back in his chair. "One of those rooms above stairs will do. Shall we go up now?"
"You're insufferably arrogant."
His lips formed a slow, cocky grin, but his eyes remained somber, intense. "I did try to warn you. I always win in the end."
"Ah, but this isn't the end." Raven picked up her cards and shuffled them, her gaze never leaving his. "This is only the beginning."
He hitched forward again. "The beginning?"
"Shall we play again? All or nothing?"
For a moment he considered her face and then the cards in her hand. "You already have my all, damn you, woman."
How she enjoyed this game. It never got old. "My all or nothing then."
"You'll cheat."
"I most certainly will not."
"Have you forgotten how well I know you, madam?"
Well, they'd been married four months, and she was pregnant with his child, so he ought to know her by now. But this game still thrilled them both and always would.
Once she had said to him, "But we might become bored with one another. The adventure— the race— ends at the victory line. You won't want me beyond that."
And he had proved her so wrong. So very wrong.
"You once told me," she whispered, leaning close, "that I would not find much excitement with you, Wolf."
"Ah, I underestimated the effect a Deverell would have upon my life." He raised his voice, "I've come all this way and I mean to collect my winnings, wench. You will not swindle me out of them with your Cornish pisky ways."
She sighed deeply. "Very well. You win. I am your prize."
"It's about time." He moved in to sweep her cards aside and claim a kiss. "I love you Raven Hale, you wicked, saucy menace! For how long must I keep chasing you?"
She laughed. "You love it, my gentleman wolf. And so do I. Now take me bed and devour me."
Which he did with relish. And there was nothing gentlemanly about it.
Because once you start falling in love, as they could both confirm, you simply cannot stop.
Also from Jayne Fresina and TEP:
Souls Dryft
The Taming of the Tudor Male Series
Seducing the Beast
Once A Rogue
The Savage and the Stiff Upper Lip
The Deverells
True Story
Storm
Chasing Raven
A Private Collection
The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers
Ladies Most Unlikely
By
Jayne Fresina
Coming 2016
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Jayne Fresina sprouted up in England, the youngest in a family of four daughters. Entertained by her father's colorful tales of growing up in the countryside, and surrounded by opinionated sisters - all with far more exciting lives than hers - she's always had inspiration for her beleaguered heroes and unstoppable heroines.
Website at:www.jaynefresina.com
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