"Yes. Men generally do. After they've caused it."
He laughed. "Back to that again, are we?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"The inadequacies of men and how we are to blame for all the world's problems. And all because I was honest and said you were bonny, when I might have kept it to myself?"
"I wish you had kept it to yourself," she muttered.
"Can't you take a compliment, Mrs. Kelly?"
"We have scarce been introduced, sir." He had better not think she was that sort of woman. "I wonder what you could mean by it." Kate had been told she was fair of face before, but no good ever came from it, and the men who tried to flatter her had only one intent. If anything, her face was a disadvantage when she sought to make an honest living.
"I meant no harm by speaking the thought aloud, but don't fret." He held up his hands in mock surrender. "I shan't worry you with another, now that I know you're not of a mind to receive any graciously." He said all this in a calm voice, more amused than angry. His eyes narrowed, crinkling at the corners, which explained the thin white lines in his sun-browned face. He must puzzle over a lot of riddles, she thought. "But 'tis a pity if you can't appreciate your own good looks," he added. "I know my face is as scratched up as a pair of old boots, but I value it all the same. It's well lived in and still has its uses. At least it has the required number of features and mostly in the expected order."
Old boots, indeed! Her gaze drifted from his damp, ruffled hair to his thick arms, firm chest and the fluttering tail of his shirt as he continued tucking it sloppily into his breeches. She closed her lips tightly, gritting her teeth.
Now she knew how Eve felt in Eden, with only one man as far as the eye could see. And oh, what the eye could see!
"You must be ravenous," he said, apparently misinterpreting her expression when he saw it again. "Eat up, madam. There's plenty of food." Leaving one side of his shirt casually adrift, he began to whistle that jaunty tune again as he moved around the room. Whatever irritation she'd caused by rejecting his compliment was now dispersed as easily as seeds on the wind, it seemed.
The front door creaked as he opened it to let his dog out. Instead of closing it again, he left it ajar. "My plowman will be by in a minute," he said. "He's such a shy fellow he won't dare knock on a closed door." Then he laughed softly and shook his head. "He'll think something's amiss if he sees my door shut."
"Why?" Flynn wanted to know.
"It's usually open in the daylight. Man, woman and beast coming in and out. Seems rude to shut my door to visitors."
It was the oddest thing Kate had ever heard. Wasn't he afraid of robbers?
"Besides," he added, a sudden naughty gleam sparking in his sky blue eyes as he looked directly at her, "they might think we're doing something we oughtn't, behind a closed door." Amusing concern, she thought, coming from a man who thought nothing of parading shirtless in her view.
Anxious to look at something other than him and finding her teacup empty, she quickly reached for the butter and then realized she hadn't cut herself a slice of bread yet.
"What things might you be doin', mister?" Flynn wanted to know.
"All sorts."
"We always bolted our doors in London, didn't we, Ma?"
"Yes, we certainly did," she replied, terse.
"We ain't got none now though. Our house is in that ol' cart. All our worldly treasures. But carts don't have doors."
Neither adult spoke. Kate looked down again, glad of her coal-scuttle bonnet, the wide brim providing a cooling shade for her blushes of humiliation.
"What if it's cold out, mister?" Flynn continued, apparently stuck on the subject of front doors. "You leave it open even then?"
"I put some extra coal on the fire and wear another coat." Smiling amiably, Deverell rubbed his palms together and came back to the table. "Fresh air, and a quantity of it, is the best thing for a man's health and spirits."
"Bacon's good too, I reckon," exclaimed Flynn. "This tastes better than any I ever 'ad before."
"That's because the pigs are raised happy here and well cared for."
"Until they're slaughtered," Kate muttered.
He shot her a surprised glance. "We all have to go sometime." Taking a seat across the table from her, he picked up a knife and began carving a thick slice of bread. His hands were clean now, the fingers long and square at the tips, the palms broad and weathered. Capable hands. Strong hands. At least he had enough manners to wash them before he sat at the table. "Best we can do with the time we have," he added, "is enjoy life every day to the fullest. Make our mark. Do some good in the world. Go out knowing we did our best. I keep my life simple."
"A sound philosophy, Mr. Deverell. You make it sound so effortless."
"Isn't it?"
She wished it was. At times it felt as if she had never stopped fighting and struggling, yet she couldn't get anywhere. Like her cart trapped in the river today, the harder she tried to get herself out of the mud, the deeper her wheels stuck. There was little time to enjoy the living when one's every breath was taken up by the requirements of survival.
"I suppose you're all in," he said suddenly, changing tone. "Eight days of travel can exhaust the strongest fellow. You need a good meal and a rest, before I put you to work." He passed two slices of bread onto her plate, as if she'd asked for them. In the next moment he leapt up to fetch more bacon from the pan for her son. Again, anticipating the need before it was uttered.
He looked over his shoulder and paused his whistle. "I'll try to keep my thoughts to myself from now on, Duchess. I won't pay you any compliments, if you promise not to bite me in the hindquarters."
Apparently he had caught her straying gaze. Mortified, she quickly looked down at her butter knife and considered gouging her eyes out with the blade. It might be the only way to keep them out of dangerous territory, if she was going to live there. But she needed her sight to watch over her son, so she would just have to fight the temptations that came her way. After the trouble she'd endured with men, she ought to be immune by now.
She thought she was.
* * * *
When his new housekeeper slowly removed her bonnet and set it on the table beside her plate, a single lock of hair fell adrift of its pins and spiraled down her sleeve. He saw how long it was, thick and curled, but he tried not to notice, because then he might have to spurt out another comment which would, once again, be unwelcome. She professed to be angry because he called attention to her good looks, yet she liked pretty things, clearly— her riding coat for one, and those hidden stockings with the climbing roses.
He wasn't meant to have seen those, of course, but that simply added to their allure.
She didn't look like any housekeeper he'd ever seen. Certainly different to sturdy Mrs. Blewett, who had served both him and his father for years.
Odd that she hadn't tried to fib about her work experience. It was almost as if she wanted him to send her away again.
Not a chance.
Finders keepers.
Now she removed her gloves and he noticed a bandage wrapped around her wrist. "You hurt yourself," he said, pointing.
She paled and gripped it with her other hand.
"Ma cut her arm when she was choppin' wood," the boy explained.
"Chopping wood?"
"Of a sort," she replied, eyes down.
"At least I know there's one job you can do then," he teased. "Might have known it would involve a bladed weapon."
She shot him a look.
"I've a salve to help the cut heal," he offered.
"Don't concern yourself." Then she added in a softer tone, "I'm alright, thank...thank you."
"That must have cost you," he muttered, bemused.
"I beg your pardon?"
Storm changed the subject. "When you've eaten, I'll show you to your room. I wasn't expecting a boy too, but there is plenty of space upstairs and he can take his pick. I usually get my forty winks here before the fire. I don
't care much for beds and the like." For sleeping in, he might have added.
"My son can sleep in my room with me," she replied hurriedly, very tense again now, her expression guarded.
"If that suits you."
"He won't be any trouble."
"No." He had a feeling his new housekeeper would cause him more trouble than her son. And the sort of trouble he had not foreseen.
Simply put, he liked looking at her. She brought a bit of color to his house. In the light of the fire her hair had a shining copper tint to it, tempted his fingers unbearably.
Storm knew nothing about art— thought it was a waste of time and money mostly— but suddenly he could appreciate the pleasing effect that possession of just one beautiful piece might have on a man's mood.
Even if the piece was stubborn and prickly.
"I am in possession of weaponry and wholly prepared to make use of it!"
He didn't doubt that for a moment.
"What are you looking at, sir?" With nervous fingers she touched her cheek and the fallen lock of hair.
"Your lips," he replied honestly. Well, she did ask.
She looked askance. "Please don't. It's not polite or proper to stare."
Oh, so she could stare, but he couldn't? He sighed. "Suppose they do things differently in London, Duchess. You'll have to forgive this country boy who never learned society manners." Smiling across at her, Storm tried his best with the charm again, but she looked down at her plate, those admired lips tightening rather than loosening. He shifted, tapping his fingers on the table. "Although, we're not in London, are we? So that means you ought to abide by our country customs and rules. In which case, I can look at your lips to my heart's content. Fair game since I found you on my land, remember?"
Her gaze snapped up at him again, the jade color afire with scorn, as if she might take a lump out of his flesh if he made the wrong move.
"Good lord, Duchess," he muttered. "You needn't be afraid of the Bumble Trout; it is they who should fear you."
Suddenly hearing hooves in the yard, he looked over at the door, expecting his plowman. The rain had eased. It was nothing now but a fine mist hovering in the air. A thin, early sun, struggling to make itself shown and felt through the lingering clouds, reached over his doorstep with tentative fingers, and through this light came a figure he did not expect.
"Deverell, I want a word with you."
He got up immediately, chair legs scraping loudly across the flagged floor. His neighbor, Joss Restarick, stood in the doorframe, feet apart, fists at his sides, eyes angrily assessing the interior of the farmhouse.
"You and your—" Joss stopped when his dark gaze alighted upon the woman sat there. His eyes widened and then slyly narrowed again at once. Storm could almost hear the man's mind ticking over as he measured the attractiveness of the strange female.
"What's your business here, Restarick?" He moved to block the other man's view of his housekeeper, extremely possessive suddenly when he'd never suffered the sensation in his life before.
"I see you've got company. I'll come back later."
"Not necessary." He gestured toward the yard and then followed the other man out.
* * * *
Kate didn't like to eavesdrop, but their raised voices were hard to ignore.
"I just heard you mean to bid on the Putnam place, Deverell. But I'd advise you and your father to stay home, save your time and your coin."
"Thank you for the counsel, Restarick, but I'll see you at the auction tomorrow. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"Aren't you farming more than you can manage now? I've got my brother to help me, and one day soon I'll have sons."
"Have to get a wife first, don't you?"
"I'll have no trouble doing that. Unlike you, I'm not afraid of marriage. I'll find a good, strong, sturdy wench before too long."
"I wish you luck with that." Deverell chuckled.
"Don't need luck. I know what I want and I can set my mind to it. Your problem is you've got a wandering eye. You'll grow old, all alone, with no sons to help you on the land. Should have settled with Sally White."
"I appreciate your concern for me. Go home, Joss, while you still have one to go to. Before the bank calls in your debt."
"Been listening to nasty rumor again, eh? I suppose it makes a change for you to hear gossip about a family other than your own. Who's the petticoat sharing your breakfast then? Doesn't look local."
"She's not."
"Sally won't think much of you taking up with a fancy town lass."
"Sally can think what she likes."
"Where did you find her then? She's a sweet piece. A bit dainty and ladylike for you."
Realizing that Flynn was listening to the men too, Kate snapped hurriedly, "Eat your breakfast. It's none of our business."
The boy nodded and she got up to wipe his chin with her handkerchief. Although she assured herself that she wasn't interested in their debate, she looked out through the open door anyway and had a clear view of the two men standing with a puddle between them.
"Mind you don't break her," the one called Restarick continued, choking with laughter. "I daresay she's accustomed to the hands of a gentleman, not the great clodhoppers of a clumsy plow horse."
The reply was a tranquil, "She's my new housekeeper, so you can wash your mind out."
"Housekeeper?"
"That's right. Mrs. Blewett spends most of her time at Roscarrock now working for my father, so I decided to hire someone new." Deverell folded his arms, which made his shoulders seem even wider. "Best of luck to you at the auction tomorrow...plucky little fellow. I can't help but admire your optimism against all odds."
"We Restaricks were here long before your family came along and started buying up the land with your crooked coin, taking over."
"Everything must change eventually. That's what keeps the world turning."
It was somewhat amusing to see one man standing there placidly, while his competitor danced about as if he had hot stones in his boots. "Let me know where you hire the help these days, Deverell. Wouldn't mind a housekeeper like that one myself. Although I'd wager she was expensive, eh? Probably too costly for everyday use."
"I've warned you before, you get what you pay for. Cheap labor is false economy."
"Ma," Flynn protested, "don't scrub me skin orf!"
She hastily returned to her chair and a few moments later Storm Deverell came back indoors.
"Bloody Restaricks," he chuckled, and then proceeded to whistle that jolly tune again. He finally finished tucking in his shirt, slipped into a corduroy waistcoat plucked from the back of his chair, and then dropped his seat to a low footstool by the fire and began scrubbing his boots with a hand brush. "Can't help pitying the fool. He and his brother have their hands full trying to pay off the debts their no-good, horse-thieving father left them. But Joss won't take charity. Too proud."
She looked down as she buttered the second slice of bread he'd cut for her. "You mentioned your father...he lives nearby?"
"At Roscarrock Castle, out on the small island a few hundred yards from shore. You would have seen the place if you travelled along the coast road. When the tide is in, Roscarrock is cut off from the mainland, except by boat."
"That's the place we saw, Ma! It's like a fortress in a story," Flynn warbled through a wide yawn. "Like an ogre's castle, you said. Remember?"
Of course she remembered the sight of that sinister, dark silhouette against the blood red sunset last evening as they traveled along the coast road. And now she realized where she'd heard the name "Deverell" before. As the name was matched with the image of that castle, it all clicked into place with a jolt.
"Your father is True Deverell?"
He didn't look up from scrubbing his boots. "Aye. Try not to hold it against me." Then he laughed and resumed his tuneful whistle.
"What's a True Deverell?" her son murmured sleepily. "Why'd ya say it like that, ma?"
"I didn't say it like any
thing, for goodness sake! He's just a man...a well-known man of business." How did one describe True Deverell? He was a filthy rich, self-made man with a scandalous past that included divorce and being shot at by one of his own children.
He was also the creator and owner of "Deverell's"— the most exclusive gentleman's gaming club in London. Kate knew all about it, because hardly a day had passed without Bert Soames mentioning that place and his grievances against its notorious owner. He was jealous of Deverell's success, naturally. Although Soames considered himself a man of great cunning and business acumen, in truth he couldn't get out of his own lumbering way. His personal, clumsy greed, grubby business dealings and the inability to think ahead meant that Albert Soames remained in the gutter, while the mysterious True Deverell— who also came from poor beginnings—continued to rise up.
These days, so the newspapers said, Deverell was wealthy enough to do anything he wanted, and so dangerously hot-tempered that nobody dare try to stop him. His offspring were said to be no tamer than he.
Yet here one of his sons lived in humble style, pretending to be a working man, innocently leaving his door open, chatting genially, cutting her a slice of bread ... and all that time a Deverell. He wasn't at all what she would have imagined from the rumors.
Kate watched as he brushed his boots. Weak sunlight kissed the top of his bent head, slowly drying a few strands of hair and painting awns of golden wheat among the brown.
"I keep my life simple," he'd said.
And he seemed content. She suspected the disarray of his house didn't bother him unduly. Someone, perhaps, had urged him to get a permanent housekeeper so he went along with the idea just to keep the peace. But from what she could see the man lacked nothing and looked after himself capably. Certainly whatever she could contribute to his life would be minimal.
"Sorry, Mrs. Kelly, but I've got to go out already," he said, shrugging back into his damp greatcoat. "It's market day in Truro, and I'm taking a friend as I promised her. But you and the boy stay by the fire and finish the bacon." There went that smile again. "I'll leave Jack to stand guard."
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