"Apparently not. Can't sew either."
"Storm! You should have let me interview her."
He swiftly changed the subject. "I hear father's making some alterations at Roscarrock."
She huffed, still shaking her head. "Just adding a few modern comforts."
He nodded. "Good. It's time the place was dragged out of the dark ages. I know he liked the grimness of it because he thought it suited his image."
After a while she said, "When I first came to Roscarrock, I found it a drafty place, isolated and dark. Now I've developed such a fondness for that ugly old stone castle that I would never want to live anywhere else." She squeezed his arm. "Strange how finding love can transform everything. It's not nearly so eerie and gloomy now that your father and I are there together every evening."
He snorted. "Isn't that romantic."
"Yes it is. Very. And you'll know how lovely it is too, Master Skeptic, when you have a family of your own to come home to."
"I was hoping you and my father would give up trying to get me shackled by now."
"Certainly not," she replied smugly.
No, he thought, that had been wishful thinking. His father's efforts to find him a wife had never been subtle, and now that he was in the throes of hapless love himself, there was no end to True Deverell's determined chipping away at his eldest son's peaceful, contented bachelor existence.
"You have a rather somber expression on your face suddenly," said Olivia.
"I was thinking of my mother. This time of year always brings the memory closer."
"Of course." She plucked a dandelion seed off his sleeve and watched it float away in the wind. "The snowdrops were beautiful on her grave this year."
"Yes. I'm glad I planted them there. She always loved the first signs of spring."
Storm had spent much of his youth looking after his mother, and it didn't end with her death. When he was ten, standing by her grave, worrying that she might be cold that night, he'd decided to plant snowdrops there, knowing they would bloom into a soft white fleece to cover her. Each year since then he'd planted a few more. Twenty years later his mother's grave had a blanket of flowers every spring.
"She would be very proud of you," Olivia said softly. "To see all that you've achieved."
He lifted one shoulder in a half-hearted shrug.
"Since you took the farm over and expanded your holdings you've turned an excellent profit every year."
But he wasn't always the good boy of the family. Storm used to raise his fists to any man who looked at him the wrong way, and he'd had to work hard to get his rage under control. Olivia knew none of that and she refused to listen to gossip. To her he had always been the cheerful, easy-going fellow, the calm one in the family.
"To ignore your success is very un-Deverell like," she added.
He sighed. "There's a lot about me that's un-Deverell like."
Ransom— the half-brother next to him in age, but still six years younger— had once said, "You're too soft-hearted to be one of us. I daresay it will come to light one day that your father was the boar-walker. Even you must admit it's a very strange coincidence that big-bosomed Louisa, the gamekeeper's daughter, didn't hold True Deverell accountable for siring her bastard until she saw that he'd made a tidy fortune in the years since he tupped her on a haystack. She didn't crawl out of the woodwork to make trouble until he had married our mother, Lady Charlotte."
Ah yes, Ransom was just as protective of his mother, and he didn't believe in sugaring his words either.
But Storm never had any doubts about his parentage.
When he was a baby, his mother married a blacksmith for a roof over their heads. The man resented providing for a child that was not his and took no pains to hide his dislike for "the little bastard." Fortunately he drank himself into the grave within a few years. There were no tears shed at his funeral.
Then, when Storm was five, True Deverell came to find them, having just discovered the existence of a son. Their lives changed from that moment and very much for the better. His father paid for Storm's schooling and rented a house for them in Truro.
As a boy, when he wanted to know why his parents weren't married, it was quietly and carefully explained that his father had another wife. But as he grew older Storm understood that even if Lady Charlotte did not exist, his father would never have married his mother. Theirs had been a brief tumble when True was not much more than a boy himself, and Louisa an experienced, eager young woman. It was a playful summer tryst, a single fateful coupling in their past, and since then their lives had gone in different directions. Their moment in time had passed. At least it had in the minds of everyone except Louisa, who, until the day she died, still clung to that single memory of a summer long gone.
But when True Deverell visited that little house in Truro, it was an event special enough to warrant tea in the best china, as well as two kinds of cake. Storm recalled a sense of giddy excitement in the air as he watched his mother frantically pinching her cheeks in the mirror and fussing over her hair. He still kept her china and used it when he had special guests, thinking of her smile every time he did so.
Thus, his thoughts were carried back again to the woman and child he'd left eating breakfast from that same "best" china in his house today. Another boy and his mother, seemingly alone in the world. A nervous widow running from trouble, clutching at her coat buttons and wielding a whip.
He knew when a woman was keeping secrets. He knew it the first time he met Olivia and he knew it when he was merely a boy looking after his mother. On both those occasions the secret kept was the same: they were in love with his father. But what could be the supposedly chaste Mrs. Kelly's secret?
"I have worried about you all alone on that farm with no female company," Olivia was saying. "And although an efficient housekeeper is a good start to getting your life in order, it is no substitute for a love life. You need a wife waiting at home."
"No woman would be addled enough to wait around for me unless I pay her," he replied wryly. "And I wouldn't want her to. I never know when I'm getting home most days, or what state I'll be in after a day in the fields. I'm not much company. I've been alone too long. No," he added briskly, "animals are better house mates. They don't require clever conversation, just a bowl of milk and a scratch behind the ears."
Olivia chuckled. "Oh, if you were in love, you'd be eager to get home to her. And if she loved you back, she wouldn't mind what state you were in, or how late you were, or what your mood. As long as you got there."
What a curious thing love was, he thought. It made sensible women like Olivia say the most insensible things.
He thought about Kate Kelly again. A strange, chilly madam, who claimed celibacy, yet wore stockings embroidered with red climbing roses. A woman with a figure out of his dreams and lips a dying man would give up his last breath to kiss.
In short, the most unlikely looking housekeeper he'd ever laid his lusty eyes upon.
A memory came to him suddenly, of his father's wife— Lady Charlotte— slapping him hard across the face once when she caught him running a curious finger over the curved gilt acanthus scrolls of a picture frame. He'd been waiting to see his father in the hall at Roscarrock when that mean-tempered bitch came out of nowhere and he felt the sharp, cruel sting of her palm followed directly by the scrape of her fingernails over the smarting flesh.
"How dare you put your filthy, peasant hands on the art, boy. You are not worthy to look at it, you little bastard, let alone touch it."
It was only one of several similar encounters with Lady Charlotte, who could not bear the sight of Storm because she said his father paid more attention to him than he did to her son, Ransom.
"You're very fidgety today, Storm," his future stepmother exclaimed, once again drawing him out of his thoughts. "And look where you're driving the horses, if you please. We've almost gone off the road twice. What's wrong with you? Ants in your breeches?"
Ants? No. But something. Some
one.
He smirked, imagining the expression on Olivia's face when he finally introduced the lovely, autumn-haired Kate Kelly as his housekeeper.
If she stayed. If she was still there today when he returned home. He'd left her hovering on her toes, ready to take flight, but short of tying her to a chair there was little he could do to keep her if she chose to leave.
He thought of her driving that cart into the river at speed. The haughty, independent Duchess was much too impatient to wait around for anyone, unless she became trapped, stuck against her will. And Storm didn't think much of traps. In his opinion they were cruel and unnecessary, because most of the time they led to a slow and painful death for the animal caught. To be merciful, death should be quick.
Funny, he mused, how a discussion about love and matrimony should lead his mind to death.
* * * *
When he returned to the farm late that afternoon, Jack ran out to greet him with the usual gruff bark and a wag, but a few moments later, striding through the open door, he found his expectations confirmed.
She was gone. His housekeeper had turned down the post.
Storm fell into his chair and stretched out his legs. In truth he felt a little relief. The calm equilibrium was restored.
He put his arms behind his head and stared into the fire. At least, with no woman about to disapprove, he could come and go as he pleased, eat when he wanted and what he wanted, dress comfortably, let out his belt as needed and burp as required. Didn't have to watch his language, mind what he looked at, or take care not to offend anyone by being honest.
Really, he was a lucky man to have all this to himself. Who needed a housekeeper? Olivia had made him think he needed one, but he ought to know better. Get his life in order for what? He was perfectly content with everything just the way it was. As his father said, women had a tendency to move a man's belongings around in the interests of being "tidy", and then nothing could ever be found when it was needed.
At that moment his other little stray appeared, that black, whiskered face peeping around the open door.
"There you are, damnable pest. I thought I was well rid of you."
Grumbling under his breath, Storm got up immediately to pour out the saucer of milk now clearly expected. He set it down by the hearth and watched the sleek creature cross his floor in a smooth glide, that long tail curled upward gracefully.
With a gusty sigh he sank back into his old chair again and after a while the cat leapt onto his knee, waiting for the nightly scratch between its ears.
"Getting bold and bossy, aren't you?"
But the creature still kept an eye on him, ready to jump off at the first change of mood or tone.
"Perhaps I'll call you Duchess," he said. There was a distinct resemblance in attitude.
It was, he decided briskly, just as well that she was gone. He was already more fascinated by her than he should be. Who knew what that curiosity would lead him into? It was just as dangerous for men as it was for cats.
Chapter Five
At least it wasn't raining. That was his first thought as he rode up to the Putnam farm the next morning. With all that old furniture standing out to be bid upon, it would have been a great shame to see it get wet, warped and spoiled. He always thought there was a certain sadness about house sales.
"Don't be soft," his father would mutter, laughing at him for that peculiar thoughtfulness, which was a trait so unlike a Deverell.
But as he drew nearer to the farmhouse, Storm noticed there were fewer scavengers at the sale than he'd expected, much less activity. And no furniture out in the yard.
Odd. Then he saw Joss Restarick arguing with a slender, pinch-faced fellow, who had just removed a pair of spectacles as if he feared he might be punched in the eye. Of course, Restarick quarrelling with someone was nothing unusual, but Storm sensed something more afoot on this otherwise sunny morning.
He dismounted and walked over to the two men, shouldering his way through the small group of bewildered onlookers. "What is it? What's going on here?"
Joss spun around, his face red, lips straining over his teeth. "Bloody woman changed her mind about selling!"
"What? The Putnam widow can't manage this place alone. I thought she was staying with her sister."
Clutching a ledger to his chest, the agent replied somberly, "I'm afraid she has decided upon an alternate plan, gentlemen, and is leasing the house and land to a tenant."
Before Storm could ask another question, his father came up, also demanding to know what had happened.
"Mrs. Putnam has chosen to lease the property to a young lady who approached her very recently with a proposition. One which the widow, apparently, preferred to the notion of selling."
"But this auction has been planned for a fortnight," Storm's father exclaimed loudly, causing the agent to cower behind his book until only his eyes and the bridge of his nose might be seen.
"It is...regrettable, Mr. Deverell, but she is resolved to abandon the idea of selling and prefers to lease—"
"Lease it to whom?"
The agent looked around and pointed a gnarled, ink-stained finger. "Here comes the young lady now, sir. You may direct your questions to her."
Storm turned, as did his father and Restarick. The small crowd parted, and there, gripping her son's hand, stood Kate Kelly.
He could scarce believe his eyes. Of all things he might have expected to see that morning, she was not one of them. The surprise chased his breath away and left him speechless for a moment.
Joss Restarick spoke first. "She was at your farm yesterday, Deverell. You put her up to this! It's a scheme. You sent her to bargain for a lease with Putnam's widow, behind my back!" It made no sense, of course, but few things that young man said in the heat of temper ever did.
Meanwhile the woman at the center of all the furor walked forward boldly, head high, lips set firm. "I'm sorry, gentlemen, if you're disappointed. But I simply put my bid to Mrs. Putnam yesterday evening and she agreed." She still wore that fancy riding habit— a garment now eyed dubiously by the locals who gathered in a knot behind her, every ear listening avidly to this encounter. "My son decided he liked the spot, so I have leased it for one year to see if we might settle here."
Finally Storm got his tongue in motion. "You knew I had plans for this place."
"And that means nobody else may have any?"
"You're a woman." A woman, he might have added, in possession of nothing but a cart load of old furniture. How was she paying rent?
Her eyes flared. "A woman? You don't say!"
"A woman can't run a farm. Especially one who, yesterday, didn't know how to do much of anything." He smirked. "Except get herself stuck. And lie about her purpose here."
"I did not lie. You are the one who decided I must be your new housekeeper. I was merely looking for Reverend Coles."
"So you ate my good bacon, drank my tea, dried yourself by my fire and then snatched this place up from under me at the first opportunity." He kept his voice low and carefully measured, having no desire to be overheard by the crowd of onlookers.
She, however, spoke boldly and at some volume. "Let me know what I owe you for the bacon, sir. I should have known that when a man shares his meat with a woman there is always a bill to pay."
Someone in the crowd tittered, and Storm felt his temperature rising. He clenched his fingers into fists and pushed them down into his coat pockets. "And I should have known that looking kindly on a woman and saving her from a flood is likely to cost me."
She ran a swift hand over the small buttons of her fancy riding habit. "I really don't know what all the fuss is about." Oh, she was cool as a cucumber, he thought darkly. Liar.
"You had no right to come here and—"
"I'm sure I had as much right as you." Her expression was fiercely determined.
"How did you know where to find the Widow Putnam?"
She licked her lips, and he thought he saw just a hint of guilt gleaming in her eye b
efore she blinked. "You mentioned that she had moved in with her sister at a place called St. Austell, so I looked on your map above the fire to find that town. When I got there I made inquiries—"
"And then you stole this place away from under us!" Restarick yelled.
"I didn't steal anything. I am paying a good and fair rent to Mrs. Putnam. I daresay if anyone was looking to steal, it was you men, trying to get the farm from her for as little as possible to make a great profit." She tipped her chin even higher. "The dear lady was grateful to me for giving her another choice. As she said, we widows must stick together."
Storm shook his head. "I should have left you in the damn river." His father was right; this tenderness for strays would be his undoing one day. He felt everybody staring at him, waiting to see this uppity, decorative stranger put firmly in her place. It wasn't like him to be bested by a woman. By anybody. She was putting a sizeable dent in his reputation. "What the hell are you doing here?" he growled softly. "This is no place for the likes of you." A hothouse flower would never survive on the harsh, weather-bitten moor. She thought she was tough and yes, she had a fighting spirit, but she was also reckless and headstrong— as he knew already— and apparently impulsive too. She'd need more than her own gumption to make a go of that farm alone.
"I thought Mrs. Putnam might like to know her house was lived in again by someone who would make it a home," she replied icily, "not simply annex it to their own holdings. It seems she wasn't very keen on the idea of her beloved home being carved up between you two...what was it she called you both...scrapping mutts who would fight over a dead man's bones."
"How can you manage this farm by yourself? With no man about? You'll go under, Mrs. Kelly. You've made a mistake."
"If I did, then I've no one to blame but myself, have I?"
Storm bowed his head in frustration, but he had to admit she had more courage than the agent, who was now hurriedly beating a path to his horse, taking the "Notice of Sale" board with him.
"I'll not stand for this underhand business," Joss Restarick bellowed, stepping up and shaking a finger in her face. "You'll be sorry, woman. I never did care for cuckoos."
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