Love's Patient Fury (The Deverell Series Book 3) (9 page)

Light peeked from the main house and an occasional worker’s cottage. There was something comforting about these cherished sights illuminated in the darkness. She felt the damp cold of smooth cobble beneath her feet, smelled the sweet scent of fresh cut hay grass in the meadow, and heard the click of tiny hoofs as the smaller stock stirred at her passing.

Past the drive and now in the knee-deep grass, Merry closed her eyes, letting the scents and sounds of her home soothe her with their touch. A playful breeze swirled around her, caressing her senses and rustling the grass. She opened her eyes when the touch of midnight air rushed her with more force.

She was beyond the outbuildings in a distant small wood and an orange shaft of light came through the cracks of the open doors of an old hay barn. Someone had left a lamp burning. It was odd someone had been in this forgotten structure. The trees had grown around it with time, the branches and leaves obscuring it from view. She had not been in the barn since the age of fourteen when she had abandoned her childhood sanctuary and stepped onto the path of more grown up pursuits.

Beneath the light touch of her fingers the door inched opened with a tired squeak. The inside was as she remembered. A clutter of broken and rusted tools, forgotten harness’, a scarred work bench, and a worn chair. Hanging on a hook from a cross beam of a stall was a lantern burning low and gently swaying in the wind that slipped through the open doors.

Merry stepped in, letting the door slap close behind her. She climb the rickety ladder to the loft and settled in the thick of musty hay. Thin shots of moonlight peeked through the worn, cracked boards above her, and she realized there was still a scattering of her possessions here. A silver bowl, long tarnished but empty. A small stack of books. A simple quilt dusty and unusable. A dainty hand and mirror set laid atop a lace covered pillow yellowed by time.

Pulling the quilt from her shoulders, she made a nest in the leaves and laid down, staring at the dark sky and shimmering stars flashing through the weather worn wood of the ceiling above her. The quiet of the barn was infinitely peaceful and comforting this night.

She had once laid here as a girl, snug in the darkness in a warm cushion of hay and spun dreams of her future as fanciful as the swirling webs left by the spiders in the beams above her. She had once laid here and believed all things were possible. She had last been in this barn as a girl. She lay here now as a woman. Her thoughts were not so hopeful, but there was comfort still in being here.

Running her cheek against the quilt and smelling the sharp pungent scents from the barn, she was embraced by the sure stillness of a Cornish fall. Strangely enough, for the first time, she almost felt home. Almost, but not quite.  It was odd to lay here, surrounded by cherished familiar things and still feel slightly a stranger, to feel a touch out of place.

Rolling onto her side, she noted the upper hay doors were pushed wide, almost as if someone had done so deliberately to air the loft. Before her drowsy gaze was a dramatic view of green sloping hills and black star-filled night with the main house glowing in the distance. Her eyes trace the flowing slope of a hill to its base, and there she saw a silhouette sharply real in the darkness. The shape of that goliath body was impossible to mistake, even at night and from a distance.

There in the meadow she’d just walked through was Varian. If she had left the house a few moments later they would have met on the very spot he was standing upon. He was surrounded by the night, staring at the sky and somehow radiated an uncharacteristic restlessness she could feel prickling through her own overly anxious senses.

She watched him for a very long time and then all at once he turned toward the barn. His stance was familiar. Legs braced slightly apart, hands clasped behind back, and her alert senses were tuned to the feel of his black eyes focused in the darkness. An answering burn move across her skin and then a shiver.

She lay tense atop the quilt, her limbs growing warmer, and her heart growing in erythematic tempo. She watched his every turn, hopeful, anxious, wanting, and afraid.

Did Varian feel her near? Did he want her? Would he come?
The restlessness churned through her limbs in savage want and brought with it painful yearning.

Rolling over onto her stomach, she put her chin in her palms, elbows on hay, and watched each move he made.  Every action of his body seemed in surreal slowness; the unclasping of his hands, the turn of his head, and his graceful steps away. Away from her to mount the horse brought to him by a groom.

It all passed through her mind in agonizing slowness, unnatural, unreal and devastatingly so. Her throat convulsed as she fought the tears.

It had only been four days. Four days since they’d left his ship. Four days since they’d married. Time seemed to drag with punishing slowness and every moment took Varian farther from her. She felt as though she knew him not at all.

He had revealed yet another new guise when she had thought she had known them all. The man she was married to was a stranger. Burying her face in the hay, she let her tears flow until mercifully slumber took its place.

CHAPTER FIVE

Andrew Merrick strode into the Duke of Dorset’s study and without preamble announced, “
Grave’s End
was burned to the ground last night. Ransacked by a group of ruffians, and Jack Shelby is dead.”

Studying his younger brother, Lucien was reminded of the immediate trepidation he had felt upon waking to discover both Varian Deverell and Merry were missing from Bramble Hill.
Damn Moffat and his staff
. And damn the agent of the Foreign Office he had ordered into surveillance of His Grace. How could Varian and Merry both have slipped out of the house without anyone the wiser?

Lucien ran a hand through his silvery-black hair. “Do you think Windmere is behind this gruesome crime?”

“There is much about this I cannot make reason of, Lucien,” Andrew stated grimly. “His motivation eludes me. It seems rash, foolishly done so quickly upon his return. He must know it would heighten our suspicions about Merry’s disappearance. It seems unwise unless…”

Lucien finished his brother’s unspoken suspicions. “Unless there is more about Merry’s history with the man than they are telling us. What do we really know about those years of his absence from England?” The duke paused, and then added dryly, “And what do we truly know about his purpose in returning to England? Why return with Merry? Why take my daughter as wife? The conventions of society never troubled the man before. Why conform to propriety now?”

“So you don’t believe their tale, Lucien?”

“Of course not.” Lucien looked offended by the question. “A poorly constructed tale is never a truthful tale. The question is what is the purpose of these lies?”

“My man at
Grave’s End
is dead,” Andrew added quietly. The brothers locked eyes and then Andrew added, “Have you been able to learn where Varian took off to? And if he has Merry with him?”

Lucien’s face stiffened with anger. “The operative I put in charge of watching Windmere lost him last night. He was heading in the direction of Falmouth, but that is all I know. Our spy showed up shortly after dawn to deliver that news with the confession that he’s lost the trail. He assured me my daughter was not with Windmere.” Lucien sighed and leaned back in his chair. “There are men out searching, but I do not hold hope they will find Windmere unless it is his wont to be found. As for Merry. I don’t know what to think of this latest coil. Rhea is beside herself.”

 “If she is not with Windmere, then there is less reason to fear,” Andrew said in an attempt to reassure his brother. “We will find her, Lucien. Do not worry.”

Lucien made a harsh sigh that sounded more like a growl. “Worry is all I have done this past year. With Windmere in the mix, I do not doubt it will be my constant profession until we have rid ourselves of that man!”

~~~

A vigorous shake on the crown of Merry’s curls brought her awake in the glow of the mid-morning sun. Jerking upright, she found Philip reclined against the wall, legs bent at knees staring at her with a breakfast plate in hand.

“I heard you pacing last night,” he announced abruptly. “You seemed greatly troubled. I left the lamp in the barn. I knew you would come here, nestling. The farthest point you could find to sleep away from him. You are predictable at times. Do you feel more like talking to your brother today?”

Philip spoke with knowing sureness. He could read her too well.

Merry sat upright, curling her legs in front of her and dragging her hair over her shoulder. “Thank you for the lamp. Thank you for the breakfast. I don’t want to talk of my husband at all.”

Philip ran a hand through sandy brown waves and held out the breakfast plate to her. He did a pointed study of her and then said, “That is a rather revealing nightgown you are wearing, nestling. I suggest if you are interested in maintaining this pretense of a marriage of convenience you do not let our father see you in that. He would put implications to it at once.”

“Don’t be obnoxious, Philip. Let me eat my breakfast in peace for a change.” She tore off a tiny piece of scone and shoved it into her mouth.

Philip sat back and watched her eat, trying to make reason of this unfamiliar creature who was his sister. Merry was different in many ways. With the whispering touch of morning light, there was a softness to her face he had never seen before. Philip could not remember a time his sister look thus; washed in fragility. The ever present sadness in the depths of her eyes only seemed to add to the poignant glow of her.

“For what it is worth, your year of travel has done you well.” Philip’s careless brown eyes evenly met her gaze and were no longer careless. “Perhaps it would help if you told me what troubles your heart and the truth about your disappearance.”

Merry shook her head, pressing her cheek into her knees. “It is better I keep this history in privacy for now.”

Philip studied her, wondering what the devil to make of that. “Do you want to know my read of your circumstance? You, nestling, have feelings for your husband. That was not part of the tale you told upon your return. I would venture to say your husband cares for you. There is much between you unresolved, and yet not dismissed by either of you. So perhaps, Merry, it is time for you to share with me so I may resolve how I can best help you.”

“Thank you, Philip, but I don’t need your help. And your read is not quite so expert.” Merry shook her head sadly. “I won’t tell you the vile details.  But he broke my heart. I won’t ever trust him with what’s left. Do not trust his conduct with me. It is flawlessly correct in every mood. But it is not real. And I can tell you with certainty he will leave before long and it is best for us all that he do so.  But if you have any influence over our farther, it is my hope that Varian be allowed to leave without harm. I will never forgive any of you if you bring harm to my husband.”

Philip nodded thoughtfully. “I will remember that, Merry.”

Watching his sister eat, Philip wondered what he should do with the revelations of the day.  Merry was fiercely protective and loyal to her husband. There was no telling what their father’s reaction would be to
this
news.

Varian Deverell had a complicated history with the Merricks. He wondered if Merry knew all the grim details. Knew that ten years ago their mother had been Varian’s champion in the torrent of ugly accusations, that her defense of him had been the source of one of the few overly long quarrels his parents had shared, and that Lucien Merrick had bent in his will out of love for Rhea and provided Varian protection against what had rapidly shaped into what would have been a fast trial and summary execution.

A decade ago Varian Deverell had come between his parents and now stood between Merry and her family. History, it seemed, was forever destined to repeat itself.

He held out his hand for her empty plate. “Come on, let’s go back to the house before mother takes to her bed from worry over you.”

He clambered down the ladder and then she followed.  She noted how his hands came to help her, a carefully protective and strong hold about her waist that lifted her in gentle ease to the earth. A gentlemanly gesture, when before her disappearance they had more frolicked like untamed yearlings, making mischief and carelessly unrefined.

He pulled off his coat and tugged it into place around her. They walked to the house in silence. Philip made up his mind on the unresolved issue he’d wrestled for days.  He knew where he sat in the lines of the war brewing among his relatives and indeed there were lines drawing. A silent Merrick war underway.

He thought of his early morning discussion with his father. He studied his sister wondering if Jack Shelby’s murder would have meaning to her. Perhaps it was wise to find out. He did not doubt his sister was hiding much from their family.

Philip remarked, “Did you know
Grave’s End
was burned to the ground last night? Jack Shelby is dead.”

Merry’s heart dropped to her stomach. She had seen Varian leave Bramble Hill in the middle of night and now Jack Shelby was dead. Dear God. Was this Varian’s doing? And why would his first order of business in Cornwall be to kill Jack Shelby?

She struggled to keep her expression empty. “Who told you that?”

“Father. It’s a most peculiar thing. Shelby hadn’t an enemy in the world.”

Oh Philip, what do you know and what is father suspecting, Merry wondered. She schooled her features into calm lines. “I’m sure I don’t know.”

Philip’s gaze sharpened. “It was the last place in Cornwall you were seen. And now this.”

Merry’s eyes flashed. “Are you imagining I had anything to do with this?”

Philip had the good grace to flush. “Of course not. It’s just…would your husband have reason to murder Shelby? Is there more to your disappearance a year ago than you’ve told us?”

She shook off Philip’s arm and stepped back from him. “No Varian would not have cause to murder Jack Shelby,” she said stiffly. “Whatever your worries, dismiss them. My husband is not a murderer.”