Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2) (34 page)

“We will reach port in London tomorrow,” Merry began, softly and cautiously. “I want to leave the ship. Alone. My parents have a home in the city. I don’t know if they are there, but I want to go and see my mother. I want to put her from worry. I want her to know I am alive and well. I will tell her whatever fiction you’ve created so that you may safely make port in London. She will not be ashamed of me for the things I have done. It would only matter to her if I am well and happy. So I wish to go to her, alone, as soon as I can, so she will not worry for me any longer.”

Merry lowered her eyes from him. Varian folded her into his arms, understanding her need, but knowing she hadn’t thought this through. He brushed the curls back from her face, tilting up her chin so she could see his eyes, and said quietly, “Little One, if you go to them they will not let you come back to me.”

Merry was crying before he’d finished. He could feel the wetness dribbling down his chest. Through faltering sobs, her words came, ragged whispers that struck like daggers. “I miss my family so much, but it is worse knowing they are close to me. Close enough that I may see them if I go and knowing that I cannot. Because you are right. My father would stop me. He would hold me there and he would search until he found you. He is a powerful man. A proud man. He would never understand how I could love you since I am his daughter, a reflection of him, and I should know my duty better.”

Holding her shivering body against him, Varian realized there was nothing he wouldn’t do for Merry. The completeness she brought to his life had made it possible for him to release the last shred of his longing to return to England. He had no desire to return now, but Merry would always have a privately held ache for her home and family. And that ache would carry regret into the future with her, chipping away at her love for him, possibly to the point where she would love him not at all.

Staring at her tear stained face, he knew his future had been predestined from the first moment he’d taken this girl from England into his heart.

Varian brushed away her tears with his thumbs and tilted her face to meet his eyes. “Merry, I want you to tell me who you are. It is ridiculous you won’t. It doesn’t matter what the truth is. I don’t know why you are afraid to tell me. I need to know so that I may get you to see your mother. I cannot manage that without knowing who you are.”

In a stubborn voice Varian knew all too well, Merry said, “It doesn’t matter. Not any longer. I want nothing to change. I don’t wish to go back to Falmouth. I don’t wish to leave you. I don’t wish to bring unhappiness between us. I won’t tell you. Don’t ask me again.”

There was no point in fighting with Merry when she was like this. Varian didn’t bother to. He’d have Camden provide him the answers he needed. Explore if he could even return to England as the man he’d been, if they’d covered his past as Morgan well enough here that it would never surface. If the torture of that old scandal had died down enough so Merry could find some peace living here, and how much danger there was in attempting this lunacy. It was past time to know the name of the girl he wanted to marry.

Kissing the soft slopes of her cheeks, he wondered what Merry’s reaction would be to the truth about him. Would those bluebell eyes look on him differently when she learned of the hideous scandal he’d left behind in London? Would she want him if she realized he was man not so different from the others she had known in Falmouth?

She was such an unpredictable creature at times. Gently born, she had only surrendered to someone who was all the things she shouldn’t want, in a manner that was all the things she didn’t deserve. He couldn’t help but to wonder how much of a part Morgan played in his appeal to her, though she would hotly deny any if he asked her. Or to worry about where she would settle with the truth of who he was and what that would mean to her future. Would she even want him if he shared with her all that?

“Give me your mouth, Little One,” Varian whispered. “I have never been more desperate to make love to you than I am at this moment.”

~~~

Merry rolled over in bed to find an empty space beside her. She struck a match to candle. It did not surprise her to find that Varian gone. His mood had been uncommonly pensive, even during their love-making. Afterward she could feel his thoughts churning deep within him.

Wrapping a quilt around her, she made her way to the open deck above. She found Varian on the quarterdeck leaning against the rail. He was a strangely isolated and lonely looking figure in the slowly lightening blue of pre-sunrise and misty fog, as he stared at London beyond.

Padding barefoot across the deck, she smiled when he turned to her, his eyes registering a flash of surprise. “I did not expect to see you up so early,” he murmured, kissing her curls and easing her body against his chest to warm her.

She could feel his inner-turmoil in his hands and touch even now. She wondered if it was worth making mention of. Instead, she said, “I woke to find you gone. I don’t sleep, not ever, unless you are beside me. I have forgotten how.”

That made him laugh. “I would think when I am beside you is when you are least likely to sleep.”

His palms slid down her belly, caressing gently before resting there. There was only a light guard on deck, but it surprised her when he leaned over to press a kiss on her womb. It was not the type of thing Morgan ever did. There was never a hint of Varian topside.

“How is our child today?” he whispered.

“I think in a better mood than you. I am not sick this morning.” She tilted her head into his kisses on her neck. Then pulling away, she warned, “You can’t divert me so easily, sir. What is troubling you? Why will you not share your worries with me?”

There was silence from him. The sound of flapping from the mast drew her eyes. Above her head the bold colors of Great Britain capered proudly in the wind swirling off the water.

“Someday you are going to explain to me your tricks. How is it that you can make port in London with as little concern as you did in Bermuda?”

“It is not a trick, Merry. No trick at all.” Varian smiled into her questioning blue eyes and then shrugged. His dark gaze shifted back to the city. “Does it all look differently to you now that you have been away for a year?”

It surprised her, it did look different. Nodding her head, she said, “Yes, it looks smaller and less significant. I will miss it not at all.”

“And will you be happy in Virginia with me?” His whispering voice made her shiver.

So that was what was troubling him; her tears yesterday over her mother. “I am happy with you on this ship.”

She heard him slowly inhale, a troubled sigh she was sure he was unaware of. She leaned into his chest with its familiar warmth, scent and firm angles. She knew for certain she would go with this man and never look back.

On a quiet voice, she said, “I will be happy wherever you take me, Varian, if you are there with me.”

He knew she meant it. Merry’s emotions rose to her eyes with transparency, and her gaze was clear, direct and unwavering.

He held her face between his hands. “You are so beautiful, Little One,” he said, kissing her eyes, her nose, and her mouth. He scooped her up into his arms before she could protest, transparent himself in all this and no longer caring.

Tomorrow he would leave this ship. God willing he would never return. Tomorrow would be the first day of his life as only the man who loved Merry.

~~~

Varian looked up from his desk and realized he had been so deeply in the process of his work, he had been unaware Merry was retching into a washbowl. He could tell she’d been sick for quite some time and somehow he had neither heard nor noticed it. Her face had lost all color, even with the light tint of the sun her skin carried, and she looked limp and haggard.

He crossed the room to her. “I thought you were done with this.” He kissed her lightly on the brow. “I am sorry I didn’t notice. You do it so quietly. Do you want me to get you some tea or maybe something to eat?”

She leaned into him, breathing heavily. “I do it quietly so you won’t coddle me. I am not made of glass.” She covered her mouth with a hand and took in a deep breath. Her face was lost in the washbowl again.

She let him rub her brow until the nausea passed. He set the washbowl on the table and watched as she relaxed into her pillow.

“Try to rest, Merry. We have much to do tomorrow.”

She was too tired to question him on that. She wrapped herself in the blankets and attempted to return to sleep. She was still in bed when Indy brought her breakfast.

The boy looked at Merry curled tightly around Morgan’s pillow. There was tension in her limbs and her face was the color of parchment. Stiffly, he said, “You need to take her ashore. She is not looking well.”

Morgan sat back in his chair and seemed to study her for a moment. Turning his focus back on his work, he added, “I am taking her ashore tomorrow. I will be gone for an extended period of time. I have given the necessary instructions to Tom. You are to return to sea without me as quickly as possible.”

That earned him a sharp look from the boy. It had not been wise to say that, not now.

One battle at a time, Varian.

There were so many difficult battles still lay ahead, and so much work left to be done if he were to be free of the coil of the past. He was relieved the boy left without probing the issues further.

Once they were alone, Merry climbed from the bed and crossed the cabin. Angry, she snapped, “Why don’t you ever tell me anything, Varian? Why didn’t you tell me we were going ashore? I don’t wish to go ashore. I do not want to stay in England, not one day more than necessary.”

He gave her a hard stare. She ignored it. She curled onto his lap and picked up one of the documents sitting before him. Another obscure and dated customs record.

“Who is Lord Branneth to you?” she asked. When he refused to answer, she starting picking through the documents turning the neat stacks into a disorderly heap.

“Stop trying to irritate me, Merry. It is important to us both that I finish this.”

Whatever slipped into his voice made her tense and instantly he regretted it. Varian rested his chin on her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I will tell you everything you want to know, and perhaps a thing or two you don’t want to know. But not today. I haven’t time for that lengthy of a discussion.”

He watched her as her toe rubbed little patterns against the carpet, poking at the papers laying here and there.

Then, he said, “You know, it is past time for you to tell me who your people are. There is no reason for your obstinacy in this. Do you think your silence serves either of us well?”

She didn’t answer him. Stubbornness always. It was part of the cost of loving Merry. Patience and an ability to work with stubbornness.

He eased her from his knee and gave her a light swat on her bottom. “Go away.”

Merry settled at the table, picking at her breakfast as Varian went to retrieve more papers from the mountain strewed across the floor. It was carefully sectioned into piles. She studied him, wondering if he would ever tell her the truth about this.

Whatever this obsession it went well beyond Rensdale, though she did not doubt the viscount was in the center of it all. That part of Varian’s tale she believed, but this was so much more, whether he was willing to explain it or not. It was quite simply too copious, too detailed to have as its focus on a single man. Nothing Varian did was ever insignificant.

Now deeply claimed by his task, he seemed suddenly very far away from her.

“Whatever you are working on is certainly not putting you in a pleasant humor. I don’t know why I bother with you at all. For a pirate you are exceptionally serious, disciplined and industrious. I think I liked you better when you worked at being wicked. You were more fun.”

No response.

Then, mimicking his voice, she whispered, “I thought we only do what we want, how we want, and only so long as it’s pleasurable? That does not look pleasurable.”

Merry had thought to make him laugh. Not even a chuckle. Varian settled back against his chair and with a dark smile said, “Not any longer, Little One. We are in England. The center of the world and the center of my war.”

~~~

The Earl of Camden entered his front hall, returning from tedious hours at Carlton House spent in gossip and indulging the whims of the Regent. He was greeted by his butler with a silver tray and a familiar seal staring up at him from a letter.

“How did this get here?” Camden asked dryly.

“By messenger, your lordship. The messenger stated it was urgent and required your immediate attention. I have taken the liberty of setting a fire in your library. ”

Camden stared down at the seal, then tapped it against his hand as he walked down the hall toward the library.

So the scoundrel was back in London, brazen enough to send me a letter by common messenger, with his seal on it no less. What to make of that? There is always little buried meaning in all things Varian does. He knew the seal would irritate and prick my curiosity. As reckless as it had been, even beneath the cover of forged identities, it had been foolish in the extreme to send a letter with his seal upon it.

In the library, Camden excused the footmen, closed the door and settled in a chair after pouring a generous glass of port. He was furious before he finished the first two lines. Furious for what the letter contained and that Varian had been reckless enough to send this communication in writing. A neatly penned narrative which could have linked Varian to a decade of crimes if it had fallen into the wrong hands. Pressed on parchment behind his seal no less. Why had he made such a stupid gesture?

It was a page and a half about Rensdale, what he’d accomplished with the
Hampstead
, and how he wanted Camden to proceed with the documents they’d gathered over the decade. A tactical battle plan to make sure Rensdale’s and his conspirators’ destruction was complete. He almost tossed it in the fire before finishing it without reading the postscript. He was that angry with the man for his fearlessness. Varian was a capable man, not a foolish man, but sometimes his love of these little puzzles of battle tried ones nerves. Varian had no nerves. It was beyond tolerance.