Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2) (28 page)

~~~

The next week at sea was tranquil. Varian was more attentive of Merry than he had been since leaving Barataria. Holding tightly to the privacy of her worries, Merry was beginning to believe the future would take care of itself if she made the most of loving him today.

Varian’s clandestine meetings with the crew abruptly stopped. They spent long, luxurious hours in the cabin together. There might have been no ship, no world beyond the cabin walls, with how deeply into each other he pulled them. It was true much simmered beneath the surface of Merry, her fears were never completely from her mind, but loving him was not a choice, it was the being within her being, which made all things possible to endure.

On the seventh morning, Merry was alone in bed when she stirred to find Varian sitting at the table picking at his breakfast. He was deeply engrossed in work and she knew the sweet idyll of the past days had ended. It took her a moment to note how Varian was dressed, and to put meaning to the motion of the ship beneath her.

The
Corinthian
was at port. They had reached Bermuda. Varian was going ashore to do whatever he did during his unexplained absences, which she now knew was part of some greater undertaking that could prove dangerous to him, as well as her father.

The morning lost its luster and she sat up in the bed. Seeing him thus, preparing to go ashore, made the unease return through her veins. She watched as Varian went to retrieve more papers from his sea chest, which was never unlocked unless he was working. She wondered if he would ever tell her the truth about all this, if all men held back pieces of themselves from the women they loved, and if it were the fate of all women to know they would never know completely the men they loved.

Deeply claimed by his task, Varian seemed suddenly very far away from her. Climbing from the bed, she asked, “How many days will you be ashore?”

Varian sat back in his chair and watched Merry run a brush through her hair. “No more than three days. If I can manage, perhaps only one night. I have no want to leave you a moment longer than necessary.”

Merry smiled at him and looked away. What she wanted to do was scream at Varian, tell him to stop his secret intrigue, and to stop it now for her. She gave him a cautious glance over her shoulder and saw he was deeply engrossed in his work again.

Is this love
, she thought.
Two people dancing around secrets they would not share.
She lowered to examine a neat stack of papers on the floor. What was this obsession and why would he not explain it to her? Was it her? Was it him? Was it the past warring with the present? Did the fates watch and were they laughing at them?

Merry straightened up from the papers. She curled onto Varian’s lap and picked up one of the documents sitting before him, an obscure and dated customs record. Lord, it was from 1803. She could hardly remember 1803. She’d been a young girl.

Then she remembered in 1803 Varian would have been twenty-eight and if her calculations were correct it would be near the year his wife was murdered by Rensdale. What importance could ancient customs records possibly have in the present?

“Who is Lord Montrose to you?” she asked and, before she could study the document with any thoroughness, Varian lifted it from her fingers and set it back on the table.

He smiled at her. “Nothing you need know about.”

She reached for another sheet. “I will simply read if you will not answer me. I am sure in time, I will come to understand what you have here.”

“It would serve us both better if you would trust me. This matter concerns you not at all. Leave it alone, Merry.”

Whatever slipped into his voice made Merry tense. Instantly, Varian regretted it. She snapped, “There is not a thing about you that does not concern me. You would do well to remember that, sir.”

Varian’s arms tightened around her waist as he rested his chin on Merry’s shoulder. He had no wish to hurt her, but in the coming days there would be no way to avoid it. The best he could hope for was to hurt her in only little ways, and hopefully it would not be too much that she would end the coming months not loving him.

She was smart, suspicious, and young. The world was still black and white in her logic. Life had not taught her shades of gray. The secrets would cut her, even if he explained that withholding his activities were his act of love and an act to protect her.

Merry studied the precise scrawling notes in Varian’s own hand, on the ledger in front of her. It was like a code, linking documents, an impossible to decipher script. She’s seen a similar code in Indy’s journal.

Her gaze scanned the documents strewn in front of her. Frowning, she realized they spanned many years, many offices of Whitehall, but their one common link was they were records of Great Britain.

Stepping gingerly into the thought that perhaps Varian was an agent for the American Government, she noted with distress it would be the most logical explanation for the puzzle of what she knew. What was it Indy had said those early days aboard ship?
Nothing is as it seems with him.
If Varian was an American spy, dear God, then her troubles had just turned into treason. Uncle Andrew was a spy. Uncle Andrew was charged with Varian’s capture. Spy against spy? The more she gave it thought, the less farfetched it seemed.

A part of her didn’t want to know the truth. A greater part of her she could not stop. After rehearsing the question in her mind, making certain it was not such Varian could escape it with his clever word play, Merry asked cautiously, “Are you in the employ of the American Government?”

Varian, having just taken a sip from the cup, spewed his coffee across the table, then laughed until he was red in the face. Merry turned to him, eyes snapping with rage, and then in mock-defense he held up his hands as though to ward off her hitting him. “I would have loved to bite yes on that one and see where it led you. But a promise is a promise and I cannot lie to you, my dear. No, I am not in the employ of the American Government.” Seeing Merry’s face and knowing where the next question would go, he said, “Don’t work so hard to put the pieces together. I am not in the employ of any Government. I have no part in the world’s wars. No part in any mission but my own.”

“Fine. Then tell me how your vendetta with Rensdale fits into Lord Montrose, so I will know I can believe you.”

“The truth doesn’t always take you where you expect to go, Merry,” Varian said softly. “My search for the truth did not stop with Rensdale’s villainy. It has taken me many places I do not wish to go. Remember that. Never turn over a rock, unless you are willing to find what you will find underneath.”

Not an answer to her questions. A careful warning to stop her probing crafted into a single artfully delivered response. For some reason, it brought to mind how little of Varian’s past she knew. Was the key to his intrigue in the pieces of the past he did not share with her?

She said, “I was a little girl in 1803. Where were you, Varian? Were you a pirate then?”

Smiling, he brushed the hair from her face and dropped a kiss on her nose. “No. I was in London.”

Her eyes rounded in surprise. “So, what manner of man were you?”

“A foolish man.”

She made a face at him and said flippantly, “Then it is good we are not in London. I would not love a foolish man.”

Varian gave her a smile for that, but that was all. She settled back against his chest. She was going to get nowhere with him.

Apparently having decided she had enough time to ponder her next move and that her quiet suggested she had none, Varian eased her from his knee and gave her a light swat on her bottom. “You really are an absurd girl. I don’t know why I bother with you. Now go away.”

A polite effort to get her out of the way. Merry did as she was ordered. He seemed anxious to finish his work and be off.

Dismissed from his thoughts, she curled in the lambskin chair and watched him work. One of her Grandmamma’s axioms came to mind, though why it should seem relevant was not something Merry could make reason of. What was it that Grandmamma Merrick used to say?

Stumbling over the words, she muttered to herself, “With the joining of love and truth and duty the impossible becomes possible.”

“What?”

She looked up to find Varian watching her. She shrugged and smiled. “Nothing. Something my Grandmamma used to say. Before she would read something from the Bible. Solomon? I don’t recall. I don’t know what made me think of it today.”

Varian’s eyes seemed to smile as he gathered his documents into his case. He put away the neat stacks on the floor and locked his sea chest.

Varian took her cheeks in his hands and quoted, “‘Behold, thou art fair, my love; behold, thou art fair; thou hast doves' eyes.’” Smiling, he whispered, “The verses of Solomon. Thank you for reminding me, Little One. Your Grandmother is right in her teaching. If love and duty and truth unite, the impossible will indeed become possible.”

He kissed her. She watched him step back to the table. He gathered up his cases. The confusion in her eyes made Varian laugh. Merry’s words had brought a measure of comfort to his worried soul. But Merry was not a religious girl. It did not fit with her black and white logic, to have faith in things she could not see or understand.

Varian paused at the door. “Soon, Merry, we will have not only love, but truth and duty. Be patient with me and the impossible will become possible.”

~~~

Varian’s three day ashore stretched into a week. Her worry of the delay and the unexpected flash-fire of jealousy might have driven her mad if she hadn’t resolved to make good use of the time alone in the cabin. No good would come from working herself into a panic over the delay. No good would come from her suspicions that it was Varian’s French widow who caused the delay. No good, Merry was fast learning, would ever come thinking too much about a man.

So instead she focused on the puzzle Varian had left her with. It took all of a day to pry open the sea chest with a plotting divider. She blamed the constant sound beyond the cabin door, which were a frequent interruption of the endeavor. It would not go well for her if Indy caught her in this. At last with Varian’s sea chest opened, she carefully organized the documents in a variety of ways: by year, by name; and then by government office.

The ledger Varian kept was no help in solving the mystery. Neither were the documents. Shipping manifests, custom records, insurance reports, and snippets from age-worn periodicals. She found an interesting assortment of papers; what she did not find was a single clue to explain what Varian was about. Stranger still, not a single document tied any of this back to either Rensdale or her father.

On the seventh morning hence, she climbed from Varian’s bed and gave up the enterprise of the sea chest. She was curled in a chair reading when Indy brought her breakfast. She accepted the boy’s undisturbed manner as evidence all was well with Varian ashore.

Certainly, life onboard ship would not hum on quietly if something had gone awry in Bermuda. Still, she felt a momentary flash of worry since that insufferable man had not even sent her so much a simple note to assure her he was well. Men, how insufferable they were. Varian would have much to hear from her upon his return.

That thought made Merry smile as she went to the table. She slipped the newspaper from beneath Indy’s arm, while he continued to set out her breakfast. She curled in a chair, made a rustling sound with the pages, and asked, “Anything interesting in the news today? Perhaps a villainous pirate’s capture or some such nonsense.”

Indy rolled his eyes, tried hard not to notice he could see through her nightgown, and continued to pour her tea. “If you want to know if Morgan is well, why don’t you ask? Why make a stupid joke about it? Always melodrama. You won’t find anything in print about Morgan.”

The harsh, unexpected rebuke made Merry’s face burn. “You don’t have to be obnoxious. I’m worried. Varian said three days. It’s been seven.”

“Well, panic won’t help. The extra days mean nothing, Merry. The Captain is well.”

Her wide blue eyes lifted to meet Indy’s. “You’ve heard from him, haven’t you?”

Indy nodded reluctantly.

“He sent no note. No message at all for me?” she inquired impatiently.

For a moment Indy considered lying to Merry. “He relays his order through me, Merry. That’s all.” Seeing the rising clouds of temper and hurt in her eyes, the boy said quickly, “You should enjoy the periodical today. The war between England and France has ended. Napoleon has been imprisoned. A Bourbon has been returned to the throne. All is well in Europe again.”

Indy said it in that laconic way that left Merry unsure if this were truth or jest. She frantically scanned the print and saw that indeed the war with France was over. She could scarcely remember when it had begun, so long ago it had started there seemed in her life never a time when there was not war with France. She sprang from the table and hugged the boy.

“How can you make light of such marvelous news,” Merry exclaimed loudly. “Indy, the war with France is over. Great Britain has defeated France.” The look he gave as he shrugged out of her arms could only be termed disgruntled. Merry started to giggle. “What have I done this time to irritate you? Was it my hug or my scream?”

Indy stared into Merry’s smiling face.
You jumped into my arms. I could feel your tits. I am in love with you, and you haven’t a notion that I am a man
. He forced a scowl, then turned away.

“We’re not political,” was Indy’s offhand remark as he fought against the stirring of an erection. “War, no war. No difference to us.”

Merry dropped back into her chair and watched the boy nudge pug away with a leg. Frowning, she remarked, “But you are British. It must mean something to you.”

His dark eyes fixed on her in annoyance. “It means England and France have more time to chase after us now that they are not battling each other. Personally, I prefer the whole damn world be at war. Less danger for us.”

Merry’s eyes rounded in dismay. “What a dreadful thing to say. Well, I want to celebrate. I want a party. This is glorious news.”