Storm Read Online Free PDF

equate the sensation of achievement with one he'd felt when successfully earning the friendship of a stray kitten— a tiny, bedraggled creature he'd fed from a distance for weeks last winter, before it trusted him enough to venture over his doorstep. The night that kitten crept inside and curled up by his fire was one of the most contented evenings of Storm Deverell's thirty years. Not that he'd ever tell that to a living soul.
    Like the kitten, this woman preferred the world to see her as a tigress. It was all about survival of course, a natural instinct to appear larger than one really was and keep predators at bay.
    She stood with one hand on her cub's shoulder, keeping him close to her side, watching their rescuer with wary curiosity.
    "You'll be glad to hear I've got fresh eggs and some good smoked bacon for my breakfast," he said. Ah yes, food. That was always a good way to start. "More than I can eat by myself." He winked at the boy whose eyes had instantly lit up. "Shall we go?"
    The woman seemed to wrestle with her decision for a moment, but eventually, as if each word cost her a blood-letting, she agreed. "Very well, sir. I suppose we have no other choice. If this is what Reverend Coles planned."
    Her features were pretty and refined, but there was no ladylike frailty apparent. Even when she'd thought he was about to commit some crime against her, the woman was ready to fight. Although Storm had little experience of fine ladies, he'd always imagined her sort to go through their day ever on the cusp of swooning. But he sincerely doubted this woman had cause to carry smelling salts.
    "What happened to your husband?" he asked.
    As soon as the words were out, he felt the sharp kick of a ghostly foot—probably his mother's— warning him that it was indelicate to ask. But clearly this woman didn't have one around anymore or she wouldn't be there, hiring herself out as a housekeeper. Why should he dance around the matter? She was going to work for him, wasn't she? Therefore he had a right to question her.
    Her eyelashes lowered gracefully, shading her cheeks, but before she could speak the boy shouted proudly, "My Pa's asleep forever. He was a war hero."
    Instantly she forgot to look demure and shouted at the child to get up into the cart.
    "What shall I call you then? Or will Duchess be sufficient?"
    "She's Katherine Kelly, but everybody calls her Kate," her son answered. "An' don't you mind her mean face. It always looks that way."
    She frowned hard at the boy, and he quickly rewrapped his own expression in the woolen scarves that circled his head several times.
    "Oh, it's not such a mean face," Storm replied solemnly. "I've seen worse. On the Bumble Trout."
    The woman turned her stern appraisal upon him, but before she could utter a word, he said, "Well then... Kate...shall we?" He held out his bare hand and she looked at it doubtfully. Her lips pursed again in a frustrated puff, and then she stepped up into the cart. But she didn't take the assistance of his hand. She managed by herself.
    He caught the teasing sight of a slender ankle clad in what appeared to be a silk stocking, embroidered with a tantalizing, upward twisting vine of ...hmmm...tiny red roses.
    "I would rather you call me Mrs. Kelly," she muttered, the hem of her skirt hastily adjusted to cover the intriguing sight again as she sat. "We are not well enough acquainted for first names."
    Not yet perhaps, he mused, suddenly feeling very warm under his wet clothes.
    "And it wouldn't be proper between a man and his housekeeper," she added, her face flushed.
    "If you say so. I think I prefer Duchess in any case." It suited her, he thought.
    With one gloved hand she hurriedly swept a dark, damp curl from her cheek, thrusting it back under the limp straw brim of her bonnet. "Is that your house?" she demanded, pointing with her whip toward a small stone building down in the valley.
    "No. That's old Putnam's place. He died recently and his widow moved to St.