Free Face to Face (The Deverell Series Book 2) by Susan Ward Page B

grass and stared at the view. She looked in all directions. There was nothing to see not pleasing to the eyes. If one was to be left in America, she could not imagine a more remarkable place.
    She lingered at the pond all afternoon and made the trek to the house slowly. She paused to examine the trees, the flowers, and the wild life that darted in her wake. It was all so beautiful. Beyond anything she could have imagined.
    Her heart swelled with the wonder that she was walking on American soil not far from the soil her own mother had walked on at the very same age. Rhea, stylish and elegant perfection, had an odd vein of unconventional whim. She understood her mother better walking here. It was not unconventional whim, at all. It was a touch of America in Rhea’s spirit.
    She was almost to the pasture gate on the dirt path. She had touched and smelled everything she could. Her senses were hungry and relished each exploration. Scooping up a handful of soil from the field beside her, Merry lifted it to her nose, smelling its pungent richness.
    It was still in her hand as she settled in a lushly deep meadow, the grass bright with pink clover, dandelion, and thistle. She laid back in its cushiony cradle, listening to the birdsongs and the vigorous melody of work from the fields. The spiky resonance of the fiery midday sun stroked her cheeks with the heady fragrances of the soft wind tempering it in a cooling caress.
    There was a vivid wakefulness to all her senses. America was sprawling and wild and untamed in all her extravagant splendor. Even here where a piece of her had been carved by a man. Nature’s color exploded in a brilliant mosaic for the eyes. All scents were spicy and bold in a blend of the Virginia’s essence. And the earth beneath Merry seemed to have a drumming heartbeat that never rested like her own.
    ~~~
    Varian watched from the porch rail until he caught sight of Merry. She was speckled from head-to-toe in the reddish and purple flower heads of thistle, lying in a deep bed of grass, by the time he reached her. The gossamer dark cloud of curls was spotted of their petals and a splattering of pink clover. One hand held a long leaf of sweet pasture grass, her tiny teeth softening the edge at tip. The other delicate palm was clutched in a ball where moist dirt peaked from between the creamy whiteness of her fingers.
    It was almost as though she floated above the grass, there was such peacefulness in the languid lay of her limbs. Every lush curve of body was detailed in the simple lines of her gown of faint shell-pink Flanders muslin. It melted and hugged her. The smile on her face was of bliss, eyes closed, inky long lashes casting shadows on softly tanned cheeks. She reached for a stem of dandelion, blew on it until the white particles fell on her face. She had never looked more ethereal.
    If there had been a shred of doubt in Varian that he loved her, it would not have survived the vision she made. The pure colors of Merry, her spirit and flesh, were set free and dazzling in their unfurling. All hue around her was muted in comparison.
    Varian sank down on the verdant bed next to her, on his side, his body close and turned toward her. She neither lifted her lids nor startled. There was quiet between them for a long time. She sipped the colors of nature and held them, more vivid now that they were her own. She sipped him and held him spellbound.
    She turned onto her side toward him, her body curling over in a fluid glide, limbs turned to earth with the lazy, graceful motion of a drowsy, content kitten not ready to stir.
    Merry didn’t open her eyes, but said on a breathy voice, important, “Do you have a handkerchief, Varian?”
    The words could have so easily been misread as a part of Merry’s whimsy. It would have not suited the aura of her at this moment, so there was nothing whimsical about her, not even with such a peculiar phrase eased in airy earnest between them. For once, Varian could read her not at