Untamed (3 page)

Wait, not a boulder,
Trystan puzzled. He squatted down and brushed some dead leaves to the side. A rather ancient tortoise carved in green veined marble, looked out at him from under the rim of his shell. Perched upon his back, with feet carefully fitted into tiny holes so he wouldn’t fall over, was a wood carving of a jay. His head was cocked to one side.

Trystan paused to run a finger down the smooth lines of the weathered wood.
What was this peculiar place? Where am I?
A soft laugh caused his head to jerk up and he searched again for the woman who spoke like some insubstantial sprite.

“
`Stillest stream—,’
” she quoted.

Cowper,
Trystan thought, recognizing the author. Before she could complete the quote, he called out: “
`Oft water fairest meadows, and the bird That flutters least is longest on the wing.’
”

“Fair sailor, how well read you are!”

Trystan hurried after her, teased by the tinkle of her laughter and the barest glimpse of auburn hair. She led him such a chase through the orchard that he did not realize she had taken him in a circle back to the overgrown lawn until he raced out of the trees and came up short before a grinning statue.

“Pan, you rascal,” Trystan puffed, lowering himself down onto the god’s pedestal. “I am bedevilled by a slip of a woman.”

He laid his head back against Pan’s goat legs and closed his eyes, feeling weariness seep through his bones, making him regret his mad dash through the blossomed trees. He dozed for a moment, then jerked awake when a voice spoke from behind.

“Sleep not at the feet of Pan,” the voice warned gently. Trystan did not attempt to turn his head and catch the woman. “He is responsible for the mischief of nightmares. Rather, choose to sleep at Apollo’s feet for his grace will heal your ills.”

“Why do you not show yourself?” Trystan demanded softly, sighing deeply. He heard a rustle in the long grass and the voice came from even further away.

“
`I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.’
”

Trystan shook his head slowly, still too tired to attempt rising. He thought she had finished speaking but she spoke again and this time with her own words.

“But, in truth, my brave sailor, your hands are not skinny, and so perhaps I should fear you even more for who would be afraid of skinny hands?”

“I would never hurt you,” Trystan swore, turning his head slightly but he caught only the sight of her retreating back as she skipped passed an armless statue of Apollo and up the steps of the red brick house. She disappeared through the wide-open front doors.

Trystan used Pan’s legs to support him as he dragged himself back to his feet. He paused to wait for his spinning head to settle and then managed a respectable lurch into the soothing diffused light of the front hall. The door to his left led to a small parlor, the door to his right led to a dining room. Neither of them contained his elusive hostess. Athena came darting down the hallway from the back of the house.

“Hello there, girl.” Trystan leaned carefully down and let her sniff his hand before he scratched the fox terrier’s chin. “Where’s your mistress?”

Athena tilted her head back and sighed in ecstasy, choosing to ignore his query.

“Are you trying to seduce her?”

He straightened and faced his hostess. She stood just down the hallway and she looked like a wild gypsy woman. Her long auburn locks curled undressed and windblown. Her lovely face, graced with a pert nose, full lips, golden skin, and wide-set warm brown eyes, held an expression of innocent mischief and shy knowing. She appeared to be only a half a head shorter than his six feet. There was a certain untamed vitality in her lithe form that excited him and drew him to her. When he took a hesitant step forward he thought she would turn and run again. Indeed, her blue skirts swayed as if she’d been about to flee but found the courage to make a stand.

“I am Trystan Larabette, Captain of the
Lady May
, at your service, ma’am,” Trystan said as grandly as he could manage barefooted and in a borrowed nightshirt.

“Ah, a captain.”

He watched her look down at her naked left foot exposed by a skirt too short for her. There were grass stains on her heels and bits of wet mud between her toes but she didn’t seem to mind. A curious kind of casual abandonment shone in her manner as if she had never known reproof or criticism and so lived without expectation of it.

“What is your name and where am I?” Trystan asked, easing forward another foot.

“I am Desarae,” she answered, grinning happily. She curtsied gracefully. “Kind, sir, you are on Angel Island, located between the colonies of Nova Scotia and Cape Breton Island.”

Intense relief flooded through Trystan. With so much fishing and shipping occurring in this region, he should have no difficulty discovering the fate of the
Lady May
. His eyebrows rose. “Is this not Baron Wensley’s island?”

“Yes. He was my uncle.” Her smile disappeared. Desarae’s hands fluttered through her long curls. “He’s been gone so long…so long.” Unaccountably, she had revealed their big secret. She didn’t know why. She didn’t understand her lapse. What if her nasty grandfather discovered? What if he came now after all these years and carried her away? Back to the castle she barely remembered from her childhood.

“How long?” Trystan asked quietly, extraordinarily touched by her distress. His gaze was drawn to her hands. They were long-fingered and graceful, but calloused. They looked strong and capable. She tossed back her hair and spread her hands, revealing odd tiny white and pink scars scattered across her palms, the backs of her hands, and along her sun-kissed forearms. He tried to think of a reason for those scars. However, no understanding would come to him.

“Five years.”

Desarae looked up and discovered that somehow the captain had managed to cross the distance between them. He stood so close she could feel his heat extending to her.

“Have you been living alone here all this time?”

“Hmm?” she hummed, unconsciously leaning into the heat. Comfort. Warmth. Companionship. All seemed right here within her reach. But, that was not all that was here. Something else thrummed between them. Her breath felt short. She wanted to take in great gulps of air—enough to save herself. But she was not certain she wanted to be saved.

Trystan lifted his hand and cupped this delicious woman’s soft cheek. She leaned into his touch, inching herself even closer to him. Cotton skirts stroked his bare legs and he held his breath. Her eyes gleamed from between her thick, sooty lashes. He felt bewitched.

“I am not alone,” she whispered, raising her chin and so bringing her lips closer to his.

He lowered his head until his lips hovered over hers. Their breaths mingled. “No?” was his gravelly reply.

“No. Jim looks after me.”

Icicles replaced the heat in his veins. “Jim?” Trystan yanked his hand away from her cheek.

The woman swayed. She reached out and steadied herself with the wall.

“Who is Jim?”

Confusion dotted her mind like raindrops. A flood of bewilderment washed away the haze of arousal. “You have no need to worry about Jim. He is away to the mainland to get supplies.” She tried to summon a smile. “He always goes to Canso this time of the month.” Trystan’s stark expression frightened her. She did not understand what had gone wrong.

“Who is Jim?” he repeated harshly. Urgently.

“My friend,” she gasped, backing away from him. “Jim is my friend. He was my uncle’s batman.” Desarae clasped her hands to her chest. “Why are you angry? I do not comprehend. Why? Why are you angry?”

The relief that swept through Trystan could not be described. It was unreasonable. It shocked him. He took several deep, calming mouthfuls of air and then laughed at his own ludicrous behavior. She gifted him with a hesitant smile. His laughter subsided into a self-deprecating lopsided grin.

“I am a fool,” he confessed and reached out to her. When she responded by an infinitesimal flinch, he silently cursed and let his hands fall to his side. “Forgive my outburst, I beg of you.”

Desarae blushed beneath his regard and nodded.

Gently, he asked, “Do you have any other clothes that I may wear?”

“Certainly,” she murmured. “Follow me.”

Desarae skirted as far around her unpredictable guest as the hallway allowed. She raced up the stairs and paused on the landing to glance behind her to see if he followed. He’d scooped up Athena and held her under one arm while he grasped firmly onto the banister with the other.

“I’m coming,” he assured. “I feel as weak as a puppy.”

“My uncle’s room is just there,” she replied, pointing to a paneled door that stood ajar at the top of the stairs. “You may use his room until you recover enough to return to your ship.”

“Thank you. The
Lady May
and her crew could be at the bottom of the ocean.” Trystan heaved a sigh and started after her. At the top of the stairs she turned suddenly and embraced him in a quick comforting hug. It was innocently given and cheered him out of all proportion to the act.

“They may yet live. Do not despair,” Desarae ordered softly. “Come.”

Trystan followed her into a large bedchamber decorated in wine velvet and silk damask. An elaborately designed gold Persian carpet covered most of the floorboards. A four-poster bed sat against one wall opposite a cast iron fireplace. Two sash windows brought in light and a spectacular view of the sea far below the rocky cliffs that surrounded the north side of the small isle. Desarae threw open the doors of a massive pine wardrobe, revealing her uncle’s clothes.

“Please, help yourself. Once you have chosen, come down to the kitchen where I will have hot water ready for you to shave and wash your hair.” She blushed fiercely but had no apology in her appealing voice when she added, “I have already washed the salt from your body.”

“Very well,” Trystan replied weakly, images rising unbidden to tease him. He could not stop his gaze from following the sway of her hips as she left him. He knew why he responded so strongly to this wild woman—she reminded him of his beloved sea—untamed, voluptuous, and mystifying. Athena wriggled to be let free. He placed her on the floor and she scampered after her mistress.

* * *

Desarae filled a second large kettle with spring water before she swung it over the fireplace coals. She cut some bread, buttered it and plopped some cold fried bacon on it. This she placed on the table for Captain Trystan, along with a tankard of apple cider.

She did not know what strange and magnificent force had taken hold of her. Would she be feeling this way about any man of suitable age and appearance? Her imperfect experience did not permit a satisfactory answer. Because of the fear that her grandfather would take her away, Desarae had never been over to the mainland. Even when her uncle had been alive, visitors rarely came to see him. Consequently, her attraction to Captain Trystan might be nothing more than she’d feel for any comely man. Somehow, though, that assumption did not lessen his appeal.

After waiting long enough to consider reheating the water, Desarae climbed the stairs. She discovered the door to her uncle’s bedchamber ajar and peeped inside. There she found the captain sprawled upon the blankets, his head resting on a pillow, fast asleep. He’d managed to pull a pair of trousers on under the nightshirt before succumbing to rest’s allure. She shook her head at him, considered the propriety of removing the trousers so he could be more comfortable and decided that she no longer had the right to look at his nude body without his permission. A shame, that. Instead, she collected an extra quilt from her own room and covered him with it. A slight stir caused her to freeze hopefully. He settled more deeply and did not open his eyes.

She returned to the kitchen, sat at the table and ate his sandwich. Occasionally throughout the day she paused at the foot of the stairs and listened for him. He did not waken. How odd it seemed to her to be concerned about someone else again. Unless Jim became ill, which he rarely did, she never worried about him. He was as strong as an ox, as the saying went. She remembered well those weeks when Uncle’s health had given out and the anxiety she and his servant had shared. Here she was again, worrying about a stranger and the emotion sat contentedly with her.

Perhaps this is a feeling that came to all women,
she thought, continuing on with her chores.
Perhaps it was a natural part of being a woman?

Desarae moved into her studio and examined herself in the long mirror. Pressing her palms to her full breasts, she thought:
I look like a grown woman.
I have for some time.

“Tomorrow I will be twenty-one,” she murmured, turning this way and that while she continued to examine herself, smoothing one hand over her flat stomach while the other traced the shape of her round bottom. “A woman grown by anyone’s standard.” Desarae considered the ceiling and hoped that the man upstairs would consider her
not
a girl, but a woman.

Trystan woke in the night to discover that a lamp had been set in his room, its wick turned low. A glass and pitcher of water sat beside the lamp on the dresser. He got up, poured himself a drink and downed the entire glass. He scraped his hand over his face and grimaced. A rhythmic clicking sounded on the floorboards outside his room. It came closer and closer. Trystan grinned when the little terrier pushed open the door and struck her head around to examine their houseguest. Athena chuffed at him.

“Have you come to show me the way to the kitchen, girl?” Trystan whispered. His stomach growled. “I certainly hope you are.”

Athena sneezed, which he took for assent, and turned around. He padded after her down the stairs, carrying the lamp to light the way. Once they reached the base he turned up the lamp and they continued into the kitchen. He found some bread and some soft cheese and milk in the dairy, finishing off his repast with a wizened apple from last autumn’s crop. The dog waited politely for the crust she believed was her due for being an excellent guide. Trystan obligingly tossed one to her. She snapped it out of the air.