Untamed (4 page)

He rose from his seat at the kitchen table and swayed. Giving a sigh, Trystan murmured to the dog. “Back to bed, I think, eh girl? I’ll be much more the thing in the morning.”

* * *

Desarae rose early, noted the depredations on her pantry and set water on to boil beside the porridge. She’d finished her breakfast and fed the animals before she heard him on the stairs. Hastily she laid out a towel, a razor, and a bar of soap. Then Desarae fled to the conservatory.

Trystan found her there after his ablutions. He wore a pair of dark brown light wool trousers, a white lawn shirt and a striped black waistcoat, forgoing a tie. The major’s boots and clothes were a bit loose, thankfully, rather than too tight.

His hostess stood daydreaming with one hand atop a marble bust of a Negroid man. The other hand twisted an auburn curl around and around her index finger. A white painted wooden bench littered with various carving tools occupied a spot next to the red brick demising wall between the house and the conservatory. Trystan managed to find a clear spot to sit, a bowl of thick oatmeal, cream and honey in one hand. The other hand held a tankard of cider. Under his arm he had tucked a hairbrush. Without speaking he began to break his fast while watching Desarae. The mid-morning sun shone through the glazing, resting in golden splashes upon the carvings decorating the large space. He could not be certain she knew he was there until she spoke.

“When I was a young child, an old sailor skilled in carving wood washed up on the isle. Though his gnarled hands appeared to be good for little, he could carve beautifully.” She waved at a selection of dolphins and whales frolicking across a long shelf. “I used to watch him for hours. Before long, I demanded a block of wood and a knife of my own. Sailor Bert, as I called him, taught me everything he knew.”

“What happened to him?” Trystan eagerly devoured his breakfast while she spoke. “Did he return to sailing?”

“No. He died, old Bert, when I was fourteen years of age.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shrugged and sighed. “By then I had begun to carve in soapstone. Before Uncle’s death he ordered a variety of marbles to be brought to the isle. I have used up most of them,” she stated with a frown. Again she stroked the dark marble bust. “I saved this chunk for Jim. He deserves my best work.”

“It is very striking,” Trystan complemented and then drained the cider. He rose, deposited his dishes on the bench and joined her at the work bench. He stood directly behind her, close enough to almost be touching.

“Thank you.”

“Did you carve the statues on the terrace?”

Her answer was barely audible.

“Oh, no. Those were carved by masters. My uncle collected them on his Grand Tour.”

Trystan casually took hold of her hands. He was almost hugging her now. He felt like a scoundrel taking advantage of an innocent, yet he could not stop himself. They were entirely alone on this island and the impression of being wholly alone in the world overcame him. The customary dictates of society did not seem to apply here. A level of intimacy was establishing itself between them that defied understanding. Desarae let herself be pulled backwards into his embrace as his long fingers caressed hers.

“These scars. They are caused by slips of the knife?”

“Yes,” she whispered. He could feel her trembling. “Are they ugly?”

“No.”

Trystan could not help himself from swaying as another undulation of weakness passed through him. He staggered to the side and almost brought them both to the floor.

“Come, you must sit and rest.” Desarae took his hand and led him out the exterior conservatory door to where some benches lined the edge of the goat paddock.

“This is Artemis. She’s a saucy bit of goods with a mind of her own.” The goat bleated and butted the split rail fence.

“After all that sleep, I’m surprised by my weakness,” Trystan said, sitting thankfully down on the stone bench. “Oh, I forgot the hairbrush. I left it in the conservatory.”

“I shall retrieve it.” She hurried away and returned. “Here you are. Why do you wish it?”

“If you will sit, I will brush your hair for you.”

“I like to have my hair brushed.” Desarae grinned and readily sank down onto the grass at his feet, her back to him. He lifted a hank of hair onto his knee and began to gently remove the tangles.

“I grew up in Bristol,” he stated. Her hair felt luxurious. “My father is also a sea captain. He sails pilots out of the treacherous Bristol Channel to waiting ships so that they can be safely navigated into the harbor. He wished me to be a pilot captain, too. However, I wanted to sail the world.” When he twisted a lock back and forth her auburn hair gleamed in the warm spring sunlight. “My mother, before she married my father, was a governess. She married below her station when she married my father, but they love each other very much. I used to brush her hair in front of the parlor fire while we waited for Father to return from the sea. Mother’s blonde hair was long and curly like yours.”

“Hmm,” she sighed, relaxing under his ministrations. “Does she live still? Your mother?”

“Yes, she does. Her hair is mostly gray now, though. I have two younger sisters. Ophelia will be nineteen in August. Carrabelle is just sixteen. I am the oldest of three brothers. Brant is twenty-six. Wyman is twenty-four.”

“And you are?” Desarae asked, tilting her head to one side so that he could bring her hair back from her face.

“Twenty-nine.” Trystan collected all of her hair across his lap and continued to brush it even though all the tangles had evaporated. His father had assured him once that the day would come when the woman meant for him would appear in his life. Almost magically, this woman had wound her way around his soul the same way her curls wound around his fingers—and it didn’t hurt a single jot. This island was like a place out of time, separate and complete.

His hands in her hair felt so delicious that Desarae could hardly think. Perhaps she should deny herself this pleasure and behave appropriately as her uncle had taught her, but years of painless indulgence had not taught her to avoid new experiences. A heady sense of expectation filled her soul and made her drunk on anticipation. If someone came and tried to remove her from this moment—these moments—she would fight for her right to enjoy them. If she deserved a blessing, perhaps she would bear a child to hold and love after her sailor had departed.

“Desarae?”

“Hmm?”

“Shall I braid your hair?”

“Oh, yes, please,” she begged, giving a husky chuckle. “Jim tries to do it, but he is no lady’s maid. My uncle said that if I had been brought up in my nasty grandfather’s house, I would have had a lady’s maid to dress my hair and take care of my clothes. I told him I’d rather live here than with my awful grandfather.”

“Who is your grandfather?” Trystan asked, efficiently braiding her long hair. He paused when he got to the end and looked around for something to tie it off with. A bit of string lay in the grass next to the goat’s frayed rope. He scooped it up.

“His name is Lord Ashburne,” she replied, shuddering.

Trystan’s hands paused in the act of tying a knot in the string. He completed the task before asking: “The Earl of Kristnor?”

“Yes. That is his name. Do you know of him?” Desarae turned her head and looked up over her shoulder. “What is it?”

Until she had spoken his name, Trystan had not realized that she was the Earl’s lost granddaughter for the old gentleman had never said her name, or that of his daughter’s brother-in-law. His chest clenched at the idea of whom her grandfather had in store as a husband for her. If this untamed innocent was fortunate, the fop had died in the storm.

“The Earl was a passenger aboard my ship. Desarae, I am so sorry, he may not have survived.”

She clapped her hands together. An expression of great delight shone from her eyes. “But, that is wonderful news!” She jumped up and kissed him impulsively on the cheek before twirling away.

This reaction was so unexpected that Trystan could only sit and stare at her while she danced around the yard. Athena barked and twirled along with her.

He’s dead, he’s dead,
Desarae sang silently, all her troubles wafting away on the wind. For so many years she and Jim had lived with this mountain of worry hovering just beyond her grasp. He could no longer swoop down and wrench her away from her beloved freedom. And this wonderful, beautiful man had brought her this joyous news.

“I am so happy!” She ran back to him and flung herself with abandon into his arms. “Maybe it is wicked to say so but I am. I am.”

Trystan grunted and fell back against the paddock fence. His arms instinctively tightened around her. He felt like he had captured a ball of lightening. She started jabbering about how her grandfather had treated her parents so badly that when they had died in a fire, her uncle had rescued his beloved niece from the clutches of her evil progenitor.

“Uncle and Jim snuck into the cove below Castle Kristnor in the middle of the night during a horrible storm,” she related, beaming as she leaned away from Trystan, her arms about his neck. “They threw grappling hooks up onto the battlements and then scaled the walls.”

“Did they?” Trystan asked. He smiled and listened to her fanciful tale. “It was an adventure.”

“Oh, yes.” Her eyes sparkled and her cheeks glowed. “My nasty grandfather wanted to raise me even though my father’s will stated I was to be raised by his younger brother. My grandfather kept me in the tower nursery. I was only four. I remember that sometimes he would visit me in the middle of the night. He would sit on the edge of my bed and stroke my hair and shoulders.”

“That sounds nice.”

“It didn’t feel nice.” Desarae shivered in his arms and Trystan’s blood ran cold.

“How did you get down from the tower?”

“He used a sling formed from fish netting.” She scampered off his lap to demonstrate. “The sling fitted over my bottom and under my arms. Jim is very strong and he carried me on his back as we stole away down the walls of the wicked castle to his waiting boat below. We sailed far across the sea to Angel Isle so that grandfather would never have me.”

“I think Lord Ashburne knows all about Angel Isle,” Trystan revealed. This brought her up short and removed any humor from her countenance.

“No!” she gasped, her hands on her cheeks. “All this time?” He nodded. She sank to the grass and hugged herself. “Why was he coming now? Why did he wait until now?”

“Your twenty-first birthday is soon?”

“Today. It is today.”

Trystan smiled. “Happy birthday. I wish I had a gift to give you.”

“
You
are my gift,” Desarae announced, rocking back and looking up at him, trust shining in her eyes. “God sent you to me to warn me about my despicable grandfather.”

“I am pleased you think so,” Trystan murmured. “Lord Ashburne thinks you will listen to reason and come away with him. He wants you to marry a man of his choosing and has even brought a prospective suitor with him.” Trystan snorted softly at the memory of the seasick fop. “Your grandfather expects you to take your place as heiress to your father’s lands, which he has been managing for you since your parent’s death. I understand you are also the heiress to his own vast holdings as your mother was his only child and the estate is not entailed. He knows the major is dead.”

“But we never told him that Uncle had died!”

“This is a growing colony. The information was bound to get out.”

Desarae began to look about wildly as though her hated grandfather might pop up from behind a bush.

“Luv, do not worry. He is probably dead.”

“Probably?” she cried, rising. “Probably will not do. I must prepare. He could be here at any time. He may even be here today—coming with Jim when he returns from the mainland!”

Chapter Three

T
rystan rose and stepped forward. He wanted to take her in his arms to calm her. Instead, Desarae grabbed his hand in a strong grasp and towed him toward the house.

“Come, you can hide with me. We have the perfect place. We just need a few supplies.”

“Surely it would be better to face him.”

They reached the kitchen. Desarae released him and started to fill a basket with food and containers of fresh water.

“He will not listen,” she said, distracted by her tasks. “He has a terrible temper too. What will he do if I refuse him? He might break all the sculptures. He might burn down the house. He might kill Jim. He might kill us all! And no one would ever know! Because no one ever comes here. Ever!”

“Lord Ashburne is known to be a ruthless man and perhaps you are right to be concerned,” Trystan said. “However, we do not know yet if he still lives,” he argued, taking the heavy basket from her.

Desarae watched the basket dip down as his weak body protested its weight but he managed not to drop the provisions.

“Is there no other boat that I could use to row to Canso and discover the fate of my ship? Then we will know for certain if your grandfather remains a danger to you.”

She took deep heaving breaths to calm her panic and then she said, “There is a dorey that we have for emergencies. But, you are not strong enough yet to row it. We will prepare and then we will use the spyglass to watch out for Jim. If he returns alone, then maybe he will have news of your ship and we will know if my ghastly grandfather lives, or not. I need some boots. We also need blankets and some candles.”

Trystan tagged along after her into a back porch where several muddy boots waited lined up neatly on the flagstone floor. She shoved her bare feet into the smallest pair. Evidently, he had to be the one with the clear head. Desarae’s uncle had filled her mind with fear and loathing of her grandfather—possibly with good reason. If necessary, he would protect her from Lord Ashburne.

“When do you expect Jim to return from the mainland?”

“This afternoon. We will have time to stock our hiding place,” she assured him. From a clothes press at the back of the porch she yanked an armful of wool blankets. “When we come back to the house to watch, we will put the truckle bed away and tidy the front lawn else it will look odd to Jim.” When they left the porch, Desarae shut Athena into it, who took great exception to such treatment.