Touch of Desire

by Susan Spencer Paul

  “I’m so glad,” she said with sincere pleasure. “And how kind of you to tell me, especially when I’ve made such a nuisance of myself.”

  “Rhys has been among those who have pleaded your case to me,” Lord Graymar told her, casting a wry glance at his servant. “You could not have had a better or more persistent advocate.”

  Rhys gave his employer an admonishing frown, as if Lord Graymar were a misbehaving boy rather than a man full grown, and an earl, at that. Then Rhys turned his attention back to Sarah. “I have merely assured His Lordship that the Seymour name would be safe in your keeping, Miss Tamony, seeing as how kindly and properly you’ve written of others. But you won’t want to speak of that now, before you’ve had a chance to refresh yourself. Cook has warmed some lovely tarts, as you see. Here is a savory with leek and thyme, and here is one sweet with apples. There are cheeses and a few slices of cold mutton.” He looked at her with anticipation. “What may I give you, Miss Tamony?”

  “Miss Tamony is perfectly capable of serving herself, Rhys,” Lord Graymar said. “No, no, don’t look at me as if I’d asked you to kick her,” he added at the manservant’s instant affront. “It’s far too late for you to remain awake any longer on our behalf, and anyone with Miss Tamony’s ability to cross the boundaries of even the most protected land is able to fill her own plate. You can retire for the night—or morning, as it may be—with a happy conscience.”

  “Oh yes,” Sarah agreed. “I shouldn’t want you to remain in service on my account. It was thoughtless of me not to think before now of how I’ve importuned you. I’m terribly sorry.”

  Rhys wasn’t listening to her. He was occupied in scowling at the lord of Glain Tarran.

  “My lord,” Rhys began, to be stopped by His Lordship, who spoke to him in Welsh. Rhys responded in kind, though far more stiffly and with clear disapproval. Lord Graymar’s reply was reassuring and calm but evidently very final, for the manservant bowed once more before turning back to Sarah.

  “It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Tamony,” he said, the music absent from his voice now. “If you require anything at all, don’t hesitate to ring. His Lordship’s servants are always at the ready.”

  With another bow he turned and left. Sarah looked questioningly at Malachi Seymour, who was already watching her.

  “Rhys served my father, and has known me from the cradle,” he said. “He seems to think it’s not safe for you to be left alone in my care.” He lifted the glass and sipped slowly, his gaze held on Sarah. Lowering it, he went on, “I gave him my word of honor that you’d be returned to the village without harm before anyone awakes to discover you gone, and with your reputation untouched and unsullied.”

  “I’m certain my reputation will be safe in your keeping, Lord Graymar,” Sarah told him, lifting the heavy goblet to breathe in the deliciously spicy scent of the warm liquid within. “Just as yours will be in mine—as your servant said—if you’d trust me with it.”

  The faint amusement was back in his face, and he leaned forward. “That’s not the way in which to convince me, Miss Tamony. It is foolish to assume that you’re safe with me at all. You are a remarkably beautiful woman, as you very well know, and I’ve been without female company since coming to Glain Tarran before Christmas—barring relatives of course, but that’s hardly the same thing, is it? Rhys has good cause to be concerned, you see.” His tone, low and meaningful, paired with his gaze, also quite meaningful, sent a shiver down Sarah’s spine.

  Well, this was unexpected. Sarah lowered her gaze to the goblet in her hands and wondered if the room’s temperature had increased again. She wasn’t unused to male attention; indeed, she’d had dozens of proposals of marriage from gentlemen in various corners of the world and had once even been kidnapped by a lovesick German prince who’d been determined upon making her his wife. But Sarah wasn’t foolish enough to suppose that a man such as Lord Graymar—certainly not a man who looked like he did and who could have any and every female he desired—had any real interest in a bespectacled scribbler whose claim to the social niceties was limited, at best, and who presently looked like a complete harridan. Her hair was windblown, her clothes unseemly and dirty, and her spectacles scratched and bent. No man in his right senses could possibly find her attractive.

  The Earl of Graymar was obviously toying with her or, worse, punishing her for her boldness in coming to Glain Tarran by pretending to make love to her. It would serve him a nice turn if she fell for such a trick, Sarah thought as she sipped the wine, finding it as delicious to the tongue as it was to the nose. But then he would only laugh and try to make her feel even more foolish. Apart from that, Sarah didn’t have time to play games with a man who could best her with both eyes closed. She had a book to write. Summoning her best behavior to the fore, Sarah raised her eyes.

  “You are kind to flatter me, my lord,” she replied, pushing her spectacles a little higher up. “I had forgotten how chivalrous English gentlemen are in their compliments to ladies, no matter how false such words may be.”

  His brows lowered. “Let us forgo the niceties, Miss Tamony. A gentleman by birth I may be, but those who know me well will warn you that my temper cannot always be held to the fire. But despite the unfortunate weaknesses in my nature, I can at least lay claim to being honest. Or at least,” he said, fingering the glass he held, “as honest as circumstance permits. Kindness, however, is not a virtue I feel compelled to expend on trespassers—most especially when they’ve been told that they’re not welcome on my property. Your beauty is a fact, as is your temerity in coming to Glain Tarran in the dark of night. If you have any doubts as to my feelings on the matter, Miss Tamony, then let me be clear. I am not happy with you.”

  Sarah set aside the goblet, striving to maintain her composure. “I fear my own temper can be unruly at times as well, my lord,” she told him. “But you have given me leave to dispense of formality, and I quite agree that such manners are of no use to us at present. I accept that I have misstepped by coming to Glain Tarran uninvited—”

  “Misstepped?” he repeated with a laugh. “You’ve committed a criminal act, Miss Tamony. I could have you arrested for it, you know. Only think how exciting that bit of news would be among your legions of fans. London would talk of nothing else for weeks.” For the first time that night, the Earl of Graymar actually began to sound cheerful.

  Sarah felt herself blushing hotly and was furious at having such a reaction. It was ridiculous that he should so quickly be able to goad her into losing her calm. She’d always been very much in control of her dealings with others.

  “Very well,” she admitted tautly. “I have broken the law by coming tonight, and you have every right to be exceedingly angry. But I had to see Glain Tarran, especially if you continue in your refusals to give me an interview. I had heard so many legends and stories about the estate and didn’t wish to write of such things without having a better understanding of them. Surely you wouldn’t wish me to make inaccurate representations.”

  The room, in accord with the anger on His Lordship’s features, decidedly grew much warmer. Sarah cast a glance at the fireplace, expecting the flames to be leaping almost out into the room, only to find that the fire was as it had earlier been, cheerful and perfectly controlled.

  Sarah wished she might say the same of the earl. He sat forward again and said, “I do not wish for you to write about them at all. You cannot write as you do and be a simpleton, Miss Tamony, but you seem completely incapable of understanding me. You will not research my family, or any of the magical Families in Great Britain, unless you wish to be dealt with by me. As you appear to have an understanding of magic, I doubt that I need explain to you what I mean by such words.”

  “But why?” she asked. “You believe that I’m not among your sympathetics, yet I assure you upon my honor I am. I have always understood those who possess magic, and know full well the measures you must take to live safely among those without it.”

  “And ye
t you intend to expose us—by name and place, no less—to the examination of the public eye. For profit,” he added scornfully.

  The study grew even hotter. Sarah rose from her chair and moved toward the tall glass panes, fanning herself with a hand. She wondered if there was a way to open one of the windows to let the sea breeze in but decided against the idea when she saw that the wind was still blowing wildly out-of-doors, bending the trees and other plants that stood in the garden almost to the ground.

  “If you think Society is unaware of the stories that have been told—for centuries—about certain families and places in this country, then you’ve been living in exile, my lord. Forgive me for speaking so plain,” she added when she realized how rude the words sounded. “Only think of the ghost stories that are told, emanating from every part of Britain. Glain Tarran hasn’t been spared, nor scarcely any castle or ancient manor house. Apart from those who are your sympathetics, the public at large treats such stories as mere entertainment. My own works are proof of that.” She turned to look at where he yet sat. “I have researched each incident that I’ve written of as carefully and fully as possible, and presented them in as intriguing a manner as I can, yet no one that I know of has taken them as fact.”

  Lord Graymar drained his glass and set it aside.

  “Tales of spectral visitations at Glain Tarran may be interesting enough for society at large to speak of,” he said, standing, “even for writers to write of. But they don’t have the power to draw hordes of inquisitive souls to my estate in order to find evidence of whether they’re real. I grant you, Miss Tamony, that few mere mortals believe spirits are real, much as they enjoy passing such tales along.” Slowly, he began to move toward her. “But such would not be the case if you were to begin to write about the existence of ancient ceremonial grounds that have been kept secret on my lands lo these many centuries.”

  He came nearer, and Sarah drew herself up full height to steady herself. But it did little good; she was a tall woman, but somehow he made her feel insignificantly minuscule.

  “I agree that such an outcome would be likely,” she admitted. “Even probable. And although I’ve no notion of why the Seymours have kept such a delightful treasure secret, I would, of course, not mention the ceremonial grounds in the book if that was what you wished.” She attempted to straighten her bent spectacles more levelly upon her nose. “I promised in my letters that I would write of nothing that would displease you. That is precisely why the interview is so important—for both of us.”

  “That is very kind, Miss Tamony,” he said tartly. “And what if I say—as I believe I have been saying, endlessly, it seems to me—that I don’t want you to write anything about us? Not of the Seymours or the Cadmarans or whoever else you’ve contacted?”

  She frowned. “But I don’t see why you feel so strongly about the matter. How can I convince you that I mean neither you nor anyone else harm?”

  His expression remained unchanged. Outside, a gust of wind rattled the panes of glass.

  “If you’ve read my work,” she said, moving a step nearer, gazing up at him, “then you know what my feelings are toward magic and those who possess it. My father—I imagine you’ve come across his many writings—says that to capture and hold a reader, the writer must first be captured and held by the subject he writes of. Since I was a child, from my earliest memories, I’ve been captured and held by the supernatural. When I began to write, I wanted to share that captivation.”

  His expression, and his stance, softened by degrees.

  “Writing about ancient legends is very much like writing about ghosts,” Lord Graymar said, his tone gentler. “It’s easy to make others believe that such things, even if real, can never touch their lives. But to tell them that there are people who actually possess magic living as neighbors in their villages or standing beside them in a shop …”

  “But I don’t intend to do that,” she countered. “I’m only going to write accounts of the most interesting historical figures from certain families, the Seymours among them. Sir Sigberct Seymour, perhaps, whose magic sword sparked with flames during battle, or the famous Lady Cynwise Seymour, who bravely faced the terrible dragon who roamed the Black Mountains and cast a spell to lock it forever within a hidden cave, where to this day it strives to find a way out, scratching and clawing and sometimes even causing the earth to shake.” Sarah grew excited just thinking of how she would write the tales, of how wonderful her readers would find them. “And of a certainty I must tell the story of Mistress Helen Seymour, who was almost burned at the stake as a witch. I told my cousin and brother the tale but a few weeks past and they were fascinated. And although perhaps these stories aren’t well-known to the public at large, they’re certainly spoken of by those who live in the villages and counties where the events took place.” She looked at him hopefully. “I would only be writing them down and presenting them to a wider audience.”

  Malachi gazed into her upturned face and tried to tell himself that she looked ridiculous. Her green eyes, touched with flecks of amber, gazed out from the most oddly twisted pair of spectacles he’d ever seen. How she could have seen him well enough past the scratches to declare him handsome was beyond all imagination. And her auburn hair, now uncovered from that hideous boy’s cap, stuck out in all directions from the unfortunate arrangement she’d piled it into. Her face was smudged and dirty, her cheeks flushed, and her clothes far from being anything that a lady of fashion would attire herself with.

  Yet she didn’t look ridiculous. Not to him. Malachi could only look at Miss Sarah Tamony and see an extraordinary beauty that his rational mind told him wasn’t, couldn’t be, real.

  He’d known any number of beautiful women in his life. Some he’d appreciated from afar; others he’d enjoyed in a far more intimate manner. Several could lay claim to possessing greater physical loveliness than Miss Tamony. But none had been able to steal Malachi’s breath away. It was almost as if she had cast some kind of spell, impossible as such a thing was. She didn’t possess magic; even if she had, he would be immune to it. He was the Dewin Mawr and very few lived on earth who could touch him with their powers.

  Yet magic, somehow, was involved with Sarah Tamony. He recognized it. Felt it. And, worse, was utterly baffled as to what to do about it.

  The sensations had started the moment he took Miss Tamony up before him on Enoch, when she’d settled her slim, feminine figure against him and sheltered beneath the circle of his arms. Malachi had expected to be aroused by the nearness of an attractive female—but he’d been taken aback by the rest of what he’d felt: heat and need and an intense surge of pleasure.

  Intensity. Aye, that was what this strange woman’s presence did to him. He’d struggled to press it down, to hide it behind coldness and anger, but now, as he stood so near her, with her face lifted to his, her emerald eyes gazing up at him … everything within him began to fill with want.

  It had been prophesied before his birth that Malachi would take his father’s place as Dewin Mawr, and even in his childhood the magic that would one day make him the most powerful wizard in Europe began to make itself known. He could not remember a time when he’d not had visions of things to come or heard the whisperings of spirits, revealing secrets, advising and guiding, showing Malachi which path to take. They were whispering to him now, telling him to take care, to be wise, that the magic she brought to Glain Tarran was far too powerful to take lightly. At the same time his mind was filled with visions—of him and her, touching, kissing, entwined in passion, with her glorious red-gold hair spread out on white sheets, her eyes shut with pleasure as he moved over her, touching, tasting. Her skin was white and pure, so soft, all of her, and he buried his face against that whiteness, in the perfumed silk of her neck and shoulders, pressing his lips beneath her ear as he pushed into the heat of her body. Her legs came about him and her eyes opened, and they began to move … not as he had done with other women, but almost as if they were flying …

  �
�My lord?”

  Malachi struggled to bring himself back to the moment, to push the images away. His breathing had deepened and his body was so aroused that his clothing felt uncomfortably tight. He had another vision, more fleeting, of grasping one of her ungloved hands and pressing it against his body, of her strong fingers gripping him as he took her mouth with his own and with both hands began to frantically unravel her hair from its tenuous bonds …

  “Have I rendered you speechless with anger, my lord,” she asked, clearly oblivious to his state, “or perhaps, I might hope, with approval?”

  This was terrible, Malachi thought with real distress, blinking to focus his gaze on the woman before him. She looked ridiculous, he told himself again, firmly, pushing away the image of his hands and where they had proceeded in his vision after dealing with both her hair and clothes. She was a dirty, unkempt mess, and a dangerous interloper whose activities, if not stopped, would bring terrible harm not only to the Seymours, but to all magical beings. If his unruly thoughts and traitorous body couldn’t remain in the present, then he would simply have to force them to do so.

  His hands were clenched, he realized of a sudden, and damp. Drawing in a deep, slow breath, Malachi regained his composure.

  “Not approval,” he said, the inner shaking making his voice unsteady, but perhaps she would take that for displeasure. She was still gazing up at him with those glorious green eyes, marred only by the bent spectacles.

  “But not entirely disapproval?” she asked. “Can there be no compromise reached between us, Lord Graymar? I feel certain that if we can only—”

  “I think not, Miss Tamony,” Malachi replied curtly. He didn’t want her speaking of compromises or anything else that they could do together. He was already having trouble keeping the ongoing vision at bay. Flashes of them tumbling upon the nearby sofa weren’t helping him maintain composure. “I fear there’s nothing you can say that will cause me to change my mind.” He tried to focus on the bent spectacles, rather than her disappointment, but they only made him more agitated.