All He Desires

by Anthea Lawson

  She stilled, heightened color touching her cheeks. “Would you help with my hat as well? I have yet to master the art of tying a bow single-handed.”

  She tipped her chin up, bringing their faces close. Too close. Her eyes were wide, fixed on his, and he had to force his fingers to move. What would those soft lips, so near his own, feel like? Warm. Delicious. He had to fight to keep from bending, laying his mouth over hers and tasting for himself….

  He finished tying the ribbons and stepped away, then gestured her toward the door.

  Outside the sun was dazzling, reflecting off the whitewashed walls of the village. She stopped on the doorstep and sighed, then closed her eyes as she lifted her face to the light. The breeze teased a strand of hair against her cheek, and Alex felt a sudden, insane impulse to reach and tuck it behind her ear. He gripped the basket handle tightly and turned his head toward the sea.

  “Where are we off to, kind sir? And what is in your basket?”

  “We are having a picnic at the seashore.” It suddenly seemed a frivolous and foolish thing to do.

  A smile tilted across her face. “A picnic sounds just the thing. And any respite from my rooms is very welcome.”

  “Take my arm—the going is uneven in places.” And though his steps might be uneven as well, he suspected she would need the support.

  As they walked she leaned more heavily upon him at times for balance. He forced the doctor to the forefront, viewing her with the clinical detachment that had once been effortless. From the rhythm of her steps, he guessed she had not been completely truthful about the extent of her vertigo. Still, the improvement was noticeable, and she did not seem to be tiring as they reached the wave-swept sand that ran flat and even from the edge of the rocks to the sparkling turquoise of the Mediterranean.

  “Pen is spending the afternoon with Madame Legault?” she asked. “Am I right in thinking Madame took the girl under her wing after her father left?”

  “Yes—although it is you, Miss Huntington, who seems to be restoring her spirits. Whenever I see her she talks of nothing but your projects.”

  She glanced at him. “I think assisting me makes her feel strong, and keeps her from dwelling too much on her unhappy situation. And in truth, her help is quite invaluable.”

  “She did mention you dictate reams of letters.” He thought back to the papers in her room. “But I saw more than correspondence on your table. Do you have Pen practicing her numbers?

  “Ah. She did not tell you about my arithmetic project with the village children?”

  Alex felt a smile lift the corner of his mouth. “No. Perhaps because she knew I would only remind her that you should be resting, not setting up a school.” The woman was incorrigible, but somehow he could not begrudge her this. Not with the sun glinting off the sea, the scent of sweet herbs in the dry air.

  “Well, I am having Pen do most of the teaching, if that sets your mind at ease.”

  “Marginally.”

  “The girl has quite a talent for it. It’s a skill that could serve her well in her future.”

  “I don’t think Pen has much considered her future,” he said.

  How could she, waiting here abandoned, hoping her father would return? An event that seemed less likely with each passing month.

  “Well, I have.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me.” He assisted her over the low ridge separating the main beach from the smaller shore, watching intently. Any moment now she should catch sight of it.

  “Goodness!” Miss Huntington halted, surprise and pleasure lacing her voice. “How perfectly lovely. Is that for us?”

  “Yes.” Satisfaction flared through him at her delight. He gazed at their destination trying to view it through her eyes.

  A makeshift pavilion stood on the shore. Lengths of white cotton billowed in the breeze on three sides, while the fourth was open to the sea. Through the cloth he glimpsed a woven mat covering the sand, cushioned chairs, and a small table, ready for the luncheon he carried. It was a haven, a place apart. A place, he hoped, that would amuse his reluctant charge. He did not inquire too closely of himself why that should be important.

  Had he made it too elaborate? But she did need a shade for her fair skin, and a comfortable place to rest.

  “This is far more than a rustic picnic.” She tucked her good arm through his as they made their way down the beach to the shelter. Once inside, she settled on a chair and gazed about like a newly crowned queen surveying her realm.

  “You look comfortable.”

  She turned to him, eyes dancing with amber lights. “It’s delightful. I promise to be a model patient from here forward.”

  For a moment Alex could not see a patient before him at all, only a woman, vibrant and whole in the sunshine, smiling up at him. He took a step toward her, then caught himself, changed course to set the basket on the table.

  “No more thoughts about diving out the windows, then—although you do have a balcony.”

  “Are you suggesting I tie my sheets together and lower myself one-handed from it?” She was laughing at him. “It’s maddening to be able to see everywhere and be able to go nowhere. Although”—she glanced about her once more—“this is certainly somewhere, and a fine somewhere at that. I have always loved the shore, perhaps because we lived far from it. It seems so exotic.”

  “I grew up by the sea.” It was a harmless enough admission.

  “How delightful! To be able to beach-comb whenever you wanted. Did you find many treasures?”

  “I don’t remember. And it was not peaceful and tame like this. Storms would blow in that no sane person would want to be out in.” He shut his teeth over more words, slamming the doors of memory shut. He would not, must not, go back there, even in thought.

  His hands trembled as he opened the basket, and he had to fight off the sudden urge to flee back to the safety of his cottage. No. No, he was here—on Crete. This was a different sea, a different sky, and Miss Huntington was here as well, speaking to him, her voice a quiet melody. He let the sound of it wash over him, carrying him back to the present.

  “…had any number of fantastical items in his collection,” she said. “My grandfather was always fascinated by the natural world. Why, he discovered an entirely new species of flower in Tunisia. Last year my brother, James, was able to go collect it.” She paused and looked over the blue waters. “Which way is Tunisia from here? Straight across?”

  He squinted across the waves, grateful for the distraction. “No, Egypt is to the south. Tunisia is that direction.” He pointed to the right. “As is Malta.”

  “Malta.” She shaded her eyes with her hand, and he knew she was thinking of Mrs. Farnsworth.

  He began setting out their luncheon. “I hope you like the local food. I’m afraid cucumber sandwiches were in short supply this morning.”

  She left off scanning the horizon and turned to face him. “Oh, I do, very much. I’m glad there’s no gruel with treacle anywhere on the island.”

  “Happily, living here means an escape from English cooking. Although eventually one tires of olives. Sometimes I long for a nice brisket of beef with boiled potatoes.”

  “Mr. Trentham.” There was something cautious in her voice. “How long have you been here? On Crete?”

  Alex pulled a loaf of bread out and set it next to the pale slab of goat cheese. He took a long moment before answering, calculating the seasons in his head. The answer surprised him. “Three years.”

  “Three years? But, what about your family, your friends in England?”

  He frowned, shoulders tight beneath his coat. “There is nothing, and no one, for me there.” What he had done ensured it.

  “I truly doubt that,” she began. “You seem—”

  “Miss Huntington”—he jabbed his thumb into an orange and began tearing the peel off with sharp movements—“if you are eager to speak of England, then do so. Tell me about your family.” Anything to deflect her interest.

  He could f
eel her watching him as he finished peeling the orange and divided their lunch onto the plates set out for them.

  “My family.” She shifted in her chair.

  He handed her a plate, then took the opposite chair and concentrated on ripping his bread into bite-sized chunks.

  She ate an olive, then at last answered him. “My parents died when I was quite young, and my brother and I were taken in by my uncle.”

  Yes, he recalled their conversation that first night, when she had named herself orphan. “Did he treat you poorly? Is that why you champion the cause of orphans?”

  “Heavens no! Uncle Denby has been nothing but kind ever since he made us part of his family. No,” her face grew pensive, “I have been aware for a long time that there are others far less fortunate than myself.”

  “Why make it your mission to help them?”

  She gave him a thoughtful look. “What are we here for if not to make things easier for one another? I find myself in a position to help. It would be remiss of me not to do so.”

  “That’s very noble.” He poured two glasses of water and set hers beside her plate. She reached, placing her hand over his before he could pull away. Startled, he glanced into brown eyes dark with concern.

  “Mr. Trentham, I have found that sometimes it helps to speak about one’s troubles. If you need to…well, please consider me a friend.”

  Her skin was warm, and for a brief moment he was tempted not to move away from her touch—but no. The last thing he wanted was to see her turn from him, disgust and horror in her eyes. It was his burden to carry. Alone.

  He pulled away. “Thank you. Talking does not help me.”

  “Very well.” She took up her glass and drank, staring out at the sea once more.

  The strained silence between them slowly eased as they sat. The sunlight playing in the light fabric of the curtains, the constant hushing of the waves, slowly chased the darkness back. It did not belong here, in this day, in this place.

  Her voice laid itself over the quiet, her tone pensive. “I don’t think helping others when I can is noble. More that it’s right, and human. But we needn’t speak of that.” She turned to him, a determinedly bright look on her face. “Tell me about working with Monsieur and Madame Legault. Has the excavation turned up any treasures?”

  If she wanted to steer the conversation onto safer ground he was happy to follow. They had already skirted too close to the edge.

  “If you mean fabulous caches of gold and jewelry, no. There have been some fine pottery jars”—he would not mention the one she had inadvertently shattered—“and a few items of beaten silver and bronze. I don’t think Legault is interested in finding treasure, which is odd for a man who likes to dig in the dirt. Although he does think there are other possibilities scattered about the island.”

  “I’d imagine he is right. After all, Crete is the birthplace of Zeus, the home of King Minos, the Minotaur, the labyrinth.”

  Alex shook his head. “King Minos is just a myth, Miss Huntington. I doubt his palace, or any sort of labyrinth, actually exists.”

  “But certainly they do!” She leaned forward. “What seems to us to be ancient legend must have some basis in actual history. Something mystical must still linger in the Cave of Zeus. Pen tells me you have been there.”

  “Yes. It’s a few hours’ ride from the village.”

  “I was hoping to see the cave before—well, before this happened.” She lifted her splinted arm, a rueful expression on her face.

  “It’s an interesting place. The locals still bring offerings, as they have done for generations. There’s a feeling of great antiquity there.”

  Miss Huntington nodded, listening intently, and despite himself Alex found the afternoon brightening once again. He went on to describe his visits to the cave, and thought that, in the retelling, it had indeed been a place of mystery.

  “But I am keeping you from dessert. Have you tried the local version of baklava yet, Miss Huntington?”

  “I haven’t. It looks…sticky. But delicious,” she said, eyeing the honey-drizzled triangles.

  “Both.” He offered her one of the delicate desserts.

  She took a tentative bite, then a look of bliss crossed her face. “Oh…it’s like tasting pure sunlight.” Her tongue flicked out, chasing a stray bit of pastry from her lip, and he abruptly forgot what they had been talking about.

  Honey. Her hair holding glints of it, tawny flecks in her eyes. He was certain she would taste of it, and the urge to go to her, lift her in his arms and savor her mouth with his own was nearly overwhelming.

  “Thank you for the most agreeable afternoon.” She let out a pleased sigh. “It was so good to get out of my rooms.”

  He cleared his throat. “Then we’ll have to see it happens more often.”

  Although he feared he had not been the most agreeable company—alternately brooding and enthralled. Still, if she was happy then the picnic could be counted a success. He stood, tucked the used dishes back into the basket, and brushed the crumbs from the table. The lads would be along later to dismantle the pavilion, though perhaps he would have them wait a few days so Miss Huntington could return. He could picture her here again tomorrow, reading a book and drinking tea. “Now, though…”

  “Yes.” She glanced at the sky, where orange streamers of clouds preceded the dusk. “Time to go back.”

  He held his hand out to her and she set her good hand in his, smiling. “See how obedient I am? Not even dragging my heels in the sand.”

  “Most impressive. You’ll be fully cured in no time.” And on her way back to England.

  He raised her hand to his lips, a courtly gesture, and she stilled, her breath indrawn as he brushed his lips across her skin. Heat flashed through him, and he lingered too long, but he could not help himself. Her hand was soft and he yearned too much for that softness. At length he straightened and tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, not meeting her widened eyes.

  The sun slanted low across the beach as they made their way back toward the village. At length Miss Huntington looked over her shoulder and he followed her gaze to the pavilion, white cotton gilded nearly to gold, a swirl of gulls calling overhead, the wavelets running up, and away.

  Chapter 7

  “Pen!” Joy bubbled through Caroline as she leapt to her feet. “The letter you just brought—it’s from Maggie. She did it! She’s convinced the governor to approve her orphanage in Valletta.”

  Pen flung up her arms, scattering the wildflowers she had been arranging. “Hurrah! What splendid news, Caro.”

  Caroline laughed, then rather quickly sat back down as the room began to spin. When it stilled she picked up the letter again. “I’m so pleased.”

  Her spirits felt lighter than they had for, well, for longer than she could remember. This enforced break on Crete was not all bad. She had been able to keep up her correspondence with Pen’s help, and her new companion was blossoming like one of the wildflowers outside. And now, the news that Maggie had met with success. She drew in a deep breath. Her injury had not, after all, caused her friend’s project to fail—although Maggie had cautioned in her letter that she would have to remain on Malta a while longer to ensure the project got off to a smooth start.

  Caroline was glad to hear she would not be immediately collected from Crete. Certainly, it was better she remain on the island another few weeks. She was not fully recovered, and she doubted Mr. Trentham would let her go until she was. And, to be honest, she did not want to go.

  When he had kissed her hand it had sent an odd thrill through her, a warm swirl that had uncurled from her feet and swept through her, leaving her exhilarated and confused in its wake. Even now the back of her hand tingled with the memory.

  “Grand news for a grand day,” Pen said, bending to gather up the strewn flowers. She had come in, arms full of sweet herbs and wildflowers picked from the hillsides, and set about making jaunty bouquets. Now the rooms were scented with chamomile and sage, splashe
d with color from the poppies and iris.

  “This one for the balcony, I think.” She took up her last jar of flowers and went out to the narrow terrace. With the days growing warmer they left the door open wide, and the comfortable sounds of village life drifted up. “Caro, come look,” she called. “I think someone new has arrived. A European.”

  Caroline went to join Pen. True enough, there was Manolis, his cart filled with luggage and oddly shaped bundles. Beside him on the seat was a stocky, muscular-looking gentleman, wearing a large hat that shaded his features. As they watched, the cart turned near the fisherman’s cottages and disappeared toward the olive groves.

  “So it appears. No doubt we’ll discover more soon—in a village this size everyone knows everyone else’s business.”

  “No question of that. Look, here comes Mr. Trentham.” Pen leaned over the balcony, waving broadly.

  Spotting them, he lifted a hand in return. When he reached the villa he swung smoothly off his mount.

  “Care to descend, Miss Huntington? It’s a lovely day for a stroll on the beach.”

  “Yes! Give me a moment.” She hurried back inside, swept up the letter and tucked it into her pocket. Her times outside with him were precious, and she would not give them up for anything.

  Pen pulled a shawl from the wardrobe and draped it over Caroline’s shoulders. “Enjoy your walk. I’ll just tidy up here while you are gone.”

  Caroline found Mr. Trentham waiting for her at the foot of the stairs. He offered his arm. “To the shore?”

  “Yes—and I have the most marvelous news to report.” She could not help grinning at him. “But…I think we will wait until we reach the pavilion.” She wanted him to read the letter himself.

  “Hmm. Let me guess. You’ve purchased a forge and are going to teach the village boys blacksmithing?” His tone was dry, but she caught the flash of amusement in his eyes.