While the scholarly observers began scribbling madly, she simply stared, mesmerized by the sight and sound of the Wild Man. He was magnificent, surrounded by fire, a being of primitive, masculine power. To see him was to be carried away to a world far different from prosaic England.
Her reverie was interrupted when her father snapped, "For heaven's sake, don't gawk, Roxanne. Take notes. Try to catch the words accurately so they can be translated when we know more about his language. "
Reluctantly she bent her head, jotting a phrase, then taking a quick glance up before jotting another. Her cheeks colored again when she saw that Chand-a-la's loincloth was in danger of being dislodged by his energetic movements. Engrossed with his fire dance, he was splendidly unconcerned with propriety.
With a last booming "Aie-yah!," he hurled the burning torches into the fireplace, where they crashed in a shower of sparks. A collective sigh went through the watchers, as if acknowledging that they had been privileged to see a rare sight.
Even Sir William murmured, "Quite remarkable." His lips pursed as he noticed how bare the Wild Man was. "But the landlord was right. This isn't a fitting sight for a female." He took Roxanne's arm and started to usher her from the room.
"But, Papa," she protested, strangely unwilling to leave. "Surely you will need me for sketching and note taking."
"I shall manage," he said brusquely. "Tell the landlord to find a maid to walk down to Sutton Pool with you. I expect I shall that I shall be busy here for the rest of the day."
Chand-a-la was staring at her from the other side of the room. There was something about his posture that seemed familiar, but she could not place the memory.
With a sigh she turned to leave. Poor Wild Man, so far from home. She hoped the scholars treated him kindly.
Chapter 4
Dominick stared at Roxanne's retreating figure, unable to believe that she was leaving so soon, before he had a chance to speak with her and reveal his identity. Damnation, he had never even looked into her face!
She seemed so small, her movements and dress subdued, as if she were a docile wren. He needed to get her away from this place and these people so he could find the real Roxanne again.
He gave a wordless bellow and bounded across the room. Sweeping her up in his arms, he darted into the hall. A chorus of shouts rose behind them, but the longed-for feel of her slim body emboldened him. This time he would not let her get away!
Roxanne gave a strangled squeak as powerful arms swooped her into the air. Merciful heaven, the Wild Man was carrying her off! For an instant she was paralyzed with shock.
She began to struggle. Her arms were pinned to her sides, but she kicked out with her feet futilely, until she realized that she was exposing her limbs all the way to the knees. For decency's sake, she stopped thrashing. He couldn't possibly take her far, and she didn't sense that he intended to hurt her. He was simply curious.
As they whipped down the hallway, her gaze fixed on the small, delicately tinted shells that were woven into his beard. The effect was rather pretty. She had noticed that he didn't smell rank and primitive as she had expected. His scent was clean, with a hint of spiciness. Did savages bathe and use cologne the way civilized gentlemen did?
A customer was just entering the hall from the rear of the inn. As he gawked, open-mouthed, Chand-a-la shouldered past and burst through the door, bounding down the short flight of stone steps with a force that jarred Roxanne breathless.
The coach yard was deserted. Increasing his pace, the Wild Man bolted into the stables, his captive clutched against his chest. Roxanne felt numb with shock, the familiar scents of hay and horses totally at odds with this bizarre abduction.
With a flourish Chand-a-la set her on her feet, snatched a bridle from a nail, and unlatched the door to a stall. Then he guided her into the stall ahead of him so she could not escape. The bay gelding inside shifted nervously as the Wild Man deftly removed its halter, then slipped the bridle on.
Though Roxanne knew he could not understand, she said urgently, "Please, Chand-a-la, don't do this! There's nowhere to hide, and they might hurt you when they catch you." She placed a pleading hand on his arm. "Come outside with me now."
He glanced down at her hand, and she felt the muscles in his forearm tense. It was an odd moment that ended when shouts arose outside the stables.
He raised his hand and fumbled at her throat. She gasped and tried to retreat, stopping when she backed into the wall. Surely he couldn't be trying to molest her right here in the stable, when rescuers were just a few feet away, she thought wildly. But what did she know about how a savage's mind worked?
With a quick yank he untied her bonnet, tugged it off, and flung it aside. Then he brushed her head with a gesture that was oddly like a caress. Her hair loosened and fell in thick waves around her shoulders. His black beard shivered. Was that a smile behind the shrubbery?
He murmured a few words. Though it was hard to make them out because of the shouting outside, it sounded like, "Don't fear, wahine." But that couldn't be, since he didn't speak English.
Timidly she looked into his face for the first time. He was so tall and the stall was so shadowy that it was hard to see his features clearly. She did discover that his eyes were surprisingly light-colored, not black as she expected.
The door to the stable opened with a squeal of rusty hinges. Swiftly Chand-a-la lifted Roxanne onto the horse's bare back, setting her astride so that her skirts crumpled indecently around her knees.
Then he swung up behind her. Controlling the horse effortlessly, he rode outside, one hand on the reins and his other arm locked around Roxanne's waist as he brushed past the stable boy who had opened the door.
A dozen men were in the yard, several heading purposefully toward the stables while the others milled about in confusion. For a suspended moment everyone stared at the sight of Chand-a-la and his captive.
Sir William was in the midst of the group. Looking more irritated than alarmed, he barked, "There they are." He began striding forward. "Unhand my daughter, you ignorant aborigine!'
An onlooker said with surprise, "Miss Mayfield's hair is quite splendid." Another man said admiringly, "For a savage, that fellow has a dashed good seat on the horse."
Ignoring the comments, Chand-a-la set the horse into a trot, heading for the arch that led to the street. A man cried, "Quick, kill the brute before he escapes!"
A portly gentleman who carried a fowling piece raised it and aimed at the Wild Man and his captive. As he pulled the trigger, Sir George swung his arm, knocking the barrel skyward as it discharged with a boom. "For God's sake, man!" Renfrew roared. "You mustn't kill Miss Mayfield while trying to save her!"
With acrid smoke filling the yard, the Wild Man put his heels to the horse and they broke into a gallop, whipping under the arch and into the street. Turning the horse to the left, Chand-a-la began galloping toward the outskirts of town as if the hounds of hell were pursuing them.
Roxanne clung to the gelding's mane helplessly as they swerved around drays and shrieking pedestrians. The wind whipped her hair free so that it lashed across her captor's chest. It was terrifying to ride without the security of a saddle. If it hadn't been for the firmness of Chand-a-la's grip, she would have been pitched to the ground.
She caught glimpses of white, shocked faces as they roared down the street. Dodging a woman carrying a child, the horse clipped a basket and rosy apples spilled out.
Dizzily Roxanne watched the fruit roll across the cobbles, then raised her head to see a pony cart loaded with hay blocking the street crosswise ahead of them. She gave a muffled shriek, sure a lethal accident was imminent.
Instead of swerving or pulling up, Chand-a-la set the gelding into a suicidal jump. Even though she was convinced they were doomed, Roxanne automatically tightened her legs around the horse and held still so as not to throw the beast off balance.
They soared into the air, the Wild Man's body pressing against hers, keeping their weight cen
tered over their mount's forequarters. A clump of hay tumbled to the street, dislodged by a hoof, but they landed safely. The Wild Man laughed with sheer delight.
Wherever he came from, they had to have horses, for he rode superbly. Roxanne turned her head and looked over her shoulder into his hirsute face. His eyes were gray, like those of ...
She went rigid with disbelief. No, it wasn't possible. It wasn't possible!
Chand-a-la. Chandler. The wretch! The bloody-minded, faithless wretch! The man who had broken her heart had returned.
And when they got to wherever they were going, she thought furiously, she was going to wring his neck.
Chapter 5
The sooner they got off the road, the better. Dominick couldn't have been more conspicuous if he had been painted scarlet. He kept the horse at a canter, hoping that he would remember the twists and turns that led to the cottage. During the days he had stayed there, he had come and gone by night and been heavily cloaked to conceal his wild appearance.
Luckily the cottage wasn't far, and it was approached by a sunken lane so no one was likely to see them during the last stretch. He was grateful that Roxanne seemed unafraid. A lesser female would be having strong hysterics.
He knew he should identify himself, but once they started talking, the explanations would be lengthy and possibly acrimonious. He preferred to remain silent a little longer. During a hard decade of traveling in the world's wild places, he had yearned for this moment a thousand times, and now he wanted to savor the wonder of her presence.
The cottage was set in the center of an apple orchard. It was the height of spring blooming, and the bewitching scent of blossoms hung heavy in the air as he pulled the gelding to a halt and dismounted.
When he lifted his arms to help Roxanne down, she came readily enough, sliding from the horse's back to land a foot away from Dominick. She really was a little bit of a thing, the top of her gloriously red head scarcely reaching his chin.
For a long moment they stared at each other. With ten thousand things to say, all he could manage was to ask softly, "Do you recognize me, Roxanne?"
"Of course I do, you idiot!" she snapped. "Have you lost your mind, Dominick Chandler?"
He laughed buoyantly. "I should have known that I couldn't fool you! I'm glad. You might have been frightened otherwise, and I certainly didn't want that."
"I find your solicitude unconvincing." Her eyes narrowed. "Having ruined my life ten years ago, it appears that you have come back to ruin my reputation as well."
He sighed as he thought of all the complications ahead. "I didn't plan it this way, but I thought that masquerading as a savage might help me get close enough to you to talk. I couldn't bear it when I saw you leaving, so I acted on impulse."
"I can see that you haven't matured any since I last saw you," she said acerbically. Taking the gelding's reins, she led it to a stump, climbed up, and tried to mount, but the stump wasn't high enough. After failing twice--and showing a delicious amount of leg in the process--she said, "Help me up. If I return to town quickly, it might be possible to salvage my reputation."
"Is that all you're concerned about? Your reputation?" He caught the gelding's reins. "I didn't go to this effort merely for the pleasure of running off with you for half an hour. We must talk, Roxanne."
"That's Miss Mayfield to you!" Standing on the stump put her eyes on a level with his. ''There's only one thing I want to do with you, and it isn't talk."
Of course; he should have had the sense to kiss her right away. They could find each more quickly in an embrace than by speaking. He moved forward, eager to take her into his arms.
She hauled back her right arm and slapped him across the cheek with all her strength.
He rocked back on his heels. Eyes watering, he said, "You're angry over what happened."
It was her turn look incredulous. "Angry? That doesn't begin to describe how I feel!" For an instant her lip trembled. "The words don't exist, Lord Chandler."
"You know that my uncle died two years ago," he said with interest.
She looked away. "I noticed his obituary in the newspaper. Believe me, I was not following your inglorious career!"
But she had noticed, and remembered. "Come inside and I'll make a pot of tea," he suggested. "I imagine that we could both use some."
“I could use some tea. What you need is a shave, some decent clothing, and a sense of shame!"
She tried to rake him with a scathing glance, but her gaze faltered somewhere around his chest. He found her bashfulness enchanting. Taking the gelding's reins, he said, "I'll rub this fellow down if you'll start a fire and put the kettle on. I should be finished by the time it's boiling."
Not budging from her stump, she said, "Do thieves always take such good care of the horses they steal?"
He stroked the gelding's sweaty neck. "I didn't steal Thunder. He belongs to my friend George. He's a fine fellow. I wouldn't have cared to try jumping that cart with a strange mount."
She hopped from the ground into the lush, ankle high grass. "You thought of everything, I see. Does the cottage belong to George as well?"
"As a matter of fact, it does." He led the gelding into the shed that leaned against the cottage. As he tethered it, he continued, "This is a remote comer of his estate. I stayed here for several days while we worked out the details of my plan. My baggage is still here."
She sniffed. "I'm surprised that you were able to convince a grown man to participate in something so childish."
Dominick grinned. "It took some persuasion, but once George agreed to help, he had even more fun than I did. What a stuffy lot those scholars were! It was amusing to lead them on."
Roxanne's hands knotted into fists, and she fought the temptation to hit him again. This was all just a game to Dominick. He was no more serious now than he had been ten years ago. All of her pain, all of her agonized, sleepless nights, had been wasted. She was a thousand times a fool!
Spinning on her heel, she marched toward the sunken lane. In two quick steps he was beside her, halting her progress with a hand on her elbow. "Where are you going?"
"That's a foolish question," she snapped. "Back to Plymouth. If I can't ride, I'll walk. It can't be more than four or five miles."
"No," he said flatly. His grip tightened on her elbow. "You are staying here until I've had a chance to say my piece."
Faint sun-baked lines bracketed his eyes. He looked older, harder, and far more menacing than when she had known him before. For the first time she felt uneasy.
Well, she had changed, too. She was no longer the adoring, malleable female who had agreed with everything her sweetheart said. Jerking her arm free, she said, "You dare to hold me prisoner?"
He scooped her up again and carried her toward the cottage. "Having kidnapped you in front of an inn full of witnesses, I can hardly be in worse trouble than I am already."
This time there were no potential rescuers in the next room, and she fought for her freedom in dead earnest. He grunted when she drove her elbow into his belly, then jerked his head back when she clawed at his eyes. Her fingertips raked down his cheek, leaving red marks in the flesh above his beard. "Stop that, you little hellcat!"
She redoubled her efforts and for a moment she thought he was going to release her. Instead, he changed his grip, locking her arms by her sides. To her fury, he seemed more amused than upset. "It's good to know that my darling vixen hasn't been obliterated entirely," he said in a dulcet tone.
She caught her breath, unnerved to hear his old, loving nickname. Ceasing her struggle, she said in a voice that could have chipped ice, "I am not your vixen, darling or otherwise."
He turned sideways and ducked his head as he carried her into the cottage. It was a simple place, but clean. The whitewashed walls, rag rug, and well-worn wooden furniture had a certain homely charm.
He set her down again. "You can either walk into the bedroom, or I can carry you. What is your preference?"
She gasped, truly
shocked. "So the purpose of your masquerade is rape?"
He looked startled. Then, as he realized how she had interpreted his words, he flushed scarlet. "Surely you can't think that I would ever force you!'"
Her eyes narrowed. "Raping my body would be a mere bagatelle compared to what you did to my heart.'"
The blood drained from his face, leaving him pale beneath his tanned skin. "I'm truly sorry for what happened, Roxanne, but I had no choice.”
She retorted, "One always has a choice! The ones you've made do you no credit."
"Perhaps you're right," he said quietly. "But I did the best I knew how."
The pain in his eyes caught her off guard. This was the private, vulnerable Dominick with whom she had fallen in love. She vowed silently that she would not let him cozen her again, but she felt wry sympathy for Eve, beguiled by the serpent in the Garden of Eden.
Trying to conceal her weakness, she said, "If you’re not interested in rape, why do you want me in the bedroom?"
"So I can lock you in while I rub down the horse," he said with exasperation. "I want to insure that you're here when I'm done, and the bedroom windows are too high and small for you to escape." He surveyed her. "Though now that I think about it, you might be small enough to get out that way. It will have to be the pantry. It's the only other door that can be locked from the outside."
Wordlessly she stalked to a door that opened from the kitchen end of the room. Seeing that it was the pantry, she stepped inside and slammed the door shut with a force that made the shelves inside vibrate. As he latched the door, she scanned her surroundings, glad that a high, narrow window let in light. The shelves were empty except for a few basic supplies and utensils.
A flash of reflected light caught her eye, and she saw that a small round mirror hung on one wall. She glanced in, and caught her breath.
Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas Page 3
