Touch of Desire

by Susan Spencer Paul

  “But what if Lord Graymar should discover that you’ve come to Glain Tarran uninvited? He’s gone to such lengths to tell you that he doesn’t wish to speak with you. He’ll be furious.”

  Sarah took up the boy’s cap that accompanied her on all her nightly adventures and began to push her hair up beneath it, taking care not to dislodge her spectacles.

  “I’m only going to see whether the rumors of ancient ceremonial grounds on the property are true. Even the servants at the inn say they exist, and the women I met in the village this afternoon were able to give me an idea of their location. And if Lord Graymar should discover me there,” she added with a smile as she reached for her gloves, “I shall simply do my utmost to charm him into giving me an interview this very night. Which would serve especially well since I could truthfully tell Papa that it wasn’t planned and I hadn’t broken my promise. What a wonderful boon it would be to have the earl’s perspective before we achieve London. I could start the book right away.”

  Philistia shook her head. “The Earl of Graymar’s not like the others you’ve swayed, Sarah. He’s already proven to be immune to your appeals. He’ll not give way so quickly.”

  “That’s likely true,” Sarah agreed, pushing her spectacles more firmly upon her small nose as she examined herself in the room’s long mirror. “In which case,” she went on, “I shall simply have to make certain that I’m not discovered.” Satisfied, she gave a single nod and turned to pick up her battered knapsack. Moving to the rear open window, she lowered her voice. “Go to bed now, Philla, and don’t worry. I’ll be home before dawn, and no one will be the wiser. I promise.”

  “Oh dear,” Philistia said fretfully, but Sarah had already hefted both legs out the window and lowered herself soundlessly to the tree branches below.

  Chapter Five

  Malachi knew the moment the intruder crossed Glain Tarran’s boundaries. He felt the strange presence entering his private retreat as if the person had walked into his study and set a hand upon his arm—though the trespasser was yet some miles away.

  Looking up from the papers he’d been reading—a lengthy report from Professor Harris Seabolt regarding the cythraul—Malachi fixed his mind on the unexpected visitor.

  An extraordinary wizard could usually tell a great deal about such individuals when they set foot upon that wizard’s property: their exact location, their purpose, even their identity. Malachi had been able to perceive all these things even when he was a child. But there was a disturbing blankness in this instance. He only knew that a stranger had come to Glain Tarran on a cold, windy, moon-bright night … seeking something. More than that he could not discern.

  He glanced at the bellpull near the wall and with a thought caused it to lower once. A few moments later a soft scratch fell upon the study’s open door. Rhys’s white head appeared, his blue eyes solemn as he made his bow.

  “My lord?”

  “We have another unwelcome visitor, I fear, Rhys.”

  The older man’s eyebrows rose slightly.

  “One of the lads from the village, my lord?”

  Malachi set his papers aside. “I don’t believe so. There appears to be some magic at work, for this particular intruder is shielded from me. He does not possess magic himself, however. There may be a talisman of some kind.”

  “Shall I fetch Gwyllam, then?” The butler’s tone was measured but expectant.

  Malachi sighed. Involving Gwyllam, the head groundskeeper, meant involving the dogs, and the dogs meant terrifying an intruder—talisman or not—into never trespassing on Glain Tarran again. Generally, Malachi didn’t hesitate to make use of the hounds for such work, but tonight … tonight he sensed it would be better not to.

  “No, Rhys,” he said quietly. “Fetch my coat. I’ll find our trespasser far more quickly if I go myself.”

  The hedges were an unexpected problem, but not one that Sarah couldn’t overcome. She’d faced more difficult prospects before, and nothing—not Philistia’s warnings of doom nor the Earl of Graymar’s wretched bushes—was going to stop her.

  It was a cold night—Philistia had been correct on that point—made even colder by the biting wind, which, Sarah noted, increased as she made her way farther into Glain Tarran.

  She was extraordinarily pleased by the phenomenon, for it gave credence to the tales she’d heard about certain lands being able to protect both themselves and their masters from invaders. If she hadn’t been afraid of her precious journal being blown away, Sarah would have stopped to jot down a few quick notes, but that would have to wait until she achieved some kind of shelter. She only hoped the spirits there—if there were any—would be more hospitable than the elements. She’d had near escapes from unfriendly specters before, but never in so remote a location nor when she was so far from civilization. The horse she’d hired for the night’s journey was a sturdy beast, but it wouldn’t be able to outrun angry phantoms.

  Sarah had a rough idea of where she was going, sketched out for her by one of the women, she’d spoken with in the village earlier in the day. Once she cleared these ridiculous bushes, which appeared to go on forever, she was to head toward the sea. The cliffs were but a mile away, and there, surrounded by a small copse of trees, she would find the ancient ceremonial grounds that were her goal.

  “Let me go,” she told the low, grasping bushes as they increasingly clung to her. Lifting one trousered leg higher, she could actually see the long, leafy branches curling about her feet to slow her progress. With a sigh, she dragged the knapsack she carried off her shoulders and unbuttoned a small front flap. Pulling a thin vial from within, she held it over the offending sea of plants.

  “These crystals,” she said loudly, over the harsh cry of the wind, “were given to me by the sorceress of Aberdeen. I know very well that you understand who it is that I mean, for her potions are well-known in all of Europe. If you don’t release me before I’ve counted to three, the stopper is coming off. I’m quite serious. One, two …”

  The coiling branches began to withdraw, their leaves rustling with displeasure.

  “That’s better,” Sarah said with relief, tucking the vial away once more and reshouldering the pack. “And although there’s nothing I can do about the wind,” she continued aloud, “you may inform any tree spirits on the premises that I don’t wish to be grabbed at by them, either. I’ve something far more potent than crystals to make them behave, and won’t hesitate to use it if I find my hat snatched away.”

  For once in his life, Malachi was lost on his own land. Or, rather, in the air above his land, as he flew over the length and breadth of Glain Tarran, searching.

  And he didn’t like it. At all.

  “Where has he gone?”

  The question, spoken aloud and with much aggravation, was carried away in the same furious wind that was making Malachi’s flight a challenging task. The intruder was still somewhere within Glain Tarran’s boundaries, but Malachi couldn’t hold on to his exact location. His mind was confused by the conflicting emotions he received, each leading him in a different direction.

  Intruders only came to Glain Tarran for two reasons: they had taken a dare from equally foolish friends to enter the fabled lands, or they thought they could steal something of value. But this intruder hadn’t gone toward the house or vanished away into the woods. He’d simply disappeared.

  The land was overset by this particular stranger … overset and yet … accepting, too. The elements were wary; even the wind couldn’t make up its mind whether to continue blowing or not. It wasn’t stopping the intruder’s progress.

  “Where?” Malachi murmured, coming to a sudden halt and whirling about, searching the ground below with the aid of the bright moonlight. “Where?”

  “Sweet merciful day,” Sarah murmured, pushing her spectacles up in her habitual manner and gazing in wonder at the massive stones hidden within the circle of trees. She moved farther into the center, turning about. “It’s fantastic.”

  A fresh, chi
lling gust of wind lifted the corners of Sarah’s heavy wool coat, sending shivers through her slender body. She must hurry, she told herself, before the land combined its various powers in order to get rid of her.

  Sitting on the ground in the midst of the giant bluestone towers, Sarah took off her pack, laid it before her, and untied the main compartment. Pulling out her journal and pencil, she hurriedly began to make notes:

  Glain Tarran, Pembrokeshire, Wales

  The site is all that I could have hoped for, and far more. There are twenty enormous monoliths, paired together in a manner similar to those at Stonehenge, all of Welsh bluestone. I can only guess at the site’s date of origin, though it is classically Druidic in arrangement. Unlike other such sites, no stones have yet fallen. It looks today as it might have when it was first completed hundreds of years ago. The forest of trees surrounding the stones was clearly grown in order to hide it from view, explaining the variety of rumors regarding the existence of sacred grounds on Glain Tarran. The main question [at this point the wind began to blow so heartily that she had to tether the edges of the page with her forearm] is why this fantastic remnant of our historical past has been kept so secret from the government of England and the people at large. Why does the Seymour family so vigilantly hide it?

  The wind apparently had had enough. It finally succeeded in ridding Sarah of her hat, blowing so violently that writing became impossible.

  “Oh, very well!” Sarah cried, stuffing her journal and pencil back into her pack. “If you must behave this way, I shall simply have to—oh!”

  Somehow, her glasses had slipped far enough down her irritatingly small nose to be snatched off by the wind. Flinging her knapsack aside, Sarah grasped at the air, then went down on hands and knees to frantically search the ground, crawling in a desperate circle, praying to find them.

  “That is the outside of enough!” she informed the element hotly. “I can do without the hat, but I must have my spectacles. It is entirely unjust of you to visit that manner of vengeance on me. I’ve touched nothing here, and have no intention of touching or taking anything!”

  And that was how Malachi, the Earl of Graymar, came upon Miss Sarah Tamony.

  To say that he was shocked would have been apt yet also something of an understatement. His intruder was female—accounting, he told himself, for at least part of his earlier confusion, since none of his previous intruders had ever been female—and also quite obviously out of her mind. She was crawling about in a frantic manner, running her hands over the grassy earth and angrily addressing herself to some unseen person in the middle of the night. In the midst of a violent windstorm. On Malachi’s land.

  He had no notion of why she’d come or how she’d ended up in the most sacred and secret place in Glain Tarran, but he did know that he had to get rid of her as soon as possible.

  The vexing problem was how. If she’d been a man or even in her right senses, Malachi might have done his usual terrifying and been done with it. But could he use his powers in such a daunting manner on a madwoman? It might push her even further toward complete insanity.

  However, he considered as he watched her continued bizarre behavior, she’d brought it on herself by trespassing on his lands.

  By the time she’d finally circled his way and seen him, he’d decided upon a course halfway between terror and kindness. Extending one palm, he brought forth a small flame, only enough light to help the moon illuminate his face. Making his expression as foreboding as he dared—not very, considering how foreboding he could be when he wished—he said, over the wind, in a darkly stern tone, “What are you doing here?”

  She pressed up to her knees and squinted at him, setting one hand over her windblown hair to hold it back from her forehead. “Well, at present,” she replied loudly over the elements, “I’m trying to find my spectacles. The wind has knocked them off and taken them away. I’m usually very good about keeping them tied with a ribbon, but the last I had was accidentally torn when I was having my hair arranged for a dinner we attended three nights past at Clesington Hall and—well, to be brief, I haven’t had a chance to replace it.” She blinked up at him blindly and offered an apologetic smile.

  It was hardly the response Malachi had expected or desired. Pulling himself up full height, he demanded more fiercely, “What are you doing here?”

  Rather than becoming afraid, she merely looked affronted.

  “I apologize if you’re angry, my lord,” she said loudly, “but there’s no need for such rudeness.” Struggling to her feet, she pushed her flying hair from her face with both hands and approached him. “I suppose it’s due, in part, to the fact that we’ve not yet been introduced, but that’s easily remedied. I’m Sarah Tamony.”

  The flame floating over Malachi’s palm died away, and he felt himself gaping. “Tamony?” He stared into her delicate, finely featured face, certain he’d misunderstood what she’d said, that the keening wind had twisted the words. “Miss Sarah Tamony?”

  He expected the oddly dressed female standing before him to laugh at the mistake, to correct his misunderstanding. Instead, she smiled, shouted, “Yes, I am,” and made a nimble curtsy.

  “What the devil are you doing on my lands!” The words, impolite and furious, were out of his mouth before he could think on what he was saying. Not that it mattered, for rational thought at the moment was next to impossible.

  Sarah Tamony. He could only stare and feel wrath course distressingly through his veins. What a horrid turn of events.

  Miss Tamony, however, appeared to be perfectly at ease. She smiled and took a step closer, speaking very carefully against the wind so that he could hear her.

  “As I said, I’m presently trying to find my spectacles. I don’t suppose you might make it stop”—she motioned toward the wind with a wave of one hand—“so that I might discover where they’ve gone? It will be much easier to discuss our situation once I can see your face.” She squinted. “Not that it’s entirely necessary, of course, for you’re so famous that I have an idea of what you look like. My Aunt Speakley is ever hoping to meet you so that she can invite you to one of her dinner parties. I’ve assured her it’s useless”—her slender shoulders lifted in a shrug—“for it’s well-known that you’re terribly particular about the company you keep, but she continues hoping you’ll somehow take a fancy to spending an evening with lesser members of Society. Now, about my spectacles …”

  Malachi lifted a hand and commanded aloud, “Peidio!”

  The wind died slowly and the attendant noise with it.

  “Oh, that’s much better!” Sarah Tamony said, looking about with approval. “If we could only—”

  “Be silent!” Malachi told her angrily, then turned his attention back to the wind. “Dwyn!”

  The wind began to blow along the ground, tumbling leaves and branches and, finally, a pair of battered spectacles, which landed near his feet.

  Bending, Malachi picked the spectacles up and examined them in the moonlight.

  “They’re bent,” he said curtly, holding them out to her. “I’ll not apologize for that. Unwelcome intruders must expect some unpleasantness as recompense for their illegal activities.”

  She didn’t answer him directly but spent a long time trying to set her spectacles to rights, then rubbing them as clean as she could with a bit of her shirt. When she finally put them on, the lenses, deeply scratched, tilted at a precarious angle. She smiled with satisfaction, nonetheless.

  “Ah, that’s better,” she declared happily, gazing up at him, her face illuminated by the moonlight. “Much better. Oh, my heavens.” She looked at him more closely. “The descriptions I’ve heard don’t tell the half of it. You’re shocking handsome, my lord. I confess I had no idea. But what a rude comment to make upon our first acquaintance. My parents and brother are ever reminding me of just how unruly my tongue is, but the fault is theirs, in part, for they’re all quite as bad. We Tamonys do tend to speak our minds rather freely, as I’m sure you divine
d from my several letters.”

  Malachi gazed at her steadily, scarcely hearing a word she spoke. Niclas had been right. She was a beauty, despite the spectacles. An auburn beauty with large green eyes and fine, aristocratic features. A rare, famously intelligent beauty who knew how to charm her way into getting what she wanted.

  And that made Miss Sarah Tamony a very dangerous female indeed.

  She was doing it now, chattering up at him in so open and confident a manner, smiling in such a way that her eyes appeared to spark with a friendliness that she surely didn’t—couldn’t—feel, given the circumstances they found themselves in. He had no doubt she was wishing him to the devil just as he was her. But the pretense was well done, Malachi admitted, and obviously often practiced. He imagined that the beautiful Sarah Tamony had used such skills to fell any number of men. Unfortunately for her, he was a master in the art of beguilement, too, and immune to her feminine wiles. He hoped.

  “Clearly you had none of my letters,” he replied tersely, “or, if you have, failed to read them. If you’d done so you’d not be here now, trespassing on my land.”

  If the moon had been a little brighter, Malachi imagined he would have seen her blush. He could certainly see with what light there was her reaction to his words. The smile faded and the finely shaped chin lifted.

  “I believe you mistake the matter, my lord,” she retorted with equal sharpness. “If you had only granted me an interview, trespassing wouldn’t have become necessary.”

  “Yes, I’m certain that your breaking the law is all my fault,” he replied drily. “However, I’m not in any mood to discuss the particulars here. The wind is generous with its time, but won’t cease blowing forever simply because I ask it to. I am not its master.”

  She blinked in momentary confusion, then looked immediately chagrined. “Oh no, of course not. Do you mean that we should go up to the main house? But of course you must if you wish to discuss—did you call it the particulars? I should like nothing better than to have the opportunity to speak with you about anything at all, Lord Graymar. Only let me gather my things and I’ll go where you wish.”