All He Desires

by Anthea Lawson

  “Hardly.” She pretended to ponder. “Although, the idea has merit.” She laughed at his expression, then stepped around a tumble of rocks. “Mr. Trentham, I believe someone new has come to the village. Pen and I saw him from the balcony, riding with Manolis.”

  “Another English tourist apparently—a sportsman by the look of the gear he brought. We’ve had a plague of tourists through here of late.” The corner of his mouth lifted.

  “If I was a tourist, then I certainly no longer feel like one. Not when I know half the villagers by name—and you have no idea of how much I see from the balcony.”

  “Oh? What do you see from your perch?”

  “I see the fishing boats go out on the morning tide, when the sea is smooth like a mirror. I see the priest walking with his spotted dog, and of course Manolis going back and forth with his cart. Did you know Young Georgios was promenading about yesterday with an enormous fish he had caught? Hoping Maria would notice him, I suspect.”

  “It sounds quite crowded.” His tone suggested he preferred the peace of his isolated cottage.

  She bit her lip. It was not good for him to hold himself so apart, removed from even the simple joys of friendship. She could see how loneliness had tarnished him and could not help but notice how he was beginning to brighten the more time he spent with others. Whatever secrets he held, surely they could be eased by sharing.

  They had arrived at the pavilion, which had begun to list to the left. Today the cotton fabric was pulled wide, the sun sprawled over the chairs. She sat and drew the letter from her pocket. It seemed fitting that she had saved the news to share with him here, in their private sanctuary.

  “See what arrived in the post?” She held it up. “A letter from Maggie, and—well, you must read it yourself, Mr. Trentham.”

  “I can hardly read it with you waving it about like a fan.” He caught the pages from her and seated himself. As he read an errant smile teased the edge of his mouth, softening his features. Why, he looked quite handsome like that, with the wind lightly ruffling his hair.

  “Excellent.” He looked up, a spark in his usually somber eyes. “So, the orphanage will be built. Mrs. Farnsworth has succeeded in her mission. And you are mending nicely. Here, not on Malta.” He folded the letter but did not hand it back, only gave her an expectant look, one eyebrow lifted.

  “What? You are waiting for me to say how right you were?” She tried to sound indignant, but her joy in sharing the good news spoiled the attempt. “Very well. You were right, Mr. Trentham. And you needn’t look so self-satisfied about it.”

  He leaned back in his chair, lips curving up in an actual smile. “One must savor these little moments.”

  Something inside her unfolded at his words. She did not think he let himself enjoy much in life. It was important he could take pleasure in this.

  “Though, I must confess,” he said, “I was never clear on why Malta needed an orphanage to begin with.”

  “Well, there is Valletta, garrisoned by British soldiers for over thirty years.”

  “Yes, I comprehend that part.”

  She leaned forward. “But do you comprehend the children those men have sired? Children whose mothers have brought their infants to the gates and left them there, hoping the soldier who fathered them would take them in, see them raised as one of the privileged, one of the ruling class? The men almost never do—realistically, how can they? Many of the children must fend for themselves on the streets.”

  “I see.” His dark blue eyes were fixed on hers. “And are there no orphans in London who need your help?”

  She nodded. “More than enough.”

  The image rose once again in her memory’s eye. The pale, pinched face of the girl dressed in rags, sheltering a younger child in her arms, both of them shivering in the chill winter rain. Caroline had glanced out the carriage window when the vehicle stopped because of some obstacle farther up the street and seen them.

  Her cousin Reggie had, too. “There,” he had sneered. “Orphans. That is you, Caroline, but for my father’s generosity. You belong there. With them.”

  The words had struck deep. Without thinking, she had wrenched open the carriage door and splashed across dank puddles. Her cousin called after her, but she ignored him and pulled at her cloak pin. It gave and she tugged the garment off, the cold air sudden and unfriendly with nothing between it and her skin but the fine wool of her dress.

  “Here.” She held the cloak out to the girl, and it was like looking into a distorted mirror. Brown eyes dull with hunger and cold, chapped lips and cheeks, hair that lay lank and uncombed across thin shoulders. Caroline shivered from more than the chilly air. Reggie was right—this could have been her.

  The girl stared at her and the child in the circle of her arms whimpered. Then, in a motion too quick to follow, the girl snatched the cloak and scuttled with her charge into the mouth of the alley. Caroline peered into the thick darkness, but they were gone.

  “Fool.” Hard fingers gripped her arm as Reggie pulled her back toward the carriage. “You’ve cost my father several pounds, and for what? What did you expect? A curtsey and song of thanks? Their kind don’t know the meaning of the word.”

  Caroline pulled away and hurried up the carriage steps. “I didn’t expect any thanks.”

  It was true. Giving the girl her cloak had made the world a kinder place in some small way. But giving away her cloak was not enough—not nearly enough.

  Was helping with a new orphanage in Valletta enough? Or funding the school in London? Would she ever be able to give enough to erase that stark image haunting her memory?

  “I contribute in London.” She answered Mr. Trentham’s question. “With Maggie’s help, I’ve established a school, and have plans in motion to do more. But there are other people, other organizations that can help there. The children of Valletta have no one.”

  “They do now.”

  The warmth in his voice nearly undid her. She had expected more questions, more arguments—people almost never understood. It was easier to remain comfortably uninvolved, to argue and intellectualize the subject. If half the energy people spent avoiding the problem was actually put to use trying to fix it…Throat tight, Caroline gazed out at the sea.

  He did not press her. Silence unfolded around them, but it was an accepting one, a peaceful quiet that did not need words. At length she drew in a deep breath and turned to find him watching her, something akin to understanding in his eyes.

  “I’ve no doubt you have touched the lives of many, Miss Huntington. Thank you for sharing the news that Mrs. Farnsworth was successful in such an important undertaking.” He slipped off his chair, knelt beside her. “Now let’s see how successful we’ve been at helping this elbow mend.”

  Caroline lifted her arm, letting his large, gentle hands take the weight. It was a familiar business, yet today she felt breathless as he unwrapped the bindings, the pressure about her arm easing as he unbound the splint. The last strips came away, leaving an almost painful awareness as her skin was bared to the sunlight and air.

  He cupped her elbow, carefully feeling around it. His fingers hit an especially sore place and she drew in a sharp breath.

  “Tender?” He looked up at her, black hair falling into his eyes. “Yes, I’d expect so. But the swelling is almost gone.”

  She swallowed. “How long until we can remove the splint for good?”

  “Soon.” He set the splint against her skin again and began rewinding. When he was finished he took her hand, setting his palm against hers. “Push against me—yes, like that. Hmm. You’ll need to strengthen the arm. Healing takes time.”

  More time. But somehow the thought did not seem so dreadful anymore. Now that she knew Maggie had succeeded on Malta, she did not mind tarrying here. The project in London called, but not loudly. The warm sun of Crete, the slow pace of the village had worked its alchemy upon her. She felt loosened in a way she never had in England—like crystallized honey that had warmed enough to
flow smoothly.

  And there was Mr. Trentham. She had to admit, she was not unmoved by him. Every day she woke and considered the number of hours before he would arrive at her doorstep, tried to suppress the way her heart jumped when she caught sight of his figure.

  He was still holding her hand, his warm fingers close about hers. She deliberately kept her gaze on the water, content—more than content. The pulse of the waves became the pulse of her heart, a steady thrum centered on the feel of his hand against hers. Her breath was the breath of the wind, a sudden, vast feeling, as though she were a part of the sky, the water, the light glancing on the waves, part of this man beside her.

  At length he released her. “We should return.”

  She was sorry to go.

  “I was thinking,” he said, when they had almost reached the villa, “tomorrow we could range farther afield, if you are feeling strong enough.”

  “Certainly I am. An outing would be grand. May I ask where?”

  He shot her an amused look. “You may ask—but I prefer to keep my surprises.”

  “How vexing of you!” She smiled up at him. “It will have to surpass the pavilion, you understand. I am becoming accustomed to a certain caliber of surprise.”

  “It will meet your expectations,” he said, then firmed his lips, as if keeping himself from saying more. He remained silent until they reached the door.

  “Well, good afternoon, Mr. Trentham.”

  “Miss Huntington.” He paused, something flickering in the depths of his eyes.

  The falling light played in his dark hair, and she turned to face him, aware of a sudden hush in the air, as though a dome of quiet had descended over the two of them. His gaze dropped to her lips and he leaned forward. Heat rushed through her, and a quickening anticipation….

  “Iatros!” A man stepped out onto his stoop and hailed Mr. Trentham, and the moment was broken.

  Mr. Trentham held up a hand in greeting, then stepped back, making her a slight bow. “Good afternoon. I shall see you tomorrow.”

  She watched as he strode up the street, something she could only name as yearning pushing through her, wrapping round her heart, strong and sweet and uncomfortable, like a stolen sip of brandy.

  Chapter 8

  The next morning Alex tethered his horse outside the villa, then hailed Manolis, who was coming down the street with two more mounts. “Excellent. Tie them here. I’ll be leaving with the ladies shortly.”

  The older man smiled. “It is good to see you in the sunshine, iatros.”

  “It’s sunny nearly every day.” But he knew what Manolis meant.

  It was irrational, the good humor that had settled over him. His past had receded, the memories of what he had done distanced from this place and time. What was important was now: the kestrels swooping overhead in the clear, dry air, the day unfolding before him, full of promise. The brown-haired woman waiting, whose smiles were like balm and honey, whose company he had begun to enjoy far more than he should. Still, there was no harm in turning his face to the light she held, as a cold man might warm himself before a fire. It was not as though he were trying to claim that fire for himself, or coax it into burning on his own hearth.

  He whistled to himself as he mounted the stairs two at a time. Pen opened the door immediately at his knock. He looked over her shoulder, catching sight of Miss Huntington in the next room.

  “Hello, Mr. Trentham.” Pen grinned at him. “We’re nearly ready. Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise, but one you’ll know soon enough.” He could not swear to it, but the girl seemed more presentable these days. The anxious expression had faded from her eyes, and there was something different about her dresses. “Will you run down to the kitchen and see that the supplies I asked for are ready? Have them taken out to the horses.”

  “Of course—and I think I know where we’re going.” Her look turned conspiratorial. “It’s a grand idea.” She gathered up her shawl and bonnet and slipped out.

  “Miss Huntington?”

  “Come in.” She was standing before the wardrobe, wearing the dress he had first mangled, the russet color bringing out echoes of autumn in her hair. The sleeve had been remade, as had the right sleeves of all her dresses, a panel of fabric enlarging them enough to accommodate the sling. She smiled and warmth kindled through him, all the way to his soles.

  “I’m looking forward to our mysterious adventure today,” she said.

  “You feel well enough to ride?”

  “Ride? Absolutely!” Her smile widened. “That means we’re going some distance. I’ll be ready in a moment. Although—did Pen just step out?” She glanced down at the pair of boots she was holding.

  “Allow me to help.”

  “Yes, you’ll have to. One-handed lacing is quite impossible.” She went to the nearby chair and sat, then pulled her skirts up slightly and held out one stockinged foot. Her cheeks held a blossom of color that had not been there moments before.

  He took up a boot of finely tooled leather and went on one knee before her, near enough that the scent of her teased his senses. Soap and flowers, and the warmth he identified as simply her—the fragrance had become familiar since that first night she had arrived at his doorstep. Although his sheets had been laundered straight away, sometimes late at night he imagined he could still catch her scent there, elusive and lingering in the folds of cotton.

  He loosened the laces and spread the boot wide, holding it open for her to slip her foot into. For a moment her heel caught, and he slid his hand around her ankle, guiding her. She let out a faint breath.

  Soft, warm…Without conscious intent his hand moved up her calf, her silk-clad skin intoxicating—and Alex was abruptly aware that he was caressing her leg in the heated darkness beneath her skirts. It drowned out all his other senses, that touch, that desire to keep on touching.

  He dropped his hand, scorched. Forced himself to tie up the laces, though his fingers felt barely under his control. One boot safely on. Now the other.

  He would not, would not, allow himself to caress behind her knee, though it was only the lift of a finger away. He would not imagine what lay beyond that knee, the pale, curving softness of her thigh….

  “Finished.” He rose to his feet, feeling as though he had been standing too close to a raging fire, the heat assaulting his skin even as the flames beckoned him closer.

  “I did say once before that you had missed your calling as a lady’s maid.” Her voice was uneven, her cheeks pinker than before.

  “I’m surprised you trusted me after the damage I did to your clothing last time.”

  “I do trust you.”

  Which only made things worse. He was no longer entirely sure he could trust himself. “Come. Pen is waiting.”

  She accepted his help in rising, her gaze finally meeting his. The amber flecks in her eyes shone like glints of gold and her lips were parted.

  “Thank you.”

  It had been his pleasure, and a guilty one, but if he read her aright he was not alone in the pleasure. It was heady, seeing the flush of awareness on her open face. Heady—and impossible.

  Alex stepped back, made himself release her hand. He did not deserve the touch of this beautiful, spirited woman—but that did not mean he didn’t desire her. Desperately. Since she had arrived he had begun to feel again. It would hurt when she left. Deep inside, all his old pain was still there, waiting to rise up and engulf him. Dormant now, it needed only the spur of a new loss to overwhelm him again. He knew it, and still he could not manage to lock himself away.

  They emerged from the villa to find Pen mounted and waiting. A satchel of provisions bulged behind the saddle.

  “That’s rather a lot of supplies.” The girl shot a glance behind her. “We’re only going to be gone part of the day, aren’t we?”

  “Yes. But we’re going to have company for lunch.” Alex moved to assist Miss Huntington into the saddle. She had paused, reins in one hand, and was regarding her mount
.

  “You needn’t fear,” he said. “Agalma is a steady beast.”

  Pen laughed. “Steady? She’s the slowest horse on the entire island. You’ll be lucky if she doesn’t decide to lie down and take a nap—with you on her.”

  “Do you have so little trust in my ability to ride?” Miss Huntington asked Alex.

  “I don’t lack confidence in your horsemanship, just the ability of your head to withstand a repeated concussion. Up you go.” He boosted her sideways into the saddle, trying not to think about her trim ankles, the soft skin of her legs. His hands tightened with the memory of touching her. Miss Caroline Huntington. He turned and swung himself onto Icarus. “We’re taking luncheon to the excavation, Pen. Do you think we’ll be able to pry the Legaults from their labors?”

  “I’m sure we can. Oh, and I guessed it. It’s a splendid idea.” She urged her horse forward.

  “Another excellent surprise.” Miss Huntington smiled at him. “Tell me more about the site. Pen says the Legaults came across the place some years ago and organized an official excavation?”

  “Semiofficial at best. The Turkish authorities keep an eye out, but so far they have not interfered. Of course, if Legault discovers something marvelous—inscribed tablets of solid gold or a cache of jewelry—they would quickly become interested.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “It’s an old Roman ruin, built upon an even older village. As you yourself said, who knows what secrets the earth will yield.”

  She glanced up the track, a wistful expression on her face. “I’m glad to have the opportunity to visit this excavation everyone talks about.”

  He smiled to himself, imagining her reaction when she saw the ranks of marble statuary, the baths and basilica, the small open amphitheater. There were treasures aplenty, though they might not be as tangible as gold coins.

  “Mr. Trentham,” she said after they had ridden on. “What about the bones? Pen says you piece old bits of skeleton together.”

  “The artifacts only tell part of the story. I lend my knowledge of human anatomy to Legault so he may better understand the people who lived here.”