Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas(6)

It might have been rubbish, but the story had intrigued Roxanne. "They say he's six and a half feet tall, that he sailed here all the way from Polynesia, and there's only one man who can understand anything of his speech."

Sir William sniffed. "Sir George Renfrew. The fellow is only a jumped-up merchant, but he sees fit to submit articles to scholarly journals on the basis of having traveled in strange lands. True scholarship is done reflectively, at a distance, uninfluenced by raw feelings. "

As her father did. When was the last time he had experienced life firsthand? Repressing the disrespectful thought with the skill of long practice, Roxanne said, "I'll get my bonnet."

Upstairs in her room, she glanced in the mirror. An errant lock had escaped from the bun at her nape, so she secured it with the ruthless jab of a hairpin. It wasn't easy to persuade her blazing red locks to behave, but she persevered.

She was adjusting a navy blue shawl over her gray, high-necked gown when her gaze went back to her reflection. Her hands faltered at the sight of the sober, colorless, impeccably ladylike image in the mirror.

Suddenly, she was a stranger to herself. Where had the passionate, impetuous young Roxanne Mayfield gone? She was nearing thirty, and could not remember the last time she had laughed without restraint. Who was she to criticize her father for keeping life at a distance?

She drifted across the tower room. Though she tried never to think of Dominick Chandler, he still had the power to sometimes intrude into her mind. How many lives had he ruined in the years since he had destroyed hers? She gazed out through the west window. It was right there, by the beech tree, where she had last seen him, the sun behind him, silhouetting his broad shoulders ....

Her lips compressed into a harsh line and she turned from the window. She was fortunate that he'd displayed his wickedness to her father before she could ruin herself.

A thousand times over the years she had told herself how fortunate she was.

Throat tight, she picked up a notebook and headed for the stairs. Papa hated to be kept waiting.

It was a two-hour drive to Plymouth. As the carriage rattled to a halt in front of the Black Hart Inn, Roxanne said hesitantly, "After we've seen the Wild Man, can we drive down to Sutton Pool for a few minutes? I like to look at the ships."

"Nonsense, Roxanne, that would be a complete waste of time." Sir William climbed from the carriage and gazed at the inn. "The savage is being kept here, with Sir George Renfrew watching over him to make sure that he causes no trouble." He gave a rusty laugh. "Serve Sir George right if the brute murders him in his bed."

Roxanne failed to see the humor in such a prospect, but she could not suppress a tingle of anticipation as she followed her father into the inn. This visit was the greatest adventure she had experienced in years.

Inside, her father announced to the innkeeper, "I am Sir William Mayfield. Take me to see the savage, my good man."

The innkeeper gave a respectful bow. "Very good, sir. He's in the assembly room. Several other gentlemen are observing him as well." He glanced at Roxanne doubtfully. "But I'm not sure the Wild Man is a decent sight for a young lady."

"Nonsense," Sir William said impatiently. "She's not a young lady, she's my daughter."

The innkeeper led them through the inn to a dim, high-ceilinged room where public dances and private banquets were held. Though the day was pleasant, a fire burned in the hearth, probably to give the savage the warmth he was accustomed to. Half a dozen men were clustered in the comer. In the center of the group, towering above them all, was a crested feather helmet.

Sir William marched confidently into the room. "Renfrew? I'm Mayfield."

A medium-sized man with blond hair and a pleasant face broke away from the group and came to meet the newcomer. "A pleasure to meet you, Sir William." His interested gaze moved to Roxanne. "Is this Miss Mayfield?"

"Of course," her father said, not bothering with a formal introduction. "Have you made any progress in discovering where the savage comes from?"

"Somewhere in Polynesia is the best anyone can say," Renfrew replied. "The fellow's language and customs don't accord precisely with any of the known island groups, though I can understand a little of his speech."

Her father ordered, "Roxanne, do a sketch of the savage's feathered helmet."

"His name is Chand-a-la," Renfrew said mildly.

Sir William shrugged. "A savage is a savage."

Roxanne bent over her notebook and did a quick sketch of the helmet. The man might not be six and a half feet tall, but from what she could see, he was well above average height. What had it been like to sail a canoe halfway around the world? How fascinating it would be if she could talk to Chand-a-la and learn about the wonderful things he had seen!

She gave him a quick glance. How strange and lonely he must find this northern land, so far from his sunny islands. She wondered if he would ever find his way home again.

Abruptly the Wild Man broke from the knot of observers and strode toward her, a velvety feather cape swirling lushly around his shoulders. Roxanne gasped, her gaze riveted by the expanse of naked bronze skin. The pattern of black hair across his chest and midriff paradoxically made him seem even more naked.

No wonder the innkeeper had had doubts about admitting her! She'd never seen so much bare male flesh in her life. His loincloth barely covered his--she groped frantically for a suitable word--his male parts.