All He Desires Read online

Alex Trentham stood in the doorway, watching until the lantern-lit cart carrying Mrs. Farnsworth and Monsieur Legault dipped down the path and out of sight. His shirt was damp with perspiration. The night air was chill, but he did not retreat from it. There was nowhere to go. His solitude had been torn away, his peace disturbed—he had had a patient thrust upon him—it was all one great, bloody nightmare. He glanced back at his bedroom, the irrefutable evidence asleep in his bed.

  Damn Miss Huntington for carelessly injuring herself. Damn Legault for his insistence. And damn his own miserable history for haunting him here, over a thousand miles from England.

  He slammed the door against the darkness outside. There was nothing to be done now—except wait, observe her condition, and get her out of his house as soon as she could be moved. When she had gone he would forget, once and for all. He must never allow this to happen again.

  Legault had left the brandy on the sideboard. Alex poured a glass and went to the kitchen table, which was pushed against the wall and had wooden crates stacked beneath it. He took a long drink, then removed the cloth draped over his latest project.

  Bones, compliments of Legault’s archaeological dig. Large ones and small, the remains of the ancient inhabitants of this island, markers of a civilization buried for centuries. Legault dug them up and Alex pieced them together. There was much that bones could reveal to a trained eye: the age of the deceased, whether their lives had been ones of brutal labor or pampered ease.

  There were distinct advantages to working with the dead. The souls had fled and there was nothing he could do to harm them. Nothing at all. Alex lifted his glass and drained it, then selected a metacarpus and held it to the light. A number at the bottom, inked in his own neat hand. Setting it aside, he made a notation in the book that lay open beside him.

  “Hello?” Miss Huntington’s voice drifted from the bedchamber, soft and uncertain.

  He held very still, willing her to fall back asleep. But no, he heard her stirring, and then she called again. “Is anyone there? I’m so thirsty.”

  He pushed back his chair and fetched a cup, filling it. The soft light of the lamp he carried preceded him into the bedroom, illuminating his—no, he would not call her his patient. Her brown hair was loose against his pillow, her eyes wide and dreamy. The flame pricked glints of gold in her brown eyes, gilded strands of her hair.

  “Hello,” she said. “Are you an orphan?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She gave no response, still clearly under the effect of the laudanum. Thank God she had suffered no ill effects from the dose. For a terrible moment he had been so afraid…but she was safe. And had shown a great deal of courage. In the morning there would be pain, but tonight her face was open and serene.

  “I’ve brought water.” He set the cup down and slid one arm behind her shoulders, boosting her up. The bedcovers slipped down, revealing a silken white chemise that followed the curve of her breasts, and Alex felt a sudden leap of physical awareness.

  He had not practiced the role of physician, nor seen a woman in a state of undress, in a very long while. The detachment that used to serve him so well was gone. It was impossible not to notice her feminine shape, the smooth column of her neck, the softness of her full lips as he held the glass against them. The scent of her. Despite himself he dipped his head, inhaling. Her warm weight rested against him, the softness of her hair brushing against his throat.

  “Drink.” His throat felt tight.

  She took a long, thirsty swallow. “Good,” she said, a single drop of water glinting on her lower lip. “How did you lose your parents?”

  It was a question asked in innocence, and he felt oddly compelled to answer. “My father died years ago, and my mother…” He barely allowed himself to remember what his life had been, before. “She was alive when I left.”

  She laid her head against his arm, and he let go the shreds of memory. With steady hands he helped her lie back, then pulled the covers up, restoring her modesty—though that brief contact with all that was warm and female still flared within him, not so easily obscured.

  She sighed. “I suppose your mother abandoned you. Maggie says some do. I wish I had known mine.”

  She seemed determined to share confidences. Alex pulled a chair over and settled himself next to the bed. It was unlikely she would recall anything of their conversation in the morning—there was no harm in it, and he could humor her until she fell asleep again. Her secrets were safe with him. And despite the disruption she had caused she was here now, and a part of him sorely missed having company—some conversation to keep back the dark night.

  “What happened to her?” he asked gently, as much to escape his own thoughts as to learn hers.

  “She died giving birth to me—a life for a life, I suppose.” Her expression was tinged with sorrow. “And then my father, when I was a young girl.”

  “So you are truly an orphan.”

  “Yes.” A delicate shiver ran through her.

  He took her good hand in his, wanting her to feel less alone. “I know loss as well. The world changes forever.” His own words surprised him—he had never spoken like this.

  She met his gaze and he recognized in her amber-flecked eyes an expression he had seen often in his own mirror.

  “Then we understand one another, sir. That is a rare thing.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.” Her face was serious.

  Her warm hand gripped his, and Alex felt it, a tenuous connection. It frightened him beyond words, made him want to shove his chair back and leave her, to retreat far enough to stretch that slender thread to the breaking point. But he remained where he was.

  When would he ever experience this again—the chance to sit in the lamplight and hold a beautiful woman’s hand? And she was beautiful, her eyes brimming with memory, her hair falling free, her hand strong and alive and holding on.

  “You should rest now,” he said, his voice thick with an emotion he did not understand.

  She drew in a deep breath and let it out in a sigh. “Yes.”

  A few moments later her eyelids drifted shut, but she did not release his hand, and he made no effort to free himself.

  Grey light seeping from behind the linen curtains woke him—that and an ache in his leg that protested his spending the better part of the night in a chair. Miss Huntington was deeply asleep, the hand that had held his through the dark hours now curled, relaxed, against the pillow. For a long moment he gazed at her, marking the regular rise and fall of her breath, the healthy color, the serenity her face held in dreaming.

  Muttering an oath, he levered himself out of the chair and walked stiffly to the front room. He should have spent the night beside the fire, wrapped in blankets, not dozing beside some woman who meant nothing to him.

  He was forever outside that world of sweetness. It was his fate, and here on Crete, the birthplace of ancient myths, fate was something that could not be escaped. It could only be endured. The pain in his leg reminded him, the sharp twinge returning him to reason with every step.

  Miss Huntington would be gone soon enough, and he would be glad to see her go.

  The ancient bones on his table gleamed hard and white in the growing light. With quick steps he crossed the room and drew the cover over them.

  Chapter 3

  Caroline woke with a dull throbbing in her arm. Everything around her was white and drenched with light. It took several moments for her eyes to adjust, to realize she was lying in a bed, whitewashed walls beyond. A soft length of linen hung from the single window, the thin fabric filtering the sunlight that poured into the room.

  Where was she? Would the pain engulf her if she lifted her head? No, at least not too badly. Her right arm was wrapped and bound into a sling. Carefully, using her legs and good arm, Caroline inched herself up on the pillow. The sheets felt wonderfully soft against her bare legs. She glanced down, relieved to see she was clad in her chemise—not completely naked in some stranger’s bed.
She eased up a trifle more, ignoring the buzzing in her head, until she could see past the bed linens.

  This was obviously someone’s bedroom, but a very plain one. No bright hangings on the wall or knick-knacks adorning the top of the spare wooden bureau. The room was without decoration but for a small ceramic vase painted with a motif of bulls on the bedside table. It seemed the room of someone who had stripped life down to the bare essentials. Not ascetic, though—she had to admit the bed was quite comfortable. There was a door made of planks that had been smoothed and oiled to a golden luster. It was a very beautiful door, she decided.

  Memory came flooding back. She had been injured and brought here. How long had it been? Days? Panic bolted through her. Where was Maggie? Had the boat for Malta sailed without Caroline?

  She struggled with the sheets and levered herself up, fighting the wave of aching dizziness her movements triggered. Keep breathing. She pressed her lips tightly together.

  Beyond the half-open door a man was sitting at a table writing, his face in profile to her. He looked stern, with his thick dark hair and sun-bronzed skin, like a warrior on some ancient fresco. Stern, but familiar…Yes, she remembered now. The unwilling doctor with the careful hands. Mr. Trentham.

  “Sir, I beg your pardon,” she called. Her voice emerged more quietly than she had expected, but he heard. He glanced up and she was startled once again by the intensity of his gaze.

  “You’re awake.” He closed his book and rose from the table, expression both grim and relieved as he entered the room. “Is there much pain?”

  “A small amount.” She would not admit how the room had begun to spin. “What day is it? Would you help me rise?”

  His brows drew together and he made no move to assist her. “Do you recall what happened? Your friend told me she thought you had been thrown by your horse. Riding out alone—why is it tourists behave so foolishly when they leave home?”

  “I’m not a tourist,” she protested, but it was not true. She had accompanied Maggie to the Mediterranean to help with her friend’s orphanage project, but she was the one who had insisted they detour to Crete for a holiday. A week to revel in the sun and antiquity of the island—it seemed now to have been quite a foolish idea after all. “Where is Mrs. Farnsworth?” Surely Maggie would not have abandoned her here.

  “You’re lucky they found you. And no doubt Mrs. Farnsworth will be arriving soon, as she has every day, to check on your condition.”

  Her condition…“Is my arm broken?”

  “No. You dislocated your elbow.” A frown marred the strong lines of his face. “I’ve splinted it, but am more concerned about the injury to your head. You’ve been unconscious for nearly two days. Do you know who you are, where you are?”

  “Of course I do. I’m Caroline Huntington, and I am in some cottage on Crete.”

  He made no reply to that, only leaned in and placed his hands on either side of her face, the touch unexpectedly gentle. His hands were warm, and this close she caught the scent of him: soap and sage, and beneath that, something deeply male. She swallowed as he held her still, his gaze moving from one eye to the other.

  “Difficult to tell how severe the concussion is.” The feel of his touch lingered as he lifted his hands. “You’ll have to go slowly—bed rest for at least a week.”

  Caroline gave a small shake of her head and regretted it as the whirling redoubled. “That’s impossible. I need to accompany Mrs. Farnsworth to Malta. She has an important meeting to attend in the capital.”

  “Valletta?” He raised one brow. “Unlikely.”

  Irritation banished some of her pain. “I do not appreciate your skepticism, sir—and I will not take orders from a reclusive Englishman masquerading as a Greek olive farmer.” She bit her lip. It was an unkind thing to say, but he could at least consult her before making pronouncements regarding what she could and could not do. She softened her tone. “Whatever are you doing here, so far from anything that could be called civilization?”

  “That is none of your concern.” He took a step back. “What does concern you is that both your arm and your head are in need of mending.”

  “If you will fetch my clothing…”

  He made a sharp gesture of negation. “You are not well enough to travel across the room, let alone to Malta. I have tended you, Miss Huntington—reluctantly and at some personal cost. The only fee I require is that you rest until you are fit for travel.”

  Caroline returned his frown. What a contrary man. Her head hurt and he was beginning to annoy her. Besides, clad only in her chemise with the coverlet providing little concealment, he had her at a distinct disadvantage.

  “The only reason I’m not fit for travel is that someone has made off with my clothing! There will be competent medical care in Valletta. Malta is a British protectorate after all. I am certain Mrs. Farnsworth can—”

  “Mrs. Farnsworth is useless as a nurse.” He folded his arms. “I cannot release you into her care, certainly not for a sea voyage.”

  “Malta is only—”

  “Enough. Believe me, I would be happy to see you go, if my conscience would permit it.”

  “What do you propose? That you keep me here as a captive in your…” She felt her cheeks flame. It would not do to end the sentence with the word bed. Covering her confusion, she pleated the covers with her good hand, then finally met his deep blue eyes. “Sir, please fetch my clothing. While I appreciate your concern, I assure you I would make a most disagreeable captive. If you insist on imprisoning me, I will be forced to contact the authorities.”

  “Damnation!” His mouth thinned at the corners. “You’re not my captive—you were forced on me—and I’ve no doubt you can be disagreeable. You’ve already demonstrated that fact.”

  He kept his gaze locked with hers a moment longer, then turned and strode to the wardrobe. With a yank, he threw the door open and pulled out her wrinkled riding habit and crinoline. “I have no desire to hold you here against your will, but I will not help if you insist on reinjuring yourself. Here.” He tossed her clothing beside her on the bed, then stalked out of the room, closing the door forcefully behind him.

  Caroline drew in a deep breath. Good riddance. She had feared he would insist on standing by, and the thought of him watching as she dressed sent another blaze of heat into her face. At least she had finally made him understand she was well enough to clothe herself.

  One-armed, she pushed back the covers and scooted herself down the bed. As long as she did not jostle her right arm it was bearable. She reached for her crinoline and shook it free of the dress, but there was no way she could pull the dratted thing on one-handed while lying down. There was nothing to do but to stand.

  The tiled floor seemed terribly far away. She swallowed and fought for balance. Think of Maggie. If her foolish injury jeopardized the project in Malta, how could she ever face her friend again? Maggie had been focused on nothing but the orphanage in Valletta for months. They could not miss that meeting.

  A moan escaped as her feet touched the floor, and for a moment she thought the dizziness would prevail. She pressed her lips tightly together and leaned—nearly collapsed—against the bed frame, knocking the bedside table as she did. The small vase on the table teetered, and Caroline could only watch as it tipped over the edge to shatter on the floor beneath. She hoped it had not been very dear to him.

  “Miss Huntington?”

  “No—don’t come in! I’m all right.”

  There was a censorious silence. He was no doubt standing just outside the door, waiting for her to admit defeat. Well, he would be waiting a very long time. She did not think much of his treatment, one moment professing she had to rest and stay abed, the next flinging her clothes at her and bidding her dress herself when he did not get his way. What an impossible man.

  Now, to don the crinoline. She dragged it off the bed and managed to put first one bare foot through, then the other. The cloth felt thick and unwieldy, threatening to slip off as she inche
d it up with one hand. There. She was shaking from the effort and could feel perspiration dampening her forehead, but she had done it.

  The dress next. She reached, but it slithered out of her grasp to huddle on the floor. Poor thing—she knew just how it felt. Very well, she would pick it up. Just bend over and—

  She let out a cry and grabbed at the bedcovers as her vision swam, darkness filtering her vision and pulling her down. The bedroom door slammed open, and Mr. Trentham was there, catching her in his arms and cursing under his breath.

  “Stupid, stubborn woman.”

  Despite the rough words he lifted her gently back to the bed. With one move he stripped the crinoline off, leaving her legs bared to the thigh. Before she could protest the immodesty of it he pulled the covers up, then laid the back of his fingers against her cheek, his expression unreadable. “Don’t move.” He then left the room.

  No need to caution her. She was not certain she could move even had she wanted to. Caroline closed her eyes. She almost wished she had lost consciousness—anything to elude the horrible feeling in her head.

  Faint sounds came from the room beyond, dishes clinking together, a chair scraped across the wood-planked floor. She heard him return but could not manage to lift her lids.

  Perhaps she had pushed herself too far. But really, a week in bed? It was out of the question. She had promised to help with Maggie’s orphanage project, not make it impossible for her friend to succeed.

  “Drink this.”

  She opened her eyes to see him holding out a clay cup. “What is it?”

  “Water.” He slipped one arm behind her and held the cup to her lips. “You’ve exhausted yourself.”

  He set the cup down and tucked the covers closely about her, then gathered up her clothes and returned them to the wardrobe, making no mention of her failure to dress. In fact, he did not speak at all as he fetched a broom and swept up the broken vase. Caroline watched him from behind heavy, half-closed lids—the unyielding set of his lips, the pull of his shirt against the strong muscles of his arms….