Weddings of the Century: A Pair of Wedding Novellas Read online

  In that instant her youth died. Setting the paper back on her father's desk, she said in a trembling voice, "It appears that I was mistaken in Mr. Chandler. I'm sorry for costing you so much, Papa." She swallowed hard. "It won’t… happen again."

  "See that it doesn't." Her father rose and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder. "You're a sensible girl. You'll see, this is all for the best. In Wiltshire, his father was called the Devil, and young Chandler was called the Devil's Spawn. You're better off without him."

  She gave a brittle smile before leaving the room. No doubt her father was right and this was all for the best.

  But it was a pity that she hadn't died two hours earlier, when she had still believed in love.

  Chapter 2

  Plymouth Harbor, 1829

  After a nerve wracking climb up a wildly unstable rope ladder, Sir George Renfrew swung gratefully onto the deck of the Lovely Lady. To the nearest sailor he said, "I believe that Lord Chandler is expecting me."

  "Right this way, sir."

  Renfrew followed the sailor across the swaying deck, trying to remember when and where he had last seen his friend Dominick. It must have been five years ago, in Hong Kong. Or had it been in the Sandwich Islands? Somewhere exotic, at any rate, and that night they had become roaring drunk, making toasts to the good old days at King's College. He smiled reminiscently.

  The sailor led him to a cabin door, then withdrew. Renfrew knocked and entered when a familiar voice called, "Come in."

  Renfrew stepped into the lavishly furnished owner's cabin. "Dominick, old man, how… " His voice cut off abruptly.

  In the center of the cabin stood a hulking savage, his face obscured by wild black hair and a riotous beard. He was almost naked, with a crude whale-tooth necklace swinging across his chest and only a loincloth to cover his modesty. Hard muscles rippled beneath his bronzed skin as he stalked across the cabin, a guttural sound vibrating deep in his throat and a stone headed spear in his hand.

  For a shocked moment Renfrew considered bolting. Reminding himself that he had bested Malay pirates in the South China Sea, he raised his cane and barked, "What have you done with Lord Chandler, you ugly savage?"

  Amazingly, the brute began to laugh. "So I can deceive even you, George," he said in smooth, impeccably upper-class English. "That bodes well."

  Renfrew gasped. "My God, is that you, Dominick?"

  He looked closer and saw the familiar gray eyes. With a sigh of relief he lowered his cane. "Dare I ask what you are up to this time?"

  Dominick waved his friend to the padded bench built against one wall. "I've come a'wooing."

  George snorted as he sat and accepted a glass of brandy. "You've been away too long. If you want to win a wife in England, all you'll need is your title and the fortune you made trading in the East. You’ll have to beat women off with a club." In fact, he thought as he examined the other man's powerful body, even the title and fortune wouldn't be needed. Women had always become buttery and wide-eyed around his friend.

  "I don't want any woman, but a particular one." Dominick settled into a chair and regarded his brandy glass, his manner utterly at odds with his appearances "Remember the family I asked you to gather information about? The Mayfields?"

  Renfrew thought back. It had been over a year since he had made his quiet investigation and sent the results halfway around the world to his friend. "Ah, yes, the eccentric baronet and his spinster daughter. I wondered why you were interested in them." "Not them. Her," Dominick said succinctly.

  "You want to court Miss Mayfield?" Renfrew said with surprise. "I've never met her myself, but by all reports she's a dry stick of a female. Hardly your type."

  Dominick's eyes flashed. "Roxanne wasn't always a dry stick, I promise you!"

  More and more interesting. Beginning to understand, Renfrew remarked, "Sir William is some sort of authority on primitive cultures, isn't he?"

  "Exactly." Dominick swirled the brandy in his goblet. "From your report, Miss Mayfield never leaves the estate except in the company of her father. You also found that all letters go to Sir William, and he has long since discouraged her friends from calling." An edge of anger sounded in his voice. "She sounds very near to being a prisoner."

  "I wouldn't say that," Renfrew objected. "She is merely a quiet woman who is devoted to her father."

  "No," Dominick said flatly. "She's not really like that, but her father has given her no choice."

  Obviously there was a story here, but it didn't look like Renfrew would hear it today. "What do you intend to do?"

  His friend looked up. "Remember the strange case of Princess Caraboo, about ten or eleven years ago?"

  It took Renfrew a moment to place the reference. "As I recall, she was some sort of East Indian princess who had been kidnapped by pirates, then escaped near the coast of England and swam ashore, where she was taken in by a vicar and his wife. But she turned out to be a fraud, didn't she?"

  "Correct. In fact, she was a poor Devonshire girl who spent time with the Gypsies, then married a sailor and picked up some Arabic and Malay from him. When he left her, she went off her head and started thinking she was a displaced Asiatic princess."

  "An interesting tale, but what has that to do with you?"

  Dominick grinned wickedly. "She became quite famous. Experts on primitive cultures came to study her and try to deduce her origins. People would have paid to see her, I imagine."

  Renfrew's brows shot up. "You're hoping to lure Sir William Mayfield out to see you?"

  "Exactly. From what you learned about the Mayfields, it would be almost impossible to communicate with Roxanne while she is at home, but Sir William would take her with him to investigate an interesting savage." Dryness entered his voice. "I gather that he needs her to take his notes and bring him tea."

  "So you're going to walk into the middle of Plymouth dressed like that, and hope that Sir William and his daughter will come racing to meet you," Renfrew said with heavy sarcasm.

  "Actually, I have a Polynesian canoe in the hold, and I'm going to paddle it onto a nearby beach." Dominick chuckled. "Let people think that I sailed her all the way from the Pacific. That will bring my quarry in a hurry. Sir William is particularly interested in ancient navigators, I believe. He had a variety of theories, most of them wrong."

  "You don't look like any Polynesian I ever met. They don't usually run to beards, their features are shaped differently, and I certainly never saw one with gray eyes."

  "How many Britons would know that? No one can prove that I didn't come from an island that hasn't been discovered yet." His eyes gleamed with mischief. "I'll give the experts a dash of Tahiti, a dollop of Sandwich Islands, perhaps a pinch of Samoa, and have them gibbering with confusion. "

  "It might work," Renfrew admitted, "though you'll freeze if you prance around in a loincloth in this climate."

  "I'll wear my feather cloak if I feel cold," the other man said blithely. "It's most impressive."

  Renfrew's eyes narrowed. "'Fess up, Dominick. You didn't invite me here merely so I could admire your clever plan."

  "Quite right." Dominick smiled wickedly. "There will be a stir when I'm discovered. Since you live in the area and have traveled widely, it would be quite reasonable for you to come see the wild man. I'll speak a garble of Polynesian languages, and you will profess to be able to understand some of what I say. With the distinguished Sir George Renfrew to certify my savage self, no one will doubt me." He stroked his wild black beard. "In fact, I shall become greatly attached to you and refuse to leave your side. You will become my keeper and protector."

  Renfrew's jaw dropped. "Damnation, Dominick, I've turned respectable! Don't try to draw me into one of your mad starts. We're not at Cambridge anymore."

  Dominick looked down his aquiline, un-Polynesian nose. "Not respectable. Stuffy. Hard to believe you're the same man who drove a herd of wild pigs through a Jamaican ball after the governor snubbed you."

  "He deserved it." Renfrew tr
ied vainly to repress a smile. "It was a most juvenile prank."

  "But amusing." Dominick's face became serious. "This is truly important to me, George. I will be eternally grateful if you help. You're the only man I can trust in such a scheme."

  Suddenly uncomfortable, Renfrew stared down at his glass, swirling the brandy. He'd been in a bad spot once in Hong Kong, and Dominick had pulled him through it. His friend would not mention that. He didn't have to.

  "Very well, I'll help if you wish," Renfrew said slowly. "But are you really sure about doing this? I gather that you fell in love with Miss Mayfield before you left England, but that was a long time ago. You're not the same person now. You may be setting yourself up for a crushing disappointment.''

  "Don't think I haven't considered that," Dominick said soberly. "It's true that we were both very young. But there was something between us that was timeless. I believe that it will still be there is I have a chance to meet Roxanne. I must do this."

  Renfrew sighed. "Very well. Bring on the canoe!"

  Chapter 3

  Sir William Mayfield folded his newspaper and laid it next to his breakfast plate. "The coddled eggs were overcooked, Roxanne, and the braised kidneys were dry."

  She glanced up from buttering her toast. "I'm sorry, Papa. Shall I order more for you?"

  "There isn't time today, but see that the cook does better tomorrow." He peered over his half spectacles. "Fetch your bonnet and notebook. We're going to see a primitive curiosity."

  It was typical of him to overlook the fact that she had scarcely touched her breakfast, but it was easier to obey than to continue eating. She laid down her knife and got to her feet. "Very well, Papa. What sort of curiosity?"

  "A savage who appears to have sailed here from the Pacific."

  "Is that the fellow they're calling the Wild Man of the West Country?" she asked with interest. "I read about him yesterday in the Plymouth newspaper."

  "You shouldn't waste your time reading such rubbish. However, that is the nickname that the vulgar have attached to the brute." Mayfield permitted himself a thin smile. "Admittedly there is a certain logic to it. He is certainly wild, and quite unlike any creature ever before seen in this part of the world."

  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.

  Cheeks burning, she bent her head to her notebook and began to sketch the tooth-like ornament that hung around Chand-a-la's neck. He stopped beside her, his large, bare feet entering her field of vision. As she stared at them with a ridiculous amount of interest, a baritone voice crooned, "Wahine," into her ear.

  "That is the Sandwich Island word for female," Sir George
remarked. "It appears to mean the same thing to Chand-a-la."

  Dark fingers reached out and stroked the back of Roxanne's hand. "Nani."

  "That might mean pretty," Renfrew said thoughtfully. "Or perhaps soft."

  The Wild Man must be warmer than an Englishman, for his fingers seemed to scorch Roxanne. She edged backward, unwilling to lift her head and look into his face.

  One of the onlookers murmured, "He's not so different from one of us. If I’d spent two or three years in a canoe without a woman, I'd certainly want to further my acquaintance with the first female who crossed my path." Someone hushed the fellow before he could say more.

  Curiously Chand-a-la reached out, touching the brim of her bonnet. As if wanting to see her face, he said, "Wahine?"

  "Behave yourself, you brute," Sir William said sternly. He raised his cane and shoved the tip into Chand-a-la's chest with bruising force, driving the savage backward. "Haven't you trained him to stay away from decent Christian women?"

  Amusement in his voice, Renfrew said, "He's not easy to train, Sir William. But I'm sure he means no harm."

  The Wild Man batted the cane away, saying in a voice of obvious disgust, "Malahini okole."

  "Interesting," Renfrew said innocently. "In the Sandwich Islands those are the words for stranger and, er…,"he glanced at Roxanne, "backside. I wonder what they mean to Chand-a-la."

  "Obviously something different." Sir William frowned at the Wild Man. "Is the canoe here? I'd like to see it."

  Before Renfrew could answer, Chand-a-la said, "Aole!"

  Unfastening his feather cloak and tossing it aside, he went to the fireplace and pulled out two burning brands. He raised the torches above his head, then began swinging them in an intricate pattern that blazed through the dimness like wheels of fire. At the same time he started shouting, "Aie-yah! Okolemaluna-yah! Mahalo nui loa-yah!" and similar phrases.

  Chand-a-la's chant might have been an ancient ritual, or it might have been nonsense syllables, but it filled the assembly room with a harsh, compelling rhythm unlike anything Roxanne had ever heard.