Untamed Read Online Free PDF Page A

feeling that came to all women, she thought, continuing on with her chores. Perhaps it was a natural part of being a woman?
    Desarae moved into her studio and examined herself in the long mirror. Pressing her palms to her full breasts, she thought: I look like a grown woman. I have for some time.
    “Tomorrow I will be twenty-one,” she murmured, turning this way and that while she continued to examine herself, smoothing one hand over her flat stomach while the other traced the shape of her round bottom. “A woman grown by anyone’s standard.” Desarae considered the ceiling and hoped that the man upstairs would consider her not a girl, but a woman.
     
    Trystan woke in the night to discover that a lamp had been set in his room, its wick turned low. A glass and pitcher of water sat beside the lamp on the dresser. He got up, poured himself a drink and downed the entire glass. He scraped his hand over his face and grimaced. A rhythmic clicking sounded on the floorboards outside his room. It came closer and closer. Trystan grinned when the little terrier pushed open the door and struck her head around to examine their houseguest. Athena chuffed at him.
    “Have you come to show me the way to the kitchen, girl?” Trystan whispered. His stomach growled. “I certainly hope you are.”
    Athena sneezed, which he took for assent, and turned around. He padded after her down the stairs, carrying the lamp to light the way. Once they reached the base he turned up the lamp and they continued into the kitchen. He found some bread and some soft cheese and milk in the dairy, finishing off his repast with a wizened apple from last autumn’s crop. The dog waited politely for the crust she believed was her due for being an excellent guide. Trystan obligingly tossed one to her. She snapped it out of the air.
    He rose from his seat at the kitchen table and swayed. Giving a sigh, Trystan murmured to the dog. “Back to bed, I think, eh girl? I’ll be much more the thing in the morning.”
    * * *
    Desarae rose early, noted the depredations on her pantry and set water on to boil beside the porridge. She’d finished her breakfast and fed the animals before she heard him on the stairs. Hastily she laid out a towel, a razor, and a bar of soap. Then Desarae fled to the conservatory.
     
    Trystan found her there after his ablutions. He wore a pair of dark brown light wool trousers, a white lawn shirt and a striped black waistcoat, forgoing a tie. The major’s boots and clothes were a bit loose, thankfully, rather than too tight.
    His hostess stood daydreaming with one hand atop a marble bust of a Negroid man. The other hand twisted an auburn curl around and around her index finger. A white painted wooden bench littered with various carving tools occupied a spot next to the red brick demising wall between the house and the conservatory. Trystan managed to find a clear spot to sit, a bowl of thick oatmeal, cream and honey in one hand. The other hand held a tankard of cider. Under his arm he had tucked a hairbrush. Without speaking he began to break his fast while watching Desarae. The mid-morning sun shone through the glazing, resting in golden splashes upon the carvings decorating the large space. He could not be certain she knew he was there until she spoke.
    “When I was a young child, an old sailor skilled in carving wood washed up on the isle. Though his gnarled hands appeared to be good for little, he could carve beautifully.” She waved at a selection of dolphins and whales frolicking across a long shelf. “I used to watch him for hours. Before long, I demanded a block of wood and a knife of my own. Sailor Bert, as I called him, taught me everything he knew.”
    “What happened to him?” Trystan eagerly devoured his breakfast while she spoke. “Did he return to sailing?”
    “No. He died, old Bert, when I was fourteen years of age.”
    “I’m sorry.”
    She shrugged and sighed. “By then I had begun to carve in soapstone. Before