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.

While the scholarly observers began scribbling madly, she simply stared, mesmerized by the sight and sound of the Wild Man. He was magnificent, surrounded by fire, a being of primitive, masculine power. To see him was to be carried away to a world far different from prosaic England.

Her reverie was interrupted when her father snapped, "For heaven's sake, don't gawk, Roxanne. Take notes. Try to catch the words accurately so they can be translated when we know more about his language. "

Reluctantly she bent her head, jotting a phrase, then taking a quick glance up before jotting another. Her cheeks colored again when she saw that Chand-a-la's loincloth was in danger of being dislodged by his energetic movements. Engrossed with his fire dance, he was splendidly unconcerned with propriety.

With a last booming "Aie-yah!," he hurled the burning torches into the fireplace, where they crashed in a shower of sparks. A collective sigh went through the watchers, as if acknowledging that they had been privileged to see a rare sight.

Even Sir William murmured, "Quite remarkable." His lips pursed as he noticed how bare the Wild Man was. "But the landlord was right. This isn't a fitting sight for a female." He took Roxanne's arm and started to usher her from the room.

"But, Papa," she protested, strangely unwilling to leave. "Surely you will need me for sketching and note taking."

"I shall manage," he said brusquely. "Tell the landlord to find a maid to walk down to Sutton Pool with you. I expect I shall that I shall be busy here for the rest of the day."

Chand-a-la was staring at her from the other side of the room. There was something about his posture that seemed familiar, but she could not place the memory.

With a sigh she turned to leave. Poor Wild Man, so far from home. She hoped the scholars treated him kindly.