The Wild Child

by Mary Jo Putney

  “Just because you’re ten minutes older!” Dominic’s dis- tress turned into rage, and he launched himself at his brother, fists flying.

  “I’m the heir and you’re the spare!” Kyle taunted, striking back. “It was me he called in to discuss our schooling. You were only there because we tricked him.”

  The two of them rolled across the grass, kicking and hitting in one of the swift, violent conflicts that sometimes flared up between them. The fight ended when a shove sent Kyle’s head against a stone step, and he went limp.

  Panicked, Dominic dropped to his knees beside his brother. Blood was flowing from a gash above Kyle’s ear. Dominic yanked out a handkerchief and pressed the folded fabric to the bloodstained dark hair. “Kyle, are you all right?”

  His twin blinked dazedly. “I’m still ten minutes older than you, Dom.”

  Dominic sank back on his heels, relieved. Holding the pad to the gash, he said, “Older isn’t better.”

  “Ten minutes better, but because of that, I get beaten more often.” A glimmer of smile faded swiftly. “Maybe we should run away.”

  It was Dominic’s turn to be reasonable. “He can send us to different schools, but he can’t separate us, not really. We’re two halves of the same whole.”

  Kyle gave Dominic a fierce one-armed hug. “And best friends. Always.”

  At the age of ten, neither of them could imagine an end to their closeness.

  Dominic came awake, heart pounding. It had been years since he’d dreamed of that day when everything changed. Kyle’s sudden reappearance in his life had triggered the memories again. That summer before they started school had been the last good time before life went wrong.

  Not wrong, he reminded himself forcefully. That had been the beginning of his freedom to be himself, rather than a useless appendage of the Renbourne family. Despite Kyle’s wealth and great expectations, Dominic wouldn’t want to change places, not really. Living under Wrexham’s thumb was enough to make anyone bad-tempered. Bad-tempered, and damned arrogant.

  Now Dominic would have to imitate that stiffness. Wonderful. With a sigh, he got up from the bed. Dawn was showing in the east, and soon Morrison would arrive with Kyle’s carriage for the trip to Shropshire, north and west by the Welsh border. A trunk was packed with Kyle’s clothing, though not his boots. Dominic’s feet, like his face, were a fraction narrower, so he preferred his own footwear.

  He washed and shaved himself—did Kyle know how to shave, or did the estimable Morrison always do it for him?—then dressed. He was just finishing a hasty breakfast of bread, cheese, and ale when his brother’s valet arrived.

  Slight of build and of indeterminate age, Morrison said, “I trust you are ready for departure, my lord.”

  He had the schoolmaster’s trick of making every remark sound vaguely censorious. A good thing Kyle’s favorite horse was tethered behind the carriage, so Dominic could ride when the mood struck him.

  Using Kyle’s clipped inflections, he replied, “Quite ready, Morrison.”

  The valet blinked, startled, as Dominic caught up his brother’s dark cloak and led the way into the common passageway that served four floors’ worth of “rooms for gentlemen.” As he locked his door behind him, he was struck by the sense that he was locking away the Honorable Dominic Renbourne. From this moment, he was Lord Maxwell, arrogant viscount, a man utterly sure of his place in the world.

  The thought was surprisingly upsetting. He had a sudden crazy desire to say, “Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. Kyle will have to court his own bride.” After which he’d toss the cloak over Morrison’s disapproving face and go back into his rooms. They might be cluttered, but they were his.

  But if there was one thing the Renbourne sons had in common, it was that they were both men of their word. Dominic became very still, consciously making the subtle adjustments that would produce Kyle’s harder step and less expressive face. It wasn’t enough to use his brother’s voice; he must learn to think his brother’s thoughts.

  Then, when he had become Lord Maxwell, he went down the steps ready to deceive.

  Chapter 3

  Late May was the richest, most fertile time of the year. All nature was in bloom and wild beasts ecstatically sought their mates. Meriel had discarded her slippers in favor of living earth beneath her toes. Since early morning she’d been working in the herb garden, pruning and dividing to keep the plants healthy.

  Some of the herbs were ancient, planted by long-forgotten ancestors. The marjoram had surely been placed in this spot by a woman who tended her herbs just as Meriel did now, raising potent plants for healing and cooking. When Meriel was small, Kamal had studied an old herbal in the library, then described the plants and their uses to her when they worked here. He’d been a wonderful teacher, his deep, slow voice making all subjects interesting as he spoke. His manner had been casual, as if he were talking to himself. Did he know how much she had learned that way? Impossible to say.

  She finished in the herb garden by midafternoon. The day being ripe with scent and sun, she snapped her fingers for her dog, Roxana, who lay dozing by the rosemary. Together they strolled through the park toward Warfield’s main entrance. She loved the diamond-shaped gatehouse towers, and the arch that leaped between them above the road. The gateway was built of the same warm gray stone as the wall that circled the park, enclosing her world in a circle of safety.

  Within sight of the gateway, she found a favorite hidden spot between two rhododendron bushes on the verge of coming into bloom. She settled down on crossed legs, Roxana flopping beside her, and lazily studied the elaborately whorled wrought iron gates that filled the arch. The iron was painted a glossy black, except for several spikes at the top that glittered with gold leaf. Sometimes she wondered about the land of Others that lay beyond the gates, though not with any desire to visit. Too much of what she remembered was horror. Pain and glare and fire in the night.

  Dreamily her mind drifted, absorbing the essence of the day. Light wind trembled the ivy that twined up the towers and along the wall, while thrushes sang in the nearby trees. How would it feel to be a rhododendron, sinking roots into the rich, dark soil, drawing life from the sun and the rain? Or a thrush, darting through the air…? She slid into the golden place at the center of her being where all nature was one.

  Shadows were lengthening when her attention was brought back by a horseman cantering up to the gates. Neatly he pulled his horse around and tugged at the bell rope. Intrigued, she waited without impatience to see what would happen.

  More restless, horse and rider paced in rough circles until old Walter, the gatekeeper, emerged from his sitting room in the right-hand gate tower. As soon as he saw the visitor, he bobbed his head, then opened the gates.

  Meriel felt a sudden chill when she saw the man more clearly. He had come once before, not long ago. His gaze had been sharp as cut glass, but he’d left quickly. A man of no importance.

  Now he had returned, and there was something different about him. He no longer seemed like someone who could be easily ignored.

  Roxana whimpered. Meriel stilled the dog with one hand, eyes narrowed as she studied the newcomer. Hatless, windblown hair waving across a sweaty brow, a suggestion of cleft in his chin. What would be considered a handsome face. His bay horse was equally splendid, a brown dark almost to black. A shade very like the rider’s hair, in fact. Both were magnificent beasts.

  He exchanged a few words with the gatekeeper, then turned his mount and scanned his surroundings. Instinctively she shrank back as his gaze went over her hiding place. His eyes were intensely blue, like cornflowers, visible even at this distance. She held her breath until he started up the drive. Man and horse moved in perfect harmony, smooth muscles working under glossy hide, the rider effortlessly controlling the powerful animal between his legs.

  She drew up her knees and locked her arms around them, rocking back and forth in disquiet. Most of the males who worked at Warfield were middle-aged or older, but this one was yo
ung and virile, in the prime of life. A man used to getting his way by natural right. One who rode like a conqueror.

  He must have come to dine with the ladies again. She’d not go to the meal. At this season, there was scarcely any reason to enter the house at all. She could sleep in the tree house and forage for food.

  Yes, she’d stay away until the man left, for her home would not be the same while he was here.

  The long drive from London had been a bore, but Kyle’s horse, Pegasus, was a treat. With Warfield near, Dominic saddled the beast and rode ahead, reaching his destination well before the dour Morrison and the lumbering coach. The gatekeeper remembered him—or rather, Kyle—and greeted him with frank interest. The story of Lady Meriel’s betrothal must be known to the servants.

  He trotted leisurely to the house along an avenue shaded by great spreading lime trees. The park, the semicultivated area surrounding the house, was a magnificent expanse of rolling landscape. Trees and shrubs were scattered across the velvety green turf, while grazing cows and small, shy deer kept the grass trim and the trees free of branches up to the height of a cow’s head.

  Except for a section bounded by the river, this particular park was entirely walled in, according to Kyle. Convenient for keeping mad girls from wandering off.

  Dominic reined in Pegasus when the house came into sight. Built of the same gray stone as the park wall, it was a sprawling, symmetrical structure with gables and a steep-pitched slate roof. A hundred and fifty years or so old, he guessed.

  The formal seat of the Earls Grahame was in Lincolnshire, on the other side of England. Meriel’s uncle lived there, but her parents had preferred Warfield, which had been in the family of Meriel’s mother for centuries. Presumably Kyle would let his wife stay here in her familiar home after they married, while he himself spent most of his time at Dornleigh or in London. He could visit when he felt the need for a child or two.

  Mouth tight, Dominic guided Pegasus around the house to the stables. No one was in sight. He dismounted and led the horse inside. Though the building was large, only a handful of stalls were occupied, mostly by aging carriage horses.

  He glanced around, wondering if he’d have to rub down his own horse. He wouldn’t mind; in fact, he preferred caring for his beasts himself, but Kyle would expect better service. Then a groom as elderly as the gatekeeper creaked into view. “G’day, Lord Maxwell.” He bobbed his head respectfully. “Shall I take your horse?”

  Dominic passed over his reins. He almost added a casual comment about the fine weather, then bit the words back. Kyle was not given to conversation with unknown servants. It also belatedly occurred to him that his brother would not have left his hat in the carriage, as Dominic had.

  After explaining that his luggage would arrive later, he made his way toward the house, reviewing what he’d been told about the household, for this was the most critical stage of his visit. Lady Meriel was supervised by two elderly widows, distant cousins of some sort, Mrs. Rector and Mrs. Marks. Kyle had been dismissive of the pair, saying they would be easily deceived.

  Dominic was less sure. In his experience, little old ladies were often observant, especially since Kyle’s visit would have been an exciting event in an otherwise quiet life.

  As he reached the bottom of the steps, the door opened and two women emerged, smiling in welcome. The smaller one was soft and round and sweetly fey, with very white hair. The other was taller, with an angular face and hair blended of brown and silvery gray. He realized with alarm that he hadn’t the vaguest idea which was which.

  The angular woman said, “Lord Maxwell, so good to see you again. I trust your journey was pleasant.”

  Uneasily he recognized that the shrewd hazel eyes behind her spectacles wouldn’t miss much. Damnation, which cousin was she?

  Reminding himself to be as cool as Kyle, he bowed deeply. “As you can see, I couldn’t resist riding ahead. My man will be along soon with my carriage.”

  The other woman said solicitously, “You must be tired. Would you like a nice cup of tea?”

  “It would be my pleasure.” He took both ladies’ arms, making them smile, and escorted them up the steps. “Will Lady Meriel be joining us?”

  “Oh, no,” the taller one said, sounding as if the answer was so obvious that the question shouldn’t be asked. Despite his preparation, Dominic was alarmingly aware of how much he didn’t know. This place, these women, were strangers.

  And he should have worn the damned hat.

  The arrival of Morrison and the baggage allowed Dominic to put himself into a more Kyle-ish frame of mind for dinner. He dressed with careful formality, as befitted a man about to meet his bride, then studied himself in the mirror. Remarkable how different tailoring and subtle changes in expression altered that image. Only someone who knew Kyle well would realize that the mirror reflected a different man.

  A dinner bell rang with a clamor to wake the dead, so he descended to the small salon, where his two hostesses awaited. He’d hoped to meet his brother’s betrothed as well, but she wasn’t there. After sherry and a brief exchange of pleasantries, he escorted the ladies in to dinner. Four places were set. Still no Lady Meriel. The angular woman—he’d forgotten to ask Morrison to identify the ladies—frowned at the empty chair, then signaled for the meal to begin.

  Apart from an odd centerpiece composed of weeds, the meal and service were excellent, but the fourth chair remained obstinately empty. Dominic knew that Kyle’s one brief meeting with his intended bride had been at this dinner table, so finally he asked, “Is Lady Meriel unwell?”

  The two women exchanged glances again. The smaller one said uncomfortably, “You know how she is, Lord Maxwell. Usually she dines with us, but not always.”

  He took a sip of wine as he thought. Deciding on frankness even though it was more his style than his brother’s, he said, “But I don’t really know how she is. Though I’ve met the girl and discussed her with Lord Amworth, that’s not the same as personal knowledge. Perhaps this would be a good time for you to tell me more about her. After all, you two know her best.”

  “I suppose you’re right, though no one really knows her, except perhaps Kamal.” The smaller woman turned her earnest gaze on him. “Meriel is not like anyone else. She’s such a sweet child.”

  “Not a child,” her companion corrected. “A woman grown. That’s one reason Amworth wishes to see her wed—he fears that in her innocence, she might be led astray.”

  Dominic absorbed that. “Are you saying that she has no moral sense?”

  “How can she?” It was the angular woman again. “She has the mind of a child. No, not even that, for even an infant will respond to human contact. Meriel—” she hesitated, groping for words—“she scarcely sees us at all. She’s like a sweet-tempered ghost who lives in her own world, separate from the rest of mankind.”

  “Except when she has a tantrum,” the smaller woman said tartly. “I shall be frank with you, my lord. I have doubts about the wisdom of this match. I don’t think that Meriel can even understand the concept of marriage, nor can I imagine how you would find such a union satisfactory by any standard.”

  He studied the soft round face and faded blue eyes, and decided that anyone who thought little old ladies were negligible wasn’t paying attention. “I appreciate your frankness. Remember, the match has not yet taken place. The purpose of this visit is to confirm that marriage is feasible. I assure you that I mean the girl no harm.”

  The small woman nodded, satisfied, but Dominic was troubled. Kyle had seemed determined to make this marriage. Though Dominic shouldn’t care what stupidity his brother committed, he did care, blast it. He was going to have to try to ingratiate himself with the girl while leaving the situation open enough to allow Kyle to withdraw honorably if he changed his mind. “What is the range of Lady Meriel’s abilities?”

  “She has a gift for working with plants and animals.” The taller woman smiled sadly. “Perhaps that is because she is closer to the beas
ts of the field than she is to humankind. Heaven knows she completely lacks normal understanding. Look at these flowers.” She indicated the arrangement of dandelions and other weeds that sat in the middle of the polished mahogany table in a crude ceramic jug. “Meriel made this. It is a more eloquent statement of her personality than any description Ada or I can make.”

  Progress; he would ask Morrison which of the ladies had Ada for a Christian name. But he understood the woman’s point when he gazed at the centerpiece. Most women of gentle birth prided themselves on being able to create attractive floral arrangements for their homes. Even the coarsest village girl could brighten a cottage with flowers from her garden. This bouquet was pathetic. Not only was it composed of common weeds, but the wildflowers she’d chosen had such a short life that by tomorrow they would be dead, and all her efforts wasted after only a few hours.

  He felt a sharp pang of regret for the bright child whose mind had been destroyed by a horror that sealed her tongue forever. If her family had not died in a savage attack, Lady Meriel would probably be married now, perhaps a mother. Instead, even her guardians considered her scarcely more than a wild beast.

  The thought of spending time with this warped travesty of humanity was deeply unappealing, but he was here to lie for his brother, so he said gallantly, “I look forward to furthering my acquaintance with Lady Meriel. Perhaps a new influence in her life will bring about improvement.”

  From the ladies’ expressions, they didn’t believe that any more than he did.

  Chapter 4

  After dressing the next morning, Dominic lingered at the window of his spacious bedchamber. He was placed at the back of the house, and from this height he could look over Warfield’s vast gardens. Varied like a patchwork quilt, they extended for many acres. Directly behind the house was a parterre, a formal garden of clipped hedges and flower beds divided by mellow brick paths. The overall design was a Maltese cross centered on a splendid multitiered fountain.