The Wild Child (Bride Trilogy)

by Mary Jo Putney

  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.

  Morrison appeared silently beside him. The man crept about like a rodent.

  Dominic turned from the window. “The two ladies—which is which? The smaller one’s first name is Ada, but is she Mrs. Marks or Mrs. Rector?”

  “She is Mrs. Rector, my lord. The taller female is Mrs. Edith Marks.” Morrison cleared his throat with the sound that meant he wished to speak. “When I breakfasted in the servant’s hall, I learned that Lady Meriel did not sleep in her room last night.”

  Dominic frowned. “Were the servants concerned?”

  “Not at all. I received the impression that the young lady often sleeps outdoors, especially during mild weather.” Disapproval sounded in the valet’s voice.

  “So she’s not even housebroken.” Dominic looked Morrison directly in the eye. “What do you think of this proposed marriage?”

  The valet’s expression became even stiffer than usual. “It is not my place to question my master’s personal affairs.”

  “I’m sure you have opinions, especially about a matter which concerns you so closely,” Dominic said, voice edged. “I would appreciate an honest answer.”

  “I have grave doubts about the wisdom of this, my lord,” Morrison said slowly. “Marriage is a lifelong commitment. It should not be undertaken lightly.”

  The man had more sense than Kyle. “Perhaps your master will reconsider in the next weeks.”

  Morrison’s gaze moved so that he was staring blankly out the window. “If the girl takes a dislike to you, there would be no marriage.”

  Was the valet suggesting that Dominic deliberately alienate Lady Meriel? Apparently. “I cannot make so important a decision for my brother.”

  Morrison’s gaze dropped, possibly with a hint of disappointment.

  The breakfast bell rang. Warfield was a great house for bells. As Dominic went downstairs, he wondered if the ringing was done to summon Lady Meriel for meals. He’d noticed that the bell rang outside as well as in the house.

  Of course, summoning her didn’t mean that she’d come. The two widows were already seated in the breakfast room, so Dominic greeted them, then helped himself to the dishes on the sideboard. As he piled thinly sliced ham on his plate, he said, “It appears that Lady Meriel has taken me in dislike. Or is she always absent for so long?”

  “She does seem to be avoiding you,” Mrs. Rector said apologetically. “She is often shy of strangers.”

  That was an understatement. “Might she stay in hiding until I leave?”

  Mrs. Marks said with reluctance, “That could happen.”

  “Perhaps I should organize a hunt with beaters to drive her into the open like a pheasant,” he said dryly as he seated himself at the table.

  “Absolutely not.” Mrs. Rector’s head shot up, a fierceness in her eyes that was at odds with her gentle features. “Oh. I see that you’re joking.”

  Yes, but if he had to wait days for an elusive madwoman to appear, a hunt would start seeming like a good idea. “Do you have any suggestions for how I might find her?”

  Mrs. Marks thought about it. “She spends almost all her time in the gardens, though they are so large she could avoid you for days. Warfield has always been famous for its gardens. Every generation has added to them. To find Meriel, you might try watching the tree house. I believe she sleeps there when she isn’t in the house.”

  “Ask Kamal,” Mrs. Rector suggested. “He would have the best idea of where to find her. Look for him in the garden sheds after breakfast.”

  Kyle had mentioned an Indian servant. “Kamal is a gardener?”

  Mrs. Rector nodded. “He supervises everything to do with the gardens, because he is the only one who understands what Meriel wants.”

  Dominic’s brows arched. “So she has opinions about her plants?”

  “Oh, yes. When she was small, she would have tantrums if the old head gardener did things she didn’t like.” She cut a neat piece of coddled egg. “Eventually we let him go and put Kamal in his place. Besides supervising the garden staff, he is our liaison to Mr. Kerr, the steward who runs the home farm and supervises the tenants. I don’t know what we should do without Kamal.”

  Dominic frowned at the mention of tantrums, but there was a positive aspect to what Mrs. Rector had said. “If Lady Meriel has preferences for her garden, she can’t be entirely mindless.”

  “Even a dog will get angry if its routine is changed,” Mrs. Marks pointed out. “Her preferences are often…very strange. More proof of her madness, I fear.” Her gaze went to the wilting centerpiece, which looked even more grotesque this morning.

  Each new piece of information made Lady Meriel sound more hopeless. Repressing a sigh, Dominic got directions to the garden sheds and set out to find them after breakfast. A door at the back of the house opened onto a broad stone patio with steps descending to the parterre he had seen from above. To his left, a large, glassed-in conservatory was attached to the back of the house.

  Making a note to investigate the conservatory later, he strolled through the parterre. A pair of peafowl were drinking from the fountain in the center. The cock gave Dominic a beady-eyed stare, then spread his shimmering tail in a way that said, “Top this.” The hen contented herself with an earsplitting screech.

  With a smile, Dominic went around them. He’d always liked peafowl. As a boy, he’d bought a pair from a neighbor and proudly given them to his father for Dornleigh. The earl had hated the noise, though. Dominic had enlisted Kyle to help capture the pair and return them to the neighbor before Wrexham ordered the elegant necks wrung.

  Following Mrs. Rector’s direction, he walked a corner path into a more informal area. Towering walls of smooth clipped yew provided a dark green background for lush borders of blossoming shrubs and flowers. From the varied selection, he guessed that there would be blooming from early spring to first frost.

  A wrong turn landed him in a rose garden. He’d never seen so many varieties of roses. The scent was intoxicating.

  By the time he reached the gardening sheds, it was midmorning and he’d seen at least four different gardeners at work. Such extensive gardens required endless effort.

  He peered into the first shed, which was used for tool storage. No one. The next shed contained bins of various substances to be worked into soil to create different conditions. It was also empty.

  Next in the row was a long glasshouse, used to protect tender plants in winter and grow fruits and vegetables year round. Dominic was struck by the heat when he entered, for the glass panels trapped and magnified the effects of the sun. At the far end of the structure, he saw the back of a man standing at a broad workbench, though details were obscured by hanging plants that would do credit to a Brazilian jungle.

  As he approached the gardener, he saw that the man wore a turban and a loose, sashed blue cotton tunic that fell over baggy cotton trousers. The Indian garb must be very practical for garden work. “Kamal? I’m Maxwell.”

  The Indian turned from his repotting. Kamal was broad and strong and fearsomely bearded, and the turban gave him towering height. He was a formidable protector for his mad mistress.

  But what startled Dominic most were elaborate tattoos that covered Kamal’s hands and forearms with swirls and decorative patterns. Good God, there were even zigzag designs on his throat and on his cheeks above the bushy black whiskers.

  “Lord Maxwell.” The Indian placed both hands together in front of his chest and inclined his head. “Namaste.” The gesture was polite, but certainly not deferential.

  Dominic said, “Good day. I’m looking
for Lady Meriel. Do you have an idea where she might be found?”

  The Indian studied him with dark, piercing eyes, weighing his worth. Kyle would have been furious at such a blatant appraisal. Even Dominic felt his hackles rise. “I presume you know why I am here.”

  “I know, my lord.” Kamal said in faintly accented but very fluent English. “You wish to marry the young mistress.”

  “I seek to discover if marriage is feasible,” Dominic said sharply. “That can’t be done if I can’t find the lady.”

  “She was in the herb garden.” Kamal gestured with his chin. “That way, along the path behind the glass house. But I am not sure. She may have left.”

  “If she has, I shall return for another suggestion.” Dominic left the glass house, glad to get into cooler air.

  The path Kamal had indicated was again walled with hedges higher than a man’s head, though these were not clipped to unnatural smoothness. The walkway soon opened up into a pleasant herb garden, but the girl wasn’t there. Dominic wandered the neat brick paths, noting signs of recent work. Had she seen him coming and fled, or left because she’d finished her task? He bent and pinched a downy leaf from an irregularly shaped blue-gray shrub, releasing a pungent odor. Some kind of mint, he thought.

  “Meo-o-o-ow!”

  An enormous orange marmalade cat slid sinuously from under a nearby bush. Golden eyes hot with interest, the cat reared up against Dominic’s leg and raspily slurped the fingers that had pinched the leaf.

  “So this is catmint.” Dominic ruffled the orange striped fur. “A good thing you decided to lick, not bite. A tom your size could do serious damage. Would you like some catmint of your own?”

  “Meo-o-o-ow.” The cat butted his hand.

  Taking that as a yes, Dominic went down on one knee and pinched off half a dozen leaves, then crushed them into an aromatic ball and tossed it past the cat. The tom leaped on the catmint with a hunting cry, somersaulting over the path as he shredded the leaves with wicked claws. Then he slashed at the catmint plant itself, demonstrating why the shape was so irregular.

  Dominic was about to rise when he glanced up and saw a young woman enter the far end of the garden. Lady Meriel had returned, perhaps drawn by the yowling cat.

  He caught his breath, stunned. Gods above, why had no one told him she was beautiful? Petite and graceful, with features as delicately molded as a porcelain doll, Lady Meriel seemed to have stepped from a Renaissance painting, or perhaps the land of Faerie. Ivory-pale hair was pulled back into a wrist-thick braid, and her gaze seemed fixed on visions invisible to the normal run of humankind.

  Then she saw him. Her eyes widened with shock before she whirled and bolted from the herb garden like a deer, bare feet flying as she darted back through the opening in the hedge through which she’d come.

  “Wait!” He scrambled to his feet and raced after her, but by the time he reached the hedge she’d vanished into an area carefully designed to imitate wilderness. The brick path changed to shredded bark and split into three forks in front of him. He was about to choose one when he realized that pursuit was a damned poor idea if he wanted to win the trust of a shy, wary girl.

  Shaken, he returned to the herb garden and sank onto a stone bench set against the encircling hedge. His pulse was pounding, and not from sprinting a few yards. Now that he’d seen her, he understood why Kyle was willing to overlook Lady Meriel’s mental state. Merciful heaven, but she was lovely, with a fey, ethereal beauty that could entrance any man. He’d seen hair of such fairness only once before, on an exquisite Norwegian courtesan whose price had been well beyond his purse.

  He tried to reconstruct her image from that fleeting glimpse. What color were her eyes? Light, but dark enough to add definition to that small, perfect face. She wore a simple blue tunic over a full skirt in a darker shade of blue. A sash was tied around her waist, rather like Kamal’s sash. Was her garb Indian? Perhaps, or it could have been modeled on medieval peasant clothing. The costume gave her an otherworldly quality, as if she belonged to no particular time or place.

  As his breathing steadied, he asked himself why beauty made so much difference. Lady Meriel Grahame’s sad past and stunted life would be equally tragic if she were ugly as a hedgehog, yet the fact that she was beautiful deepened his regret almost unbearably. Wryly he acknowledged that he must be very shallow. Even knowing that, he could not stop himself from being moved by the memory of her fair, haunting face.

  The cure for mystery was familiarity, becoming accustomed to her striking appearance. But how could he manage that when she fled at the sight of him?

  Exhausted from his intoxicated bout with the catmint, the orange cat leaped onto the bench and sprawled heavily across Dominic’s lap. He stroked the sleek fur. He’d always had a gift for getting along with animals. His ability to ride even the wildest horses was legendary, and dogs and cats generally climbed all over him, as this one was doing. Surely he could also soothe a wild girl.

  A day and a half passed without another sighting of Dominic’s elusive quarry. To fill in some of the idle hours, he borrowed a set of estate maps Mrs. Marks found for him. After studying the layout of the various gardens, he drew a rough map small enough to carry with him, but it didn’t bring him any closer to Lady Meriel.

  As boredom set in, it occurred to Dominic that animal traps were usually baited with food, and what worked for rodents might work with a wild girl. The next afternoon he made his way through the gardens with a heavily laden basket in one hand.

  There were easily two dozen specialized gardens of all sizes and shapes, ranging from a small butterfly garden to the large mock wilderness area where Lady Meriel had vanished. Yet vast though they were, the gardens covered less than a quarter of the park, and the park was only one corner of an estate that included a large home farm and five sizable tenant farms. He tried to suppress a pang at the knowledge that this splendid property would end up under the control of Kyle, who would eventually inherit vast estates of his own, yet had no great passion for the land.

  Having come to a small garden that stepped down to a lily pond in several brick terraces, Dominic paused to consult his map. Where was the water garden? Ah, there. His destination was Lady Meriel’s tree house, which Mrs. Rector had said was built in the center of the gardens. If he left the water garden by the right-hand path and wandered through an orchard of mixed fruits, he should find the tree.

  A few minutes’ walk brought him to a peaceful glade surrounding the largest oak he’d ever seen. Thick and tall and broad, the tree must be centuries old, and contained enough lumber to build a sizable sailing ship.

  Even more impressive was the tree house nestled among the wide branches. Probably the structure had been built by Kamal, for it was styled like an Eastern palace. Easily a dozen feet square, the tree house featured a gilded onion dome roof and a tall, slim minaret. Painted a warm golden white and trimmed with green and gold traceries, it was the perfect abode for a young woman who looked like a fairy. The sheer whimsy of the structure made him want to laugh aloud.

  Access was by a rope ladder that dropped through a hole in the floor. Mrs. Marks said that when the girl was inside, she usually pulled the ladder up behind her. Since there was no ladder visible, she must be in residence.

  Proof of that came when a large canine head popped up alertly in a spot just below the tree house. Mrs. Marks said that the dog, a bitch called Roxana, followed Lady Meriel everywhere except into the tree house, paws not being well suited for rope ladders. Now the dog guarded her mistress’s privacy.

  Time to get to work. Ignoring Roxana’s suspicious gaze, Dominic took a folded blanket off the basket and spread it on the grass in the center of the sunny glade. The uncovered basket released enticing aromas through the clearing. The Warfield cook had said that Lady Meriel hadn’t come to the kitchen all day, so the girl was probably hungry. At Dominic’s request, the cook had made some of the young mistress’s favorite foods.

  After settling on the b
lanket on crossed legs, Dominic dug into the basket. He started with a savory custard pie flavored with cheese, small pieces of smoky ham, and herbs from Meriel’s own garden. Still warm from the oven, it smelled heavenly.

  Though he’d been told often enough that the girl didn’t understand anything that was said to her, surely she was capable of responding to tone of voice like a dog or a horse. In a voice pitched to carry easily without sounding threatening, he said, “Good afternoon, Lady Meriel. Would you care to dine with me?”

  No response from the lady, but the dog began to quiver with interest, the black nose twitching. Dominic sliced the pie into pieces and removed a narrow wedge. “Would you like something, too, Roxana?”

  She leaped to her feet and padded over to Dominic. The beast was large. Trying not to think how easily a dog could rip out a sitting man’s throat, Dominic tossed a chunk of pie to her. She snapped it from the air with a flash of long, sharp teeth. “Good dog!” He threw another piece.

  After gulping the second morsel, the dog settled beside Dominic, all hostility forgotten as he scratched her floppy ears. Roxana was of no known breed, though he suspected some wolfhound because of her size. Her proportions were rather strange, but she seemed intelligent and good-natured. What more could one want in a dog?

  Turning back to the basket, Dominic pulled out plates, mugs, napkins, and forks. Then he removed a stone jug. “I have some cider here. Would you care for some?”

  He risked a glance up at the tree house. A small feminine silhouette was visible in the window. “There’s fresh hot gingerbread, too. Perhaps you can smell it.”

  After pouring himself cider, he put a piece of the savory pie on one of the two plates he’d brought. Not having eaten since breakfast, he was hungry himself. After the first forkful, he sighed with satisfaction. The Warfield cook’s crumbly pastry and well-flavored filling would not have disgraced the king’s own table.

  Abruptly a rope ladder rattled down from the tree house. The rungs were made of smooth wooden bars. They would make climbing easier than if the ladder was entirely rope, but Lady Meriel must still be more agile than the average female.