The Wild Child (Bride Trilogy)

by Mary Jo Putney

  He and his niece both deserved better than a pair of liars.

  Chapter 11

  After a pleasant evening of conversation, a tea tray was delivered to the drawing room. Mrs. Marks was pouring for Lord Amworth when Meriel materialized in the doorway. She’d changed from her evening gown into a flowing dark Eastern garment, the kind designed to cover as much as possible of the female form to prevent lustful male thoughts. Not that it worked. The folds of dark fabric merely stimulated the imagination. At least they stimulated Dominic’s.

  Carrying a tray with three small bowls and a cluster of slender sticks, Meriel crossed the Persian carpet on soundless bare feet. Her hair had been released from its complicated style and braided again. Mrs. Rector smiled. “How nice. Meriel is going to do mehndi tonight in your honor, Lord Amworth.”

  Eyes downcast, Meriel knelt before her uncle. Dominic had a sudden sense that the role of submissive handmaiden was a game for her. Perhaps she’d seen the real thing in India and added it to the collection of her personalities. Submissive Handmaiden. Dedicated Gardener. Fairy Sprite. Wild Child.

  Amworth’s tired face lightened. “I’d like a wrist band if you please, Meriel.” He rolled his left sleeve up and offered her his wrist.

  She dunked a pad of cotton into a bowl and sponged the skin around his wrist. Then she dipped a slim stick into the other bowl, which contained henna paste. With swift, deft motions, she began to draw a complex, paisleylike pattern on his wrist. Her concentration was total. As Dominic had thought after seeing the mehndi on Kamal, it took skill to create such a design, particularly without guidelines.

  He noted with interest that she’d darkened her brows and lashes, as Eastern women often did. Against Meriel’s fair skin and flaxen hair, the effect was exotic and wickedly alluring.

  When she’d finished Amworth’s mehndi, she went to Mrs. Rector. The older woman said thoughtfully, “I’d like an anklet, Meriel. Will you gentlemen excuse me while I turn my back on you for modesty’s sake?”

  She moved to a large wing chair that faced away from the fireplace, where the others were seated. Fabric rustled as she raised her skirts and peeled off a stocking so Meriel could work on her ankle. Dominic sipped his tea, amused and rather touched at this evidence that a woman didn’t lose the playful desire to adorn herself merely because she was no longer a girl.

  The anklet took some time to execute. When it was completed, Mrs. Marks proffered her right hand and arm. Meriel drew a delicate vinelike pattern that started on the older woman’s third finger. From there the mehndi wound across the back of Mrs. Marks’s hand and wrist, continuing up her forearm before it twined to a halt just below the elbow.

  As Meriel worked, Mrs. Marks explained, “It’s necessary to leave the henna on for an hour or two until it dries, Lord Maxwell. Then it can be brushed off, leaving the pattern.” Her eyes twinkled. “I suppose this seems very odd to you.”

  “Unusual,” he admitted, “but quite charming.”

  He was looking forward to Meriel’s ministrations, but after she finished with Mrs. Marks, she made the rounds of her three subjects and patted a solution from the third bowl on the designs, then gracefully withdrew. Disappointed, he wondered if she had run out of the henna preparation. Or wasn’t he worthy of her efforts?

  Mrs. Rector got to her feet, covering a ladylike yawn with one small hand. “It is rather late, isn’t it? I shall see you all in the morning.”

  Since Meriel was gone, Dominic was ready to retire. Was it really only this morning that he’d followed her up to the castle? Much had happened in one day.

  Morrison awaited in the bedroom to help him out of Kyle’s fashionably tight coat. The valet would not soon forgive Dominic for wrecking the garment he’d worn earlier in the day. Not in the mood for the older man’s disapproval, Dominic dismissed him after the coat was off. The rest of his clothing he could manage unaided.

  Glad to be alone, Dominic wandered to the window as he unfastened his cravat. Outside, the geometric patterns of the parterre were faintly visible in the moonlight. He’d always enjoyed this view, never more than now, when he’d labored on it himself.

  His door opened and he turned, thinking Morrison had forgotten something.

  Meriel stood in the doorway, dressed in her Eastern costume and holding her mehndi tray. Closing the door behind her, she crossed the room to Dominic and knelt demurely at his feet, fluid garments swirling. Then she raised the tray in a wordless offer.

  He cut off his automatic protest that young ladies never came to gentlemen’s bedrooms. Meriel existed outside society’s usual rules. “So my turn has come.” He smiled at her. “Will you give me a wristband like your uncle’s?”

  She gestured toward the upholstered chair. He sat and unbuttoned his cuff so she could paint his wrist, glad he hadn’t been excluded from her list of subjects.

  Taking his hand with smooth, cool fingers, she studied his wrist with a frown.

  “Is something wrong?” He looked down and guessed that the hair on his wrist might interfere with her painting. He was about to suggest that Meriel put a design on the back of his hand when she stood and quite unselfconsciously began unfastening his shirt buttons. He caught her hand, startled. “Meriel!”

  She raised her head and looked at him with such transparent innocence that he felt ashamed of himself. Now that he thought about it, Kamal had mehndi on the throat, so this was probably a standard practice for her.

  Reminding himself that it was a good thing for her to become comfortable with a man’s body, he finished undoing his shirt and pulled it over his head. Though he felt some embarrassment at being half-naked in front of her, Meriel was quite unconcerned. She perched on the arm of the chair and thoughtfully traced his collarbone with a fingertip, apparently considering her design.

  His blood began beating with uncomfortable force, for her light touch was more arousing than a caress from a practiced woman of the world. Kamal had the advantage of being a eunuch, and her sworn protector. Safe from the provocative lure of a maiden’s touch. Dominic had no such defenses.

  Decision made, Meriel cleansed his skin with a fluid whose tangy scent reminded him of pine. Then she dipped a stick into the henna and began to draw on the triangle of flesh above his left collarbone. As the rich, earthy scent filled his nostrils, he had a charming view of her bright hair and the occasional sweep of darkened lashes.

  Too charming. He closed his eyes and tried to fasten his mind on other things—Latin declensions were suitably tedious—but his attention came stubbornly back to her. Blending with the other scents was a tantalizing perfume, and he could feel the warmth radiating from her hand. The drawing stick produced a sensation somewhere between a tickle and a sensual tease, and why hadn’t he noticed how warm the room was…?

  He opened his eyes again and stared across the room at the Chinese wallpaper. Forget that an exquisite young woman was hovering over him. Pretend she was some incredibly gnarled old hag he’d discovered in a bazaar in Damascus….

  She lifted the stick from his skin, and he heard a faint tap as she rested it in the bowl. Then her fingertip rubbed across his nipple. He almost jumped from his skin. “Jesus, Meriel!”

  She looked at him with that innocence again. “This is really not at all proper, Meriel,” he said unsteadily. “You should return to your room.”

  Ignoring that, she prepared his skin, then drew a delicate, vinelike design around his nipple. Did she do this to Kamal? Even if she did, should he allow such intimacy?

  What the devil should he do? He didn’t want to distress her—but damn it, she was distressing him! All he could think about was her nearness, and her desirability. He could almost taste the soft skin of her nape under his lips….

  Grimly he held on to his fraying willpower while she painted a design around his other nipple, then decorated the area above his right collarbone. With a final flourish, she connected the two areas with a web of lines that curved across the base of his throat.

&
nbsp; He gave a sigh of relief when she finished and set her materials on the table beside the chair. Now she would go back to her room, and he would read something quietly while the henna dried. He could surely find some deadly dull improving work in the library to cool himself off.

  But instead of moving away, she slid her hand caressingly down his chest in a slow, sensual exploration. Fire shot through his veins as the desire that had been building kindled into flame. He almost reached up to pull her into a crushing embrace.

  Almost. With barely suppressed violence he shoved himself from the chair and didn’t stop until he was on the far side of the room. Back turned to her, he clenched his hands, breathing hard as he fought to maintain his control.

  She was fey. At least half mad. Not responsible for her actions. She was going to be his brother’s wife.

  Would she even notice the difference between him and Kyle on their wedding night? The bitterness of that thought dampened his craving.

  He turned and found that she was right beside him, a question in her eyes. She lifted a hand toward him. He caught it before she could touch him again. “Meriel, this kind of closeness is only proper between husband and wife. Until you are ready to be a wife, there should be…more distance between us.”

  He hoped that she understood the tone if not the words, but she just stared at him, her green eyes intense. Not the eyes of a child at all.

  Her gaze dropped, sliding over his body with slow thoroughness as if she was memorizing every pore, every hair, every taut muscle. Feeling profoundly naked under that probing gaze, he ordered, “Go, Meriel. Now.”

  Her gaze reached the front of his pantaloons. He hardened as if she’d touched him physically. He knew with absolute certainty that he could draw her into a kiss, and she would come willingly. She was curious. Naturally sensual. She probably wore nothing underneath that flowing, exotic garment….

  His brother’s wife. He turned her around, placed a tense hand in the small of her back, and ushered her firmly to the door. “Begone, witch. No more mehndi until your wedding night.”

  Kyle would have to be dead not to become an ardent bridegroom under the influence of Meriel’s enchanting blend of innocence and sensuality. His thrice-damned brother, who still commanded Dominic’s loyalty even though he might not deserve it.

  He closed the door hard behind her and turned the key in the lock.

  Then he leaned against the Chinese wallpaper, and shook.

  She almost fell over Roxana, who thumped her tail happily at the sight of Meriel. Feeling like a bird whose feathers had been ruffled by a high wind, she stood very still and tried to understand what had just happened.

  He really was quite beautiful. She’d enjoyed the feel of smooth, taut skin that was several shades darker than her own. The texture and elegant patterning of the hair that dusted across his chest and arrowed downward so intriguingly. As she drew the mehndi, his energy had come alive, swirling into the crimson of desire. She had wanted to touch him all over, taste him and let him taste her….

  Furiously impatient, she whirled and marched down the corridor to the back stairs, her private entry and exit. For once she shut Roxana indoors, preferring to be alone. Every sensation was magnified as she stalked through the cool night air. Scents floated seductively on the breeze, the dew-touched grass was cool beneath her feet. She felt painfully restless and alive.

  Moving soundlessly through alternating patches of moonlight and shadows, she entered the wilderness area. The illusion of untamed forest suited her mood. An owl hooted as it passed above her so closely she heard the beat of wings. A moment later, a death shriek revealed that the hunter had found prey.

  A deeper scream, drawn out and eerie, cut through the woods. A badger, she thought, though more often they growled or barked. Curious, she followed the sound.

  A hundred paces farther she came to the edge of a small clearing where a pair of badgers leaped and tumbled in a mating dance. The female reared onto her hind legs, her masked face dramatic in the moonlight. Looking like a waltz partner, the male did the same, eager to charm and impress her. They came together and rolled over the soft turf in a patchwork furry ball.

  All coy teasing, the female darted in to snap at the male’s shoulder. He reared up, then roughly pinned her down, biting at her neck before starting to lick her dark fur with possessive tenderness. The female made a low, almost catlike purring sound as she quivered with anticipation.

  Their intoxicated play was the warp and weft of a species’ survival, a passionate attraction so intense they did not even notice her presence. Blindly Meriel turned away, her mind vivid with images. Tumbling rapturously with Renbourne in a meadow. Her teeth nipping his warm, hard body as play turned to passion. His mouth, his hands, teasing her to wildness, his strength vanquishing hers as he possessed her willing body.

  She was in the moon garden before her sensual haze dissipated enough for her to notice her surroundings. The intoxicating fragrance of mock orange hung heavy in the air, and around her beds of white flowers showed ghostly pale in the moonlight. In the center of the garden, trailing blossoms spilled lushly from an ancient Roman urn. She dropped, shivering, onto the cool stone dais supporting the sculpture.

  All creatures mated. She’d known that, had observed most of the birds and beasts of Warfield in their swift passions. The female went into heat, and the male went mad with yearning. The behavior was intriguing, and she’d learned how male and female bodies came together, but she’d never understood the urge. Indeed, she’d been grateful to be spared such wildness.

  Now she realized that she had been spared only because she had not met her true mate. For the first time she comprehended that fierce craving to join with another. Secret places in her body pulsed with hunger even though she knew instinctively that tonight she had tasted only the merest sip of passion’s cup. There was more, so much more.

  But humankind, in its foolishness, made everything so difficult. Renbourne wanted her. She had seen desire in his eyes, scented it on his body, seen the bright blaze of his energy when she touched him.

  Yet he had held back for some barbaric, unnatural reason. A nuisance, that. But he was male, and young, and his blood beat hot and wild in his veins. Her time would come. She knew it in her bones.

  He was her true mate, and soon he would be hers.

  Chapter 12

  Staying awake while the mehndi dried was easy; getting to sleep at all was the problem. Dominic eventually fell into a restless slumber, and a vivid dream of making love to Meriel. He awoke to an empty bed with his heart hammering and the knowledge that his body had entered into his dream with embarrassing thoroughness.

  After washing his face, he brushed off the dried henna. The mehndi resembled a paisley collar composed of light orange lines. There was a barbaric, un-English splendor to seeing his skin patterned.

  He turned from the mirror abruptly when he thought of her small, skilled hands moving over him. After the last night, it was impossible to deny how powerfully he was attracted to her. Very well, he was attracted. What man wouldn’t be? What mattered was controlling his inappropriate desire.

  The morning did not improve when he went down to breakfast and learned that Lord Amworth was already gone. Feeling ill-bred for not having risen in time to take leave of the older man, Dominic poured a cup of coffee in the hope it would restore him.

  He was working on his second cup when Mrs. Rector drifted into the breakfast parlor and poured herself some tea. As she settled at the table, she remarked, “Lord Amworth was pleased that you and Meriel are getting along so well.”

  Deciding some mature insight might be helpful, he said, “I value her, but I’m not sure about the wisdom of marriage. What have the physicians who examined her said?”

  Mrs. Rector pursed her lips. “Nothing consistent. They all agreed she was not normal—as if one needed to study in Edinburgh to see that!—and they agreed on nothing else. Most thought she would benefit by intensive treatment in an asylum,
but they all had their pet ideas about what sort of treatment might work.”

  That wasn’t a great deal of help. “Are any of those physicians in this area?”

  “Dr. Craythorne is one of the foremost authorities on madness in England. He has an asylum at Bladenham, only ten miles away.” A touch of irony entered her voice. “It’s said to be very progressive.”

  “Do you believe Meriel would benefit by a course of treatment?”

  She gazed out the window without seeing. “If I believed that, I’d have taken her to Bladenham myself. But then, I’m a second cousin of Meriel’s mother. Fey females run in the family.” She smiled wryly. “I’m not so very practical myself.”

  He thought about what she was saying. “You feel that Meriel is more of an…an intensification of the family type than she is a true madwoman?”

  Mrs. Rector nodded. “How can a physician cure what’s bred in the bone?”

  She might have a point, but Dominic would still like to hear the doctor’s opinion. In fact, now that he thought about it, the idea of getting away from Warfield and Meriel for the day was very, very appealing.

  “Lord Maxwell, what a pleasure!” Dr. Craythorne, tall, solid, and inspiring confidence, strode across the handsomely appointed reception room where Dominic had been brought by the porter.

  So far, Bladenham was impressive. A sprawling house on the edge of a village, it was spacious and well furnished, with a large walled garden at the back. Not a hellhole at all.

  “How may I help you?” the doctor continued.

  Dominic was beginning to appreciate why Kyle was so fond of being the heir; nothing like a title to get instant deference. “I understand that you have examined Lady Meriel Grahame. I am interested in your conclusions.”

  Craythorne hesitated. “Such discussion is usually limited to a patient’s family.”