The Wild Child (Bride Trilogy)

by Mary Jo Putney

  “How convenient,” he said in a voice of unnatural gentleness. “I was just coming to look for you. Don’t worry, Meriel, I will take care of you. Finally you can receive treatment that might help your madness. Even if that can’t be cured, at least I can put a stop to your wanton behavior.”

  She stopped in her tracks, anger turning to fear as she saw the expression in his eyes. He looked…implacable.

  As he advanced on her, she slowly began to back away, pulse pounding.

  “Don’t run, my dear, I won’t hurt you.” His voice rose on the last words as he made a sudden leap toward her. “Get her!”

  She spun about. While her uncle held her attention, one of his men had crept up behind her, an open blanket in his hands. Panic swept through her. Frantically she swerved, barely escaping the servant’s grab.

  “Don’t let the little hellcat escape! We’ll never find her if she gets out of the house,” her uncle snapped. “But don’t injure her.”

  Unable to get past the servant, she changed direction again. But she was boxed in, her uncle on one side, the servant on the other, the wall behind. Beyond Grahame, she saw the horror-struck faces of the ladies as they watched from the doorway of the salon.

  Desperately she bolted toward the salon, praying that the women would help her, but she could not escape her uncle’s lunge. Catching her with huge, hard hands, he swung her around to face him. Near hysteria, she kicked and clawed at his eyes.

  “Damnation!” he swore as he struggled to secure her wrists. “If your lover could see you now, he’d stop claiming you’re sane!”

  The servant swooped in and enveloped her in scratchy folds of blanket. Then he threw her to the marble floor, knocking her breathless.

  “Don’t hurt her!” Mrs. Rector called out anxiously.

  “We won’t.” Grahame dropped to his knees and began to roll her in the blanket. Gasping for air, she made frenzied attempts to escape, but he was too large, too strong. He overpowered her, trapping her arms and legs so tightly that she couldn’t move.

  When he was done, he lifted her cocooned body in his arms, panting, “You’re safe now, Meriel. I’m here to take care of you.”

  She began to scream.

  Chapter 27

  The air vibrated with the sound of church bells striking the noon hour. Great slow basses, swift small trebles, melodious middle ringers. In the darkened room, Kyle held Constancia’s hand and wondered if Catholic cities had more bells, or did he just notice them more here because he spent so much time waiting, and listening?

  It was easier to think of bells than of the end that was approaching too swiftly. The day before he’d visited the nearest church, wanting to make sure the priest was suitable and would come quickly when summoned. The men had conversed in French, the only language they had in common, and Kyle had been impressed by Father Joaquín’s gentle spirituality. He’d hoped not to see the priest again so soon, but half an hour earlier a servant had gone to the church at Constancia’s request.

  She dozed now, her gaunt face serene. She was thin to the point of transparency, but still possessed a terrible, poignant beauty.

  It would have been so much easier to hire nurses and leave Constancia to her fate, but that would be such an act of cowardice that Kyle could never have forgiven himself. He’d had to bring her to Spain and stay until the end, no matter how difficult it was for him. Perhaps enduring pain was what it meant to be a man. Dominic had endured soul-deep pain in the army, and it had given him a core of toughness that Kyle envied.

  Even hundreds of miles away at Dornleigh when Waterloo was fought, Kyle had felt the shadows of his brother’s anguish, and a crushing weight that existed only in his mind. He’d been sure Dominic was dead or mortally wounded because of the terrible premonition he’d experienced when Dominic chose to enter the army. He’d tried to change his brother’s mind, and succeeded only in creating a blazing row. When Dominic left to join his regiment, Kyle had been half convinced they’d never see each other again.

  After the battle, he’d traveled to London at top speed with the idea of continuing on to Belgium. But by the time he reached the capital, casualty lists were being posted, and he learned that Dominic was alive, and only slightly wounded.

  Ashamed of the way he’d panicked, he decided not to go to Brussels, fearing that his brother might laugh at the unnecessary concern. Later he regretted the decision, because Waterloo had crystallized their estrangement. Though Dominic’s body hadn’t been broken beyond repair, his spirit had been profoundly affected. Kyle often wondered what had aged his brother from boy to man so quickly, but Dominic never told him.

  Would it have made a difference if Kyle had gone to Belgium right after the battle? Maybe he and his brother might have become friends again instead of drifting so far apart that they could barely speak civilly. Perhaps his premonition had meant alienation rather than physical death. If so, it had come true.

  Luckily, not long after that he’d met Constancia. At first she had been an excitement and a pleasure. Later, she became a necessity.

  Now, he was losing her.

  “Querido.” Her lashes swept up, revealing dark eyes that seemed to see beyond the mortal world.

  “The priest will be here soon,” he said soothingly.

  She fluttered her fingers in a feeble gesture of impatience. “It is you who concern me, not him. I worry about you, mi corazón.”

  His brows arched with surprise. “Why? I’m fine.”

  “Nonetheless, I worry.” She gave him a ghost of a smile. “Will you be happy? Will you be wise? Will you become friends with your brother again?”

  “Odd. I was just thinking of Dominic.” He smiled wryly. “I can’t vouch for happiness or wisdom, but I promise to try to mend my relationship with my brother.”

  “One can ask no more than to try.” She closed her eyes, collecting her strength. “And what of this English girl of scattered wits? Are you content to marry her?”

  He hadn’t thought of Lady Meriel for days, so he dutifully called her to mind. He could scarcely remember her face. Fragile and fawnlike, her pale coloring was bland next to the dark beauty he loved in Constancia. Still, she was not unattractive, and there was something very vulnerable about her. The knowledge was curiously appealing.

  “The marriage will suit me well, I believe,” he said slowly. “The girl needs someone to look out for her.”

  Constancia sighed. “That is why I worry. There is more to marriage than being needed, querido. You are too young to settle for so little.”

  Stung, he said, “I have not been man enough for you?”

  Her thin fingers tightened around his. “You know that is not what I meant. I simply want you to have the best in your future—a young girl of wisdom and kindness who will adore you, and make your heart sing.”

  He bent and kissed her forehead. “I have had the best, Constancia. I cannot expect that to happen again.”

  “Diablo!” she muttered, tears glinting in her eyes. “This is the end of my life, querido, not of yours. Promise me that after I am gone, you will live life to the fullest. You deserve nothing less.”

  Before he could reply, Teresa opened the door and the white-robed priest entered. He nodded to Kyle, but it was Constancia he addressed, speaking in swift Spanish.

  Kyle silently withdrew to the corner of the room and watched the alien rituals. A confession, not that Constancia had sins on her soul, for she was the best woman he had ever known. Then the last rites, performed with oil and grave, melodious phrases.

  He felt a curious detachment. Above Constancia’s bed hung a grim crucifix, lovingly painted to display maximum blood and suffering. The complete un-Englishness of the scene both intrigued and repelled him. But to Constancia, this villa echoed her childhood home, and gave her comfort. That was worth the long, expensive journey.

  As the solemn priest finished the last rites, a stunning idea struck Kyle. How could he not have thought of this before? Stepping forward, he said in
French, “Father Joaquín, can you marry Señorita de las Torres and me right now?”

  Constancia gasped, “Kyle!”

  The priest blinked behind his silver-rimmed spectacles. “That isn’t necessary. Having received extreme unction, she is in a state of grace, no longer a sinner.”

  “She was never a sinner,” Kyle said sharply. “And I wish to marry her not for God, but for her, and for me.” His voice gentled as he asked in English, “Will you have me for a husband, my dearest Constancia?”

  She looked at him helplessly. “It is not right for you to go to your young bride as a newly widowed man, mi corazón.”

  He crossed to the bed and took her hand. “What is between us has nothing to do with her, Constancia.” He hesitated, surprised at how intensely he wanted this marriage. “I do not wish to force you, but I would be very pleased, and honored, if you would consent to be my wife.”

  For a dozen heartbeats, she was silent. Then her lips curved into a slow, luminescent smile. “If that is your wish, it will be my delight.”

  He glanced at the priest. “Will you perform the ceremony, Father Joaquín?”

  “It would be highly irregular, and you not even a Catholic.” His pensive gaze went from Kyle to Constancia. “But…surely God would bless such a union.”

  Kyle went to his room to get a gold signet ring with the Renbourne crest on it. When he returned, Teresa had placed masses of garden flowers around the bed and fashioned a bouquet for her mistress. Constancia was propped up on a bank of pillows, her dark hair flowing over her shoulders. In her lace-trimmed white night robe, she looked surprisingly bridal. Her expression was rather amused, and terribly, terribly tired.

  Kyle linked his fingers through Constancia’s. Though he had never imagined a wedding like this one, when he looked at her haggard, lovely face, he knew this marriage was utterly right. Till death did them part. He choked back the thought and repeated his vows in a firm voice. The ring was enormous on her thin finger, but she closed her hand around the gold band, keeping it secure. “Mi esposo,” she whispered. “My husband.”

  He kissed her with exquisite gentleness, thinking of the years of passion and tenderness they had shared. In her eyes, he saw a mirror of those memories. His beloved, his bride. Dear God, how could he ever find such closeness again? Impossible.

  The priest and servants who had acted as witnesses withdrew, leaving the newlywed couple together. Constancia closed her eyes, exhaustion etched on her face. “I can see them around me, Kyle,” she said dreamily, her voice a faint thread of sound. “My parents, my sister, hovering like angels. All those I have loved and lost. So real that I wonder you cannot see them, too.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat. “What matters is that you see them.”

  Her breathing was strained, each inhalation a visible effort. “Will you take me into the garden? I would like to see the sun and the flowers one more time.”

  He hesitated, thinking of the pain that had racked her for so long, but she seemed to be beyond that now. Rising, he opened the door to the courtyard, then lifted her in his arms. His bride weighed no more than a child as he carried her to the bench beneath the flowering orange tree. There he arranged her across his lap, her head on his shoulder. “Are you comfortable, Lady Maxwell?” he asked softly.

  “Oh, yes.” She settled against him with a sigh. The tangy sweetness of orange blossoms surrounded them. A shadow of laughter in her voice, she murmured, “Lady Maxwell. How very grand I sound.”

  A breeze rustled through the leaves above them, and white petals floated weightlessly down to rest on her silver-streaked hair. He kissed the top of her head, aching. She had been so much a part of his life, the epitome of feminine warmth and allure. What would he do without her? What would he regret most when she was gone?

  As soon as the thought crossed his mind, words he’d never spoken before came to his lips. “I love you, Constancia.”

  She tilted her head back a fraction. “I know, querido, but I didn’t think you did.”

  Incongruously he laughed, wondering how it was possible to be simultaneously happy and devastated with grief. His laughter faded, and he realized with a sense of wonder why he’d felt that sudden passionate need to marry her—so that he could acknowledge love. “You are still entirely yourself, my dear.”

  “I can be no other.” She paused to draw breath, then continued laboriously, “I have been so blessed, Kyle. After my family died, I thought myself cursed, driven into a life of sin and loneliness. Long after hope was gone, God sent me you, and I am whole again.” She closed her eyes for a moment, then opened them again, expression burning. “I love you, my husband. And for my sake—go forth and live!”

  “I will, mi corazón,” he promised. But first, he must mourn. She did not speak again. He held her as the shadows lengthened and petals drifted silently down, until finally he was alone.

  Chapter 28

  Dominic awoke, heart pounding, the scent of orange blossoms in his nostrils. It took him a moment to remember that he was at an inn near Bridgton Abbey, Lord Amworth’s seat. After leaving Warfield, he’d sent Morrison back to London in the curricle with most of the baggage. The valet had gone without protest, too shaken to have any other opinions about the best course of action.

  Grateful for the speed and stamina of Pegasus, Dominic had made the trip to Bridgton Abbey in less than a day. Despite his tearing anxiety to see Amworth, he forced himself to stop at a local inn for a few hours’ rest and a cleanup. The situation was dire enough without him bursting in on Amworth wild-eyed and filthy.

  Shaken, he sat on the edge of the bed and buried his face in his hands. Why the hell had he been dreaming of orange blossoms? Though he could not remember anything else about the dream, he still felt oppressed and miserable.

  Kyle. He was feeling his brother’s emotions as well as his own anxiety about Meriel. With painstaking care, he separated his churning feelings, and realized that Kyle was saturated in sorrow so intense that Dominic could taste and smell it. Yet curiously, it was not a ravaging grief. Rather, there was a sense of weary peace. Acceptance.

  He closed his eyes in wordless meditation, trying to send caring and support to his brother, wherever he might be. Then he got to his feet and began to prepare for the most important meeting of his life.

  Though he had decided there must be an end to deceit, for the sake of simplicity Dominic gave the footman at Bridgton Abbey one of his brother’s cards. He was taken to a drawing room, where the mistress of the house joined him after a lengthy wait. Plump and pretty, Lady Amworth seemed designed by nature for smiles, but her round face showed the effects of prolonged strain.

  “Lord Maxwell.” She inclined her head. “I am Lady Amworth. My husband has spoken of you, of course. Have you come to inquire about his health?”

  He bowed. “That, and to inform him of a situation he must know about.”

  She frowned. “It’s about that poor girl, isn’t it? I won’t have my husband disturbed, Lord Maxwell. He has been deathly ill, and the outcome is still uncertain.”

  “Believe me, I don’t want to injure his health,” Dominic said fervently. “But I am sure he would want to know what I have to say.”

  “Very well, you may see him for a few minutes,” her ladyship said grudgingly. “But if you upset him, you’ll be out of Bridgton before you can blink.”

  Just what he needed—to be thrown out of another house. Silently he followed Lady Amworth upstairs to her husband’s rooms.

  Amworth was a thin, exhausted shape under the covers, but he offered a bony hand to Dominic. “You needn’t look so alarmed, Maxwell,” he said with dry humor. “I’m not on my deathbed yet. Elinor will not allow it.” The glance he gave his wife was affectionate. “How is Meriel?”

  “Sir.” Dominic shook hands, then moved back a step, keeping a wary eye on Lady Amworth, who stood guard on the other side of her husband’s bed. “I hope you will listen calmly, for I have no wish to move your lady wife t
o violence.”

  Amworth smiled faintly. “I shall endeavor to remain tranquil.”

  “First of all, I am not Kyle Renbourne, Viscount Maxwell, but Dominic Renbourne, his twin brother,” Dominic said baldly. “I am deeply sorry for the deception. It was Maxwell whom you met originally, but urgent business called him away. Because of the time constraints involved in the courtship of Lady Meriel, he asked me to go to Warfield in his place.”

  Lady Amworth gasped, and her husband’s eyes widened. “I knew that Maxwell had a younger brother, but did not know you were identical twins.” His shrewd gaze went over Dominic. “That explains the vague feeling of differentness I experienced when I visited at Warfield. Was our discussion about Meriel also lies?”

  “Absolutely not.” Relieved that Amworth was taking news of the deception so well, Dominic continued, “My intention was to play my brother’s role as quietly as possible, so that later he could return with no one the wiser. I…I didn’t expect to fall in love with Meriel, but I have, and she cares for me as well. She has opened up greatly since I arrived at Warfield—to the point where she has begun to speak.”

  That news was received with more shock than his announcement that he was not Kyle. Fortunately, Lady Amworth was too intrigued to evict Dominic from the sickroom. Swiftly he told them as much of what had happened as a doting uncle would approve, ending by saying, “I don’t know if Meriel will marry me—she has an aversion to marriage—but she has said she will certainly not wed my brother.”

  Amworth frowned. “Are you seeking permission to court her in your own right?”

  Dominic hesitated a moment, knowing that to answer the question would irrevocably damage his relationship with his brother. But he had no choice; Meriel must come first. “Yes, though I don’t know how to convince you that I am not a fortune hunter. My inheritance is very modest compared to hers.”