The Wild Child (Bride Trilogy)

by Mary Jo Putney

  The Ameses reacted to their unexpected visitors with the swift common sense of a military family. After hearing Dominic’s explanation of why they had come, Jena hustled Meriel away for tending. Meriel was still close to sleepwalking, but she went willingly. Dominic took it as a good sign that she knew her friends from her enemies.

  Though he was reeling with fatigue after the long journey to and from Bridgton Abbey, Dominic couldn’t rest until the truth was known. “There is something else you must know, General.” Tersely he explained who he was.

  After a startled moment, Ames said, “You don’t believe in a simple life, do you? We can talk about this in the morning. Right now, you both need to rest.”

  Grateful to accept the general’s judgment, Dominic followed him to a bedroom. Within two minutes, he washed, stripped, and was sleeping like the dead.

  Chapter 30

  Flames and screams and a silhouette of evil. Traveling in terror through the desert night, a large hand on her spine to prevent her falling from the saddlebow of a horse so rough-gaited she could barely breathe. Crying for her mama and papa, and a frantic refusal to believe they would never come. Hope eroding day by day, until there was nothing left but bitter acceptance that she had been abandoned.

  The scene shifted to her uncle lashing ropes around her blanket-wrapped body. Fighting frantically to escape from the horrible straitjacket, but being overpowered. The doctor speaking soothingly as he rammed a funnel down her throat and poured a sticky potion that she must swallow or die of choking.

  This time, she knew better than to expect rescue.

  She returned to consciousness in broken patches, cold with sweat. But this time, rescue had come, hadn’t it? Or had she imagined Renbourne’s embrace, his scent, and the steady beat of his heart under her ear?

  Eyes closed, she took stock. A soft bed, a small dark room with a dim light. A clean country smell rather than the stone-deep despair of the asylum. Warily she opened her eyes and saw Jena Ames sitting by her bed, quietly reading by the light of an oil lamp. So Renbourne and Kamal really had come for her.

  She tried to order her chaotic thoughts. Kamal had brandished a lethal dagger, and a furious Renbourne had been on the verge of ripping out the doctor’s throat. Another ride on horseback, but this time cradled against Renbourne instead of weeping helplessly on a terrifying ride into the unknown.

  Then Jena, who helped her wash and made her drink broth before tucking her into bed. She shifted her gaze and saw that she wore an overlarge shift, old but clean.

  Cautiously she stretched. All her muscles ached from the torment of being tied like a mummy for hours. The only respite had been periodic releases from the chair when a burly female attendant had helped her use a chamber pot, a clumsy, humiliating business for someone tied in a straitjacket.

  Hearing Meriel’s movement, Jena glanced up. “You’re awake. Good.” She bent forward to study Meriel’s eyes. “It looks as if most of the laudanum has worn off. How do you feel?”

  Meriel gave an infinitesimal shrug.

  “You’re probably thirsty.” Jena poured a glass of water, then held it to Meriel’s lips. “My mouth was always horribly dry after they made me take one of those ghastly potions.” Though she tried to speak calmly, there was a faint tremor in her voice. It hadn’t been that long since she had been as helpless as Meriel.

  As Meriel greedily swallowed the water, she tried to remember how long Jena had been in the asylum. Many months. Meriel had been there—two days? three?—and had already vanished into the mists of her own mind. She would never have survived a year.

  After Meriel drank her fill, Jena set the glass aside. “I was horrified when Renbourne and Kamal appeared. You looked more dead than alive. How dare your uncle send you to Bladenham! You and I both owe your young man a great deal.”

  So they knew who he really was. Good. Meriel thought of Renbourne with sharp longing. His physical presence had lured her from the seductive blankness of the mists. Reassured her that this time she had not been abandoned to her fate.

  Where was he now?

  “Knowing you were in the asylum has brought it all back.” Jena gazed at the lamp, her expression strained. “I’ve been trying to…to come to terms with my time there. Dr. Craythorne isn’t evil—in his own way, I think he’s compassionate and very dedicated. Many of the patients really were hopelessly mad, but he is so single-minded that he sees madness everywhere, even when it doesn’t exist. That I can’t forgive.”

  She looked at Meriel again, forcing a smile. “I shouldn’t talk of that. More amusing to tell you how we’re going to turn the tables on my ghastly husband. Since divorce is virtually impossible, my father’s solicitor has filed to get me an annulment. Did you know a marriage isn’t legal if one of the parties is insane at the time of the wedding? Since my own husband committed me to an asylum, I must have been mad. Ergo, the marriage was invalid.” She smiled wryly. “I had no trouble signing an affidavit that I was insane when I married—I had to have been crazy to marry Morton.”

  Meriel smiled a little, understanding Jena’s amusement. There was poetic justice to the grounds used for the petition for annulment. She hoped it was granted. How horrible to be forever tied to a man one loathed.

  Jena studied her face. “One of the things I hated most about Bladenham was the lack of privacy. Knowing that at any time an attendant might peer through the window in the door to see what I was doing. I didn’t want you to wake up alone, but now that the drug has worn off, would you rather I left you?”

  Meriel gave a sharp nod.

  “You’re almost yourself again. In fact, we’re having a real conversation.” Jena hesitated, then said diffidently, “Mr. Renbourne said that you’re speaking now. I don’t suppose you’d like to demonstrate?”

  Meriel shifted her gaze to the faded wallpaper. She wasn’t prepared to talk to anyone other than Renbourne.

  Correctly interpreting her silence, Jena got to her feet. “Perhaps another time. Try to get more rest. By morning, the last of the potion should have worn off.” She leaned forward and kissed Meriel’s cheek. “I’m in the room on your left, Mr. Renbourne is across the hall, and my father and Kamal are in the other wing, so you’re safe. No one can kidnap you from Holliwell Grange. If you need anything, just call.”

  She started to lift the lamp, then hesitated. “Shall I leave the light?”

  Meriel nodded again. She’d had enough of shadows.

  After Jena left, she lay still for a time, appreciating the silence and cleanliness and privacy—and giving Jena time to undress and go to bed.

  The knowledge that Renbourne was across the hall made her…hungry. She wanted him. Wanted his touch, his taste, his closeness.

  When she thought enough time had passed, she shakily sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. Though her body hurt as if it had been pounded from head to foot, she felt a certain detachment from the pain. A lingering effect of the drug, perhaps.

  Cautiously she stood, and had to grab the bedside table to keep from falling. When her balance steadied, she made her way to the washstand and splashed water on her face. The coolness helped clear her head.

  As she dried her hands and face, she studied herself in the small mirror above the washstand. She looked ghostly in the dim light. Her only color was a purple bruise on one cheekbone and dark shadows beneath her eyes. With tendrils of hair escaping from her braid to writhe around her face, she was a sight to make Mrs. Marks sigh with exasperation. But seeing the image made her feel real. Returned from the mists.

  Cautiously she opened the door. No squeaks. She stepped across the hall and turned the knob on the opposite door. It swung open soundlessly; the general’s household was as well run as his army cantonment must had been.

  She closed the door and leaned against it as her eyes adjusted to the darker room. Renbourne lay sprawled on his side on the bed, illuminated by a wash of moonlight. The blanket had worked its way down to his waist, exposing his bare torso
. Judging by the pile of crumpled garments, he had simply stripped off his clothing and fallen into bed.

  She liked the way he was made, broad through the shoulders, narrow through the hips. The clean limbs and firm muscles of a man who enjoyed physical work. In the moonlight the fading patterns of the mehndi on his upper chest were faintly visible, a reminder of the intimacy they had shared.

  Being in the same room, breathing the same air, brought a sharp release of tension. When her uncle drove Renbourne from Warfield, she’d been terrified that he was leaving forever. Certainly she hadn’t expected him to discover what had happened to her, and come to the rescue. The thought made her soften with tenderness.

  Craving the feel of his bare skin against hers, she peeled off the loose shift and climbed into the bed. Trying not to disturb him, she carefully fitted her body against his, circling his ribs with one arm so that her breasts pressed into his back, tucking her knee between his thighs. Then she relaxed, finally feeling safe. His scent, warm and familiar, created a hazy feeling of contentment.

  Dreamily she stroked his chest, enjoying the contrast of smooth warm skin and soft, springy hair. Despite her relaxation, she felt paradoxically alive.

  She kissed the hollow under his shoulder blade, savoring the salty taste of his skin. What had begun as a desire for simple closeness became more as her blood quickened. Could a male mate in his sleep? It would be an amusing experiment to find out.

  She skimmed the firm shape of his flank under the blanket, then moved her hand up the front of his thigh until she found what she sought. Already semi-erect, his organ hardened in her hand. The memory of their previous mating sprang to vivid life as she began to caress him. She wanted—needed—that intimate fire again.

  “Meriel,” Renbourne murmured. Rolling onto his back, he drew her close and began to caress one breast with his other hand.

  He wasn’t truly awake, but his instincts were excellent. She raised her head and kissed him. His lips, warm and welcoming, aroused her. She wanted to flow in and around him, dissolve all barriers until they were truly one flesh.

  His hand glided over her belly and came to rest between her legs, producing a rush of liquid heat. As his fingers slid deep inside her, she sucked in her breath, stunned at the swiftness of her response. No longer playing, she nipped his earlobe.

  He came awake with a jolt. “My God, you’re really here!” he breathed. “I thought I was dreaming.” He kissed her with dark velvet richness.

  Exhilaration blazed through her. Yes, yes! She wanted to eat him alive, ravish him until Bladenham was seared from her mind. She rolled on top of him, her legs bracketing his…

  And learned that his damned conscience had woken up, too. He caught her shoulders, fingers tight. In a low voice laced with laughter and desire, he said, “I assume this means you’ve recovered.”

  She shivered with delight. Teasing him when he was asleep was all very well, but so much better to have him fully present, concentrated on her. She kissed his throat, enjoying the whiskery rasp of his unshaved chin. So male. Delicious.

  He lifted her so that their upper bodies no longer touched, and caught her gaze. “We mustn’t do this,” he said firmly. “I swore I wouldn’t compromise you again. Marriage or nothing, sprite. Besides, this seems like an abuse of General Ames’s hospitality. He would not like knowing I took advantage of you under his roof.”

  Did being a gentleman mean he always thought it was his fault if they mated? She snorted at the absurdity of that and ground her hips into his so that her lushly lubricated female parts slid along the silky length of his erection. The mind-melting intimacy made her whimper with pleasure, and gave her a fierce craving for more.

  He went rigid, and she felt a hot throb where their organs touched. So close, yet not close enough. She wriggled, frantically trying to take him inside her. Then his hands locked hard on her hips, preventing further motion.

  “Stop that, you little witch,” he said hoarsely. “This is not right.”

  The moonlight revealed a face of tight, sweat-slicked planes as he struggled to control his body. How strong he was, to be able to wrestle passion, and win. She didn’t have a tithe of his discipline.

  She felt his muscles tighten as he started to remove her, and felt as if he were ripping her in half, tearing her away from her most vital self. “Please,” she whispered, humiliated at how desperately she needed him. “Please, Dominic.”

  As he hesitated, hot silent tears spilled from her eyes and fell onto his chest. Pain spasmed across his face. Then he drew her down so that her breasts crushed against him. “Don’t cry, sweeting,” he said unsteadily. “Please don’t cry.”

  Dizzy with relief, she kissed him with devouring intensity. Was it love, that he could resist passion but not her desperate plea? There was so much to learn from him, so much. More than she could master in a lifetime.

  Hand trembling with impatience, she guided him inside her. A moan of astonished delight escaped her as she slowly lowered herself onto his shaft. Her body accommodated him more easily this time, clasping with seductive heat. She moved her hips experimentally. He groaned as she slid up and down with sensual ease, taking him as deep as she could. She liked the sense of power, the fantasy that she could enslave him with pleasure, as he had done for her.

  His eyes closed, but he cupped her breasts, caressing with strong, clever fingers that sent frissons of excitement scorching through her veins until they fused with the fire in her loins. And there was something special about this position, this angle, the way their bodies rubbed together…

  The illusion of power vanished as her body escaped her control. Every ounce of her was moving, writhing, pulsing in a divine dance where he was the only imaginable partner, a mate who enriched and humbled her.

  Faster…

  Harder…

  Splintering…

  Falling…but not alone. Ah, God, not alone.

  He held her to him, shaking. He had not known that passion could be so…so shattering. Some of that intensity came from the fear he had experienced on her behalf, and his profound gratitude at having her safe again. But mostly it was Meriel herself.

  He’d never known a woman who was so totally absorbed when she made love. She had no self-consciousness, no calculation about who was winning the silent battle that often lurked beneath the surface when men and women came together. She gave herself to him utterly—and there was no greater aphrodisiac.

  He liked having her rest on top of him—she was just a little bit of a thing, albeit all woman—but her skin was beginning to feel chilled in the breeze from the open window. Rolling to his side, he folded her against him spoon style and pulled the blanket over them both. She gave a throaty sigh and snuggled back into the curve of his body.

  Marveling at how well she had survived her ordeal, he kissed her temple. “No permanent damage sustained at the asylum?”

  After a lengthy silence, she said, “Not damage, but…change. Because I have had such freedom for so long, I didn’t know how…how vulnerable I was. It only took one damnable man to wrench me out of paradise.”

  His arm tightened around her. “They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and it’s certainly true here. Your uncle’s good intentions sent you to hell.”

  She shivered. “I want to go home.”

  He sighed, knowing that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “That won’t be easy, sprite. After leaving Warfield I visited Lord Amworth and enlisted his support on your behalf. I intended to return and ask General Ames to join me in his capacity as magistrate while I politely explained to Lord Grahame that you are sane, of legal age, and entitled to have any guests you choose.”

  Her head nodded vigorously.

  He smiled ruefully. “It’s no longer that simple. Kamal found me at Bridgton Abbey and told me you’d been sent to the asylum. Dr. Craythorne is a well-known specialist in mental disorders, and he thinks you’re mad. With Craythorne’s opinion as evidence, Lord Grahame
could go to a different magistrate and argue that I abducted you from the asylum in order to seize control over your property. I’m no expert on the law, but if there is a dispute, you might be made a ward of the Crown until it’s settled.” He took a deep breath. “You might be returned to an asylum.”

  She went rigid in his arms. “No!”

  He hated frightening her with the possibilities, but she had to be made to understand. “Legal disputes are not settled quickly, Meriel. Though Amworth would try to help, his health is still very fragile. Grahame might get his way through sheer bullheadedness. His opinion of me will become even lower when he learns that I’m not Lord Maxwell. Most of the world will agree with him.”

  “No,” she said again, but this time her voice was a whisper. “You won’t let them put me in the madhouse again, would you?”

  “I can only think of two ways to save you from that, Meriel,” he said soberly. “The first is to take you away, and live in hiding.” They’d be in very modest circumstances, too, given the state of his finances, but he didn’t mention that.

  She made a hissing sound. “I won’t be driven from Warfield!”

  He’d known she would feel that way. “Which means there is really only one choice.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll have to marry me.”

  Her heart accelerated under his hand. “I do not wish to marry.”

  “I know, but marriage is the only way I have any standing to help you, Meriel,” he explained. “As the seducer of an innocent, I’m a villain. As your husband, I have not only the right, but the responsibility, to protect you.”

  She slid from his embrace and climbed from the bed, going to stand by the window. In the moonlight, she was a slim silvery shadow. He winced at the dark bruises that marred the perfection of her pale body. She had fought her kidnappers with the fierceness of her warrior ancestors.