The Wild Child (13 page)

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 dust across his chest and arrowed downward so intriguingly. As she drew the mehndi, his energy had come alive, swirling in 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 on she shut Roxana indoors, preferring to be alone. Every sensation was magnified as she stalked through the cool night. Scents floated seductively on the breeze, the dew-touch grass was cool beneath her feet. She felt painfully restless and alive.

Moving soundlessly through alternating patches of moon light and shadows, she entered the wilderness area. The illusion of untamed forest suited her mood. An owl hooted as passed above her so closely she heard the beat of wings, moment later, a death shriek revealed that the hunter h found prey. A deeper scream, drawn out and eerie, cut through the woods. A badger, she thought, though more often they growl 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, bit at her neck before starting to lick her dark fur with possessive tenderness. The female made a low, almost catlike purr sound as she quivered with anticipation. Their intoxicated play was the warp and weft of a special survival, a passionate attraction so intense they did not 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.”

“Which I might become,” Dominic said dryly. “Do you take my meaning?”

The doctor did. Shaking his head, he said, “Such a sad case. Her paternal uncle, Lord Grahame, appreciates the benefits of modern treatment, but her other guardian has been obdurate. He simply refuses to see reason. It’s almost as if he doesn’t wish her…” He cut himself off. “Forgive me for saying that. Lord Amworth surely desires the best for his niece, but his attitude has been hopelessly old-fashioned.”

“I’m aware of the disagreement between her ladyship’s uncles,” Dominic said in a neutral voice. “Since a marriage is being considered, I feel I should know as much as possible about her condition.”

Craythorne’s expression brightened as he realized that a husband would have jurisdiction over his wife’s treatment, and could overrule an obstructive uncle. “I’ve examined the girl several times over the years, and I can say with absolute certainty that allowing her to run wild is the worst possible treatment. Regular habits are essential to establishing self-control. Without such discipline, her behavior has worsened.”

Dominic frowned. “In what way?”

“She grows increasingly irrational. The last time I paid a call, she led me up to the old castle, then staged a suicide attempt. I feared for her life.” His face darkened. “I was on the verge of sending riverboats to search for her body when she reappeared, looking bland as butter.”

Dominic almost laughed. So he wasn’t the only one the little witch had played that trick on! But how could the doctor think her undisciplined after seeing her gardens? Keeping his expression grave, he said,

“What type of treatment would you use with her?”

“First and most important, she should be removed from whatever pernicious influences affect her at Warfield. We would immediately establish a structured routine for her. After that, it would vary. I employ a range of therapies, depending on how the patient responds.” Craythorne’s heavy brows drew together.

“Let me take you on a tour of our facilities. That will answer your questions better than mere words.”

Glad the doctor had anticipated his request, Dominic followed the other man from the office into a corridor that ran toward the west wing of the house. It stopped at a massive, iron-bound door. Craythorne opened it with a large key from a jangling ring.

Fashionable furnishings vanished on the other side of the door. The corridor was starkly whitewashed, without decoration of any kind. “It’s important not to overstimulate the patients,” the doctor explained.

“Most have far too much going on in their brains already, overheating their blood and unbalancing the humors.”

They walked down the dim, echoing corridor. Despite impeccable cleanliness, a faint miasma of uncontrolled bodily functions permeated the air.

Craythorne stopped by a door and indicated a small covered window for viewing inside. “Patients must learn self-control. This is one of two restraint rooms.”

Dominic lifted the hinged cover and peered inside. The room was immaculately clean but utterly austere. A wooden chair was bolted to the floor, and a burly man in a straitjacket was tied to it. His head hung in an image of despair that chilled Dominic’s blood. “Are patients routinely tied up here?”

“Mr. Enoch is one of our most difficult cases, and has spent a great deal of time in restraints. I believe, however, that he is beginning to understand that bad behavior is punished, while good behavior is rewarded. A salutary fear is a great aid to encouraging self-discipline. As his understanding improves, restraints will be needed less and less.”

Dominic thought of Meriel tied to a chair like that one, and his stomach turned over. “Is such treatment suitable for a delicate female?”

“Narcotics and tonics are usually effective in soothing agitated females, but occasionally the restraints are required,” the doctor said with regret. “But unlike most asylums, I will not allow patients to be put in chains, no matter how severe the case.”

Dominic supposed that was a sign of enlightenment. If Bladenham was progressive, what in the name of heaven were other asylums like?

Craythorne resumed walking along the corridor. “Down at the end we have the ice bath room. Ice is shipped down from Scotland every winter to ensure an adequate supply. It is not an insignificant cost, but I assure you, Lord Maxwell, we spare no expense when it comes to patient treatment.”

A resounding crash shattered the silence, followed by a bellow of obscenities. Swearing under his breath, Craythorne quickened his pace. “Mr. Jones is having one of his spells. When you see him, you will understand the need for restraints.”

Three large men dressed in gray came racing toward them from the other end of the hall. Their chief unlocked Mr. Jones’s room, and they rushed inside.

Curious, Dominic wanted to follow, too, but Craythorne blocked him with an outstretched arm. “Don’t,”

he said tersely. “It’s not safe.”

Looking through the open door, Dominic saw a room so plain, it was more cell than bedchamber. The only furniture was a cot that had apparently been bolted to the floor. Mr. Jones, a surprisingly small man, had ripped the cot loose and was wielding it like a weapon as he shouted filthy words in a hoarse voice. He swung wildly at his keepers. Two of the attendants managed to dodge him, but the other was trapped against a wall. The cot smashed into his ribs, and he collapsed with a cry of pain. Before Jones could swing the cot again, the other two attendants tackled him to the floor. Even with the advantage of size and number, they could barely hold the frenzied patient down. During the struggle that followed, Craythorne slipped away for a moment, then returned with a coarse canvas straitjacket. With the skill of practice, the attendants forced the garment over the patient’s head and immobilized his arms. That done, the chief keeper shoved a handkerchief in Jones’s mouth, cutting off the ugly words. A gag was tied over the man’s mouth, and he was hauled to his feet. As Jones was taken away, Craythorne explained, “He’s going to the other restraint room. I’d thought the course of ice baths was helping him, but this is a serious relapse.”

The attendant who’d been struck by the cot limped from the cell, pain in his face. “1 think he cracked my ribs, sir.”

“That was quite a blow you took,” Craythorne said with concern. “Go to the infirmary. I’ll examine you when I’ve finished showing Lord Maxwell around.”

Sickened by the sight of such uncontrolled lunacy, Dominic fell in beside the doctor as they retraced their steps through the main block of the house. As Craythorne unlocked another door, he said, “Male patients are kept in the west wing, females in the east. They are always strictly segregated, and cared for by attendants of their own gender. Bladenham has never had the kind of revolting scandal that some asylums have experienced.”

It took a moment for Dominic to realize that the doctor was alluding to several notorious cases where female lunatics had been ravished and impregnated by male patients. And worse, sometimes the assailants had been keepers. Dear God, to think that afflicted women like Meriel were subjected to such savage treatment!