The Wild Child (19 page)

A lifetime locked in dusty rooms with dusty books… did Kyle know so little of his brother? Did he care about nothing but indulging his desire for a companion at Cambridge? “There are many who think defending one’s country is an honorable calling. And even if it weren’t, being ten minutes older gives you no right to dictate how I should spend my life.”

“Is that what you think I’m trying to do?” Kyle took a deep breath, visibly struggling with his temper. “I want what’s best for you. With Napoleon exiled in Elba, you’ll be as bored in the army as you would be in the vicarage. Continue your education instead. Three years from now, you might feel differently about what you want to do.” His voice softened. “Please, Dom. I’d like to have you there.”

The appeal affected Dominic far more than Kyle’s anger had. Maybe his brother had a point. No one was a better companion than Kyle in a good mood. It would be like when they were boys…

But they were no longer boys, and the pleasant vision was shattered by the sudden knowledge that falling in with his brother’s plans would be spiritual suicide. Whenever they were together, Kyle was the Heir and Dominic was the Spare. He would slowly fade into the shadows, of no importance to himself or anyone.

If he was ever to be his own man, he had to leave. “That wouldn’t do, Kyle,” he said with finality. “The army will suit me well enough. If the rumors come true and Napoleon leaves Elba, I might even be useful.”

“No!” Kyle smashed his cue stick violently across the edge of the billiard table, splintering it into shards. For a moment it seemed as if he would hurl himself across the table and lock his hands around his brother’s throat. Instead, he said with lethal intensity, “If you do this, I swear before God that I will never forgive you.”

Dominic felt the blood drain from his face. “How fortunate that I have no interest in your forgiveness.”

Then he spun on his heel and left the room.

He’d been proud of the fact that he didn’t start to shake until he reached the privacy of his own bedroom.

Dominic wakened from the dream, still hearing his twin’s voice ringing in his ears. As he stared into the darkness, he knew he’d made the right decision. Yet now, a decade later, he saw with crystal clarity that Kyle’s bullying had been rooted as much in concern as in the desire to impose his will. A pity that Dominic hadn’t understood then, because his anger with his brother had deepened the schism. After Waterloo he’d yearned to return home and spend time with Kyle. Perhaps a trip into Scotland, where they could ride and fish and hike through familiar green hills. Some evening, after a generous amount of brandy, Dominic would have spoken of the hell of battle. Though Kyle wouldn’t have said much—men didn’t talk about such things—his quiet understanding would have healed invisible wounds. But Dominic could no longer turn to his brother. Though the companionship of his fellow officers had saved him from total breakdown, it had not been the same. The scars of holding the pain inside were with him still. He’d spoken to no one until today, when he’d told Meriel. Odd how close he felt to her, despite her mental quirks. Thinking of that closeness brought back the memory of the kiss they had shared, a topic so alarming that it was a relief when his restless mind circled back to his brother.

Despite their estrangement, there was still a connection between them. Several years earlier, Dominic had been thrown while hunting in the Shires. His horse had to be destroyed, while he’d suffered broken bones and a cracked skull. Kyle arrived from London the next evening, growling and scolding his brother for riding like a ham-handed peasant. If Dominic had felt less wretched, he would have hit Kyle. Instead, though he would never have admitted it aloud, he’d been embarrassingly glad to see him. Kyle had finished his waspish lecture by dismissing the local sawbones hired by Dominic’s hunting friends. Then he’d summoned the best physician in the Midlands. Dominic’s next memories were hazy, dreamlike images of Kyle sitting with him all night when he was half out of his mind with fever. His brother had sponged his face with cool water, and pressed him back to the bed when he tried to flounder up.

After the fever broke, Dominic decided he’d dreamed those scenes, because Kyle had shown no disposition to play nursemaid. He’d barely even been civil.

As soon as Dominic was on the road to recovery, Kyle had left without explaining how he’d learned of the accident so quickly. Only later did Dominic discover that none of his friends had thought to notify the Renbourne family of his injury; the mysterious bond forged when they were boys was what brought Kyle to his side. His brother had known of his injury at Waterloo, too, though Dominic hadn’t learned that until much later. As a boy, such sensations had been routine; sometimes he hadn’t known whether he was experiencing his own emotions, or Kyle’s. He’d deliberately suppressed such feelings after their estrangement, with only partial success.

His throat tightened with sorrow. How had he and his brother come to such a pass? Surely they could have done better. If Kyle had been less imperious. If Dominic had been more patient instead of allowing his brother to goad him into anger.

The past couldn’t be changed, but perhaps the future could be. Silently he vowed to hold on to his temper the next time they met, and to avoid saying things he knew would provoke his twin. And for God’s sake, he absolutely must not behave improperly to his brother’s bride. One didn’t have to be twin born to know that Kyle would find that unforgivable. He would assume that Dominic was deliberately trifling with Meriel as part of their lifelong competition.

When was the last time they were really close? Probably it had been when their mother died. The countess had been stricken with a sudden fever, and both boys had been summoned home from school. Rugby was closer, and Dominic had reached Dornleigh first. She’d smiled and whispered his name, for she had never once confused her two sons. Voice barely audible, she added, “Look out for your brother. He isn’t like you. He… breaks more easily.”

Soon after that, she’d slipped into a sleep from which she never woke. His face like granite, the earl withdrew to his study. Dominic watched for his brother’s carriage, aching, and thought of what his mother had said. Silently he vowed not to repeat her exact words, for Kyle would be humiliated to think that she’d considered him weak. Dominic knew that wasn’t what she meant, but it was better not to try to explain.

Kyle arrived home late that night. Dominic raced down the stairs to the front hall, knowing that he should be the one to break the news. As soon as Kyle entered, his gaze went to his twin, pleading wordlessly for hope.

Dominic shook his head, throat tight. “She’s gone, Kyle. The… the last thing she did was speak of you. She sent her love.” For that, after all, was what her words had really meant. Kyle’s expression shattered. “She died and I wasn’t here. I wasn’t here!”

Undone by Kyle’s anguish, Dominic reached out to his brother. They ended up clinging together as Kyle sobbed uncontrollably. Tears ran down his own cheeks, and they were united in grief as they never were again.

The memory of that grief resonated strangely. Dominic gradually realized that he could feel his brother now. And tonight he sensed the same terrible grief he’d felt the day Kyle had asked him to come to Warfield. In fact, the sorrow seemed even deeper now. What the devil was going on?

Another thought struck with the force of absolute conviction. Kyle was out of the country. Ireland? No, farther than that. France, perhaps, or maybe even Spain or Portugal. No wonder he’d said that no messages could reach him. But why go abroad now? If this was a simple pleasure trip, he surely could have postponed it. Nor would there be such sorrow emanating from him that Dominic could feel it hundreds of miles away. Damnation, but he wished there was something he could do. Perhaps there was. If he could feel Kyle, perhaps his brother could feel him. He tried to formulate a prayer but swiftly gave that up. He had no gift for holy words. Instead, he imagined himself reaching out, through the night and the uncounted miles, and laying his hand on his brother’s shoulder. Letting him know that he was not alone, despite the physical and emotional distance that separated them. Perhaps it was his imagination, but he thought he sensed an easing of Kyle’s grief. He hoped so.

Exhausted by the turbulent day, he rolled on his side and attempted sleep again. But his mind still churned with thoughts of Kyle, and of Meriel. His future sister-in-law. He must not allow his relationship with her to become any closer. Already he was on dangerous ground. The potential conflict with his brother was the catastrophic kind that ripped families apart forever. Yet surely it would not hurt to take the nosegay Meriel had made and inhale the fragrance once more. Spice and sweetness, just like her.

Flowers curled in his hand, he finally drifted into sleep.

Chapter 18

“You have a visitor, my lord.”

Dominic glanced up from where he was laboriously transplanting small cabbages so they could grow into large cabbages. The young housemaid who had delivered the message promptly blushed, overcome by the enormity of talking to him.

Who the devil would be calling on him at Warfield? He got to his feet, ruefully noting the muddy stains on his knees. Rain in the night was good for the garden but messy for the gardeners. “Who is it?”

The housemaid looked stricken. “I… I forgot, my lord. Nor did she have a card. A proper lady, though.”

Probably some distant Renbourne relative who lived in the area and had heard that Lord Maxwell was visiting Warfield. Well, whoever it was would have to accept him in all his muddy glory. He called,

“Kamal, I have a visitor. I’ll be back soon.”

The Indian looked up from the bed he was hoeing. “Very good, my lord.”

Meriel, who was thinning the blossoms on pepper bushes so they would bear larger fruit later, continued to softly croon one of her wordless melodies, but she gave Dominic a swift, unreadable glance. In the three days since he’d visited the asylum and given her Moonbeam, they had not been alone together. Perhaps it was coincidence that all her projects had involved working with Kamal, but Dominic doubted it. Clearly she wanted chaperoning. Very wise of her. But he missed the easy companionship of the two of them gardening alone. Though he liked Kamal, having him around all the time changed things. Dominic followed the maid back to the house, pausing only long enough to wash his hands at the glass house. Changing his clothes would waste another half hour, and he’d just get muddy again when he returned to the kitchen garden.

The visitor was sharing a tea tray with the ladies in the small parlor. His entrance interrupted a buzz of conversation, and three sets of female eyes turned toward him. The visitor, an attractive, fashionable woman around his age, looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her. Lord, he hoped she wasn’t some former mistress of his brother’s!

Using Kyle’s most smoothly arrogant tone, the one that said Lord Maxwell was always correctly attired, even when he looked as if he’d been dragged through a bush backward, Dominic said, “Pray forgive my appearance. I thought the rudeness of coming to you direct from the garden to be less than the rudeness of making you wait.”

The visitor rose to her feet. Tall and imposing, she had short dark hair and dramatic brown eyes. “I would be the last person on earth to criticize you, Lord Maxwell. I am too much in your debt.”

He studied her face. They’d met, and not that long ago, but when?

She smiled a little. “You don’t recognize me. I’m glad.”

Her voice triggered the memory. But then she had been screaming, on the verge of hysteria. “Gods above,” he said blankly. “Mrs. Morton.” He bowed over her gloved hand, amazed and delighted at how her appearance had changed since the asylum.

“I am Jena Ames once more.” Her expression hardened. “I shall never use that man’s name again.”

“One can hardly blame you, my dear.” Mrs. Marks poured a fresh cup of tea. “Miss Ames has been telling us about her husband’s wickedness, and how she is free today because of your actions. You are a hero, my lord.”

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand, ashamed to think how close he had come to not bothering.

“All I did was carry a message.”

“Nonetheless, I am here to thank you,” Jena said quietly. “If you had not listened to a woman presumed mad, I doubt I would ever have been freed from the asylum. My keepers would not have allowed me another chance to distress a visitor.”

Accepting a cup of tea, he settled into a wooden chair, not wanting to soil upholstery. His gaze went over Jena Ames again. She was the image of a confident woman, sure of herself and her place in the world. Only the shadows under her eyes revealed how much she had recently suffered. Still, as the conversation continued, he began to notice signs of increasing tension. When he’d finished his tea, he suggested, “Since Miss Ames knew Meriel in India, perhaps she’d like to go outside and see her today.”

Jena hesitated. “If… if you think she wouldn’t mind.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t.” He rose from his seat and glanced at the ladies. “Would you like to stroll out to the kitchen garden with us?”

As he’d hoped, Mrs. Marks said, “Too hot. You young people run along.”

He offered his arm to Jena. Again she hesitated, as if uncertain, before taking it. Together they exited from the back of the house into the parterre. She released her breath in a long sigh. “The fresh air feels so good, Lord Maxwell. So… so free.”

Thinking this would be a good chance to learn about Meriel’s earlier years, he said, “Since it’s a fine day, would you like to take an indirect route to our destination?”

“Please.” She gave him a sidelong glance. “You saw that I was becoming rather frayed, didn’t you?”

“I thought that might be happening,” he admitted. “After your ordeal in the asylum, it must be something of a strain to reenter society.”

“I’m afraid so, even though Mrs. Marks and Mrs. Rector could not have been kinder.” She gave him a rueful smile. “I feel as if I’m walking on eggs. My father pushed me out the door today, saying that the sooner I resume normal life, the better. I know he is right, but I feel rather like an ensign being sent off into battle.”