The Wild Child (26 page)

As Mrs. Marks uttered a protest, Meriel rose from her chair and glared at the earl. Holding his gaze, she lifted her claret-filled wineglass by the stem, then whipped it downward to smash on the edge of the table. The sound of shattering crystal filled the air as blood-crimson wine sprayed across the white linen tablecloth.

Her head swung around toward Dominic, and he saw hurt as well as rage in her eyes. Then she bolted from the dining room, her silken sari flaring behind her.

“What the devil got into her?” the earl sputtered. Dominic leaped to his feet. So furious he could barely speak, he spat out, “Congratulations, Lord Wrexham. You’ve managed with a few insults to destroy all of my efforts to build a relationship with Lady Meriel. If you truly want this marriage, you’ve picked a damnable way of showing it.” He rounded the table to go after Meriel…

And almost broke his neck tripping over Roxana, who planted herself in front of him just before he reached the door. Swearing, he managed to catch the door frame and save himself from crashing ignominiously to the floor.

He glared down at the dog, who regarded him with a curled lip and apologetic eyes. The poor brute wanted to protect her mistress, but she liked Dominic.

Ignoring his father, Dominic knelt by Roxana and held out his hand, forcing his thoughts into calmer channels. After several uncertain moments, the dog licked his palm, friends once more. He gave her a quick head scratch, then went out the door, closing it quickly so that Roxana couldn’t follow. Naturally Meriel had vanished from the corridor by this time. He tried to think where she might have gone. The house was large enough to provide dozens of hiding places, but he doubted she was here. Her instincts usually sent her outdoors, into the sanctuary of Warfield Park, where she could probably hide forever if she chose.

Sanctuary. Guessing that the tree house was her most likely retreat, he swiftly left the house and headed for the great oak. The days were lengthening toward the summer solstice, and there was still peach-colored light along the western horizon, enough to illuminate the pathways through the gardens. He watched for Meriel, but saw no pale fluttering silk to guide him. If she wasn’t at the tree house, he’d never find her. When he reached the clearing that held the oak, he paused to peruse the tree house. In the late twilight, the domed and minareted structure looked like a dream that had floated from an opium pipe and lodged in the solid branches of the ancient tree.

The ladder had been raised, so she was safely up in her castle. As he watched, he saw a glow of light suddenly illuminate one of the casement windows. There were matching windows on three sides of the tree house, and they were large enough to admit a man. It was time to see if he’d retained any of his boyhood climbing skill.

At the base of the oak, he peeled off his tightly fitted coat and tossed it aside to free up his arms. Then he studied the tree. The lowest branch was well above his head, but with a running start, he might be able to jump high enough to reach it.

He backed up, then sprinted forward and leaped upward. His fingers just missed the branch. Another try, and this time his clawing nails scrabbled across the bark.

Hurling himself into the air, he succeeded on his third try. The bark rough against his palms, he clambered onto the branch. From there, the climb to a branch level with the tree house was easy, though he was still ten feet or so away.

He looked into the open casement and saw Meriel pouring a grainy mixture into a small brass brazier. Her expression was cool and unyielding as marble, and he wondered briefly if it might be better to allow time for her temper to fade. No, he’d come this far, and he’d not retreat now. If he did, he might not be able to locate her again.

After a careful calculation of the distance, he launched himself at a high branch about halfway between his perch and the window. He caught it, then swung feet first through the open window. If Meriel liked grand entrances, this should appeal to her.

He landed hard and let himself drop into a crouch. She stopped dead, and her head snapped up as she stared at him.

As he straightened, he scanned his surroundings. The tree house was not a child’s playhouse but a twelve-foot square Oriental palace with whitewashed walls and a floor layered with Persian carpets in jewel-rich colors. The wall next to the tree trunk was covered with book and storage shelves, while a padded bench ran the length of the wall opposite him. Embroidered pillows were mounded carelessly on the bench, spilling to the floor in luxuriant profusion.

His gaze returned to Meriel. With her flaxen hair and shimmering sari, she was as exotic as her setting. Her hair was long, her foot was light, /And her eyes were wild.

As calmly as if this were a normal occasion, he said, “You’re furious at what my father said, and I don’t blame you. Would you believe me if I told you that I’m really not a fortune hunter, intent only on plundering your inheritance?”

Ostentatiously ignoring him, she kindled the mixture in the brazier. A plume of musky, sweet-smelling smoke arose. Incense. He felt as if he had been transported to a land far, far from England. Or perhaps to a place of dreams.

Stepping to the bookcase, he chose a volume at random. It was a handwritten garden journal by one of Meriel’s ancestors. “No wonder you keep this place private. Anyone visiting here would see how much more there is to you than what you allow the world to see.”

She crossed to the window where he’d entered, and closed the casements. Then she pulled shut the heavy draperies that hung on each side. She did the same for the other windows, enclosing them in an intimate, private space.

Despite her air of nonchalance, he wasn’t surprised when she suddenly dived across the room and snatched up a small rug. Underneath was the hatch, with the ladder coiled neatly between a pair of wooden railings that stretched from hatch to wall.

He caught her before she could unlatch the bolt that secured the hatch, his hand coming down over hers. Kneeling on the other side of the hatch, he said intensely, “You have nothing to fear from me, Meriel. Your uncle and my father have tried to arrange a marriage for you, but I will never do anything that is against your will.”

Her gaze was enigmatic, not angry. Relieved, he said, “I hope that you know something of me by now. I am not my father. His opinions are not mine.”

Her hand was warm beneath his, her face was only a hand span away. He could smell the heady fragrance of rose rising from her pearly skin.

As his pulse quickened, he wondered why the devil he had felt so compelled to pursue her when she fled the dinner table. It would be no bad thing if his father’s crude remarks had persuaded her to reject marriage to Kyle. But he hated the thought that she might believe that he was interested only in her property.

Damnation, even he was having trouble separating himself from his brother. It would be fine if she thought ill of Kyle— but he wanted her to think well of Dominic the Deceitful. The time had come to explain who he was.

But it was hard to think when she was so near, her great eyes fixed on his face. His hand took on a life of its own, skimming up her bare arm to her shoulder. Under his palm, her skin was silken smooth, pulsing with life. He whispered, “Meriel.”

Her lips parted, and she leaned forward until they met his. He pulled her into a drugging kiss, intoxicated by her nearness, her scent, the taste and welcome of her mouth. This was why he had come, because he hungered and thirsted for her.

Under the thin layers of silk, he felt curves unfettered by corset or whalebone. He slid one hand down her back, under the sari, feeling the lithe flex of her spine. She was like a steel butterfly, fragile and strong at the same time.

The increasing discomfort of an erection straining against tight trousers forcibly reminded him how wrong this was. He must be responsible not only for himself, but for her. Releasing Meriel, he sat back on his heels and said unsteadily, “This is not wise, Meriel. I cannot claim to care for you and then commit an act that will have consequences far beyond a night of pleasure.”

Getting to his feet, he offered her a hand up. She rose lightly, making no attempt to mask her desire. The sensual tension that had been building since the beginning thrummed between them, taut and unmistakable. He felt as if he were splitting into pieces, his rational, responsible side saying this was madness while the rest of him—blood, heart, sinew— clamored that the love and tenderness he felt could not be wrong.

Scented smoke had filled the room, clouding his judgment. What the devil was in that incense? Realizing that he must leave before it was too late, he knelt by the hatch and slid open the bolt. Then he pulled on the inset handle. The hatch didn’t move. He tugged again. Nothing.

Then he noticed the key lock and realized that it could be turned from either side. Meriel had used both key and bolt to preserve her privacy. Or had she guessed that he would come, and wanted to make it difficult for him to leave? His increasingly hazy mind could not decide. He stood again with the vague idea of leaving the way he had come, even if it meant risking his neck, but Meriel stood between him and the window. No longer avoiding his eyes, she held his gaze as she unclasped the golden brooch that had secured her sari. After tossing it aside, she tugged at the free end of the silk that draped over her shoulder and down her back.

He stood paralyzed while she began unwinding the garment. The silence was absolute, except for the chime of her bangle bracelets and his rough breath.

As each layer of translucent silk fell away, her body became more visible. An ivory goddess, more perfect than mortal man dared imagine.

The last layer of silk slipped sensuously from her body and pooled around her feet, leaving her clad only in shining hair, golden jewelry, and provocative mehndi that cupped her small breasts and encircled her navel before arrowing toward her thighs with blatant provocation. Helplessly he realized that no man could resist such loveliness, not when it was coupled with the incendiary craving he saw in her eyes. He was certain now that she had expected him to come to her, and prepared accordingly. Two steps brought her slim body against him. As he tried to force his muscles to retreat, she drew him into an ardent, open-mouthed kiss.

Resistance shattered. Feverishly he caressed her, blood hammering in his temples so fiercely that he was barely aware of her hands clawing at his clothing, of how together they stripped away his garments until bare flesh pressed against bare flesh.

As breath roughened and knees weakened, she tugged him down to the thickly carpeted floor, laughing with giddy triumph. “La Belle Dame Sans Merci,” the beauty without mercy who could steal a man’s soul, and make him grateful for the loss.

He came down full length beside her, his mouth devouring as it traveled from throat to softly curving breasts. As he stroked over the gentle arc of her belly, her lips separated and she began to croon a plaintive, emotion-saturated melody. At first her song was so soft it might have been imagined, but as he explored more boldly, the tone strengthened until her rib cage vibrated like a purring cat’s. The haunting sound penetrated his passion-hazed mind, reminding him of issues beyond the hot urgency of the moment. Raising his head, he said huskily, “Speak to me, Meriel. Tell me you truly understand the meaning of what we are doing.”

Her darkened lashes lifted, revealing eyes of blind, unfocused green, but her breathy song did not shape into words.

He slid one hand between her thighs. They separated with inviting ease. Gently he caressed the moist, sensitive folds of hidden flesh. She shivered, and her crooning ended as she gasped for breath. Her uninhibited passion was irresistible, but a stab of insight warned that if she could satisfy her needs without revealing herself, she might spend the rest of her life barricaded in her private world. Her desire was the most potent weapon he had for calling forth the whole of her complex, entrancing nature.

“Please, say my name,” he urged again. “Or even the single word ‘yes’…”

She closed her eyes, rejecting his plea even as her nails curled into his back. Damning himself for a fool, he said hoarsely, “I will not continue unless I hear you ask in your own voice. If you will not trust me, we should not be together.”

Again, she offered no words, only restless, questing hands.

He broke from her embrace and pushed himself up with one arm. Then he gazed at her, aching. She was his heart’s desire, as alluring and dangerous as Keats’s fairy queen. “I’m sorry, my love,” he whispered.

“So sorry.”

Then he started to rise, while he was still strong enough to do the right thing.
Chapter 25

Her eyes flew open in disbelief. No, he could not stop now, or she would burst into fatal flame. The light around him flared crimson with desire, but his muscles flexed as he pushed himself upright. She realized with deep, twisting pain that he truly did mean to abandon her. She could not bear for him to go, even if his price was the private world that had sheltered her so well. She caught his wrist desperately. “No!” Though singing had kept her voice healthy, it was an effort to shape words after so many years of not speaking. Haltingly she said, “Please. Don’t. Go.”

His expression changed in an instant from haggard determination to a warmth that hurt to behold. “Oh, Meriel,” he whispered. “My dearest one.”

He enfolded her, warming her with kisses as he resumed the caresses that had driven her to the edge of madness. She sucked in her breath as jagged sensations ripped through her veins. Her hips moved with increasing frenzy until she could bear no more. She convulsed, her whole body shuddering out of control. He held her, keeping her safe even as she spun into a place she had never been before. She was still quivering with aftershocks when he braced himself between her legs. She opened her eyes, drinking in the sight of him. Ah, but he was splendid, broad of shoulder, hard of muscle, her mehndi branding his skin. At long last, her mate.

The taut lines around his eyes showed how much it cost him to enter slowly instead of thrusting like a maddened stallion. She arched against him, realizing with dazed wonder that this was the difference between man and beast, this tenderness more devastating than passion. He filled her, stretching her flesh in a startling but not unpleasant way. The searing intimacy was everything she had yearned for, the melding of two bodies into one—and the fervent need to give back what she had received. She rocked against him and was shocked to feel once more the rising tide of desire.