The Wild Child (29 page)

“We are gathering for dinner, Lord Grahame,” Mrs. Marks said mildly. “How nice that you are in time to join us.”

Dominic froze. Gods above, it only needed this! But what the devil was Grahame doing in England? He wasn’t due back from the Continent for weeks.

Echoing his thoughts, Mrs. Rector chimed in, “Such an unexpected pleasure. We thought you were still in France.”

“Don’t insult me with pleasantries. I am gravely disappointed in you both.” Grahame glowered at the women. “I decided to return home early when I received news of Amworth’s illness. Imagine my shock when I visited the Warfield solicitor in London to learn Amworth’s condition, and discovered what has been going on behind my back. The solicitor has been disquieted by this… this marriage plot, and was grateful for the chance to tell me all about it.”

He turned his scowl on Dominic. “I presume that you are Viscount Maxwell. Is your reputation so vile that no normal heiress will have you?”

Meriel appeared in the doorway behind Grahame. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene at a glance. Then she vanished in a swirl of blue skirts. He was grateful for that, because the confrontation unfolding was going to be very, very ugly.

Hoping calm might defuse some of the tension, he said, “Lord Amworth explained to me how you and he both wish only the best for your niece, but disagree about how to achieve that. Having become well acquainted with Lady Meriel, I agree entirely with Lord Amworth: she is well suited to marriage. I’m grateful that Amworth chose to honor a longstanding plan to unite our families.”

“Very prettily said,” Grahame growled. “But pretty words won’t disguise the fact that taking advantage of a mentally deficient girl is the action of a scoundrel.”

“You underestimate your niece’s abilities,” Dominic said, still calm. “She is not in the common way, but there is nothing wrong with her wits or her judgment. And ultimately, the decision to marry is hers.”

Grahame’s fists clenched furiously. “Nonsense! As one of her guardians, I have the obligation and authority to prevent any ill-advised liaison. That is why Amworth tried to hustle my niece into marriage while I was away.”

“Do you have the authority?” Dominic retorted. “Meriel is of age, and I believe that no court has ever declared her unfit.”

“That can be arranged!” Grahame’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll grant that Amworth meant well, but if I take this matter to court, any judge would agree that the girl needs protection, not to be handed over to a fortune hunter.”

“One really can’t call Maxwell a fortune hunter, Lord Grahame,” Mrs. Rector said unexpectedly. “His breeding and station are equal to Meriel’s, and his kindness and perception make him an ideal husband for a young woman of her… delicate nature. Lord Amworth chose well.”

Grahame stared at Mrs. Rector, who accepted his hard gaze with her usual placidity. What a splendid old girl she was, Dominic thought fondly. She looked soft and sweet as marzipan, but she had the courage to stand up to a raging earl.

Suppressing a guilty pang that he was not the desirable heir to Wrexham but the much less desirable younger son, he said, “I respect your care for Lady Meriel, sir, but I believe you know her less well than you think.”

Grahame gave him a look of utter contempt. “In a matter of days, you’ve become an expert on the girl, while I, who have cared for her since she was a child, know nothing? Such arrogance!”

“She has grown and changed even in the short time I have known her.” Dominic made a swift decision.

“So much so that she has begun to talk.”

Grahame’s jaw dropped, and both of the ladies inhaled in shock. Grahame rallied first. “Is this true, Mrs. Marks?”

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” she replied, wide-eyed. “Meriel has really spoken, Lord Maxwell?”

“Yes, and very intelligently, too. So far, she has been too shy”—it was as good an explanation as any—“to talk to anyone but me, but I believe that in time she will converse as freely as you or I.”

The older man snorted. “I will believe that when I hear her with my own ears.”

Doubting that Meriel would talk to this group even to save him from looking like a liar, Dominic replied,

“As I said, she is shy. It isn’t easy for her to change her relationship to the world. She must be allowed to progress at her own speed.”

“It sounds to me as if you’ve invented a parcel of lies to cover up your shameless greed.” Grahame’s mouth twisted. “I wish to God that Meriel could speak. I would give anything to hear her call me ‘Uncle’

again, but she never will. She is incapable of understanding even the simplest of comments or requests.”

Dominic felt a flash of irritation at the older man’s obduracy, but as he knew from personal experience, Meriel’s fragile beauty inspired protectiveness. Her uncle was showing perfectly reasonable concern. His tone conciliatory, he pointed out, “She doesn’t always pay attention to what people say, but she has a masterful knowledge of gardening. The mehndi she paints require intelligence, skill, and talent. Every hour I have spent in her company has given more proof of a fine, unconventional mind.”

“I’ve often thought she understands more than we realize,” Mrs. Marks agreed.

“You believe that because you wish to believe it. Just as you think well of Maxwell because he’s a personable young man, and you want to think well of him.” Grahame frowned at Dominic. “But how can you bear the thought of an innocent child being given to a man of the world who will despoil and abandon her?”

“Meriel is not a child!” Dominic said vehemently. “She’s a woman—and she deserves to be treated like one.”

Grahame froze when he heard the passion in Dominic’s voice. “My God, you’ve bedded her, haven’t you?” the older man gasped. “You… you disgusting libertine!”

A moment too slowly, Dominic protested, “I swear that I have not seduced Lady Meriel.” But she had seduced him, and his guilt at allowing that made his denial sound feeble and unconvincing. Even his advocate, Mrs. Rector, looked upset.

Exploding across the room, Grahame snarled, “I should demand satisfaction, but a duel would tarnish Meriel’s reputation. You have half an hour to leave Warfield.” His jaw worked, a muscle jumping under the skin. “And if you ever set foot here again, I swear before God I will kill you without the formality of a duel.”

To his footmen, he ordered, “Accompany this swine to his room while he collects his things, then escort him and his servants from the estate. If he attempts to elude you, or to seek out Lady Meriel, stop him by any means necessary.”

Grahame had come with the intention of throwing the interloper out, Dominic realized. That was why he’d brought two burly footmen. No wonder he hadn’t listened to reason— his mind was already made up.

Dominic’s frayed temper nearly snapped. Meriel was a woman grown, not a helpless doll without a mind or will of her own. This was her house, and he was quite sure that she wanted him to stay. Her uncle had no right to evict him.

And yet—by the standards of normal society, Grahame’s edict was justified. His coguardian had gone behind his back to do something Grahame violently disagreed with, and now the man had arrived at Warfield to find that his niece’s chaperons had failed miserably at their job. In Grahame’s place, Dominic would be equally enraged.

He glanced at the ladies, but there was no aid there. Mrs. Rector was regarding him with large, sorrowful blue eyes, while Mrs. Marks tugged at the bell rope, summoning Morrison down in the servants’ hall.

With as much dignity as he could manage, Dominic said, “I love Meriel, and I believe that she loves me. I hope that when tempers have cooled, we can discuss this matter reasonably.”

Grahame gave a bark of bitter laughter. “There is nothing reasonable about my niece. You fool, sending you away is as much for your good as well as hers! She has twice attacked me with a knife, and I know that she has assaulted others as well. Be grateful that when you sleep at night, you won’t have to worry about her sliding a blade between your ribs.”

Uneasily Dominic remembered how Meriel had gone after the poacher. If she’d had a knife, she could have caused a serious injury. Yet that was not madness, but understandable rage. She was not mad!

Grahame gestured for his footmen to come forward. They were matched in height and strength, and must cost Grahame a pretty penny in wages. Dominic couldn’t fight them both even if he wanted to. Expression rigid, he set his long-forgotten sherry glass down and stalked to the door. But before leaving, he paused to say, “Remember, the ultimate decision about marriage belongs to Meriel, and no one else.”

Grahame shook his head with disgust. “Your wits are as lacking as hers.”

Dominic marched up the stairs to his room, his mind churning. Though Grahame didn’t really have the legal authority to forbid Dominic’s presence at Warfield, practically speaking, Dominic had no choice but to leave. Even if he could evade the footmen and find Meriel, he could never ask her to elope. Warfield was her home, and her roots ran as deep as those of the ancient oak that sheltered the tree house. His only hope was to go to Lord Amworth, whose authority was equal to Grahame’s. With Amworth’s backing, he would be able to return—if Amworth was still among the living, and strong enough to fight Grahame for Meriel’s future.

She did not even have a chance to say good-bye.

Meriel had retreated to her room to escape the unpleasantness in the salon. She always avoided her uncle Grahame. Though his military days were long gone, he still tended to bark at everyone as if they were troops under his command.

Then she heard jangling harness. Idly she glanced out, thinking to see Grahame’s carriage being taken around the house. Instead, a grim-faced Renbourne was driving his curricle away from the stables, valet by his side and his horse tethered behind.

Her heart seemed to freeze. He was leaving, and not voluntarily, or two large, stolid men in her uncle’s livery would not be flanking the vehicle.

At the head of the driveway Renbourne reined in his horses and gazed up at the house, his expression taut. She waved frantically, but the long rays of the setting sun were reflecting from the windows and he couldn’t see her.

Shaking, she watched him start the horses down the drive. Though he had warned that the world would not accept an irregular union between them, she had not believed how swift and merciless disapproval could be.

Dizzily she realized that she might never see him again. She had refused his offer of marriage, and now her uncle had driven him from Warfield. Would he ever return after that double rejection?

Her shock was driven out by fury. How dare her uncle send away her lover! She was mistress of Warfield, and he had no right to treat her like a child. Whirling, she left her room and raced down the stairs. She had been a child to run away rather than enter the salon. If she had been by Renbourne’s side, they could not have made him leave.

She must go after him. Moonbeam? No, going to the stables for the mare would take too long. Better to go by foot. The driveway curved widely. If she ran straight to the gate, she should arrive there just before the curricle. Then she would bring Renbourne back and he could order her servants to send her uncle and his men away.

She was heading for the front door when her uncle emerged from the salon in front of her. The light around him was steely gray.

“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 Joaquin’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.