The Wild Child (6 page)

He leaned across the blanket and set the second plate on the edge nearest her, then poured another mug of cider. Lady Meriel had reached the ground and stood with one hand on the ladder as she looked in his direction without meeting his gaze. Her eyes were an extraordinary light, clear green. The eyes of a seer—or a madwoman.

It was clear that if he made one wrong move, she’d be up the tree like a squirrel. “I will never hurt you, Lady Meriel,” he said softly. “You have my word on that.”

Roxana got to her feet and pattered over to her mistress, tail wagging. Perhaps reassured by the dog’s acceptance of the stranger, Meriel released the ladder and slowly crossed the glade toward Dominic. She moved with the grace of a young doe, her steps so delicate that her feet scarcely seemed to bend the grass.

He held his breath as she knelt by the blanket and lifted the plate. Her posture was poised and ready for flight, yet at the same time she was relaxed. Or perhaps the right word was tranquil. Despite her eccentric dress and bare feet, she seemed utterly at home. This garden was her kingdom. Balancing her plate with one hand, she ate as neatly as any lady at a formal dinner. He watched, entranced, as straight white teeth sank into the warm cheesy pie. There was something intimate about sharing this meal, just the two of them. Breaking bread together was one of humankind’s most ancient rituals.

He looked away, reminding himself that his job was to be unthreatening, not intimate. After uncorking a wide-mouthed jar of pickled onions, he set the container within her reach. She lifted it, giving him a chance to observe her hands. They were not the well-tended, useless hands of a lady, but strong and practical, with calluses caused by gardening work. More beautiful than if she soaked them in ass’s milk every day.

Despite her dusty bare feet, overall she was clean and well groomed. The thick braid shone like polished new ivory, containing almost no tint of color. Her brows and lashes were just dark enough to delicately define her features, rather than making her appear washed out. With her hair pulled back, he saw that neatly centered on her lobes were small silver crescent moon earrings. He had the odd thought that an ancient priestess might have been similarly adorned.

Turning his attention to her clothing, he saw that her green tunic and skirt were made of a fine, smooth cotton that would rest gently on Lady Meriel’s delicate skin. Embroidery decorated the tunic’s neckline and sleeves. Remembering Mrs. Rector’s protectiveness of Lady Meriel, he had a poignant vision of the older woman embroidering the garment as a quiet way to express affection for a girl who would not even notice what had been done.

Lady Meriel finished the savory pie. He set the baking dish near her so she could take more if she wished. She reached out, the loose sleeve falling away, and he saw a bracelet high on her wrist. No, not a bracelet. He was shocked to see that the rust red filigreed band was a tattoo. That must have been done to her during her Indian captivity.

He had a brief, horrible image of a child writhing with pain as adults held her down and marred that porcelain skin with needles. Was that when she lost her voice, screaming helplessly? Had there been other tortures?

Appalled at the thought, he dug into the basket for the gingerbread. The cook had mentioned several sweets that the girl liked, and he’d chosen this because the spicy scent would carry best. Besides, he liked gingerbread, too.

He took a piece for himself and topped it generously with clotted cream from another jar before setting cake and cream near Lady Meriel. Main meal finished, she helped herself to the gingerbread. She liked clotted cream as much as he did.

It was almost possible to believe she was normal, a young girl whose downcast gaze meant only shyness. But no normal girl, no matter how shy, would be so utterly indifferent to a companion. She never once met his eyes. If he spent much time around her, he would begin to wonder if he was invisible. Though he doubted that she would understand, he said, “I’m going to be at Warfield for several weeks, Lady Meriel. I want to get to know you better.”

Oblivious, she broke off a corner of the gingerbread and tossed it to Roxana. The dog seized the tidbit eagerly and approached her mistress for more. Lady Meriel caressed the large head and then offered more cake. As least she was aware of the dog, if not Dominic, he thought with mild exasperation. Could she be deaf? No one had suggested the possibility, but it might explain her lack of responsiveness. He put two fingers in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. Her head whipped toward him, then away again so quickly that he had no time to catch her glance. Still, she obviously wasn’t deaf. Try again. “The Warfield gardens are magnificent, the finest I’ve ever seen. I’d like to see them all. If you don’t object, perhaps tomorrow I can accompany you as you do your work. I promise I won’t get in the way. In fact, I can help. You’re in charge, since they’re your gardens, but I’m good at fetching and carrying and digging.”

He stopped, realizing that even though he was using his brother’s expression and inflections, the words were all wrong. Kyle wasn’t lazy, but he would never volunteer to work like a laborer. To hell with acting like Kyle. Meriel wouldn’t know the difference, and Dominic must do something to ingratiate himself with her.

It occurred to him that she deserved to have a name for her suitor. Which name, though? A wife might call her husband by his Christian name, but it stuck in Dominic’s craw to call himself Kyle. Better to use the name he and his brother had in common. If Kyle questioned that, Dominic could claim that he didn’t want to teach the girl to recognize a title that would someday change from Maxwell to Wrexham. “I believe I was introduced to you as Lord Maxwell when I was here before, but you may think of me as Renbourne. It’s my family name, and may someday be yours. May I call you Meriel, since we will be seeing much of each other?”

As expected, she did not object to the liberty of dropping her title. Meriel it would be. He reached for the cider jug without noticing that she was doing the same. Their fingers collided. He felt an instant of shock, and she jerked her hand back as if scalded. He felt a perverse satisfaction. For a moment, at least, she had recognized his existence.

That recognition came at a cost. Smoothly she rose to her feet and crossed the glade to the ladder. He jumped up. “Wait, Meriel! Perhaps we could go for a walk. You could show me more of the gardens.”

He might as well not have spoken. Swiftly she ascended the ladder, her full skirt rippling around her ankles. She disappeared into the square access hole, pulled up the ladder, then dropped a wooden hatch cover in place with solid finality.

His jaw clenched as he fought the impulse to climb the damned tree and go in a window after her. He was here to persuade, not coerce.

Mouth tight, he packed up the remains of the picnic. He supposed he’d made progress—but not enough.

Chapter 5

That night she dreamed of fire. Flames that scorched the sky, shouts of terror, screaming horses and humans. She awoke covered in perspiration, her body shaking. The nightmare came less often in recent years, but the terror never diminished.

Shivering, she threw off her blanket and fumbled her way across the tree house. It was late, after moonset, and very dark. She removed the hatch cover by touch and lowered the ladder. Roxana wakened below and whimpered a welcome.

Cautiously Meriel descended the swaying ladder. Earlier it had rained, and the night was cool and damp. She reached the ground, then wrapped herself around the dog’s shaggy body. Roxana licked her face before settling down again contentedly.

In the dark and silence, the pulse of life around her was very clear. The oak was deep and strong and slow, this night only an instant in an existence measured in centuries. A lethal whir of wings, a sharp hunger, marked the passage of an owl seeking prey. Even the grass had a signature tone, light and swift and heedless in its uncounted numbers.

All her life, she had sensed the life forces around her. With humans, vital force often showed as a colored haze around the body, especially in dim rooms or when seen from the corner of an eye. Of the two ladies, Mrs. Rector was a soft, warm pink, Mrs. Marks a clear yellow except when she was irritated. Then her light darkened and faint orange streaks would show around her. Kamal radiated a pure blue that deepened when he spoke of spiritual matters, and the challenges of living well in an imperfect world. His light had guided her as truly as his words.

With Renbourne, she could see the glow of his energy even in sunlight. His essence danced in a way that was at odds with his stern expression. Gold and scarlet shimmered about him, the clearest colors she’d ever seen. Sometimes she wondered what her own colors were, but it was impossible to tell, even by looking in a mirror.

Ashamed of having impulsively fled from Renbourne in the herb garden, she’d decided to accept his proffered food. Roxana liked him, and besides, she’d been hungry. She hadn’t expected the impact of his nearness, and his touch. Her fingers curled involuntarily when she remembered that sparking energy. He was unlike anyone else who had ever come to Warfield. She told herself that it was only because he was a young male, but that didn’t explain tonight’s restlessness, an empty feeling for which she had no name.

Mist was rising, and even with Roxana’s warmth the ground was too cold and damp for rest. She stood and snapped her fingers. Obediently the dog rose and they made their way to the house. The night was alive with the stirring of nocturnal creatures busy about their business. Though it wasn’t the shortest route, she crossed the woodland for the pleasure of hearing the badgers at play, then wound through the moon garden. As a small child, the dimly remembered presence known as Papa had once laughingly said she had a cat’s vision at night. Perhaps it was true. Certainly she had no trouble finding her way through even the deepest shadows.

They reached the house, where a small side door was her usual entrance and exit. She located the hidden key by touch and let herself in. Side by side, she and Roxana ascended the narrow, enclosed stairwell that led up to the corridor by her bedroom. Her fingertips skimmed the wall as Roxana’s claws tapped hollowly on the bare wooden steps.

In her bedroom, a faint light from the window revealed a round shape on her bed. Ginger. The cat raised his head and gave a mrrrrp of welcome. Cold and tired, she slid under the covers without bothering to undress and curled around the cat. Roxana followed, settling on the foot of the bed with a canine sigh. The emptiness didn’t go away, but finally, warmed by her friends, she slept. By luck, Dominic glanced out his window the next morning just as he finished dressing. Meriel and Roxana were disappearing in the direction of the garden sheds. According to Mrs. Marks, Meriel often met with Kamal there in the morning, presumably to commune in some strange way about what she wanted done. Anxious to catch up with her, he hurried downstairs and outside with no more than a wistful regret for the breakfast he was missing.

As he cut through the parterre, he thought about how everyone placidly accepted Meriel’s comings and goings as if she were a privileged house pet. This whole household was organized around her condition, yet she was scarcely more than a will-o‘-the-wisp.

But he understood now why she had never been turned over to a mental asylum. No rational human could want to see such a beautiful creature caged. Here she did no one any harm, and presumably enjoyed life in her own way.

Despite his haste, when he reached the garden sheds Kamal was alone. The Indian was sitting cross-legged on the ground outside the glass house, eyes closed and hands relaxed. Dominic hesitated, not wanting to disturb what might be a prayer.

Kamal’s eyes opened. “Good morning, my lord,” he said, unperturbed. Remembering how Kamal had greeted him the day before, Dominic pressed his hands together in front of his chest and inclined his head. “Namaste, Kamal. Has Lady Meriel come this way?”

The older man got to his feet. “She works in the topiary garden this morning.”

The topiary? That might be interesting. “Is there some way I might aid her?”

Kamal studied him shrewdly. “Only in menial tasks beneath my lord’s dignity.”

Dominic made an impatient gesture with one hand. “I am more concerned with spending time with the lady than with my dignity. How can I help?”

“She is trimming the yews,” Kamal replied, approval in his dark eyes. “The clippings will need to be removed. If you are willing, there are sacks inside the shed.”

Dominic started toward the shed indicated, then paused. The tattoos on Kamal’s cheeks appeared to have faded slightly. Was that possible? “Forgive my curiosity, but I wondered about the tattoos. They are very… striking. Unusual.”

“Tattoos? Ah, the mehndi.” Kamal held out his hands. The designs there also seemed slightly lighter than the day before. “They are painted on with henna. A custom in my native land. They wear off after a week or two.”

“I see.” Dominic said, glad the patterns had been achieved without painful tattooing. “You painted these on yourself?”

Kamal shook his head. “The young mistress did them.”

“Lady Meriel?” Startled, Dominic looked more closely at the designs. Such intricate work must require a high level of skill. “Did you teach her how?”

“Aye. She had seen mehndi as a child in India. When she began to draw on herself with berry juice, I thought it best that she learn to use henna.” Smiling a little, Kamal flexed one decorated hand. “She has now surpassed her teacher.”

“I saw yesterday that she had what seemed to be a tattooed bracelet. Another of the”—he groped for the word— “mehndi?”

“Aye. She was in a playful mood.”

Glad to relinquish the nightmare vision of a small girl being stabbed with needles, Dominic entered the shed. A pale spiny creature was curled on top of the stack of large burlap garden sacks. Bemused, he stepped from the shed and remarked, “There’s a white hedgehog sleeping in here.”

“The young mistress’s pet, Snowball. Very rare, the white ones. She found him when he was injured and raised him in a cage. Now he lives free.” Amusement glinted in Kamal’s eyes. “His life is too good for him to wish to leave.”