The Wild Child (16 page)

Sprigs of straw flew around them as she struggled to free herself. He wrapped his arms tight, immobilizing her. “Don’t run, Meriel! Not this time. Running doesn’t help.”

She was like a trapped songbird, fragile and frantic of heartbeat. Why the devil was she so upset?

Though she had been nervous of Pegasus when he took her riding, there had been nothing like this wild panic. Softly he repeated, “Don’t run, sweeting. You’re safe here with me.”

Her struggles stilled, but she shivered uncontrollably, as if racked with fever. Settling into the straw, he pulled her across his lap and pressed her head into his shoulder as he held her close. Silky hair spilled over his fingers, gossamer as butterfly wings.

Where to begin? Remembering what Ames said, he asked, “Are you upset because Moonbeam looks like the pony you had in India?”

A shudder ran through her. Guessing that he was on the right track, he continued in his most soothing voice, “That silver gray is a rare color in England. You probably haven’t seen a horse like that since you left India.” Particularly since she hadn’t left Warfield for more than fifteen years. “Does Moonbeam remind you of losing your parents?”

There were no tears in her stark green eyes, but she made a choked noise and hid her face against him. He tried to imagine what that catastrophic night had been like for a small child. The minor rajah’s palace, scented with the flowers and spices of the East. Then a sudden fierce night attack. “Battle is terrifying even for experienced soldiers. Ear-numbing guns, screams of fear and pain, perhaps fire. Your mother and father killed, along with all the servants. Then you were abducted by savage strangers, and alone.”

As he tried to visualize what had happened, he had an eerie sense of connection with her past. Probably she’d been carried off on horseback by a stinking barbarian, crying desperately for the mother she would never see again. Christ, what a horror for a sheltered child!

He’d been appropriately dismayed when he first heard Meriel’s story, but the events had been long ago and far away, and they’d happened to someone he had not yet met. Now that he knew her, he felt her experience in his very marrow. “Poor sweeting,” he whispered. “So much horror, then being held captive in an alien land. Is that why you stopped talking— because there was no one who understood your words?”

Even if she was treated kindly in her captivity, she had been isolated, deprived of the comfort of her own people, locked in her head with memories of destruction. No wonder she had retreated to a private world and never come out again. Withdrawal had been necessary for her survival. He was as sure of that as he was of his own name.

And she had been alone ever since, trapped inside a fragile bubble of safety adrift in a sea of terrors. With bone-deep intensity, he wanted to free her from the scars of her past. Though once withdrawal had protected her, now that private world had become a prison. He wanted her to be free, not for Kyle’s sake but for her own.

How could he reach her?

An infected physical wound was lanced to let decaying matter escape. He needed to touch her fears, then somehow lance them so they would flow away and no longer torment her. Perhaps he could achieve that by speaking of his own terrors. To speak of his wartime experiences was to reveal that he was Dominic, not Kyle, but it was unlikely she would ever realize that. Besides, the small risk involved was worth it. Though she might not understand his words, she might recognize the pain in his voice and know that she was not alone.

“Once I was a soldier, Meriel.” His father had decreed that as a younger son Dominic must go into either the church or the army. Since he didn’t fancy himself a vicar, he chose the military. Kyle had been furious and tried to bully his brother into studying with him at Cambridge. But that was not the particular pain Dominic meant to share today. “You must have seen lots of soldiers in India. Your uncle was one.”

She twisted nervously at his words. “Shhh…” he murmured. “I’ll keep you safe, Meriel, I swear it.”

When she was calm again, he continued, “I chose the cavalry because I was horse-mad. I was just a boy at the time, only seventeen. I thought war was a great adventure. I would become a dashing hero, and be much admired by the ladies. Lord, I was a fool, and doubly a fool for being delighted when Napoleon returned from exile, and did his damnedest to set Europe ablaze once more.”

He had the sense that Meriel was listening. Did she really understand the words? At least she was responding, even if only to his voice.

“Which is how I ended up as a grass-green cornet—that’s the lowest rank of cavalry officer—on the plains of Waterloo. The greatest battle in history, perhaps. My first and last taste of combat.” Words caught in his throat. He’d told no one what that day had been like. Once he could have told Kyle, but by then they were already too estranged for him to admit weakness even to his brother. Especially to his brother.

“I thought I’d be nervous when facing battle, but I didn’t expect the gut-wrenching terror that would turn my bowels to water.” He swallowed, hard. “I was frightened of everything. Death, of course, but even more of slow agonizing death, of having my belly ripped out by a bullet and dying in the mud for days. Of seeing friends die before my eyes, and being unable to help. Of surviving so horribly mangled that my life was ruined forever, and I would be a helpless cripple.”

In his worst nightmares, he’d imagined himself blind and paralyzed at Dornleigh, kept alive from pity and family obligation, too helpless even to kill himself. Suppressing a shudder, he continued, “Most of all I feared that I would prove to be a coward, so despised that men would spit when they heard my name. That I would break and run, and cost the lives of other, better men.”

His breath came in hard, shallow gasps as the events of that fatal day sprang to horrifying life. “Waterloo was hell come to earth, Meriel. The stink of powder and the screams of dying men. The pounding of the guns and eyes blinded by smoke. Not knowing what was going on. Not knowing. In some ways, that was worst of all.”

He stroked her back with a damp palm. “I didn’t disgrace myself, thank God, though I certainly was no hero. A wise and canny sergeant named Finn saved me from causing damage with my inexperience. I was able to master my fear enough to charge when the commands came down.”

He fell silent, remembering. “I’ll never forget the excitement of galloping toward the French, the thunder of hooves, guns shaking the ground like an earthquake. There was a mad rapture to the charge, and in some ways that was most frightening of all, because that crazy pleasure is why men continue to go to war.” Cutting short the digression, he said tersely, “I don’t know how many times we charged. A lot. But I survived, and began to think I might make it through the battle after all. Then… then…”

He stopped, unable to continue. Meriel’s small, strong hand crept out and came to rest on top of his with unexpected tenderness. Somehow her shaking had been transferred to him. “My horse, Ajax, was struck. He was a wonderful fellow, strong and steady as Sergeant Finn. I’d already promised Ajax a lifetime of green meadows and oats for carrying me so well. And then on the last charge of the day, he was hit by French bullets and went down. And I went down underneath him.”

The mud had saved him, reducing the impact of being crushed beneath a half-ton horse. He stared sightlessly at the window, not seeing the fertile gardens outside. “I was knocked witless for a time. When I woke, there was nothing around me but dead men and slaughtered horses. One… one of the men was Sergeant Finn.”

He drew a shaky breath. It had seemed so bloody damned unfair that he had survived when a brave man like Finn had died. He’d sent money to Finn’s family later, though it was poor compensation for what Finn had done for him.

Wanting to get this over, he said tightly, “I could hear moans and screams of anguish, but the cannon smoke lay on the field so heavily that I might have been alone in purgatory. Except that Ajax was alive, barely. Dying in agony, his blood saturating me. I could feel his pain, yet he never made a sound except ghastly bubbling noises as he tried to breathe. I could do nothing, not even find a knife to… to slit his throat.”

Meriel turned her face until the soft, smooth skin of her forehead rested against his cheek. He felt a pulse between them and didn’t know if it was hers or his. “I was trapped there for two days. Both nights looters came by. The first night they tore the silver lace from my coat; the next night they took the coat, but they made no attempt to free me, though I begged them for help.”

That had been the ultimate degradation—to lose whatever claim he had to dignity in frantic, futile pleas.

“I was almost dead of thirst by the time our men found me. Ajax had died by then, of course.” The warm, intelligent beast who had carried him so well transformed into cold, dead flesh. There had been flies.

“I had cuts and scrapes and cracked ribs, but the real damage was to my mind. I thought I’d never ride again. Bloody hell, I didn’t want to ever see another horse, even though I’d loved them all my life.”

Meriel’s fingers slid into his hair, caressing. She was offering the comfort she had never received herself. He closed his eyes against a swift sting of tears. Though he had deliberately chosen to offer his pain to her, he… hadn’t expected it to hurt quite so much.

He took a dozen deep, slow breaths. “What eventually pulled me out was the company of the friends in my regiment. Not that we talked about the horrors of Waterloo, but just knowing that others had been there, had shared the same excitement and fear, helped me get my feet under me again. Though the memories didn’t vanish, they retreated to a place where they didn’t bother me anymore.” Except now, when he had deliberately opened the door to where fear lived.

“If you could talk, sweeting, you could tell of your private horrors. Perhaps that would make them go away,” he said quietly, his breath stirring her silky hair. “But even if you can’t speak, know that you are not alone now.”

For the space of a dozen heartbeats, she didn’t move. Then she pulled away from his relaxed embrace and turned to face him, kneeling in the straw. Her gaze met his, sober and direct. Or perhaps determined was a better description. Because she was petite and ethereally slight, it was easy to think of her as a fragile, spun sugar angel. But what he saw in her expression now was pure steel. She reached out and cupped his face with cool, slim fingers. Giving strength, or receiving it? Then she rose smoothly, brushed her hands down her skirt in an unconscious admission of nerves, and slowly walked to Moonbeam.

Dominic’s heart jumped into his throat when he saw Meriel approach the mare. Praying that Moonbeam would be her usual sweet self, he got to his feet slowly so as not to distract either girl or horse. Meriel came to a dead halt, her body rigid. Voice conversational, he said, “Horses like to know who’s in charge. Even the best of them challenge new people, so you need to establish yourself as Moonbeam’s mistress from the start. Approach with confidence. Head up, shoulders back. If she crowds you, don’t back off.”

Meriel lifted her chin. After drawing a deep breath, she moved within touching distance of the mare. Moonbeam promptly stretched her neck and butted the girl’s ribs. The gesture was friendly, but also a test. Luckily, though Meriel flinched, she didn’t retreat. With stiff fingers, she skimmed her palm down Moonbeam’s neck once, then again. Gradually the tension faded from her body. Dominic released the breath he’d been holding. “She likes you. Here, give her this.” He took a lump of sugar from his pocket. “Flat on your palm.”

Horses had large teeth and strong jaws, and Dominic wouldn’t have blamed Meriel if she refused, but warily she offered the sugar. The mare delicately lapped it up. Mend’s face lit with an enchanting smile. Apparently the link between silvery gray horse and her parents’ death had been broken. Now she could appreciate Moonbeam for the beautiful beast she was rather than seeing her as a symbol of disaster. Wanting to build on this success, he said, “According to General Ames you were an excellent rider when you were a child, and I think that’s something one never forgets. Shall we saddle up and go for a quiet ride?” There would never be a better time; he’d ridden from Holliwell Grange on Moonbeam to check her moods and paces, so the mare had all the fidgets worked out of her. Meriel frowned. After a long moment, she turned on her heel and walked away. Dominic suppressed a pang of disappointment; he’d been hoping for too much, too soon.

Then he realized that Meriel was heading for the tack room.

Chapter 15

How could she have forgotten the freedom found only on horseback? But that had been buried with so much else from the Time Before. She signaled Moonbeam into a gallop, laughing with pure delight as they raced through the park. She could almost believe she rode beloved Daisy, dead these eighteen years, but Daisy had never been so sleek and swift.

Deliberately she let grief wash through her, calling up memories of the terrified whinnying that ripped through the night when the stables exploded into flame. She’d recognized Daisy’s scream, higher-pitched than those of the full-size horses.

Then, after a silent good-bye, she released her sadness to dissolve in the Warfield winds. Gradually she slowed the mare’s headlong pace to allow him to catch up with her. She owed Renbourne much, not only for this soaring joy but for his halting, anguished revelations. She’d believed herself uniquely cursed, a weakling, for all of those around her had mastered their lives. Not like her, tossed like thistledown in a tempest.

He cantered easily toward her, his expression relaxed and warm. She would not have recognized the sorrow in him if he had not revealed it voluntarily. It made her wonder how often grief was concealed by others. If a man like him could ache so deeply, hidden sorrows must be common indeed. If she had needed more proof that he was meant for her, she had it now.

* * *

Dominic watched Meriel race down the hill, her wind-whipped braid flaring behind her. Hard to believe that she hadn’t ridden a horse since she was a child. Ames hadn’t exaggerated when he talked about her tearing across the plains like an Afghan bandit. She was a natural on horseback. Dominic urged Pegasus down the hill in her wake. She’d chosen a man’s saddle from the tack room, and totally ignored his suggestion that she find a pair of boots, or at least shoes. The lack didn’t appear to bother her in the least.