The Wild Child (3 page)

“That will be taken care of by my brother.”

“Your brother?” Her eyes rounded. “I did not know you had a brother.”

For years Kyle had deliberately refrained from mentioning his brother, but that was no longer possible.

“Dominic. My twin.”

“Un hermano gemelo? A twin brother?” she repeated, amazed and intrigued, as people too often were by twins. “Does he look like you?”

“We were considered identical.”

She laughed a little. “Two such handsome men! The mind cannot grasp it.”

Perhaps that was why he had never mentioned Dominic, his easy-tempered twin, the one who was well liked, especially by women. “Only our faces are alike. In other ways, we are very dissimilar.”

Her levity faded, and she gazed at him with the dark eyes that could see right into his soul. “You have told me of your father, your small sister, your mother of blessed memory, but never of your twin. Why not?”

“He’s not part of my life. We never see each other.” Discomfited by her unswerving gaze, he added,

“Dominic was always rebellious. Irresponsible.”

“And yet now, he helps you.”

“I’m making it worth his while,” Kyle said dryly.

She caught her breath. “Is he pretending to be you? Surely not, querido!”

He swore to himself. He hadn’t meant her to know this much, but it was hard to keep anything from her quick, intuitive mind. Not wanting to discuss his brother any more, he said, “I’ll tell Teresa to start packing your things. There isn’t much time.”

She closed her eyes for a moment, a shadow of pain crossing her face. “No,” she whispered. “Hardly any time left at all.”

It wasn’t easy to keep his voice steady. “Time enough to take you home, as I promised I would.”

“Yes, but I did not think you were serious. For a young lord to lower himself to escorting his old mistress… unthinkable!” With her free hand, she wiped away tears. “Diablo! I cry too easily now. How can I take so much from you, mi corazon, my heart?”

She had never understood how much he owed her. Constancia de las Torres had been only a girl when she was driven from her home by war, and ravished into the bargain. She had survived in the only way open to a lovely young woman who was destitute and alone. Later, during the Peninsular War, she had accompanied a British officer back to England as his mistress. When the affair ended, she’d become a London courtesan, known publicly as La Paloma. The dove.

She’d been more than twice Kyle’s age when he went to her as an eighteen-year-old virgin. He was captivated the first time he saw her in a box at the opera, and not only because of her dark, exotic beauty. Demanding an introduction from a mutual friend, he’d immediately invited her to join him for a late supper after the performance.

Though he tried to act worldly, he couldn’t have fooled her for a minute. But Constancia had kept any amusement to herself, welcoming him into her arms with a generosity that made him feel like a man among men.

Even that first time, he’d known that what he had discovered with La Paloma went far beyond the intoxicating pleasures of passion. In a profession that turned most women hard and cold, she had a rare and precious warmth. With her he found peace, and a filling of the emptiness that had been part of him since he and Dominic became estranged. Only much later did he realize that he gave much to her as well. Even so, she’d resisted when he asked her to become his mistress, saying that she was past her prime and a beautiful man like him deserved an equally beautiful young girl. It was true that she was no longer young, and that she faced a future of increasing bleakness in a trade where youth and beauty were the only coin that mattered. But his desire to keep her safe had been only a small part of his decision; far more important was his fierce need to keep her close, for he could not imagine life without her.

“I’ve always wanted to go to Spain. You’ve given me a reason,” he said in a light voice that showed none of his thoughts. “We shall lie beneath an orange tree and smell the flowers on the warm Spanish wind.”

“Yes.” Despite the fatigue in her dark eyes, she gave him her wonderful Madonna smile again. “Surely God will grant me that much.”

He smiled back, and wondered with despair what he would ever do without her. The small boy emerged from his father’s study, so stunned that he knew only that control was essential. Shoulders rigid, he walked through the grand hall, steps echoing, then down the wide stone steps after a footman silently swung the door open.

Kyle raced around the corner, face alive with excitement. “Did you fool him ? ”

Dominic licked his dry lips. “Oh, yes, he thought I was you.”

His brother grinned mischievously. “I told you Wrexham couldn’t tell us apart, even though he is our father.”

Dominic could no longer remember why the idea of trying to deceive the earl had seemed amusing. “Of course he can’t. He hardly ever sees us, and he’s shortsighted as an owl.”

Catching his mood, Kyle frowned. “What’s wrong? Was I summoned for punishment and you got beaten in my place? Honest, Dom, I would’t have suggested tricking him if I thought that’s what he was going to do!”

“Not a beating. Worse.” Dominic glanced at the broad, grimly impressive facade of Dornleigh, chilled to the heart. “Race you to the gazebo. I’ll tell you there.”

He took off running, his twin a half step behind. By the time they reached the circular Greek temple that presided over the gardens, both were panting with effort. Fiercely competitive, Kyle dived the last few feet, his hand slapping the bottom stone step just as Dominic reached it. “I’m first!”

“No, you’re not!” Chest heaving, Dominic glared at his brother, but his protest was halfhearted. He turned and dropped onto the top step, his blind gaze not seeing the lush greenery. “He…he’s going to send us to different schools.”

“What!” Kyle sank onto the step beside him. “He can’t do that!”

“He can, and has.” Dominic swallowed, afraid tears might start. “Come Michaelmas, you’re going to Eton, while I’m being packed off to Rugby.”

He felt the silent wave of pain from his brother, an echo of his own horror when Wrexham had made the announcement. His earliest memories were of Kyle. He could sooner imagine cutting off his right arm than living apart from his twin. “Maybe Mama can change his mind.”

“He never listens to her,” Kyle retorted. “He never listens to anybody.”

Too true to be argued. “I’ll get myself sent down from Rugby. Then maybe he’ll let me go to Eton, too.”

“He’ll beat you, but he won’t send you to Eton.” Kyle frowned. “In a way, it makes sense. After all, I’m going to be the earl, and the Earls of Wrexham have always gone to Eton.” His assessing gaze scanned the Northamptonshire hills, Wrexham land as far as the eye could see. “You’re only a younger son.”

“Just because you’re ten minutes older!” Dominic’s distress turned into rage, and he launched himself at his brother, fists flying.

“I’m the heir and you’re the spare!” Kyle taunted, striking back. “It was me he called in to discuss our schooling. You were only there because we tricked him.”

The two of them rolled across the grass, kicking and hitting in one of the swift, violent conflicts that sometimes flared up between them. The fight ended when a shove sent Kyle’s head against a stone step, and he went limp.

Panicked, Dominic dropped to his knees beside his brother. Blood was flowing from a gash above Kyle’s ear. Dominic yanked out a handkerchief and pressed the folded fabric to the bloodstained dark hair. “Kyle, are you all right? ”

His twin blinked dazedly. “I’m still ten minutes older than you, Dom.”

Dominic sank back on his heels, relieved. Holding the pad to the gash, he said, “Older isn’t better.”

“Ten minutes better, but because of that, I get beaten more often.” A glimmer of smile faded swiftly.

“Maybe we should run away.”

It was Dominic’s turn to be reasonable. “He can send us to different schools, but he can’t separate us, not really. We’re two halves of the same whole.”

Kyle gave Dominic a fierce one-armed hug. “And best friends. Always.”

At the age often, neither of them could imagine an end to their closeness. Dominic came awake, heart pounding. It had been years since he’d dreamed of that day when everything changed. Kyle’s sudden reappearance in his life had triggered the memories again. That summer before they started school had been the last good time before life went wrong. Not wrong, he reminded himself forcefully. That had been the beginning of his freedom to be himself, rather than a useless appendage of the Renbourne family. Despite Kyle’s wealth and great expectations, Dominic wouldn’t want to change places, not really. Living under Wrexham’s thumb was enough to make anyone bad-tempered. Bad-tempered, and damned arrogant.

Now Dominic would have to imitate that stiffness. Wonderful. With a sigh, he got up from the bed. Dawn was showing in the east, and soon Morrison would arrive with Kyle’s carriage for the trip to Shropshire, north and west by the Welsh border. A trunk was packed with Kyle’s clothing, though not his boots. Dominic’s feet, like his face, were a fraction narrower, so he preferred his own footwear. He washed and shaved himself—did Kyle know how to shave, or did the estimable Morrison always do it for him?— then dressed. He was just finishing a hasty breakfast of bread, cheese, and ale when his brother’s valet arrived.

Slight of build and of indeterminate age, Morrison said, “I trust you are ready for departure, my lord.”

He had the schoolmaster’s trick of making every remark sound vaguely censorious. A good thing Kyle’s favorite horse was tethered behind the carriage, so Dominic could ride when the mood struck him. Using Kyle’s clipped inflections, he replied, “Quite ready, Morrison.”

The valet blinked, startled, as Dominic caught up his brother’s dark cloak and led the way into the common passageway that served four floors’ worth of “rooms for gentlemen.” As he locked his door behind him, he was struck by the sense that he was locking away the Honorable Dominic Renbourne. From this moment, he was Lord Maxwell, arrogant viscount, a man utterly sure of his place in the world. The thought was surprisingly upsetting. He had a sudden crazy desire to say, “Sorry, I’ve changed my mind. Kyle will have to court his own bride.” After which he’d toss the cloak over Morrison’s disapproving face and go back into his rooms. They might be cluttered, but they were his. But if there was one thing the Renbourne sons had in common, it was that they were both men of their word. Dominic became very still, consciously making the subtle adjustments that would produce Kyle’s harder step and less expressive face. It wasn’t enough to use his brother’s voice; he must learn to think his brother’s thoughts.

Then, when he had become Lord Maxwell, he went down the steps ready to deceive.
Chapter 3

Late May was the richest, most fertile time of the year. All nature was in bloom and wild beasts ecstatically sought their mates. Meriel had discarded her slippers in favor of living earth beneath her toes. Since early morning she’d been working in the herb garden, pruning and dividing to keep the plants healthy.

Some of the herbs were ancient, planted by long-forgotten ancestors. The marjoram had surely been placed in this spot by a woman who tended her herbs just as Meriel did now, raising potent plants for healing and cooking. When Meriel was small, Kamal had studied an old herbal in the library, then described the plants and their uses to her when they worked here. He’d been a wonderful teacher, his deep, slow voice making all subjects interesting as he spoke. His manner had been casual, as if he were talking to himself. Did he know how much she had learned that way? Impossible to say. She finished in the herb garden by midafternoon. The day being ripe with scent and sun, she snapped her fingers for her dog, Roxana, who lay dozing by the rosemary. Together they strolled through the park toward Warfield’s main entrance. She loved the diamond-shaped gatehouse towers, and the arch that leaped between them above the road. The gateway was built of the same warm gray stone as the wall that circled the park, enclosing her world in a circle of safety.

Within sight of the gateway, she found a favorite hidden spot between two rhododendron bushes on the verge of coming into bloom. She settled down on crossed legs, Roxana flopping beside her, and lazily studied the elaborately whorled wrought iron gates that filled the arch. The iron was painted a glossy black, except for several spikes at the top that glittered with gold leaf. Sometimes she wondered about the land of Others that lay beyond the gates, though not with any desire to visit. Too much of what she remembered was horror. Pain and glare and fire in the night.

Dreamily her mind drifted, absorbing the essence of the day. Light wind trembled the ivy that twined up the towers and along the wall, while thrushes sang in the nearby trees. How would it feel to be a rhododendron, sinking roots into the rich, dark soil, drawing life from the sun and the rain? Or a thrush, darting through the air… ? She slid into the golden place at the center of her being where all nature was one.

Shadows were lengthening when her attention was brought back by a horseman cantering up to the gates. Neatly he pulled his horse around and tugged at the bell rope. Intrigued, she waited without impatience to see what would happen.

More restless, horse and rider paced in rough circles until old Walter, the gatekeeper, emerged from his sitting room in the right-hand gate tower. As soon as he saw the visitor, he bobbed his head, then opened the gates.

Meriel felt a sudden chill when she saw the man more clearly. He had come once before, not long ago. His gaze had been sharp as cut glass, but he’d left quickly. A man of no importance. Now he had returned, and there was something different about him. He no longer seemed like someone who could be easily ignored.

Roxana whimpered. Meriel stilled the dog with one hand, eyes narrowed as she studied the newcomer. Hatless, windblown hair waving across a sweaty brow, a suggestion of cleft in his chin. What would be considered a handsome face. His bay horse was equally splendid, a brown dark almost to black. A shade very like the rider’s hair, in fact. Both were magnificent beasts. He exchanged a few words with the gatekeeper, then turned his mount and scanned his surroundings. Instinctively she shrank back as his gaze went over her hiding place. His eyes were intensely blue, like cornflowers, visible even at this distance. She held her breath until he started up the drive. Man and horse moved in perfect harmony, smooth muscles working under glossy hide, the rider effortlessly controlling the powerful animal between his legs.