The Wild Child (33 page)

His hand glided over her belly and came to rest between her legs, producing a rush of liquid heat. As his fingers slid deep inside her, she sucked in her breath, stunned at the swiftness of her response. No longer playing, she nipped his earlobe.

He came awake with a jolt. “My God, you’re really here!” he breathed. “I thought I was dreaming.” He kissed her with dark velvet richness.

Exhilaration blazed through her. Yes, yes! She wanted to eat him alive, ravish him until Bladenham was seared from her mind. She rolled on top of him, her legs bracketing his…

And learned that his damned conscience had woken up, too. He caught her shoulders, fingers tight. In a low voice laced with laughter and desire, he said, “I assume this means you’ve recovered.”

She shivered with delight. Teasing him when he was asleep was all very well, but so much better to have him fully present, concentrated on her. She kissed his throat, enjoying the whiskery rasp of his unshaved chin. So male. Delicious.

He lifted her so that their upper bodies no longer touched, and caught her gaze. “We mustn’t do this,” he said firmly. “I swore I wouldn’t compromise you again. Marriage or nothing, sprite. Besides, this seems like an abuse of General Ames’s hospitality. He would not like knowing I took advantage of you under his roof.”

Did being a gentleman mean he always thought it was his fault if they mated? She snorted at the absurdity of that and ground her hips into his so that her lushly lubricated female parts slid along the silky length of his erection. The mind-melting intimacy made her whimper with pleasure, and gave her a fierce craving for more.

He went rigid, and she felt a hot throb where their organs touched. So close, yet not close enough. She wriggled, frantically trying to take him inside her. Then his hands locked hard on her hips, preventing further motion.

“Stop that, you little witch,” he said hoarsely. “This is not right.”

The moonlight revealed a face of tight, sweat-slicked planes as he struggled to control his body. How strong he was, to be able to wrestle passion, and win. She didn’t have a tithe of his discipline. She felt his muscles tighten as he started to remove her, and felt as if he were ripping her in half, tearing her away from her most vital self. “Please,” she whispered, humiliated at how desperately she needed him. “Please, Dominic.”

As he hesitated, hot silent tears spilled from her eyes and fell onto his chest. Pain spasmed across his face. Then he drew her down so that her breasts crushed against him. “Don’t cry, sweeting,” he said unsteadily. “Please don’t cry.”

Dizzy with relief, she kissed him with devouring intensity. Was it love, that he could resist passion but not her desperate plea? There was so much to learn from him, so much. More than she could master in a lifetime.

Hand trembling with impatience, she guided him inside her. A moan of astonished delight escaped her as she slowly lowered herself onto his shaft. Her body accommodated him more easily this time, clasping with seductive heat. She moved her hips experimentally. He groaned as she slid up and down with sensual ease, taking him as deep as she could. She liked the sense of power, the fantasy that she could enslave him with pleasure, as he had done for her.

His eyes closed, but he cupped her breasts, caressing with strong, clever fingers that sent frissons of excitement scorching through her veins until they fused with the fire in her loins. And there was something special about this position, this angle, the way their bodies rubbed together…

The illusion of power vanished as her body escaped her control. Every ounce of her was moving, writhing, pulsing in a divine dance where he was the only imaginable partner, a mate who enriched and humbled her.

Faster…

Harder…

Splintering…

Falling… but not alone. Ah, God, not alone.

He held her to him, shaking. He had not known that passion could be so… so shattering. Some of that intensity came from the fear he had experienced on her behalf, and his profound gratitude at having her safe again. But mostly it was Meriel herself.

He’d never known a woman who was so totally absorbed when she made love. She had no self-consciousness, no calculation about who was winning the silent battle that often lurked beneath the surface when men and women came together. She gave herself to him utterly—and there was no greater aphrodisiac.

He liked having her rest on top of him—she was just a little bit of a thing, albeit all woman—but her skin was beginning to feel chilled in the breeze from the open window. Rolling to his side, he folded her against him spoon style and pulled the blanket over them both. She gave a throaty sigh and snuggled back into the curve of his body.

Marveling at how well she had survived her ordeal, he kissed her temple. “No permanent damage sustained at the asylum?”

After a lengthy silence, she said, “Not damage, but… change. Because I have had such freedom for so long, I didn’t know how… how vulnerable I was. It only took one damnable man to wrench me out of paradise.”

His arm tightened around her. “They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions, and it’s certainly true here. Your uncle’s good intentions sent you to hell.”

She shivered. “I want to go home.”

He sighed, knowing that she wasn’t going to like what he had to say. “That won’t be easy, sprite. After leaving Warfield I visited Lord Amworth and enlisted his support on your behalf. I intended to return and ask General Ames to join me in his capacity as magistrate while I politely explained to Lord Grahame that you are sane, of legal age, and entitled to have any guests you choose.”

Her head nodded vigorously.

He smiled ruefully. “It’s no longer that simple. Kamal found me at Bridgton Abbey and told me you’d been sent to the asylum. Dr. Craythorne is a well-known specialist in mental disorders, and he thinks you’re mad. With Craythorne’s opinion as evidence, Lord Grahame could go to a different magistrate and argue that I abducted you from the asylum in order to seize control over your property. I‘ in no expert on the law, but if there is a dispute, you might be made a ward of the Crown until it’s settled.” He took a deep breath. “You might be returned to an asylum.”

She went rigid in his arms. “No!”

He hated frightening her with the possibilities, but she had to be made to understand. “Legal disputes are not settled quickly, Meriel. Though Amworth would try to help, his health is still very fragile. Grahame might get his way through sheer bullheadedness. His opinion of me will become even lower when he learns that I’m not Lord Maxwell. Most of the world will agree with him.”

“No,” she said again, but this time her voice was a whisper. “You won’t let them put me in the madhouse again, would you?”

“I can only think of two ways to save you from that, Meriel,” he said soberly. “The first is to take you away, and live in hiding.” They’d be in very modest circumstances, too, given the state of his finances, but he didn’t mention that.

She made a hissing sound. “I won’t be driven from Warfield!”

He’d known she would feel that way. “Which means there is really only one choice.” He took a deep breath. “You’ll have to marry me.”

Her heart accelerated under his hand. “I do not wish to marry.”

“I know, but marriage is the only way I have any standing to help you, Meriel,” he explained. “As the seducer of an innocent, I’m a villain. As your husband, I have not only the right, but the responsibility, to protect you.”

She slid from his embrace and climbed from the bed, going to stand by the window. In the moonlight, she was a slim silvery shadow. He winced at the dark bruises that marred the perfection of her pale body. She had fought her kidnappers with the fierceness of her warrior ancestors. After a long silence, she asked quietly, “Is my danger so great, or do you exaggerate to force me to marry?”

After a hard look at his conscience, he replied, “The danger is real, Meriel. I wish it weren’t, because duress is a poor way to start a marriage.”

He got out of bed and joined her at the window, resting his hands on her shoulders as he gazed over her head. “I’d much rather persuade you with sweet reason and sweeter kisses, and I’m arrogant enough to think that in time you would decide becoming a wife would not be so very bad.” He kissed her lightly on the temple.

She sighed. “I would prefer to be your mistress.”

He smiled wryly, glad that neither of her chaperons was around to hear such a shocking comment. “That isn’t one of the available choices, Meriel. Your uncle may already be searching for you, possibly with a warrant for my arrest.”

Shivering, she crossed her arms on her chest. “So I must choose between the devil I know and the devil I don’t know.”

He wondered which of those was him. “I will sign a marriage settlement that leaves control of your property with you and your trustees so that I can’t plunder your inheritance, if that’s what you fear.”

“You offered that once before,” she said without inflection.

Her tone made him realize that even more than wealth, she cherished the freedom of her old life. Recognizing what must be done, he said, “I give you my solemn word that if you ever decide you don’t want me at Warfield, you have only to ask me to leave, and I will go. I will not claim any rights over either your fortune or your body.”

She lifted her head and gazed at the moon, her expression cool and remote. “So you are willing to become my defender, and demand nothing of me in return?”

“Yes.” Even though some future whim of hers could leave him alone, not free to seek another wife because he was bound to a woman who no longer wanted him. It was a bleak prospect, yet he could not abandon her to her uncle’s relentless sense of duty.

She swallowed, throat flexing like a silver column in the moonlight. “Very well, Dominic. I will marry you.”

It was what he had wanted desperately. Why, then, did her acceptance leave him aching with sadness?

Chapter 31

Meriel awoke the next morning in her original bed. Ren-bourne must have carried her back after she fell asleep. So very conventional. But perhaps he was right. She’d lived an unconventional life for years, and now she was paying the price.

Worse, Renbourne might also pay a heavy price. She had not realized, until he mentioned the topic in passing, that he might be in serious trouble for aiding her. Lord Grahame had been furious with him—very likely he would try to have Renbourne arrested for “kidnapping” an heiress. Or worse. She had a swift, horrific image of a duel, and Renbourne’s body bleeding on the ground. No.

She climbed from the bed, expression set. She had drawn Renbourne into danger, and now she must do whatever was necessary to resolve the situation. Her days as a wild child of nature, who understood more than anyone realized, were over. For better or worse, she was now part of the wider world. The sooner she learned its ways, the better for everyone who had generously come to her aid. Her own garments had been ruined by her stay in the asylum, so Jena had borrowed clothing from a housemaid. After washing up, Meriel donned the coarse shift and faded blue dress without enthusiasm. The garments hung on her, for even the smallest Holliwell Grange maid was obviously much more robust than she.

Worse than the dress were crude stockings and slippers. With a sigh, she put them on, for soon she would be going places where bare feet would not be practical. The footwear would have been welcome in Bladenham, for the flagstone floors had been wretchedly cold, especially for someone who couldn’t warm herself by movement.

Jena had also provided a brush and comb, so Meriel put her hair in order. Then, as respectable as she could manage, she went downstairs to join the world of normal people. Renbourne and the Ameses were in the dining room eating breakfast, and Kamal also. Though he was respected at Warfield, he was still considered a servant. At Holliwell, a less grand establishment, he was being treated as an honored guest. Perhaps that was because Jena and the general had lived in India and saw him differently.

When she entered the dining room door, everyone turned to look at her. She stopped, flushing, and remembered why she had chosen to avoid society. Then Jena rose from the table with a smile. “It’s hard to believe how much improved you look, Meriel. You’re just in time to join the war council.”

A good thing she had come down, since it was her life being discussed. After choosing a soft-boiled egg and a hot muffin from the sideboard, Meriel took the cup of tea Jena poured and sat down opposite Renbourne.

He smiled at her with intimate warmth. “I’ve just finished the whole story of how we came to show up on the Ameses’ doorstep last night.” He watched her carefully. “I also told them that we’ve decided to marry.”

Ames frowned. “That’s the best solution, but is it your wish, Lady Meriel?”

The general wasn’t sure whether or not she was mentally competent, she realized. It was time to jump another fence. She swallowed hard. “Yes.”

“So you can talk!” Jena said with delight. “We must have a good gossip soon. I can chatter for two, but it will be more fun if you answer.”

Meriel glanced at Kamal and saw amusement in his dark :yes. He was not surprised that she was capable of speech, lad he always known how much of her apparent witlessness vas from choice?

Probably, yet he had let her be as she wished. One could not ask for a better friend. Renbourne looked relieved, as if he’d been half expecting ler to change her mind. Breaking open a muffin, he said, “Obviously the sooner we marry, the better. The question is where. We could go to London and get a special license, or travel to Scotland, where we can be married without waiting, from here, Scotland isn’t much farther than London, so I link that’s the best choice.”

Jena shook her head doubtfully. “A Gretna Green marriage carries a stigma that you’ll never live down.”

“It would also reinforce the appearance that you’re a fortune hunter, and Lady Meriel is a helpless victim,” the general added. “London would be better.”

Dominic hesitated. “London is a dirty, smelly, noisy place : the best of times. It will seem far worse to someone who as lived for many years in the country.”