“He was traveling with the party?” Dominic asked, wondering how the younger Grahame had survived the massacre.
The general shook his head. “No, he was a major serving under my command. A good officer—spoke Urdu like a native. The late Lord Grahame included Cambay on his route partly to visit his brother, because they hadn’t seen each other in years. After the massacre Major Grahame was distraught, of course. Kept saying that if his brother hadn’t come to Cambay, he wouldn’t have died.”
“At least Lady Meriel survived. That must be some comfort.”
Ames’s expression eased. “She was the most intrepid little thing. She had a little gray pony, and she would tear across the plains like an Afghan bandit. Most mothers would have fainted on the spot, but Lady Grahame just laughed and urged her on.”
“Lady Meriel could ride?” Dominic asked, startled.
“Since the age of three, according to her parents.”
But not since. No wonder she had enjoyed riding with Dominic once she got over her initial anxiety. The experience must have brought back the happier days of her childhood. On impulse, he asked, “Is Moonbeam for sale? She looks like a perfect ladies’ mount. I’d like to give her to Lady Meriel.”
“I’d not thought of selling her. But for Lady Meriel?” Ames’s eyes became distant. “Whenever I think of the girl, I also think of my daughter. Jena was several years older, so she appointed herself Meriel’s guide and took her all over the encampment while the Grahames were at Cambay. The men adored them both.”
Dominic’s pulse quickened. “You have a daughter?”
“I did,” Ames said curtly. Perhaps thinking that was too abrupt, he added with difficulty, “She died the autumn before last.”
Ames seemed to be telling the truth, but it was possible that he preferred to tell others that his daughter was dead rather than admit to the shame of a mad child. Watching the older man closely, Dominic said, “I’ve just come from visiting the Bladenham asylum. While I was there, a patient begged me to take a message to her father, General Ames of Holliwell Grange. She said that she was not mad, that her husband had committed her to the asylum against her will.”
The older man went bone white under his weathered skin, his pain palpable. “That’s not possible. My daughter is dead.”
Acutely uncomfortable, Dominic said, “I’m sorry. Probably the woman is someone from the neighborhood who knows Holliwell Grange, and in her madness thinks that she once lived here. I’m very sorry to have disturbed you.”
He turned, wanting to leave as quickly as possible, but was halted by the general’s harsh voice. “The woman. What did she look like?”
“Tall. Dark hair and brown eyes. About my age, I think. She is known as Mrs. Brown, though the doctor said that wasn’t her real name.” Dominic visualized that desperate face, trying to remember if there were any distinctive features. “She had a faint scar on her chin. Almost invisible.” With a fingertip, he indicated on his own chin exactly how the scar ran.
Ames froze, expression stunned. “Dear God in heaven. She…Jena got that scar falling from a tree when she was six. It’s her. It’s her!”
His words hung in silence for an endless moment. Then he swung around and slammed a fist into the top railing, face contorted with anguish. “The bastard told me she was dead! That she’d died of smallpox while I was away, and had to be buried quickly. He…he showed me her grave in the family’s private burial ground!”
Shocked, Dominic exclaimed, “Her husband faked her death?”
Collecting himself with visible effort, Ames spat out, “George Morton, may he rot in hell. How could any man betray his wife so horribly?”
“She told me that her husband had sent her to the asylum because she wasn’t biddable. That she didn’t agree with him.” Dominic thought of his own father. “Some men cannot bear to be crossed. Perhaps Morton is one of them.”
“But to say that she was mad! She was—is—as sane as I am. Though living as a prisoner with no hope of escape might drive her into madness.” Ames’s face darkened. “I warned her that Morton was a fortune hunter, but she wouldn’t listen. He is evil. Evil!” The general gave a blood-chilling smile. “Before God, I swear that he will pay for this. But first I must bring Jena home.” He pivoted and headed into the stables.
Concerned what the other man might do, Dominic followed. “Morton deserves a slow and painful death, but your daughter needs you alive, not swinging on a gibbet.”
Ames began to saddle a tall gelding. “Oh, I don’t intend to kill him. Much worse. I shall use the law to dismember him inch by inch. The estate he lives on was Jena’s dowry. I shall take that, his good name, his so-called honor—everything he values. By the time I’m done, he’ll wish I’d put a bullet into his wicked scheming brain.”
Dominic might have felt sorry for Morton, if the man hadn’t behaved so abominably. As the general led the gelding into the yard, he said, “Please send me a message at Warfield to let me know when your daughter is safely home.”
“I shall.” The general paused long enough to seize Dominic’s hand in a crushing grip. “I’ve almost forgotten to thank you! I’m eternally in your debt, Maxwell.” He pursed his lips. “Take Moonbeam for Lady Meriel. My gift.”
Dominic gasped. “You can’t do that with a horse so valuable!”
“You’ve just given me back my daughter. If you want the blood from my veins, you have but to ask,” Ames said flatly. Then he swung onto the gelding and galloped off.
A little dazed, Dominic regarded the dainty gray mare. Ames had seemed quite sure of his mind, and pretty, well-behaved Moonbeam would be perfect for Meriel.
He turned to Pegasus, catching the horse’s eye. “We’re taking this little lady back to Warfield, and you will behave yourself on the journey. Do I make myself clear?”
Pegasus made a whuffling sound and swung his head away. “See that you remember that,” Dominic said sternly.
As he opened the gate and went in to the mare, he wondered if Craythorne had known of Morton’s scheme. No, the doctor’s concern for patients and employees, his pride in his establishment, had been quite genuine. Impossible to imagine him cooperating voluntarily with a greedy, scheming husband.
Morton hadn’t needed Craythorne’s help; all he’d had to do was say sorrowfully that his wife was mad. Jena Morton looked like a strong-minded young woman, and her rage at the accusation became proof of her husband’s charge. The bastard had been diabolically clever, for how does one prove sanity? Good behavior would be seen as merely the calm between storms. In fact, that was what Craythorne had told Dominic. Once she was committed, Jena had no chance of escape.
He stilled his tumbling thoughts before approaching the mare, for wild creatures, whether horses or mad girls, reacted to demeanor and tone of voice.
Extending one hand, he said softly, “Come with me, Moonbeam. You’re going to a new home, and there’s a moon maiden waiting.”
Chapter 14
The elderly groom was delighted to welcome Moonbeam to the Warfield stables. As he brushed the mare to glossy perfection, he treated Dominic to fond reminiscences about the great days when Lord and Lady Grahame had been alive, and the stables had overflowed with prime horseflesh. The groom also approved of the fact that Dominic preferred to groom Pegasus himself, considering that the mark of a true horseman.
When he was finished, he returned to the house, and was immediately intercepted by Mrs. Rector, who asked, “What did you think of Bladenham?”
“A good institution of its kind, but no place for Meriel,” he said flatly.
“I’m so glad that you agree with Lord Amworth.” Mrs. Rector sighed. “Especially since she had a…a bad day.”
Dominic frowned. “What does that mean?”
“This morning she attacked a fine old juniper hedge with her clippers. She’s just hacking away furiously, with no rhyme or reason. It will take years for the damage to grow out.” Mrs. Rector bit her lip. “She must have been up
set by her uncle’s visit, though I don’t know if that was because he came, or because he left.”
Or perhaps she was irritated by what had happened with Dominic; she had not seemed happy when he put her out of his room the night before. “At least she didn’t take the clippers to a person. Now, that would not be good.”
The older woman smiled ruefully. “I shall remember to be grateful later. I always worry when she does something strange and destructive, for fear her actions can be used as proof of dangerous madness.”
Dominic thought of Jena Morton, who had been locked in an asylum on a man’s word. Women were particularly vulnerable if the men who should protect them turned malicious, or venal, or even just wrongheaded. The only thing that had stood between Meriel and an asylum for all these years was Lord Amworth’s determination. No wonder he wanted to see his niece in reliable hands as soon as possible.
“I’ll go talk to Meriel. Not that I expect her to listen. Where is this hedge?”
“I’ll take you.” Mrs. Rector led him outside, then toward the east end of the gardens. He could hear the snap of pruning shears long before he saw his quarry.
He winced when he saw the embattled juniper hedge; Mrs. Rector had not exaggerated. Meriel had started at one end of the hedge and worked her way almost to the other end. A pity that Kamal had not been able to forestall her.
About two feet high, the hedge’s purpose was to separate two sections of flower beds. Meriel knelt beside it, whacking at individual bushes. More than half the branches lay dying on the turf, exposing tangles of gnarled old trunks. The air was redolent with the tangy scent of fresh-cut evergreens.
Sensing the approach of visitors, she chopped off a branch, then looked up, fixing Dominic with a gimlet stare. He was startled by the light in her clear green eyes, which reminded him of a cat contemplating a tasty mouse.
Before he could confirm that fleeting impression, her gaze dropped to her work again. She studied the shrub in front of her, then raised the pruning shears and took off several thick twigs in rapid succession. Mrs. Rector gave a faint sigh.
Meriel wore her straw hat and long, thick gloves to protect her arms from scratches, so she wasn’t totally lost to reason. Dominic approached her, saying, “I’ve brought you a present. Would you like to come see it?”
Not deigning to acknowledge him, she closed the jaws of her pruning shears around a branch, then frowned. After a moment, she withdrew the shears and took off a different branch. He asked, “What makes you choose one branch over another?”
She moved to her right and lopped off a piece on the adjacent juniper. Wryly he thought that he might as well ask Meriel’s cat why it slept under a particular nearby bush, and not the one next to it. He’d get as much answer.
His gaze moved over the butchered hedge, and suddenly something clicked in his mind. Slowly he began walking along the line of heavily pruned shrubs, looking not at what was gone, but what was left. Contorted knots of trunk anchored deep in the earth. Craggy branches that hugged the ground for yards before twisting sharply toward the sun.
“Mrs. Rector, Meriel isn’t cutting at random,” he said, intrigued. “She started with a hedge so bland and ordinary it was almost invisible, and transformed it like a surgeon whose scalpel cuts away the flesh to reveal the underlying skeleton. In this case, she’s chopping away the clutter of twigs and small branches to reveal the basic structure of the junipers. Look at how bold and powerful the shapes are now that we can see them.”
He sketched one hand above a pair of gnarled branches that crisscrossed in a brutal struggle for space and light. Another branch dived under them, then doubled dramatically back on itself before opening into greenery. The shrubs were like miniature versions of the wind-tortured trees found on a stormy shore.
Even more, the junipers reminded him of pictures in a book that belonged to his brother. Kyle enjoyed all things Oriental, and had somehow acquired a volume of Chinese prints. The stark elemental strength of the trees depicted in the pictures found robust life in Meriel’s hedge. “The bushes look a bit raw now, but by autumn there will be enough new growth to balance the trunks and the greenery properly.”
Mrs. Rector’s brows drew together. “I…I think I see what you mean. The effect is really quite interesting.” She bit her lip. “Beautiful but mad.”
More potential evidence of Meriel’s lunacy, in other words. “Is it mad to see the world in a fresh way? Artists do. Of course, sometimes they are considered mad, too. But without that kind of madness, the world would be a poorer place. Meriel is an artist of the garden. She has created a fresh kind of beauty, for those who choose to see.”
He caught a movement from the corner of his eye, and glanced over to find Meriel looking up at him, her pruning shears still. Their gazes met, and a jolt shot through him. As clearly as if she spoke the words aloud, he sensed her saying, “You understand.”
The impact was more powerful than if they’d physically touched. He felt, for an instant, as if he’d entered her world, a magical place unlike his own mundane existence.
Then she dropped her eyes, and the moment was gone. He was left with a yearning to connect with her again. To share her vision, be transformed by her magic.
And that would be a disastrous mistake. The closer he drew to Meriel, the greater the likelihood of trouble when the real Lord Maxwell arrived to claim his bride. Dominic had no business looking into her eyes and seeing wonders.
He turned abruptly and offered Mrs. Rector his arm. “Let me escort you back to the house.” And on the way, he could regain his self-control. Then he would introduce Meriel to Moonbeam, and give her something new to engage her attention.
He had a swift mental picture of Meriel galloping the mare across the park. He hastily buried the image when he realized she was riding like Lady Godiva, clad only in her flowing silver hair.
That way madness lay.
Hands shaking, Meriel began to prune the last juniper. He understood. He understood! Most people went through life half-blind, seeing only what they expected, but he recognized the power and beauty around him.
She stole a quick glance as he walked away with Mrs. Rector, admiring the smooth swing of his steps, the power in his broad shoulders. Male strength, at ease in his own body in a way more animal than human. Points of crimson light sparkled deep in the energy that surrounded him. Red for desire. He wanted her, she was sure of it. But how was she to lure him into mating?
Distracted, she chopped off a branch that should have stayed, and cursed herself for her carelessness. Yearning and pruning didn’t mix. More carefully, she removed a series of branchlets that obscured the stark grandeur of the juniper.
A strange thought struck her. He lived in the world very easily, it seemed, yet he had also come fully alive in hers. If he could live in two worlds, might she also?
The idea sparked a flare of nightmare images. Annihilating flames, screaming horses and humans, the Dark One whose torch had set the world ablaze. Terror exploded in her mind, shaking her like a weasel snapping the neck of a mouse. She dropped her shears and folded over, gasping, arms wrapped around her middle against the pain.
Ginger came awake and appeared at her side, pressing his broad feline head into her ribs as he gave a low miaow. Gratefully she picked him up and held his warm body close as he rumbled into purrs. Cats could live in two worlds. Perhaps Renbourne could also. But not her. Not now. Not ever.
After returning Mrs. Rector to the house and checking that all was ready in the stables, Dominic went to collect Meriel. She had just finished pruning the last juniper, and was rather stiffly rising to her feet.
“Are you ready for your present?” Dominic asked. As usual, he had no idea to what extent Meriel registered his presence. She gave a catlike stretch to loosen up. Trying not to stare at the flex of her lithe body, he touched her elbow gently. “Come.”
To his relief, she fell into step beside him. He hadn’t been quite sure what to do if she paid him no heed. Pickin
g her up and carrying her would hardly be suitable, and besides, she’d probably scratch his eyes out.
He surreptitiously watched her as they walked. She looked a little tired from her day’s work, and long strands of flaxen hair had escaped from the braid to drift around her face, but she appeared quite composed. Sane. Chopping up that hedge hadn’t been a mad start; she’d probably been planning it for weeks.
The stables were fragrant with hay, the dim light a pleasant respite from the afternoon sun. Dominic had told the groom to put Moonbeam into a large box stall at the far end of the building, so he guided Meriel along the central aisle. “Down here.”
Seeing visitors, Moonbeam moved to the door of the stall and stretched out her neck, whickering sociably. The groom had combed out the long white mane and tail until they were as glossy as Meriel’s hair, then playfully tied a blue ribbon into her forelock. A horse fit for a fairy-tale princess. Dominic explained, “Properly speaking, this gift is not from me, but from a neighbor of yours, General Ames.”
He watched with pleasure as Meriel’s eyes widened. Then, to his shock, she made a wordless cry and spun around. Her voice carried the blind fear of the time he had tried to take her outside of Warfield.
As she bolted toward the door, he reacted from pure instinct, stepping into her path to block her escape. She slammed into him so hard that he lost his balance and fell backward into a pile of straw intended for bedding, Meriel clutched against him.
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.”