The Wild Child by Mary Jo Putney

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