The Wild One Read Online Free Page B

from the memories, from a Boston
that was torn apart by war.
    Three thousand miles from the grave in
Concord, where the single red rose she had left would long since
have been blown away by the wind.
    Her throat suddenly ached and she stared off
into the night, her eyes stinging with unshed tears.
    And here he was, Charles's brother, faintly
familiar and thus already beloved, his very likeness to his dead
sibling resurrecting all those memories Juliet had locked up inside
herself, relegated to their proper place, since that horrible day
last April. He lay heavily across her lap, his head cradled in the
crook of her arm and his pale face just visible in the gloomy
shadows of the coach. She should have known, of course. They both
had the same romantic eyes, the same lazy smile, the same curve of
the cheek and cut of the mouth, the same height, same build, same
bearing. Only the hair color was different. Where Charles had been
a gilded blond, his younger brother's hair was a few shades darker.
It was probably tawny-brown, Juliet thought. Somewhat fair in
daylight. But not now.
    The coach hit a rut and she heard him catch
his breath in pain. Gingerly, she rested her arm across his chest
to better steady him against the swaying rock of the coach. His
blood, warm and sticky against her skin, had soaked through her
bodice, her skirts, her stomacher. His eyes were closed, but she
suspected he was conscious and merely drifting in his own private
hell of pain and fear. She ached to speak to him, yearned to ask
him all about Charles, tell him just who she — and Charlotte —
really was. But she did not. It didn't seem quite right to intrude
upon his thoughts when he might very well be dying, and so she
remained quiet, cradling his head and now, seeking his hand in the
darkness to assure him that he was not alone.
    His fingers tightened immediately over hers,
dwarfing them, and sudden tears stung her eyes as she gazed down at
him.
    Dear God, he reminds me of my beloved
Charles....
    The ache at the back of her throat became
unbearable. Her nose burned and she blinked back the gathering mist
in her eyes. Damn these tears. These weak, foolish, useless
tears. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to think of
Charles and his cavalier smile, the hardness of his body and the
way his mouth had felt against her own. Instead, she tried to see
the dim shapes of trees passing just outside in the darkness, to
concentrate on the squeak and rattle of the coach, to lull her mind
into numbness and keep at bay the huge waves of emotion that
threatened the dam of her self-control.
    And then her gaze fell on the baby, still
swathed in the blanket and nestled in the tiny space between
Gareth's head and the padded side of the coach.
    Charles's daughter.
    She didn't realize she was weeping until the
brother's pained whisper broke the choking silence.
    "Are they for me?"
    Her nose was running now. She sniffed,
sniffed again, flashed a smile that was too quick, too false. "Are
what for you?"
    "Why, your tears, of course."
    Oh, Lord. She shook her head, not
trusting herself to speak for fear she'd give in to the great,
wracking pain that threatened to burst from her. This man,
suffering so quietly, so bravely, did not deserve to see tears; he
needed hope, comfort, encouragement from her, not an appalling
display of weakness. She suddenly felt selfish and ashamed — and
guilty, too. After all, the tears were not even for him, poor man.
They were for Charles.
    "I'm not crying," she managed, dabbing at
her eyes with the back of her sleeve and staring out the window to
hide the evidence.
    "No?" He gave a weak smile. "Perhaps I
should see for myself."
    And then she felt them; his fingers,
brushing her damp cheek with infinite softness and concern, tracing
the slippery track of her sorrow. It was a caress — achingly kind,
gentle, sweet.
    She stiffened and caught his hand, holding
it away from her face and shutting her eyes on a deep, bracing
breath lest that dam