Lord of Legends

by Susan Krinard

  Until today. Until she had come to him with her soft voice and a warm, half-familiar scent gathered in the heavy folds of her strange garments.

  And asked him who he was.

  He backed against the wall and slid down until he was crouching on the cold floor. He had greeted her with rage, for that was all he had known for so long. He had flung himself against the bars, ignoring the pain searing into his flesh, and sought to drive her away even as the silent voice within begged her to stay.

  And she had stayed. She had told him her name.

  Mariah. He rolled the name over his tongue, though it emerged as a moan. Ma-ri-ah. It was a good sound. One that he might have spoken with pleasure if his mouth would obey his commands.

  I want to help you.

  He grunted—a sound of amusement he had heard in some other life—and remembered the first thought that had come to him then. He had wanted her to open the cage door, but not merely to release him. He had wanted her to come inside, remove the heavy weight of fabric that bound her, open her arms to him and kneel beside him. He would place his head in her lap, and then…and then…

  With a shudder, he flung back his head and plunged his fingers into his hair. There was still so little he grasped, so little he understood, yet he knew why she drew him. Male and female. It had been the same in that long-ago he had only begun to put together in his mind.

  But never like this. Never like her.

  Once more he tried to remember the events that had brought him to this cage. He pieced together terrible images of being violently reborn in this world, finding himself horribly changed, hearing a harsh and unlovely voice that made no sense. Men had taken him and carried him to this place where the taint of iron held him prisoner as surely as the bars themselves.

  For the first while after he had been locked inside, he had staggered about on his two awkward legs, bumping into the high curved walls and fighting for balance. When at last he was able to walk, he had circled the room again and again, looking for a way out that did not exist.

  They had left him alone for two risings of the sun, though he could see nothing but filtered light through the holes in the roof high above. Then another man, ugly and bent, had brought him food, water and a scrap of cloth to cover the most vulnerable part of his body. The man hadn’t spoken to him, and after a few days he had realized that his keeper was as mute as he. When the man had returned, he had flung a slab of flesh, saturated with the smell of newly shed blood, into the cell.

  Stomach churning with disgust, he hadn’t touched it. It wasn’t until after another sun’s rise that the men had brought him things he could eat. Fruit. Bread. The same things the girl had promised him.

  Girl. Mariah. She had seen only a man in him, not what he had been.

  He had been mighty once. No one had dared…

  Who am I?

  There must be an answer. Mariah had promised to help him. He had believed her, until she had spoken the word he hated with all his heart.

  Donnington.

  He leaped up again, clenching and unclenching his fists, those useless appendages that could do nothing but pull at the bars until his palms were burned and raw.

  And yet she had let him hold her hand.

  He struggled to compose a picture of her eyes, far brighter than the sky lost somewhere above him. Captivating him. Holding him frozen with need.

  Donnington. She spoke as if she knew him well; she had asked if he knew the man, and she was not afraid of him. He could not trust her, despite all her gentle speech.

  No. He must learn to understand her—and himself. And until he could speak in her tongue, there could be no further communication.

  He returned to his corner and began to memorize every word she had spoken.

  MARIAH REACHED THE house in ten minutes, shook the worst of the wetness out of her skirts and strode into the entrance hall. As always, it was dark and grim, with its heavy wood paneling and mounted heads, daring the casual visitor to penetrate the manor’s secrets. She walked at a fast pace for the stairs, hoping to avoid the dowager Lady Donnington.

  She was out of luck. Just as if Vivian had anticipated her return, she swept out of the main drawing room and accosted Mariah at the foot of the staircase.

  “Lady Donnington,” she said, a false smile on her handsome face. Her gaze swept down to Mariah’s hem. “I see that you have been out walking again. How very industrious of you.”

  Mariah faced her. “I must contrive to keep myself occupied somehow, Lady Donnington,” she said, “considering my current state of solitude.”

  “Yes. Such a pity that my son felt the need to leave so suddenly after your wedding.”

  It was the same unpleasant veiled accusation the dowager had flung at her immediately after Donnington had left. You were never really his wife, Vivian’s look said. You drove him away.

  Mariah lifted her chin. “I assure you,” she said, “he was not in the least displeased with me.”

  If her statement had been truly a lie, she might not have been able to pull it off. But it was at least half-true, for Donnington had shown no more disgust for her than he had affection. He’d simply ignored her, remained in his own room and left the next morning.

  He’d said he loved her. Had it been the money, after all? Plenty of wealthy men could never be content with what they had, and she’d brought a large marriage settlement, in addition to her own separate inheritance.

  But surely no healthy man would choose not to take advantage of his marriage bed. The other reasons why he might have left her alone were disturbing. And that was why, if the dowager did believe that her son hadn’t consummated the marriage, she must feel compelled to blame that fact on Mariah.

  “I’m certain that Giles will return to us very soon,” Mariah said calmly.

  “Let us hope you are correct.” Vivian’s stare scoured Mariah to the bone. “You had best go up and change, my dear. Donnington would never approve of your wild appearance.”

  And of course he would not. The quiet unassuming wife he’d desired must be proper at all times.

  Mariah nodded brusquely and continued up the stairs. Halfway to the landing, she paused and turned. “By the way,” she said, “Donnington doesn’t have any brothers besides Sinjin, does he?”

  “Why…why do you ask such a question?”

  The outrage in the dowager’s voice told Mariah that she had made a serious mistake. “I do apologize,” she said. “It was only a dream I had last night.”

  “A dream?” The older woman followed Mariah up the stairs. “A dream about my son?”

  “It was nothing. If you will excuse me…”

  Mariah continued to the landing, Vivian’s stare burning into her back, and went quickly to her room.

  A hidden brother. How could she have been so stupid? It was all too bizarre to be credible. If she hadn’t seen the prisoner with her own eyes…

  You did see him. You touched him. He is real.

  Preoccupied with such disturbing thoughts, Mariah opened the door to find one of the chambermaids—Nola, that was her name—crouched before the fireplace, cleaning the grate.

  “Oh!” the maid cried, leaping to her feet. “Lady Donnington! I’m so sorry.” She curtseyed, so nervous that she dropped her broom and nearly upset the contents of her scuttle. She bent to snatch the broom up again.

  Mariah tossed her hat on the bed. “I’m not angry, Nola,” she said.

  The girl, her face smudged above the starched collar of her uniform, paused to meet Mariah’s gaze. “Thank you, your ladyship,” she said, her country accent a little thicker as she relaxed. “I’ll be gone in a trice.”

  “No need to hurry.” Mariah sank into the chair by her dressing table and pulled the pins from her hair. She knew she ought to ring for her personal maid, Alice, but she had no desire to be fussed over now.

  Not after what had happened an hour ago. Not after visiting a prisoner who had been treated so abominably, worse than any of the patients
she had encountered in the asylum.

  “Your ladyship?”

  Mariah looked up. Nola was standing with her scuttle and supplies, watching Mariah anxiously. “Are you all right?”

  It was a presumptuous question from a servant, at least by English lights. Mariah took no offense.

  “I’m fine,” she said. She took a better look at the girl, wondering why she hadn’t really noticed her before. Nola must have been close to eighteen, with a round, rather plain face, vivid red hair tucked under her cap, light gray eyes, and a mouth that must smile frequently when she wasn’t in the presence of her supposed betters. “How are you, Nola?”

  The girl couldn’t have been more surprised. “I…I am very well, your ladyship.”

  As well as anyone could be in this mausoleum of a house, Mariah thought. But Nola’s reply gave her a sudden peculiar notion. If there was one thing she’d learned, both at home and at Donbridge, it was that the servants—from the steward to the lowliest scullery maid—always knew everything that went on in a household. If anyone at Donbridge had heard of a prisoner in the folly, they would have done so.

  But she had to be very careful not to frighten Nola. Mariah had few enough allies, and Nola, so easily ignored by everyone else, might be just the ticket. “Sit down, Nola,” she said.

  The maid looked about wildly as if someone had threatened to cut her throat. “I—I should go, your ladyship.”

  “I’d like to have a talk, if you don’t mind.”

  She realized how she sounded as soon as she spoke. Nola undoubtedly believed she was in for a scolding for being caught cleaning up, and that was the last thing Mariah wanted her to think.

  “You’re not in any trouble,” Mariah said. “I really only want to talk. I’m alone here, you see.”

  Comprehension flashed across the girl’s face. “You…you wish to talk to me, your ladyship?”

  “Yes. Please, sit down.”

  Nola returned to the fireplace, set down her scuttle and brushed off her skirts before venturing onto the carpet again. She sat gingerly in the chair next to the hearth, her back rigid.

  “Don’t be concerned, Nola,” Mariah said. “I’d like to ask you a few questions about the house, if you don’t mind.”

  “I…of course, your ladyship.”

  Mariah folded her hands in her lap, hoping she looked sufficiently unthreatening. “How long have you been here, Nola?”

  “Well…mmm…almost six months, your ladyship.”

  “You must observe a great deal of what goes on at Donbridge.”

  Nola blanched, and Mariah knew she’d moved too fast. “I realize you really don’t know me well, Nola,” she said. “If you don’t feel comfortable confiding in me…”

  “Oh, no, your ladyship! You’ve never been anything but kind to everyone.” She paused, evidently amazed by her own frankness. “It must be very different in America.”

  “In many ways it is.” Mariah leaned forward a little. “The former Lady Donnington hasn’t been kind, has she?”

  Nola glanced toward the door. “Why should she care about the likes of us?”

  That was close to downright rebellion. Mariah might have smiled if not for her more sober purpose. “I don’t believe she cares much about anyone but her son.”

  The girl dropped her gaze. “That’s not for me to say, your ladyship.”

  “Please don’t call me that, Nola. My name is Mariah.”

  A stubborn expression replaced the unease on Nola’s face. “It isn’t right, your ladyship.”

  The subject certainly wasn’t worth arguing over. “Very well. But this is very important, Nola. I believe you can help me with something that matters a great deal to me. Will you answer my questions honestly?”

  The armchair creaked as Nola shifted her weight. “Yes, your ladyship.”

  “Do you know if Lord Donnington has a relative…a cousin, perhaps…who looks very much like him?”

  Nola’s eyes widened. “A cousin, your ladyship?”

  “Anyone who might resemble him strongly, except for the color of his hair.”

  Mariah thought that Nola would have bolted from her chair and out the door if she’d thought she could get away with it. But the maid must have seen that Mariah was very serious indeed, for she gave up the battle.

  “There are rumors,” she whispered, her head still half-cocked toward the door. “Only rumors, your ladyship.”

  “What sort of rumors?”

  “Of someone…someone being kept at Donbridge.”

  “Kept against their will?”

  Nola shivered. “Yes, your ladyship.”

  This conversation was proving to be far more productive than Mariah could have hoped. “Do the rumors tell why?” she asked.

  The maid shook her head anxiously.

  “It’s all right, Nola. Do you know who is supposed to be guarding this prisoner?”

  She could almost feel the girl’s trembling. “There’s a strange man who lives in a cottage at the edge of the estate. They say he never speaks, and no one knows what he does. I heard—”

  CHAPTER TWO

  FOOTSTEPS SOUNDED IN the corridor outside, and Nola leaped from her seat.

  “Begging your pardon, your ladyship,” she gasped. “I must go!”

  She was out of the room before Mariah could rise from her own chair. She listened for a moment, hearing the rapid patter of Nola’s feet as she hurried toward the servants’ stairs. There would be no more questioning her today, that was certain.

  But she’d confirmed what Mariah had already surmised; the prisoner’s captivity was not a complete secret. Was it possible that she’d been too hasty in assuming that Vivian didn’t know about it?

  Could she have kept such a secret from her own daughter-in-law for the ten weeks since Mariah had arrived at Donbridge? A secret her son must share…

  Mariah shook her head. She was jumping to conclusions, which was a very dangerous habit. She had no evidence whatsoever, only the prisoner’s reaction to Donnington’s name. And confronting Vivian directly was unthinkable. Mariah could only hope that Nola wouldn’t go running directly to the dowager, though the tone of dislike in the maid’s voice when she’d spoken of her former mistress suggested she wouldn’t. Nevertheless, their conversation might very well be the talk of the house by noon.

  You’ve gone about this the wrong way, Mariah told herself. In her eagerness to discover the truth, she’d trusted a girl she knew nothing about. She’d made wild assumptions based upon one meeting with a man she didn’t know.

  But that man still needed her. From now on, she had to be extremely cautious. If Nola held her tongue, no one else should guess what Mariah had discovered. She must, with utmost discretion, collect the things the prisoner required.

  There was only one place in Donbridge where she might find them. It wouldn’t be difficult to enter Donnington’s rooms; they were directly next door to her own, with a small dressing room between them. And there was no time to waste.

  Donnington hadn’t locked his door. Mariah stepped into his room, briefly arrested by the faint smell of the man she’d married. He was prone to using a certain cologne, one she had liked when he was courting her.

  She had never been in his suite before. It was his domain, like his study and the billiard room. The furniture was unmistakably masculine, and Donnington had managed to find space on the walls to mount a few more of the smaller animal heads.

  Shaking off an uncomfortable blend of disgust and regret, Mariah went directly to his wardrobe. She opened one of the drawers, selected appropriate undergarments—which might have made her blush, had she not seen far worse at the asylum—chose two of the shirts he’d left behind, then moved quickly to the trousers. Stockings were next, along with a pair of walking shoes that had seen hard use. She filched the towels from his washstand, along with a spare shaving kit, a comb and a bar of soap.

  She paused, quite in spite of herself, to glance in his mirror, wondering what Donnington ha
d seen in her.

  Black, slightly waving hair, now loose around her shoulders. An oval face with rather common blue eyes, straight brows, and a well-shaped nose and mouth. Not pretty, perhaps, but perfectly acceptable.

  Was it really my fault that he left? Did he find out about Mama, despite all Papa’s efforts to buy off anyone who might tattle?

  Mariah turned away from the mirror and glanced once more about the room. A waistcoat? No, that was hardly necessary now. A jacket. The prisoner would need its warmth in that cold chamber, though it might be pleasant enough outside. She returned to the wardrobe and removed one of Donnington’s hunting jackets, the one he preferred to wear on the estate. Searching for something in which to wrap the clothing and supplies, she found a rucksack tucked in a corner of the room, along with several empty crates and a pair of lens-less binoculars.

  Stuffing the clothing into the bag, she returned to her own room. On impulse, she went straight to her small bookcase, where she kept the books she’d loved as a child. Most were volumes of fairy tales, which for months after Mama’s death Mariah hadn’t dared to open.

  Now she had some use for them. If the prisoner was capable of regaining his speech—presuming he’d ever had it to begin with—reading to him would surely assist in the process.

  I can’t keep calling him the prisoner, she thought. But no appropriate name came to her.

  She set down the bag, thumbed through a book of Perrault’s fairy tales and found the story of Cendrillon, Cinderella. When Mariah was very young, Mrs. Marron had liked to collect stories from every country.

  Cinderella in the German language was Aschenbrödel. Mariah vaguely remembered a variation on the tale where the main character had been a boy, not a girl.

  Aschen. Ash. Ashton was a proper name, especially in England.

  “Ash.” She spoke the name aloud, nodded to herself and placed three of the books in the bag. Then she hid the bag under her bed. She would go out again tonight, when the dowager was asleep.

  Caution. Discretion…

  A knock at the door broke into her thoughts. It was Barbara, the parlor maid, who bobbed a curtsey as Mariah let her in.