Lord of Legends

by Susan Krinard

  He went, though not graciously. She circled the cottage, found a few relatively clean rags and stripped the soiled sheets from the bed.

  “This will have to do for now,” she said to herself, spreading the rags over the mattress. She cleared the small, crooked table and spread out what was left of the meal she’d brought.

  “Try not to worry,” she told Ash. “You won’t be alone for long.”

  “I am not worried. If the man comes back, I will not let him leave again.”

  Something in his tone told Mariah that he meant more than simply detaining his keeper. She had no doubt in her mind that he was capable of taking revenge on anyone who had harmed him.

  “You mustn’t hurt him,” she said. “There are other ways of dealing with those who commit such crimes.”

  His black eyes snapped. “I will not hurt him,” he said, “if you stay.”

  Blackmail. How could he have become so adept at it so quickly?

  “I cannot,” she said, recognizing that Sinjin had been right. It wasn’t merely her reputation, or even Vivian’s ill will, that made her quail at the thought of sharing the cottage with Ash. It was the weakness of her own body and emotions, the weakness that made her knees tremble in his presence and her memories unaccountably turn to her empty marriage bed.

  “You have trusted me thus far,” she said unsteadily. “Trust me now.”

  He took her hand, his fingers finding their way between hers. “Why can you not trust me?”

  “I…Ash…”

  “Go,” he said roughly, releasing her hand. He began to turn away and stopped. “Bring books.”

  “Books?”

  “Like the girl and the bear-man.”

  Of course. And why not? Mariah could think of no better way to stimulate his memory than by providing him with as many books as possible, as long as she could find the time to read to him.

  “I shall bring as many as I’m able,” she said. “Is there anything else you need?”

  He considered, head cocked. “Yourself,” he said.

  The weakness returned, settling in her stomach and making her feel light-headed. She became aware of the diffuse light of dawn creeping through the cracked windowpanes.

  “I will see you very soon,” she said, edging toward the door. Ash didn’t try to stop her. Sinjin gave her a searching look when she joined him, but he seemed to know she was in no mood for conversation.

  She hurried back the house while Sinjin rode for Rothwell. She headed straight for the servants’ entrance, shook out the hem of her skirts as best as she was able and carefully opened the door.

  Dawn was breaking and the servants’ area was already a hive of activity as Cook and her minions worked toward the completion of breakfast, Mrs. Baines and various maids discussed the day’s chores around the house, and Fellows, the dowager’s personal maid, arranged the drawing of a hot bath for her mistress.

  That meant that Vivian was still in her rooms, Mariah realized as she swept past the curious faces she encountered in the corridor and continued to the servants’ staircase. She bolted up the stairs and made her way to her own room, where she removed her boots and set them aside for cleaning.

  Summoning Alice, who already resented her mistress’s propensity for dispensing with her services, did not seem a very good idea. But since Mariah had deliberately chosen the simplest gowns she could find for her morning walks, she was able to negotiate the hooks by herself. When she had relieved herself of her heavier garments and put on her dressing gown, she sat on the bed and began to consider her next move.

  She’d no sooner counted off the first step than someone tapped on the door. She knew it was Nola before the girl entered the room.

  “Nola,” she said, deeply self-conscious at the thought of her clandestine activities. “How are you this morning? Isn’t it a lovely day?”

  She knew she was babbling, but there was no help for it, and Nola seemed not to notice.

  She curtseyed and said, “It is that, Lady Donnington. Is there anything I might get for you?”

  Evidently the girl had been keeping close watch for Mariah’s return, but her eagerness made it all that much easier for Mariah to enlist her in the work ahead.

  “Do you still want to help me, Nola?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes, ma’am.”

  “Come sit.” Mariah indicated a chair and waited until the girl was perched on its edge and waiting alertly. “I have something important to tell you,” she said, “and it must continue to remain a secret.” She took a deep breath. “You guessed correctly when you met me leaving the house. I have seen the man who looks like Donnington.”

  “Cor,” Nola whispered. “It’s really true, then?”

  “It is. And he is—has been—a prisoner, just as the rumors said.” She leaned forward. “Have you heard anything else, anything at all, that you haven’t told me?”

  “Nothing, your ladyship. Hardly anyone speaks of it, and then only at night, when the wind blows and the trees scrape the attic windows.”

  Ghost stories. Tales to frighten impressionable young maids still in their between years, told while huddled under the covers in their cramped attic chambers.

  “Very well,” Mariah said. “We’ll leave that for now. In the meantime, I must ask you to do something you might not find pleasant.”

  “Ma’am?”

  “I shall need you to clean a cottage and make it habitable.”

  “A cottage?” Nola nearly jumped out of the chair. “The cottage where the mysterious man lives?”

  “Yes.” Mariah hesitated. “The man isn’t there anymore, Nola. The prisoner is.”

  “Cor blimey!” The girl flushed. “I’m sorry, your ladyship.”

  Mariah waved her hand dismissively. “I’ve heard far worse, Nola. But I wouldn’t advise speaking that way in front of the dowager.”

  “No, ma’am.” Nola hunched down in a conspirator’s posture. “Why would anyone want to lock up someone who looks like his lordship?”

  “That’s what we—Mr. Ware and I—intend to find out. But first we must help Ash as best we can.”

  “Is that his name?”

  “He doesn’t remember his real name, Nola. I gave that name to him.”

  “He has lost his memory?”

  “Yes, though I believe it is only a temporary affliction.”

  “Do you want me to go to the cottage now, your ladyship?”

  “Not now. Early tomorrow morning, before anyone is up.” Mariah rose and went to the bookshelves. “We shall bring him more clothing and as many books as we can carry. The more he learns, the sooner he will recover.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You will have little chance for sleep if you do this for us, Nola.”

  “Oh, that doesn’t matter, your ladyship!”

  “Then I’ll come for you early tomorrow morning, at three.”

  Excitement buzzed in every line of Nola’s body as she left to resume her regular household duties. Mariah was scarcely less agitated. She must somehow make her way through another trying day, confined to this house, while Sinjin, who had so much more freedom than she did, set out to learn more of Ash’s origins.

  Perhaps he’ll turn up something important tonight, Mariah thought. Perhaps we will have all the answers.

  But that would be a miracle. Mariah didn’t doubt for a moment that the next few days would consist of hard work with no miracles involved.

  She went to the bookshelf and debated over what was best to take to Ash. Her collection seemed pathetic seen in the light of necessity. Yet Ash had responded well to the fairy tale she’d read. There couldn’t be much harm in starting simply, with more children’s stories.

  At random, she picked out a book and read the title. Mythical Beasts. Her fingers seemed to move of their own accord, seeking the section under the letter U.

  Unicorn. A creature of contradictions: capable of ferocity and yet also compassion, beautiful beyond measure, capable of using its magica
l horn to counteract poison and even, according to some legends, to heal.

  Mariah closed her eyes, wondering why she thought of Ash when she studied the illustration that accompanied the text. Except for the horn, the words might have described him.

  She closed the book with a snap and set it back on the shelf, turning to the novels—books she’d read in New York when she’d needed a brief respite from her time caring for Mama.

  The Man in the Iron Mask. The Count of Monte Cristo. Ivanhoe. All romantic visions of the past, seemingly irrelevant to these modern times, each presenting an admittedly legendary example of how society functioned. And yet, at the very least, they would expand Ash’s vocabulary and might serve to awaken new memories.

  Both the man in the iron mask and the Count of Monte Cristo were prisoners who escaped their fates, she thought. Would that fact allow Ash to take some hope in his situation or only anger him further?

  With an uncertain frown, Mariah stacked the novels on her bed table. Taking books from Donnington’s library was out of the question, but he might keep a few volumes on geography, history and science in his room; she would see what she could find before dinnertime. By the time she was through with Ash, he would be well beyond the fictional world of novels and fairy tales.

  Trying not to let her doubts overwhelm her, she dressed again and went down to breakfast.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PAMELA, LADY WESTLAKE, set her reticule on a side table and smiled at Mr. St. John Ware.

  “How delightful to see you again, Mr. Ware,” she said.

  He smiled in return, though there was a certain lack of authenticity in the expression. Indeed, one might almost have believed that Ware had no desire to see her.

  She, however, had a very strong desire to see him, though he must not under any circumstances guess just how strong.

  “Please be seated, Lady Westlake,” Ware said, indicating the most comfortable chair in his drawing room. The place was decidedly masculine; Ware was, after all, a confirmed bachelor whose numerous “lady friends” had no influence whatsoever on his life at Rothwell. Pamela had been certain to bring along a maid; though an established matron, she could not be too careful in the presence of one of England’s most inveterate rakes.

  “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit, Lady Westlake?” Ware said, having rung for tea and taken his own seat opposite hers.

  “I wished to inquire about your brother, Mr. Ware,” she said, arranging her skirts in such a way that the ankles of her dainty boots were visible. “Have you heard from him?”

  He sprawled a little in his chair—not at all proper in the presence of a lady, but indicative of his generally insolent manner. “I haven’t, Lady Westlake,” he drawled. “May I ask why the interest?”

  His bluntness was no surprise to her, and she had come prepared. “I have been deeply concerned about your sister-in-law, Lady Donnington,” she purred. “For such a young bride to be left alone is hardly conducive to marital happiness.”

  “A subject with which you are well acquainted.”

  They stared at each other. Ware knew very well that her marriage was scarcely a marriage at all, given that her husband was an invalid twice her age, uninterested in his wife and devoted to his grotesque collection of mounted insects.

  “Yes,” she said after a moment’s pause. “Let us speak frankly, you and I. We know better than anyone what the poor child is missing…you with your—” a pause “—experience, I with my own. Donnington owes her more than he has given her. If anyone will have heard from him…”

  “It would be the dowager Lady Donnington,” Ware said, “not I.”

  “But surely, as brothers so close in age, you have always confided in one another,” she said sweetly.

  It was an entirely foolish thing to say, but Pamela hadn’t meant it as a real question. Everyone knew that Donnington and his brother had been at odds since childhood and had very little to say to each other.

  Ware seemed not in the least discomposed. “My brother confides in very few,” he said. “Have you inquired of my mother?”

  “Naturally. She has heard nothing.”

  Someone tapped on the door, and Ware’s butler, an extremely thin man with a doleful face, entered with the tea. He bowed to Pamela, set the tray near her and retreated.

  “Will you pour, Lady Westlake?” Ware asked.

  “Of course.” She did so with the elegance for which she had received so many compliments. Ware rose to accept his cup but set it down without drinking.

  “Your concern for Lady Donnington does you great credit,” he said, “but she appears to be coping with the situation very well. I think you need not trouble yourself on her account any further.”

  “Because she has your friendship?”

  “Always.”

  “It is fortunate when a new bride can find such support among her relations.”

  “Indeed.”

  “I trust Donnington will not have cause to regret his absence.”

  The temperature in the room dropped several degrees. Ware stood abruptly.

  “If you will forgive me, madam,” he said, “I have an appointment with my man of business and am already running late.”

  His brusqueness should have been unthinkably rude, but Pamela welcomed it. She set down her cup, also barely touched, and rose, as well.

  “Then I thank you for taking the time to see me,” she said, offering her hand. “I am certain everything will all turn out well in the end.”

  He barely touched the tips of her fingers. “I am certain it will,” he said, and herded, more than escorted, her to the door. “Hedley, will you kindly see Lady Westlake to her carriage?” Without waiting until she reached her conveyance, he retreated into the drawing room.

  So, Pamela thought with no little sense of triumph, Mariah has got a lover, but not one anyone of decency would ever suspect.

  Her own vague suspicions had been based on no more than the obvious affection between Mariah and her brother-in-law, but the outrageous notion had become a little more plausible when she’d followed Mariah on one of her oddly timed excursions across Donbridge’s park and witnessed the two speaking intimately together by the mere.

  The subject of their discussion had not been audible to her, but she had seen quite enough. Proof or not, she recognized an excellent opportunity to work mischief against the little American bitch.

  She smiled as she accepted a footman’s hand into the carriage. Dear Vivian would be beyond shocked. But she would have what she wanted: grounds for an annulment of the marriage once Mariah was caught and Donnington returned to testify that the union had never been consummated.

  You have played with fire, my dear Sinjin, she thought, but it is not only you who will suffer. And when it is all over, Donnington will finally turn to me.

  NOLA STOOD IN THE doorway of the cottage, bucket and mop in hand, and stared.

  Well she might, Mariah thought. Though the candles were burning, there was no evidence that Ash had used the cot or eaten more than a mouthful of the food she’d left him.

  Mariah set down her heavy bag of books near the doorway and strode into the tiny back room of the cottage. He wasn’t there.

  He’s left. That was the only thought in her mind as she took up the lantern again and ran back outside. The dim light of false dawn was beginning to glaze the eastern horizon, and she knew she had little time to find him.

  She paused at the end of the overgrown footpath to stare at the ground. His feet had been bare; that was obvious enough from the faint tracks he had left in the soft soil. She lost his trail when she reached the wood. Not so much as a broken twig marked his passage.

  You should never have trusted him.

  She walked deeper into the undergrowth with the lantern aloft, stumbling over shadows, batting aside branches and knocking away the brambles that clung to her clothing. She made numerous detours around areas too thickly clustered with vegetation for her full skirts to negotiate, and s
he began to wish for the trousers she had been permitted to wear during her parents’ long-ago holidays to their former home in the West.

  Only that experience kept her from falling into one of a hundred damp, hidden depressions or tripping over mossy fallen branches. She knew the wood couldn’t be large compared to those in the United States, but her fears and the drag of her skirts made it seem interminable.

  Without warning, she broke free of the trees and stepped out into a wet meadow thick with wildflowers. She lifted the lantern and focused on a flash of movement.

  A naked man was running across the meadow, leaping over pools of open water and plunging amidst the reeds in graceful bounds, moving as no man should be able to move. There was no sense of the ridiculous about him, only sublime grace, the slide of sleek muscle, the very image of flight above the common ground.

  Just like a unicorn. The mythical creature filled her eyes, pale coated, cloven hooves brushing the grass and sedge without ever touching the earth.

  Mariah gasped as Ash landed so lightly that he made barely a splash in the green water. He turned, eyes reflecting the growing light like black glass.

  Instinctively she began to back away. Ash started toward her. He paused only a few feet away, unclothed and very, very male. He seemed much more naked here than he had in his cell—here, where someone might see and assume…

  “Ash,” she managed to choke out. “You must go back to the cottage.”

  He tossed his head, sweeping the forelock of silver hair out of his eyes. She could smell the spicy, indescribable scent of him, so unlike Donnington in every way.

  “I couldn’t stay there,” he said. “I had to get out.”

  His nearness was beginning to reawaken certain disturbing responses in her body. “Where have you been?”

  “Here.” He gestured at the trees around them.

  Relief almost washed away the feelings she didn’t dare examine too closely. “We must go back, Ash. You must dress at once.”

  “I prefer this.”