Lord of Legends

by Susan Krinard

  There was only one man in the world who possessed such a skill.

  “Ash,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER TEN

  HE ROSE FROM HIS CHAIR and bowed far more deeply than was the current custom, sweeping his arm low and to the side as if he held the wide-brimmed, plumed hat of a cavalier. The gesture was that of a gentleman born, and the man before her, book still in hand, stood as easily in a gentleman’s clothing as if he had worn such things all his life.

  The change was not so much in his bearing, which had always been proud. Nor was it in his steady expression. But there was a new confidence in his eyes, an almost daunting certainty, and it chilled Mariah almost as much as the dangerous fact of his presence in the house.

  “Lady Donnington,” he said in a supple, seductive voice. He set his book down on the table beside his chair and advanced, matching the rapid pace of Mariah’s heartbeat.

  “My God, Ash,” she whispered. “You can’t be here.”

  She was still in the midst of her warning when Ash reached for her ungloved hand, raised it to his lips and kissed it. Not the air above it, as was the common practice, but the soft skin just to the back of her knuckles.

  “I came to see you,” he said.

  She trembled, as much from his kiss and the way he continued to hold her hand as from fear for him. “You will be discovered,” she said, trying to escape from his firm but gentle grip.

  His answer was to pull her toward the chairs beside the hearth, a leashed, irresistible power flowing from his body to hers. With the same utmost gentleness, he pressed her into a chair. He took the one opposite, farthest from the empty grate. Mariah stared, tongue-tied, as he picked up the book from the table and opened it.

  “‘It is a truth universally acknowledged,’” he read, “‘that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’”

  Shock held Mariah mute for a long minute, and then heat rushed through her body.

  “Pride and Prejudice,” she whispered. “But I never read that to you. I—”

  “I read it myself,” he said, closing the volume. “A very interesting book, though I confess that the behavior of some of the characters is a trifle difficult for me to understand.”

  Mariah half rose, found that her legs wouldn’t support her, and collapsed back into the chair. “You read it yourself?” she all but squeaked. “How? When did you…?”

  “Learn to read?” he said, smiling in a way he never had before. “You taught me, Merry, or don’t you remember?”

  “I began to teach you only two weeks ago. It isn’t—”

  “Possible? But you yourself implied that my lack of literacy might only be a product of my amnesia, did you not?”

  So she had said, but she hadn’t been prepared for this…this new Ash who kissed her hand and spoke with all the eloquence of an Elizabethan courtier.

  “I am quite certain that your assumptions about my past are correct,” he said to her silence.

  “You’ve…you’ve remembered?”

  “Not as much as I would wish.”

  “Your surname?”

  “No. But I have chosen one. Cornell.”

  Mariah was too anxious for his news to question his choice. “What else do you remember?”

  He sobered and glanced down at his hands, resting on the cover of the leather-bound book. “Not why I was imprisoned, nor why Donnington is my enemy.”

  “But you know where you came from? How you came to England, why—”

  “I know I am from America. The rest remains a mystery as yet.”

  Mariah made an effort to slow her breathing. As incredible as it seemed, Ash had become everything she had hoped for.

  But this was neither the time nor the place for celebration. “It’s wonderful that you remember, Ash, but it’s too soon to reveal yourself to—”

  “To the dowager?”

  How could she make him understand? “She is an elderly woman, Ash. She might suffer some harm if she saw you. You see, she didn’t know that her sister had borne a child in America, let alone that he…so closely resembles her son.”

  “Do I not have the right to present myself to my family?”

  “Of course you do. When the time is—”

  “Did you not suspect that Vivian might know of what Donnington has done?”

  One more revelation from that conversation with Sinjin he had somehow managed to overhear. “Perhaps, Ash. But I do not believe it any longer.”

  “I know what ‘reputation’ means, Mariah. Ware’s mother desires to ruin yours.”

  “She is upset that her son left Donbridge—”

  “And you have never told me why.”

  She gripped the arms of her chair. “Donnington and I had a misunderstanding shortly after we…began to live together.”

  “After you were married.”

  “Yes. The dowager believes I was to blame.”

  Ash’s eyes flared, and she almost expected to see him toss his head. “This is about Donnington, then,” he said. “All about Donnington.”

  “I am simply trying to explain why you can’t meet the dowager yet,” she said. “You must be calm, and she must be prepared.” She rose. “We will discuss this further at the cottage. It will be difficult to leave without attracting the attention of the servants, so you must do as I say.”

  He got up and took her hand. Then he pulled her toward him again.

  But this time he didn’t stop.

  His face was no longer that of a half-wild creature—acting more on instinct than with deliberate intent—but that of an experienced lover who knew the effect of every move he made. His lips brushed hers, as light as his footsteps on the Persian carpet. It was hardly a kiss at all, yet Mariah felt the jolt of it all the way down to her toes.

  She should have run, just as she had run from him by the meadow. She should have jerked away and left him without a moment’s hesitation. But she let him kiss her, returned the kiss…gently, as he had given it, her mind helpless, her body under his command.

  Too late she recognized the change when his mouth hardened, becoming demanding, seeking far more than she had ever before been asked to give.

  Not even from Donnington. Giles had kissed her, but never like this. He had wooed her respectfully, promising more with his ardent but gallant attentions, until she had agreed to marry him and escape a world no longer her own.

  There was nothing respectful about Ash’s kiss. His tongue was too busy with hers to let her speak, and she had no wish to do so.

  This, she realized, was what she’d been wanting all along, ever since she’d begun to know him in the folly. He was handsome, strong, masterful. He was perfect.

  Too perfect.

  She reached out blindly, laying her hands against his chest in a vain attempt to put distance between them. His heart drummed beneath her palm, but he only drew her closer, refusing to acknowledge either her silent plea or the rigidity of her body. He kissed her again, tracing his lips across the corner of her mouth, along her jaw and down to her throat. Her nether parts began to ache and grow wet.

  No! She shoved at Ash, somehow managing to catch him off guard, then backed across the room until she stood under the ladder that provided access to the upper shelves.

  “You must never,” she said, breathing harshly, “never, do that again.”

  “You wanted me to kiss you,” he said softly.

  “I…did not. And even if I did, it would be wrong.”

  “Because of your reputation.”

  “Because I am married, and a person who is married does not kiss another man. Whatever my husband may have done—”

  “May have done? Have you ceased to believe me?”

  “Under English law, a man must be allowed to confront his accusers.”

  “Will you confront him, Mariah?”

  She wanted to sink into the carpet. “I will not ignore anything that has happened,” she said. “You will have justice, Ash. That I promise.”<
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  “And until then you are not to be touched, even though it is what you desire.” His mouth formed an uneven smile. “I understand completely, my lady countess.”

  His sweeping bow mocked her, yet when he straightened, his eyes held no anger.

  “You must leave the house without further delay,” she said, averting her gaze. “I will make sure it’s safe.”

  She moved quickly toward the door, but someone knocked before she reached it.

  “The window,” she whispered, planting herself against the door. “Go out the window.”

  Ash hesitated, almost as if he would prefer to be caught than flee. But in the end, he did as she asked. He raised the sash and climbed through without once glancing back at her. And then he was gone.

  Closing her eyes, Mariah waited until she was in firm control of her own emotions before she opened the door. It wasn’t Nola, as she had half expected, but Barbara, the parlor maid, who curtseyed and glanced curiously over Mariah’s shoulder into the library.

  “I beg your pardon, your ladyship,” she said. “I thought I heard voices. Is there anything I might get for you?”

  “Nothing, thank you, Barbara.” Mariah smiled, left the library and closed the door behind her. “You’re up and about late this evening.”

  “Her ladyship…that is, the dowager…said that Donbridge might be having guests soon, Countess.”

  Guests? Mariah had heard nothing about it—that was no surprise, given the strained relationship between her and Vivian—but she had no intention of letting the maid know how ignorant she was.

  “Of course,” she said. “You may return to your duties, Barbara. I believe I will go up to bed.”

  And so she did, knowing full well that she wouldn’t get a wink of sleep until dawn. She lay tangled in the bedclothes, tossing and turning until perspiration dampened her nightdress.

  What have I done?

  But she knew all too well. She had encouraged too much intimacy with Ash from the very beginning, believing only the personal touch would allow him to recover. But he had recovered quickly—and too well. And she had responded. Oh, how ardently she had responded.

  How could she face him again?

  It wasn’t until five o’clock in the morning that the fairies came.

  She did not recognize them at first. They seemed like large insects—fireflies, perhaps—glowing and darting and nimble as they fluttered about the room. Mariah got up to close the window, and one of them alighted on the sill.

  Mariah sank to the carpet in shock. The tiny creature followed. It hovered before her face, its own miniature features as blank as a doll’s. Its arms were as fragile as fine china, hardly wider than a pin. And its wings, iridescent in the filtered light, beat faster than a hummingbird’s.

  The fairies flew about her for a time, exploring every corner of her room, diving under her bedstead, examining themselves in her mirror. Never did they make a single sound. When Mariah reached for the sill, they flew for the window and streamed out into the morning air.

  Mariah crawled back to her bed and pulled the sheets and coverlet up to her chin, unable to get warm in spite of the moderate temperature.

  Fairies. Just as her mother had described. They had come to find her at last. Like the unicorn. And she could tell no one. Not even Ash. Least of all Ash.

  She shivered under the covers until Nola came to find her.

  SO THIS WAS WHAT it was like.

  Ash strode away from the house, the hair on the back of his neck on end and his heart clenched around emotions that were still too raw for him to bear.

  Human. That was what he was becoming. Human enough to model himself on the people in the books he had read, the men who won their ladies-fair with the most ardent wooing.

  They had taught him, those books, more than Mariah had done in all the time since she had found him. They had taught him about gallantry, chivalry, honor…what it was to be a gentleman like Sinjin. He wore the right clothes, carried himself as a lord of nobility.

  He’d thought it would be enough. But it was not. This body was a cage and would continue to be until he made Mariah care for him.

  He remembered the story about the man who had been wrongfully imprisoned but had gradually dug his way out of his cell, only to become a nobleman bent on finding justice. Ash had not failed to recognize the similarities to his own experiences. In the end, the count had won both his revenge and the woman he loved.

  Love.

  Not long ago, Mariah had tried to describe this paramount of all human emotions. She had said there were “many kinds of love,” including friendship. But Ash had not understood her full meaning until he had read the books.

  Now he comprehended love’s terrible power. He recognized that a female must be won with deeds and words that proved a gentleman’s love for her. As he must win Mariah.

  He recalled a line from one of the books: Rénée responded with a look of love, for the young man was truly elegant and handsome like this, with his blue eyes, his smooth complection and the dark side-whiskers framing his face…

  Ash stopped, running his hand over his face. He felt the first roughness of what humans named whiskers…a most terrible warning of what was happening to him. Soon he would find it necessary to cut the hair away like any true human male. Would he have won Mariah’s admiration if he had blue eyes and dark hair?

  Dark hair. Like Donnington.

  But it was not Donnington for whom she held affection. Of that he was now certain. She had responded to Ash’s caresses, the physical expressions of love. He had thought himself in control, but he could not forget how his own body had felt, how quickly his heart had beaten, how much he had desired her.

  That was Mariah’s power over him. But desire was not enough for her. She required that the male she loved must be a gentleman of strength and honor, not a weakling who required her constant assistance as if he were a child.

  Yet there must be a fine balance between strength and gentleness. He had been too rough, too hasty in his actions. He had learned that there were subtler means of winning a female’s affections.

  He could tell her that he loved her.

  He began walking again, his legs stiff and graceless. Nevermore would he gallop as fast as the flight of a phoenix, or graze the emerald grasses and fragrant blossoms of Tir-na-Nog. In forty mortal years, fifty at most, he would die.

  Unless he sacrificed Mariah to a lie. A lie despicable enough without a false declaration of an emotion he could not feel. Not even for her.

  She had made a choice tonight. A choice to leave him. He could not allow that decision to stand. He must find a way to be with her at all times, in her world. He must sever her ties to Donnington before the human returned from wherever he had gone. And he could never forget that he must not let his thoughts stray beyond securing her trust and affection. There would be kisses, but nothing beyond.

  He wrenched off his shoes, stockings and jacket, left them beneath the shrubbery and broke into a run. He ran until his shirt was wet against his skin and his breath rasped. The sun rode well above the horizon and he was at last beginning to slow his mad flight when he heard a horse’s cry and a man’s grunted curse.

  Instinctively he turned toward the sounds and followed them to a stretch of field that bordered the Donbridge estate. A group of horsemen on glossy mounts was gathered about a ginger-haired man of perhaps forty years, the glittering metal on his mahogany horse’s bridle catching the sunlight as the animal plunged and bucked. Each of the other men made attempts to reach the hapless rider, but none could approach the bay stallion for more than a few seconds.

  “Your Royal Highness!” cried one of the men, his face half-covered with a heavy black beard and side whiskers. “Make no attempt to control him. One of us will assist you.”

  His “Highness”—who must be a kind of prince, according to Ash’s reading—set his jaw and refused to heed the blackbeard’s advice. His mount whirled round and round, trying to unseat his rider
, as the man fought for control.

  Ash hesitated. He did not know these humans; he had met none but the man who had imprisoned him, his keeper and the three—Mariah, Sinjin and Nola—who had assisted him.

  But a prince was a man of power, the son of a king or queen such as the one who ruled England. He would be an ally of worth, and Ash might soon require such an ally.

  Surely Mariah would be impressed by such a coup.

  He ran toward the frantic scene, slowing only as he approached the horse. He made a low sound deep in his throat. There was a language for horses, just as there were languages for humans and unicorns. It was a simple dialect, no more similar to unicorn speech than the twittering of a bird to the golden cry of a phoenix, but Ash understood it.

  He set his hand on the wet, quivering flank of the bay, and the horse grew calm—still shaking, but no longer prepared to continue the battle.

  “Well,” the rider said, looking down at Ash in surprise. “I must thank you for your assistance, sir, but it was a dangerous attempt. Starling is hardly to be trusted. I—” His eyes narrowed and then opened wide. “Donnington?”

  Ash bowed. “I beg pardon,” he said, “but I am not the Earl of Donnington.”

  The prince’s escorts crowded their horses round Ash and their master, murmuring in shock and bemusement.

  “What jest is this, sir?” the man with the black whiskers demanded. He stared at Ash’s bare feet and unbuttoned waistcoat. “If you are not Donnington…”

  “Come, come, old man,” the prince said, smiling broadly at Ash. “I didn’t realize you were one to engage in such tomfoolery.”

  “My name is Ashton Cornell,” Ash said. “Please forgive my unsuitable appearance. I was walking, and did not wish to ruin my shoes.”

  The prince burst into a full-throated laugh. “I fear you have come very close to ruining your trousers.”

  “Trousers are easily replaced, sir, but a good pair of shoes is quite a different matter.”

  “How right you are.” The prince swung off his horse, regarded Ash with a twist of his lips and offered his hand. “Well met, Mr. Cornell.”