Lord of Legends

by Susan Krinard

  Her words were guarded, but her scent suggested that she was not nearly so reluctant as she pretended.

  And he would be alone with her again.

  The hours passed too slowly. The prince and his companions talked well into the night, seeking their beds only as midnight approached. Mariah bade everyone good-night and went upstairs, leaving Ash to linger by the banked drawing room fire. In the dark square of the hearth, he saw himself as a glowing ember, a spark of swift light leaving the mortal world behind.

  Soon. Soon.

  The very thought made his chest tighten, as if he had run for many miles.

  He was waiting on the terrace when Mariah arrived. The scent of flowers and freshly cut grass was strong in the night air. The moon was bright enough to illuminate her figure; she had put on a simple dress with little of the foolish rear projection called a bustle, and her hair had been freed from its tight coiffure and left loosely pinned about her head. The one incongruity was the elbow-length gloves she wore. She approached Ash slowly, almost timidly.

  “We must be very quiet,” she said. “We shall have no music, but I will count out the beat.”

  Ash merely gazed at her. Every time he saw her again, no matter how brief her absence, he marveled at her beauty. Not the perfection of the Fane or of the unicorn kind, but something uniquely her own.

  “Shall we begin?” she asked, as if she hadn’t noticed his stare. “We shall start with a quadrille.”

  Her efforts to make him believe in the invisible humans dancing with them were not entirely successful. Ash was aware only of her, her grace as she circled and clasped empty air with small, strong hands. Only when she came back to him was he satisfied, and each time she had to wriggle free of his grip.

  “You must not hold on so long,” she scolded after the fourth figure. “It will give the lady in question the wrong impression of your regard.”

  “I do not mean to give a wrong impression,” he said.

  She stopped, faced him and looked him in the eye.

  “Now,” she said, “the waltz. The waltz is danced by a large group of couples. It is not only a matter of mastering the steps but of dancing amongst the other couples to create one lovely pattern.” She took his hand. “This is how we begin,” she said, “with my right hand holding your left.”

  “And not letting go.”

  “That is correct.” She paused, her gazed fixed on his chin, and took his other hand. “You must put your right hand very lightly here,” she said, setting it just above her waist. Ash felt a shudder run through her body. She placed her left hand on his opposite shoulder, barely touching, yet the fire coursed through him as if she had stroked his naked skin.

  “The steps are very simple,” she said. “First, imagine a triple beat. One-two-three, one-two-three. No pause between.” She looked down at his feet. “Step forward with your left foot. Yes, excellent.”

  As he did as she asked, she stepped back with her right foot.

  “Now step forward and to the right with your other foot,” she said, and moved gracefully so that her motions were sublimely in harmony with his. But when he made the third movement, they became tangled together, her skirts wrapped around his legs.

  “Oh,” she murmured. “I think we had better start again. I shall lead this time.”

  She repositioned his hands, his right on her waist and his left in her right. “Now we shall try again,” she said.

  And then she began to move—not as he had, hesitantly following her instructions, but smoothly, inviting him to do the same. A sound came from her throat, a humming that resonated throughout his entire body. The melody was simple, and Ash clearly envisioned what Mariah meant him to do. Within moments they were sweeping about the terrace. The rush of rhythm reached deep into Ash’s soul, and he saw himself running again…running with Mariah at his side.

  But he, not she, must be in the lead. He stopped, eliciting a brief cry of protest from her, and adjusted their positions back to those with which they had begun. Suddenly Mariah smiled.

  “Very well,” she said. “Let’s see how well you do now.”

  He did better than well. At first they waltzed in silence, Mariah looking away from him with each one-two-three. But then she began to hum again, and he felt her body loosen.

  “What is this music?” he asked.

  “It is by a man named Johann Strauss. The song is called ‘Tales from the Vienna Wood.’”

  “Is this wood far from here?”

  “It lies in the world of the imagination.”

  “I would like to go there.”

  “Perhaps I will take you some day.”

  He thought of her imaginary wood as he carried her with him, and she was so light in his arms that he lifted her from her feet more than once.

  “Oh,” she said, breathless. “It has never been like this.” Joy sparkled in her eyes, sheer joy in the dance, and he thought his own heart would burst. They had become so much as one that he might have waltzed her straight through the Gates of Tir-na-Nog. Waltz her there and keep her forever.

  His own fancies carried him so far that he didn’t notice that her song had ended until she came to a halt. She was breathing quickly, still smiling, her hair falling down over her shoulders.

  “You were wonderful, Ash,” she said, stepping out of his arms. “You must have danced the waltz many times before…in your other life.”

  “I don’t remember,” he murmured.

  “You will.”

  He couldn’t look away from her flushed, happy face. “Because of you,” he said. “Only because of you.”

  “I am glad I could…if only we…” She trailed off. “We should go back to our rooms,” she said, the brightness of her eyes clouding as the magic began to fade. “Tomorrow I will speak to Sinjin about your clothes, and then we shall see about the—”

  He caught her hand before she could finish the sentence, pulled her toward him again. She didn’t resist. Even when he lifted her arm and began to peel the glove away from her fingers, she made no protest. He worked the glove past her wrist, slipped it off and let it fall to the floor. Mariah closed her eyes and swayed as he took one of her fingers into his mouth. He licked and suckled it, then moved to the next, teasing the tip with his tongue.

  “Ash,” she said in a choked whisper. “This can’t go on. You know it can’t.”

  He was too busy to answer. He had tasted each finger, and now he turned her hand over and began to kiss her palm, running his tongue along each shallow crease. Mariah shuddered. “Ash, please…I beg you…”

  Somewhere in the house a door closed. Mariah jumped back, her skirts swishing about her legs.

  “Go,” she whispered. “No one must know about this. It is our secret.”

  He nodded grimly. “Yes. Our secret.”

  She fled, and Ash bent to pick up the discarded glove, closing his eyes as he smelled her scent. Then he tucked the scrap of silk inside his waistcoat and walked slowly back inside.

  IT WAS TRUE. They were actually in love.

  Pamela pressed her back to the wall and remained where she was, though Cornell and Mariah had long since gone up the stairs to their rooms.

  They might still be together, of course. But Pamela didn’t believe Mariah was ready for that final step. She was still the tiresomely upright child Donnington had inexplicably chosen to marry.

  They loved, but they were not yet lovers.

  Pamela banged painfully against the French doors as she emerged from behind them, too angry to watch her step. Of course none of this had come as any surprise after what the dowager Lady Donnington had confided of her own new suspicions. But the idea that Mariah should betray Donnington with this American oaf infuriated her.

  Oaf? She paused in her charge up the stairs, her hand on the banister. She had just seen Cornell dance with breathtaking grace, as if he had waltzed every day since he was a child. His lean, muscular body had guided Mariah about the terrace as if they were both gliding on air.


  No, not an oaf. A mystery. A man who made the most elementary mistakes at the dinner table, and yet could look into a woman’s eyes and melt her principles as if they were no more substantial than ice on a summer’s day.

  “Madam?”

  She started and turned. The girl she recognized as the chambermaid who had been cleaning the cottage at Donbridge—supposedly Vivian’s “agent” in the observation of Lady Donnington—stood blocking Pamela’s path up the staircase.

  “Lady Westlake?” the girl said. “I am sorry to have disturbed you, but I—”

  “What are you doing here?” Pamela asked, wondering how much the girl had seen and heard.

  “Begging your pardon, ma’am, I arrived with Lady Donnington. Her own maid has come down ill, and I’m to take her place until she is well again.”

  “As Lady Donnington’s personal maid?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Pamela laughed under her breath. Vivian must have had something to do with Alice’s “coming down ill” and seeing that Nola accompanied her daughter-in-law to Rothwell. True enough, the maid had proved a disappointment until she had suggested, however improbably, that Mariah’s lover appeared to resemble her husband in nearly every particular, but that had proved to be an apt observation.

  Apparently the dowager must still have some use for the girl. And Mariah would continue to be unaware that a little red spider was observing her from its tiny, insignificant web.

  “Your work has nearly been done for you,” Pamela said disdainfully. “We know the name and nature of Mariah’s lover. All you need do now is report on any changes in their relationship.”

  “I shall do my best, your ladyship.”

  There was an almost insolent edge in the girl’s tone. “Thus far,” Pamela said, “your best has not been good enough.”

  Nola curtseyed. “Yes, your ladyship. Please excuse me, your ladyship.” She curtseyed again for good measure and turned in the direction of the servants’ staircase.

  “Oh, and, Nola,” Pamela called softly. “Never forget who employs you.”

  “I shall not forget, ma’am.” Nola bobbed her head and disappeared into the corridor. Disgruntled by the encounter, Pamela retired, her thoughts lingering on the image of Cornell slowly removing Mariah’s glove from her arm. Pamela had been highly aroused by the sight and would have sought out Sinjin, if he had not been sulking in his room like a child robbed of a biscuit.

  Damn him. Damn all men. Eventually she would see Ashton Cornell brought low for daring to mock Donnington with his pretensions and claims to kinship. She would find a way to expose Mariah for what she was. And she would have Sinjin completely under her thumb until she was through with him and his glorious body.

  BY THE NEXT EVENING, matters were much improved. The prince seemed to have forgotten Ash’s minor blunders at the dinner table, and Sinjin had generously lent Ash several suits and a fresh set of evening clothes, though he treated Ash with a distant air that suggested he didn’t trust his American relative.

  Mariah knew that Sinjin resented Ash’s precipitous decision to reveal himself, but she had little time to talk to her brother-in-law; nor, were she to be honest, had she any particular desire to do so. She was still troubled by his relationship with Lady Westlake, especially since she was convinced that Pamela had been the real seducer and was using him for her own mysterious ends. The woman was a disgrace to her rank, and Mariah did her best not to think about what Pamela and Sinjin did when they were alone together.

  In any case, Mariah couldn’t spend much time worrying about Sinjin; her hands were full enough simply keeping an eye on Ash and offering “discreet” instruction where he required it.

  He certainly needed none where riding was concerned. His Royal Highness, sated with the best breakfast Rothwell could provide, invited Sinjin’s houseguests to join him and his retinue on a morning tour of the countryside. Ash rode so lightly and with so little effort that the prince himself commented on his ability more than once. They were in harmony again, and even Mariah could give herself up to the pleasure of enjoying the fragrant spring air from the back of her spirited mare. Occasionally she rode knee-to-knee with Ash, feeling at last that she might live up to her nickname, laughing at the foolish little things that for so long she had been unable to appreciate.

  Mariah finished the ride in the best of spirits. She had almost allowed herself to forget what she believed to be Ash’s true reason for desiring to become accepted in society; he still needed her. And she would continue to help him, as long as she was careful not to allow him to touch her body.

  Or her heart.

  Luncheon was a casual, pleasant affair, and the prince played cards for much of the afternoon, while Ash watched and learned. He did much better at dinner, looking stunningly handsome in his borrowed evening clothes, handling his cutlery with ease and propriety. He related stories of Indians on the American frontier, so smoothly told that Mariah almost suspected him of having pilfered them from a book.

  Her desire to question him on the subject went unfulfilled. Sinjin had arranged an after-dinner amusement. He had employed several wandering gypsies to perform tricks, dance and tell the fortunes of his guests. The prince fell into the spirit of the thing, applauding enthusiastically after the wild dances and observing the prettiest gypsy maiden with an appreciative eye.

  It was nearing midnight when the brilliantly clad fortune-teller retreated into her tent at the edge of the garden behind Rothwell. Torches lit the grounds, giving an air of ancient ritual to the affair. The prince was first to avail himself of the gypsy’s talents; he emerged from the tent well pleased and urged the others to follow his example. Sinjin was fourth to enter; his face when he returned was unreadable, but Mariah sensed that he had not liked what he’d heard, even if—as was likely—he didn’t believe such balderdash.

  In contrast, Pamela seemed pleased with her consultation, very much like a cat who had gotten into the cream.

  Mariah did her best to make herself invisible, but in the end the prince found her out and demanded she take her place at the gypsy’s table.

  “Come, Lady Donnington,” he said, laughing. “Surely you are not so cowardly as to fear your fate.”

  “Of course I am not, sir,” she said carefully. “I only wonder how prescient such a woman can be.”

  “Oh, she is very good, you may take my word on it.” And with that, the prince made it impossible for her to refuse. She lifted her chin, refusing to let the others sense her trepidation, and marched toward the tent.

  Ash intercepted her just as she reached the entrance.

  “Do not go in,” he said harshly in her ear. “She knows nothing.”

  Mariah met his gaze. “But you haven’t yet seen her.”

  “No morta—no one can predict the future.”

  “I believe you,” she said, “but I have no choice.”

  He bared his strong, white teeth. “If she brings you unhappiness…”

  “Why should she? As the prince said, there is nothing to fear.”

  Giving him a brief smile, she entered the tent. It was dark, as was to be expected, lit only by a pair of guttering candles. The gypsy woman, in her bright layers of rags, looked up at Mariah with intense dark eyes.

  “Be seated, my lady,” she said in a deep, resonant voice.

  Mariah sat, felt in her reticule for a few coins and laid them on the table between them.

  “There is no need to continue,” she said. “Let us simply wait, and then I will leave, with none the wiser.”

  “You cannot bribe the fates, my lady. They will not be denied.”

  “Perhaps I do not believe in your ‘fates.’”

  “Your belief is unnecessary.” The woman produced a well-worn deck of cards and spread them out on the table in a specific pattern.

  What she said as she read the cards was worse than anything Mariah could have imagined. When she left the tent, she found that her hands were trembling, and she could scarcely see
the ground in front of her.

  Ash was still waiting. He took her hand, his warm skin burning her icy palm.

  “She lied,” he hissed. “Do not fear what she told you.”

  She attempted another smile. “I don’t, Ash,” she said. “Stop worrying about me.”

  “Mr. Cornell!” the prince called from the terrace overlooking the garden. “You are the last.”

  Ash scowled so heavily that even Bertie must have seen the expression. “I will not,” he said.

  Mariah took his arm as if she were gently cajoling him. “If you wish to keep the prince’s favor, you must. If you would only give up this quest for revenge—”

  “I am doing these things only to make myself worthy of you.”

  “You are worthy, Ash. You have no need to—”

  She broke off. Though no one on the terrace could hear their conversation, an expectant silence had fallen over the observers. Abruptly Ash spun and stepped into the tent.

  When he came out again, he wore a stunned look, and his pupils were so dilated that his eyes had become bottomless abysses.

  “What did she say?” Mariah whispered.

  He walked past her without speaking. When he reached the terrace, he faced the prince and the other guests, sweeping his gaze across their expectant faces.

  “She is a fraud,” he said in a sharp, precise voice. “This female can no more predict the future than can any of you.”

  The prince half rose from his chair. “Now, Cornell—”

  “You are all fools for believing her,” Ash snapped.

  Sinjin started up. “Calm yourself, Cornell. This has all been in fun. Whatever she may have said to you—”

  “Lies. She accepts gold for telling you exactly what you wish to hear.”

  “You will not address His Royal Highness in such a tone,” Lord Gothard protested, also rising. “You had best go inside. Your company is neither required nor wanted.”

  The prince grunted agreement, his face red and his whiskers twitching. Mariah reached the terrace as Ash charged into the house. She paused to curtsey to the prince in abashed apology, then mumbled an excuse and ran after Ash.