Lord of Legends

CHAPTER THREE

ASTONISHED, SHE JUMPED up, nearly upsetting the chair, tripping on her skirts and stepping on the fruit that still lay on the towel. “You … you can speak!” she stammered.

He lifted his head and tossed his hair out of his eyes. “I speak,” he said. His voice was a lilting baritone with a slight English accent, unmistakably upper-class. “I.” He hesitated, gathering his words. “I speak now.”

Now. Which implied a before, a time … when? Before she had come? Before he had been confined to this tiny prison?

Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you answer my simple questions?

But she didn’t ask aloud. She had made progress. If he had deliberately deceived her, it must have been because he hadn’t trusted her. All she’d done was read a fairy tale, and yet.

“Why a bear?” he repeated.

A whole army of questions marched through her mind, but the situation was far too chancy for her to ask them. The best thing she could do was play along.

“I don’t know,” she said. “It’s simply part of the story, the way the writer wanted to tell it.”

She could see the thoughts working behind his eyes. “But he became a … man.”

Excitement began to build in her chest. “Yes. When his curse was broken by the love of the girl.”

“Curse,” he said. His frown became a scowl so intimidating that she was glad of the bars between them. A moment later nothing but bewilderment showed on his face. “I don’t remember.”

“Don’t remember what?” she asked very quietly.

He gave her a long, appraising look. “You do not know?”

“I’m afraid …” She tossed aside the temptation to equivocate. “I didn’t realize you were here until this morning.”

If it were possible to swoon from nothing more than a stare, she might have forgotten that she’d never fainted in her life. She had the feeling that he could have snapped the bars in two if he’d put his mind to it.

“Who am I?” he asked.

As if she could answer. But surely he must have realized from her previous questions that she was as ignorant as he was.

“I don’t know,” she said, drawing the chair closer to the cage. “I wish I could tell you.”

“Donnington,” he said. Without hatred, only a calm indifference.

She braced herself. “What about Donnington?”

Ash gestured at the cage around him. “He … did this.”

The validation of her worst supposition made her ill enough to wish that she could run from the room and empty her roiling stomach.

This isn’t the Middle Ages. People don’t imprison other people for no reason.

And Ash was deeply troubled, even dangerous. There was no telling what was real in his mind and what imaginary. Who could know that better than she?

But Nola had heard the rumors about a captive on the grounds. And he looks like Donnington’s twin.…

She sucked in her breath. “You believe that Donnington put you here,” she said, matching Ash’s emotionless tone. “Do you know why?”

His hair flew as he shook his head again, on the very edge of violence. One moment calm, the next raging. Sure signs of insanity.

There would be no logical answers from him. Only the bits and pieces she could glean from the most cautious exploration. She must put from her mind the enticing contours of his body, the intensity of his eyes, the hunger.

She bent abruptly to gather up the spoiled fruit and left just long enough to toss it into the shrubbery outside. Ash was clutching the bars when she returned, his face pressed against them.

“I will not leave you,” she said, knowing her promise was only a partial truth. “I am your friend.”

“Friend,” he repeated.

“I care what happens to you. I want to help you.”

Belatedly she remembered the bottle of water she’d brought and considered the basin Ash’s keeper had left just inside the cage. She would have to take the risk of filling it with fresh water.

She crept toward the cage, knelt and poked the bottle’s neck through the bars. Ash made no move toward her, and she managed to fill the basin halfway before it became too difficult to pour. She glanced at the towels that still hung over the back of the chair. Rising, she wetted one thoroughly, walked back to the cage and held the moist towel up for Ash’s inspection.

“Wash,” she said, demonstrating for him by bathing her hands and face.

He followed her every movement, his gaze finally settling, as always, on her eyes. “Wash,” she repeated.

“Yes,” he said. “Wash.”

Her throat felt thick. “If I give this to you,” she said, “you must not touch me.”

He seemed to understand. When she extended the towel, he simply took it. No flesh touched flesh. But as he withdrew his hand, she saw something that made the squirming minnows in her middle seem like ravenous sharks.

His hands were burned. Red and black marks crossed his fingers and palms, stripes matching the bars he had so often grasped. There were similar stripes on his face. Even as she stared in horror, they began to diminish.

“Good God,” she whispered. Without hesitation, she seized his hand, wrapping it in the wet towel he still held. “How did you burn yourself?”

“Iron,” he said in a low voice.

“Iron? You mean the bars?” She touched one gingerly. They were cold, not hot.

“I don’t know how you did this,” she said tightly, “but your hands will need to be bandaged. And your face.” She looked up from her work. The brands across his jaw, cheeks and forehead were gone. She peeled the towel away from his hand. The marks were disappearing before her eyes.

She dropped his hand. It brushed the bar, and an angry red welt formed across his knuckles.

Astonished, Mariah took his hand again. The welts were nasty and raw, but they lasted no longer than she could murmur a prayer.

She raised her head. “Ash,” she said. “How is this possible?”

He seemed not to hear her. “Ash,” he repeated.

Her face felt as fiery as his vanished wounds. “You … don’t seem to remember your name.”

His fingers tightened on hers. “Ash is my name?”

“I …” She felt utterly foolish, befuddled, incapable of harboring a single rational thought. “For a while. If … if you approve.”

His head cocked in that way she found so oddly endearing. “Ash,” he said distinctly. “I … approve.”

Relief weakened her knees. “Very good,” she said faintly. “Have you any other injuries?”

“No injuries.”

She closed her eyes, grateful to be allowed a few moments to recover and focus again on the questions that must be answered.

“Ash,” she said, pushing everything else from her mind, “who else has come here? Who has been bringing you food and water?”

His black eyes seemed to gather all the lantern’s light. “The man,” he said.

“What man?”

Ash hunched his back, slinking about the cage in a perfect imitation of the stranger she’d seen skulking near the folly. “Who is he, Ash?”

“I do not know.”

“When does he come?”

He frowned, lifted his hand and held up three of his fingers.

“Three days ago?”

The frown became a scowl, and he raised his fingers again.

“Every three days?”

His forehead relaxed. “Yes,” he said.

He knows his numbers, Mariah thought. “When was the last time he came, Ash? Was it this morning? The first time I visited you?”

“Morning.”

Thank God for that. Whoever this keeper was, he was unlikely to return for another two or three days.

“Did he ever speak to you?” she asked.

“No. Only you.”

So no one had spoken to him. How long had he been wrapped in a shroud of silence?

Distressed and wishing to hide it, Mariah glanced stupidly at the damp towel in her hands. “I think you ought to wash now,” she said.

“Dirty,” he said, gesturing down at himself, compelling her gaze to follow. She noted that his—she swallowed—his “member” was very much in evidence beneath his loincloth.

“Yes,” she said thickly. “Quite dirty.” She moved to wet the towel again. She managed to pass it to him without looking at him, and after a brief pause she heard him sweeping the cloth over his body, followed by the almost inaudible “plop” as his single garment fell to the floor.

She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing her mind to become a perfect blank. This feeling had nothing to do with the way he’d licked her fingers. A lunatic might make just such an inappropriate gesture, lacking the qualities of courtesy and judgment found in the sane.

But there had been purpose in it.

“Mariah.”

The sound of her name nearly wrenched her out of her prickling skin. Involuntarily she turned. He was quite, quite clean, and he had neglected to retrieve his covering.

She shut her eyes again, edged to the chair, felt for the trousers—giving up entirely on the drawers—and used the tip of her boot to push them toward the cage. “Please,” she gasped. “Put on these trousers.”

“How?”

Good Lord. “Haven’t you … ever worn trousers before?”

“No.”

She opened her eyes for a fraction of a second and could barely stifle a gasp. He was quite … quite … prominent. And she was very, very hot.

He has not come to his present age in a perpetual state of nakedness. He has simply forgotten all his old life. How am I even to begin?

“Show me,” he said.

Her eyes flew open again. “I beg your pardon?”

“Remove—” He pointed to her walking dress. “Remove that.”

She nearly choked. “Ash!”

“Did I speak incorrectly?”

He spoke beautifully. Breathtakingly. For a man who hadn’t been able to talk less than twenty-four hours ago, he’d become downright verbose.

“That is quite unnecessary,” she said, knowing that outrage would do no good and possibly much harm. “One does not remove one’s clothing in the presence of others.”

“Never?”

The one exception flooded her mind with fantastical images that sprang unbidden from her imagination. “Not in society,” she said as steadily as she could.

“This is wrong?”

His gesture and glance down at himself made his meaning exceedingly plain. In vain she made another attempt to shut her wanton thoughts away.

“It is not polite,” she said. “You must dress.” She held the trousers up against her body with shaking hands. “You put them on, so. Step into one leg, then the other. The buttons are here.”

“Do they not make it difficult to run?”

Laughter burst out before she could think to forestall it. “Gentlemen seldom find occasion to run.”

“Am I a gentleman?”

Very good, Mariah. A fine beginning. “You will not need to run,” she said. “Can you put them on, Ash?”

“You wish it,” he said, as serious as the monk he most decidedly was not.

“I wish it very much.”

He held out his hand. Half turned away, she passed the trousers through the bars. The mad beating of her heart almost drowned out the sound of his movements. She counted to herself, waiting for him to gather up the garment, put it on, fasten the buttons over his … his burgeoning masculinity. If the buttons would close at all.

If the dowager could see what’s in your mind, Mariah …

“I am finished.”

Her skirts hardly rustled as she moved, stiff as an automaton, to face him.

Dressed he was not. But at least he wore the trousers, half-buttoned. She should have been grateful that they weren’t on backward, though they were much more snug than she had bargained for. He was still quite … noticeable.

“A shirt,” she said, before her imagination could run away with her again. Just as gingerly as before, she placed the shirt at the foot of the bars. He took it, frowned, turned it about, then snorted with something very like disgust.

“You put it over your arms,” she said, pantomiming the action.

“Show me.”

She was beginning to feel more than a little as if he were making sport of her. But had he a sense of humor? The mad might laugh, but seldom with any kind of understanding. If Ash were mocking her, it was a peculiarly subtle form of mockery. Thus far he had been far from subtle.

Despite the generous cut of the garment, made for a broad-shouldered, muscular man, Mariah had to struggle to pull the shirt over her snug sleeves and tight bodice. It belled out over her bustle, but she was able to fasten the buttons.

“There,” she said. “You see?” She pirouetted to show him every angle. “Simple as pie.”

“Pie?”

“Something very good to eat.”

“Is it simple?”

It took a moment for her to grasp his meaning. “Well … my mother always found it—”

“Your mother?”

Mariah blinked and faced Ash squarely. “Let us return to the subject at hand.” She unbuttoned the shirt and pulled it off, prepared to give it to him. Ash had fixed his gaze at the point where her gathered overskirt flared over the bustle.

“What is that?” he asked.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Is that where you keep your tail?”

Another shock raced from the soles of her shoes to the very tips of her hair. “My … my tail?”

“You do not have one?”

Oh. This was so much worse than she had feared, even when her doubts had been greatest. “People do not have tails, Ash,” she said.

“No,” Ash said, unaware of her inner turmoil. “Mine is gone, too.”

Flight seemed the better part of valor until Mariah realized what she was seeing in Ash’s black, sparkling eyes. He was teasing her. Teasing her, for heaven’s sake.

Relief eased the pressure within her chest. “It is a very good thing, too,” she said, “or you would look quite out of place in the world.”

“The world.” He looked over her shoulder at the door leading to the antechamber. “Outside.”

“Yes.” How long since he had seen anything but these whitewashed stone walls?

“We shall go outside,” she said. “When you are ready.”

“Now.”

It was a command, not a request, not a plea. She better understood what she faced now; she must firmly remind him who held command, or he would never become manageable.

“Not yet,” she said. “First you must learn to dress, converse …”

And remember. That most of all.

With a deep sigh that further revealed the complexity of his emotions, Ash took the shirt from her and shrugged into it, the handsomely formed muscles of his chest and shoulders rippling with the easy motion. He buttoned it without the slightest difficulty, letting the tail hang over his trousers. Mariah knew she must choose her battles, and asking him to tuck in his shirt was the very least of them.

She had not remembered to bring braces, but that was a complication she didn’t need at the moment. Garters were also out of the question. But stockings, even if they would not stay in place, were a necessity. She presented them to Ash.

“These go over your feet,” she said.

He looked at his feet, then at the stockings. “I don’t like them.”

Just like a child … in that particular way, at least. And it was much easier to view him so, she decided. “You will get used to them,” she said. “You must have worn them in the past.”

“Never.”

At least he understood the concepts of past and present, which could not be said of many lunatics. “It is not in the least difficult.” She sat in the chair and unlaced her boot. “I am taking off my shoe. This is my stocking.”

Blushing would be ridiculous now, in light of all she had already witnessed. She lifted her skirts to her ankle and pointed. “Stocking,” she said.

His unfortunate habit of staring at her would likely be very difficult to break, but in this case she could forgive it. She replaced her boot self-consciously and returned to stand before the cage. “Let me see you do it,” she encouraged.

He took the stockings, sat down on the floor—doubtless dirtying his otherwise spotless trousers—and pulled the stockings over his long, very handsome feet.

And now you find feet attractive. How gauche of you. How very …

Ash stood—or rather leaped—to those very attractive feet, scowling. “I don’t like them,” he said in a lordly manner that would have brooked no argument had it come from Donnington. It would be so easy to forget that Ash was not the man he claimed had imprisoned him.

Stop it, she told herself. She rose and resolutely picked up the shoes. “Shoes are next.”

The difficulty of getting the shoes through the bars was daunting, but Mariah was determined to accomplish it, with or without Ash’s help. He, however, was equally determined to keep them out, and his strength was considerably greater.

The third time he pushed them back, she lost her temper.

“That is quite enough!” she snapped. “You will wear them, or I shall … I shall—”

“Go!” he said, his shout all but rattling the bars. “Leave me!”

A prince could not have spoken more decidedly. Or more arrogantly. Mariah spun for the door. She was almost out when the hiss of ripping cloth spun her around again.

Ash was removing his shirt—except “removing” was far too fine a word for the damage he was inflicting on the perfectly fine linen. In a moment, it would be in shreds on the floor and she would have lost the battle entirely.

“No!” she said, and returned to the cell. “No,” she said more softly. “No shoes.”

He stopped, his hands clenched on the ragged edges of his shirt. “No shoes?”

Not today, my friend. But soon. She picked up the shoes and tucked them under the chair. “You will wear the stockings.”

His scowl didn’t waver, but she fancied she saw a hint of yielding in his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

Mariah blew out her breath. “We shall do without the jacket today,” she said. “It is time to discuss what you remember of your previous life.”

The endless night of his eyes threatened to swallow her. “Let me go,” he said.

“Not today.”

Deliberately he pressed his face to the bars. The welts appeared before her eyes. She gave a cry and rushed to push him back, her hands thrust through the bars to press the firm muscles of his shoulders.

“Are you mad?” she cried. “You … you …”

She found herself near tears and took control of her wayward emotions, withdrawing her hands before he could think to grab them.

“I shall not be blackmailed,” she said, anger spilling out of her like poison. “I have seen what happens. You …”

Heal yourself. As he’d healed her thumb. Now it was happening again. The marks were disappearing, gone in the space of a dozen short breaths.

Ash was someone, something, even she could not define. Either she was beginning to lose her mind, or he was more than.

Not even a moan of protest could make its way past the constriction in her throat. She gathered up the lantern and fled … ignominiously, thoughtlessly, and as swiftly as her feet would carry her. She had stumbled halfway down the stairs before she remembered to return and lock the door.

Once it was done, she leaned against the heavy wood and sobbed for breath. She knew she ought to go back inside immediately, face her fears, prove to herself that the conclusion she had just reached was utter nonsense.

But she found she could not. As she walked away from the folly, the key still in her hand, she comforted herself with the knowledge that Ash had everything he needed for the time being and she would return before his keeper made another visit.

A little time. That was all she required to compose herself, to plan, to think rationally again. She must be prepared to find and question the keeper, and to continue her visits without arousing Vivian’s suspicions. She must keep her wits about her at all times.

Especially when she faced his direct, merciless gaze, tempered only by that strange, contradictory innocence. That desperation combined with arrogance and subtle mockery. That mysterious past, that handsome face, that magnificent body.

She would never be free of him until she had all the answers.

ASH—FOR THAT was now his name—held on to the bars until the pain became more than even he could bear. He released them, flexing his fingers until his hands ceased burning, and sat in his usual place where the cool curved wall met the cage of iron.

She was gone. He had known she would leave him; she had another existence, one he could not touch. Yet she had given her word. And now he knew she would keep it. She could no more stay away than he could walk through the bars and out the door.

He dropped his head into his hands, weighted with sudden despair. He hadn’t meant to frighten her. His feelings would not be still, driven this way and that like golden hinds during the hunt.

Hunt.

The word stung worse than his flesh where it had touched Cold Iron, but he still could not remember why.

A drift of warming air spiraled down from the small openings in the top of his cage, carrying with it the smell of flowers. Poor, pallid things they must be to produce such a faint and common scent, yet he would have given everything to touch them.

Everything but his freedom. Even if he should never see Mariah again. He would surrender the taste of her flesh, the softness of her skin. He would sacrifice the chance to hear her voice again, reading stories in which bears turned into men and were saved by the love of beautiful women. He would no longer wonder why his body tightened when she gazed upon him, or how she would appear without the ugly mass of cloth she wore.

Yet he could not win his freedom without her.

Freedom to what purpose? From whence had he come? What did he seek?

He held up his hands, turning them forward and back. They were still unfamiliar to him, though he knew much time had passed since he had been put behind these bars. He rose and stared down at his legs, at his feet in their “stockings.” His limbs, too, had been wrong from the beginning, of that much he was certain. He could make them obey him, but that did not alter their strangeness. Nor could he explain the changes in sight, smell and hearing that rendered his senses so dull and distant. And when he had spoken to Mariah of a tail, he had not meant to make her smile. The question had come from memory, from a time when he had been other than he was now.