Praise for the novels of New York Times bestselling author Susan Krinard

“Animal lovers as well as romance readers and those who enjoy stories about mystical creatures and what happens when their world collides with ours will all find Krinard’s book impossible to put down.”

—Booklist on Lord of the Beasts

“A poignant tale of redemption.”

—Booklist on To Tame a Wolf

“A master of atmosphere and description.”

—Library Journal

“Susan Krinard was born to write romance.”

—New York Times bestselling author Amanda Quick

“Magical, mystical, and moving … fans will be delighted.”

—Booklist on The Forest Lord

“A darkly magical story of love, betrayal, and redemption …

Krinard is a bestselling, highly regarded writer who is deservedly carving out a niche in the romance arena.”

—Library Journal on The Forest Lord

“With riveting dialogue and passionate characters, Ms Krinard exemplifies her exceptional knack for creating an extraordinary story of love, strength, courage and compassion.”

—RT Book Reviews on Secret of the Wolf

Also available from Susan Krinard

COME THE NIGHT

DARK OF THE MOON

CHASING MIDNIGHT

LORD OF THE BEASTS

LORD OF SIN

Lord of Legends

Susan Krinard

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Now I will believe

That there are unicorns …

—William Shakespeare,

The Tempest

PROLOGUE

New York City, 1883

“MAMA? Mama!”

Portia Marron looked at Mariah the same way she had for the past week, her eyes slightly glazed and unfocused, as if she could no longer see the real world.

But the world as Mariah knew it hadn’t been real to her mother for many years. Portia saw one much more beautiful, inhabited by wondrous creatures who sometimes crossed the barriers in her mind to whisper in her ear.

“Mama,” Mariah said again, squeezing the frail hand. “Please come back.”

Briefly, the faded blue eyes cleared. “Is that my little girl?” Portia asked in the croak of a voice seldom used. “Now, now. Don’t you fret none.”

Mariah looked away. Mama had relapsed so far that she was living in the distant past, when Papa had still been working on the railroad with his own hands and muscle, and Mama had been a rancher’s daughter.

Papa had tried to put that past far behind him. He’d done his best to buy his way into New York society, but his efforts had proved largely futile. Wealthy as he was, he was still one of the nouveau riche, without an ancient family name to open the gates.

Not that Mama had cared. In fact, it had always seemed that the harder Papa pushed his family to enter a society that rejected them, the deeper Mama retreated into her realms of fantasy.

Mariah patted the withered flesh stretched over the hills of blue veins. “Yes, Mama,” she said. “Everything will be all right.”

The brief moment of coherence left Mama’s eyes. “Do you hear them?” she asked dreamily. “They’re louder now. They’re calling me.”

It took all Mariah’s control not to squeeze too tight before she released Mama’s hand. “Not yet, Mama. They don’t want you yet.”

“But they sing so beautifully. Can’t you hear?” Mrs. Marron rolled her head on the down pillow. “So sweet. You must hear them, my darling. They will be coming for you, too.”

Mariah shuddered, knowing her mother wouldn’t see. “Perhaps someday, Mama.”

“Someday,” Portia sighed, releasing her breath too slowly. Then she turned her head toward Mariah, and a strange ferocity took hold of her gaunt face.

“Don’t let those doctors take me back,” she said. “Promise me, Merry. Promise me you won’t let them take me.”

Sickness surged in Mariah’s throat. “No, Mama. I won’t.”

“Promise!”

“I promise.” She sketched a pattern across her chest just as she’d done as a little girl. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Mrs. Marron relaxed, the tension draining from her body. “You’re a good girl, Merry. Always have been. You never cared about them snooty harpies. The best of them ain’t as good as you.” She smiled again. “You remember when you was little, and I read you them fairy stories? How you loved them.”

“Yes, Mama.” She had loved them: fairy tales and all the romantic adventure stories about lost princes and hidden treasures. She’d half believed they were true. Not anymore.

Mama felt across the sheets for Mariah’s hand. “Don’t give up, Merry,” she said. “Sometimes the good things seem far away. Good things like love. But it’ll find you, my girl. Sooner or later, you’ll have to believe in something you can’t see.”

That was the old Mama. The one who had been less and less in evidence as the months and years passed. The one who never would have survived in the asylum if not for her invisible companions.

The one Mariah missed so terribly.

She leaned over to kiss Mama’s cheek. “You should sleep now,” she said. “When you wake, I’ll bring you a nice cup of tea and a few of Cook’s fresh biscuits.”

“Biscuits.” Mama slipped away again. “I wonder if they have biscuits there. I’ll have to ask.…” She closed her eyes and almost immediately sank into a deep sleep.

Mariah’s legs were trembling as she rose from the chair beside the bed. All her efforts had gone for nothing. She had been the one to insist that Mama be brought home, so she could care for her. But she’d failed. She was certain that Mama was dying for no other reason than that she wanted to go to that other place.

A place that wasn’t heaven. It wasn’t even hell. It didn’t exist at all and never had.

Mariah trudged down the stairs, hardly bothering to lift her skirts above the floor. The idea of dressing for dinner was repellent to her, but Papa would insist. He would not abandon the life he’d fought so hard to achieve, not even with death so close in the house.

“Miss Marron?”

Ives bowed slightly, always proper, as only an English butler could be. “Mr. Marron requests your presence in his office.”

“Yes, Ives. I shall be there presently.”

“Very good, miss.” Ives bowed again, passed her and continued up the stairs. Mariah wondered if Papa had sent him to check on Mama. He still loved the woman he’d married, though in truth she’d left him long ago.

Mariah continued on to the office and knocked on the door. Papa let her in, chomping furiously on an unlit cigar. His big bear paws hung in the air, as if he didn’t know whether he ought to embrace her or fend her away.

“Well, sit down,” he said, gesturing toward a chair. “I’ve something to discuss with you.”

She sat and smoothed her skirts, reminded again of how much she detested the new fashion of large, projecting bustles.

Papa cleared his throat. She sat up straighter. He still wanted her to be the proper lady, even when no one was there to see or care.

“You know your mother and I had always planned for you to have an advantageous marriage,” Papa began, sinking heavily into his leather chair. “You asked that we put off such discussions while … while your mother was indisposed. But it is now clear that she will not recover as we had hoped.”

“She needs more time,” Mariah said, knowing that she was lying to herself as much as to him. “Please, Papa. Be patient just a while longer.”

“No.” He stubbed out his cigar and leaned heavily on the ebony desk. “No more waiting, Merry. It’s time and past that you were married.”

To someone who will take me before I begin showing the same signs as Mama, Mariah added silently. If such a person existed.

“You may wonder if I have someone specific in mind,” he rushed on. “There is a fresh crop of English gentlemen arriving this season, and you will be meeting all of them.”

Impoverished gentlemen, he meant. “Viscounts” and “earls” and assorted “sirs” who were in desperate need of a wealthy wife, even if she were American.

Mariah didn’t have to ask why Papa wanted her out of New York. Away from the influence of her crazy mother. Away from the gossip. He wanted to secure her future, her security … and, above all, her sanity. But there were some things the human will, however indomitable, could not overcome.

“I don’t wish to leave New York,” she said, meeting his gaze. “Not so long as Mama needs me.”

“You’ve spent enough time in asylums,” he said harshly. “You can’t make your mother any better, there or here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “She wants your happiness. You know that, Merry.” His commanding tone became persuasive, almost gentle. “You’d make her happiest in these … last days by marrying well and starting on the road to having your own family.”

Mariah pressed her palms to her hot cheeks. She wanted children. She wanted them badly. But if she should inherit the madness that had claimed her mother and her mother’s mother before her.

Papa was blinded by the hope that she would be different. He still intended to see that she climbed to the heights of society, high enough to sneer at the snobbish “old money” of New York. And the surest way of achieving his goal was by trading money for a title.

As if that would make a difference.

I don’t need it, Papa. Oh, I can ape the manners of a fine lady, but I don’t belong among them. I’ve been by myself too long. All I want is a quiet life. Then, if anything goes wrong …

“I can’t, Papa. You know I can’t.”

“I know you can.” He was all brute force now, the man who had brought the New York Stock Exchange to its knees more than once, and in spite of herself, she quailed. “You will. And you’ll begin next week, when the Viscount Ainscough arrives.” He turned his back on her. “Mrs. Abercrombie is throwing a ball for him. She has invited you.”

Mariah wondered how Papa had wangled such an invitation. Perhaps Mr. Abercrombie hoped to encourage a substantial investment from Mr. Marron and had prevailed upon his wife to accept the former pariah.

“—you’ll be wearing a new gown and looking like a queen,” Papa was saying.

“I don’t need more gowns, Papa.”

“You will from now on. A new one for every concert, soirée, breakfast and party during the Season.”

Mariah rose and walked to the window, looking out over Central Park. Leaves were turning and beginning to fall. Mrs. Abercrombie’s ball was only the beginning. Soon the Season would be in full bloom, and she would be in the thick of it, as if Mama didn’t exist.

“I know it’s difficult for you, sweetheart,” Papa said, coming up behind her and laying his broad hand on her shoulder. “But you’ll carry on. You’re stronger than …”

Stronger than your mother. You won’t hear voices. You’ll behave normally. You won’t ever end up in a … “Promise that you won’t send Mama back to the asylum,” she said.

He looked at her with that shrewd, hard gaze. “Are you trying to bargain with me, Merry?”

“Keep her here. Let me see her between engagements, and I’ll become whatever you want me to be.”

His shoulders sagged. “I don’t want to send her back. I only want what’s best.” He seemed to shrink to the size of an ordinary man. “I agree.”

All the air rushed out of Mariah’s lungs. “Thank you, Papa.”

He waved his hand, dismissing her words, and returned to his desk. “The ivory gown from Worth just arrived from Paris,” he said, as if they had never discussed anything more important than her wardrobe. “You’ll wear that one to the ball. We’ll have to use a few local couturiers until the rest arrive.”

“Yes, Papa.” Mariah drew her finger across the window-pane, watching her breath condense on the glass. “How many Englishmen do you suppose I’ll have to choose from?”

“I imagine you’ll snag a duke, Merry. How could any man resist you?”

And what about love? Wasn’t she as unlikely to find that with an English lord as with anyone in New York? Was there a man anywhere who didn’t want her only for her money?

Papa would use every means necessary to quash any current gossip about the state of Mrs. Marron’s sanity, of course. Sufficient wealth could buy almost everything. Everything but what really mattered.

Mariah walked to the door. “I’d best get ready for dinner, Papa.”

“You do that. Wear that little pink frock, the one with the lace at the bottom. Bring some cheer to the table.”

She nodded, left the office and climbed the stairs, acknowledging the nurse who was just leaving Mama’s suite. As she entered her room, she wondered if she might possibly escape marriage entirely. Papa thought her beautiful, but she knew that to be untrue. She was, in fact, a nobody. She had a considerable allowance of her own. Perhaps she could bribe the noblemen to leave her alone. Then Papa would have to give up, and she could find a way to be with Mama until the end.

But things didn’t work out as she’d planned. Halfway through the Season she met the dashing Earl of Donnington, already wealthy in his own right, and fell in love. He wanted a quiet, unassuming wife who would be content to remain at his estate in Cambridgeshire while he pursued his own interests; she could think of no better arrangement.

A few months later, Mama died. Mariah insisted on the full period of mourning, but Donnington waited patiently. A year later, she was on a steamer bound for England and the marriage her father had so wanted for her. The end of one life and the beginning of another.

And she never heard a single voice in her head.

CHAPTER ONE

Cambridgeshire, 1885

IT HAD BEEN no marriage at all.

Mariah crossed the well-groomed park as she had done every day for the past few months, her walking boots leaving a damp trail in the grass. Tall trees stood alone or in small clusters, strewn about the park in a seemingly random pattern that belied the perfect organization of the estate.

Donbridge. It was hers now. Or should have been.

No one will ever know what happened that night.

The maids had blushed and giggled behind their hands the next morning when she had descended from her room into the grim, dark hall with its mounted animal heads and pelts on display. She had run the gauntlet of glassy, staring eyes, letting nothing show on her face.

They didn’t know. Neither did Vivian, the dowager Lady Donnington, for all her barely veiled barbs. Giles had left too soon … suspiciously soon. But no one would believe that the lord of Donbridge had failed to claim his husbandly rights.

Was it me? Did he sense something wrong?

She broke off the familiar thought and walked more quickly, lifting her skirts above the dew-soaked lawn. She was the Countess of Donnington, whether or not she had a right to be. And she would play the part. It was all she had, now that Mama was gone and Papa believed her safely disposed in a highly advantageous marriage.

Lady Donnington. In name only.

A bird called tentatively from a nearby tree. Mariah turned abruptly and set off toward the small mere, neatly oblong and graced by a spurting marble fountain. One of the several follies, vaguely Georgian in striking contrast to the Old English manor house, stood to one side of the mere. It had been built in the rotunda style, patterned after a Greek temple, with white fluted columns, a domed roof and an open portico, welcoming anyone who might chance by.

A man stood near the folly … a shadowy, bent figure she could not remember ever having seen before. One of the groundskeepers, she thought.

But there was something very odd about him, about the way he started when he saw her and went loping off like a three-legged dog. A poacher. A gypsy. Either way, someone who ought not to be on the estate.

Mariah hesitated and then continued toward the folly. The man scuttled into the shrubbery and disappeared. Mariah paused beside the folly, considered her lack of defenses and thought better of further pursuit.

As she debated returning to the manor, a large flock of birds flew up from the lakeshore in a swirl of wings. She shaded her eyes with one hand to watch them fly, though they didn’t go far. What seemed peculiar to her was that the birds were not all of one type, but a mixture of what the English called robins, blackbirds and thrushes.

She noticed at once that the folly seemed to have attracted an unusual variety of wildlife. She caught sight of a pair of foxes, several rabbits and a doughty badger. The fact that the rabbits had apparently remained safe from the foxes was remarkable in itself, but that all should be congregating so near the folly aroused an interest in Mariah that she had not felt since Giles had left.

Kneeling at the foot of the marble steps, she held out her hands. The rabbits came close enough to sniff her fingers. The badger snuffled and grunted, but didn’t run away. The foxes merely watched, half-hidden in the foliage. Mariah heard a faint sound and glanced up at the folly. The animals melted into the grass as she stood, shook out the hem of her walking skirt and mounted the steps.

The sound did not come again, but Mariah felt something pulling her, tugging at her body, whispering in her soul. Not a voice, precisely, but—

Her heart stopped, and so did her feet. You’re imagining things. That’s all it is.

Perhaps it would be best to go back. At least she could find solace in the old favorite books she’d begun to read again, and the servants would leave her alone.

But then she would have to endure her mother-in-law’s sour, suspicious glances. You drove him away, the dowager’s eyes accused. What is wrong with you?

She dismissed the thought and continued up to the portico. There were no more unexpected animal visitors. The area was utterly silent. Even the birds across the mere seemed to stand still and watch her.

The nape of her neck prickling, Mariah walked between the columns and listened. It wasn’t only her imagination; she could hear something. Something inside the small, round building, beyond the door that led to the interior.

She tested the door. It wouldn’t budge. She walked completely around the rotunda, finding not a single window or additional door. Air, she supposed, must enter the building from the cupola above, but the place was so inaccessible that she might almost have guessed that it had been built to hide a secret … a secret somebody didn’t want anyone else to find.

Perhaps this was where her prodigal husband stored the vast quantity of guns he must need to shoot the plethora of game he so proudly displayed on every available wall of the house.

But why should he hide them? He was certainly not ashamed of his bloody pastime, of which she’d been so ignorant when she’d accompanied him to England.

Defying the doubts that had haunted her since Giles’s departure, she searched the portico and then the general area around the folly. Impulse prompted her to look under several large, decoratively placed stones.

The key was under the smallest of them. She flourished it with an all-too-fleeting sense of triumph, walked back up the stairs and slipped the key in the lock.

The door opened with a groan. Directly inside was a small antechamber with a single chair and a second door. The room smelled of mice.

That was what you heard, she thought to herself. But she also detected the scent of stale food. Someone had eaten in here, sitting on that rickety chair. Perhaps even that man she’d seen loitering about the place with such a suspicious air.

But why?

She stood facing the inner door, wondering if the key would fit that lock, as well.

Leave well enough alone, she told herself. But she couldn’t. She walked slowly to the door and tried the key.

It worked. Though the lock grated terribly and gave way only with the greatest effort on her part, the door opened.

The smell rolled over her like the heavy wetness of a New York summer afternoon. A body left unwashed, the stale-food odor and something else she couldn’t quite define. She was already backing away when she saw the prisoner.

He crouched at the back of the cell, behind the heavy bars that crossed the semicircular room from one wall to the other. The first thing Mariah noticed was his eyes … black, as black as her husband’s but twice as brilliant, like the darkest of diamonds. They were even more striking when contrasted with the prisoner’s pale hair, true silver without a trace of gray. And the face.

It didn’t match the silver hair. Not in the least. In fact, it looked very much like Lord Donnington’s. Too much.

She backed away another step. I’m seeing things. Just like Mama. I’m.

With a movement too swift for her to follow, the prisoner leaped across the cell and crashed into the bars. His strong, white teeth were bared, his eyes crazed with rage and despair. He rattled his cage frantically, never taking his gaze from hers.

Mariah retreated no farther. She was not imagining this. Whoever this man might be, he was being held captive in a cell so small that no matter how he had begun, he must surely have been driven insane. A violent captive who, should he escape, might strangle her on the spot.

A madman.

Her mouth too dry for speech, Mariah stood very still and forced herself to remain calm. The man’s body was all whipcord muscle; the tendons stood out on his neck as he clutched the bars, and his broad shoulders strained with tension. He wore only a scrap of cloth around his hips, barely covering a part of him that must have been quite impressively large. Papa, for all his talk of her “starting a family,” would have been shocked to learn that she knew about such matters, and had since she first visited Mama in the asylum at the age of fourteen.

The prisoner must have noticed the direction of her gaze, because his silent snarl turned into an expression she could only describe as “waiting.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, knowing how ridiculous the words sounded even as she spoke them. “May I ask … do you know who you are?”

Anyone else might have laughed at so foolish a question. But Mariah knew the mad often had no idea of their own identities. She had seen many examples of severe amnesia and far worse afflictions at the asylum.

The prisoner tossed back his wild, pale mane and closed his mouth. It was a fine mouth above a strong chin, identical to Donnington’s in almost every way. Only his hair and his pale skin distinguished him from the Earl of Donnington.

Surely they are related. The prospect made the situation that much more horrible.

“My name,” she said, summoning up her courage, “is Mariah.”

He cocked his head as if he found something fascinating in her pronouncement. But when he opened his mouth as if to answer, only a faint moan escaped.

It was all Mariah could do not to run. Perhaps he’s mute. Or worse.

“It’s all right,” she said, feeling she was speaking more to a beast than a man. “No one will hurt you.”

His face suggested that he might have laughed had he been able. Instead, he continued to stare at her, and her heart began to pound uncomfortably.

“I want to help you,” she said, the words out of her mouth before she could stop them.

The man’s expression lost any suggestion of mirth. He touched his lips and shook his head.

He understands me, Mariah thought, relief rushing through her. He isn’t a half-wit. He understands.

Self-consciousness froze her in place. He was looking at her with the same intent purpose as she had looked at him … studying her clothing, her face, her figure.

She swallowed, walked back through the door, picked up the chair and carried it into the inner chamber. She placed it as far from the cage as she could and sat down. It creaked as she settled, only a little noisier than her heartbeat. The prisoner stood unmoving at the bars.

“I suppose,” Mariah said, “that it won’t do any good to ask why you are here.”

His lips curled again in a half snarl. He didn’t precisely growl, but it was far from a happy sound.

“I understand,” she said, swallowing again. “I can leave, if you wish.”

She almost hoped he would indicate just such a desire, but he shook his head in a perfectly comprehensible gesture. Ah, yes, he certainly understood her.

The ideas racing through her mind were nearly beyond bearing. Who had put him here?

There are too many similarities. He and Giles must be related. A lost brother. A cousin. A relative not once mentioned by anyone in the household.

Insane thoughts. It was her dangerously vivid imagination at work again.

And yet.

This prisoner had obviously not been meant to be found. And with Donnington gone, she couldn’t ask for an explanation.

Dark secrets. It didn’t surprise Mariah that Donbridge had its share.

This man is not just a secret. He’s a human being who needs your help.

She twisted her gloved hands in her lap. “I won’t leave,” she said softly. “Do you think you can answer a few simple questions by moving your head?”

His black eyes narrowed. Indeed, why should he trust her? He was being treated like an animal, his conditions far worse than anything Mama had ever had to endure.

She examined the cage. It was furnished with a single ragged blanket, a basin nearly empty of water and a bowl that presumably had once contained food.

“Are you hungry?” she asked.

He pushed away from the bars and began to pace, back and forth like a leopard at the zoo. She had an even clearer glimpse of his fine, lithe body: his graceful stride, the ripple of muscle in his thighs and shoulders, the breadth of his chest, the narrow lines of his hips and waist.

Heat rushed into her face, and she lifted her eyes. He had stopped and was staring again. Reading her shameful thoughts. Thoughts she hadn’t entertained since that night two months ago when she’d lain in her bed, waiting for Donnington to make her his bride in every way.

“Shall I bring you food?” she asked quickly. “A cut of beef? Or venison?”

He shook his head violently, shuddering as if she’d offered him dirt and grass. But the leanness of his belly under his ribs told her she dared not give up.

“Very well, then,” she said. “Fresh bread? Butter and jam?”

His gaze leaped to hers.

“Yes,” she said. “I’ll bring you bread. And fruit? I remember seeing strawberries in the conservatory.”

Hope. That was what she saw in him now, though he moved no closer to the bars. Who saw to his needs? She had no way of knowing and had every reason to assume the worst.

“You also require clothing,” she said. “I’ll bring you a shirt and trousers.” His eloquent face was dubious. “They should … they ought to fit you very well.”

Because he and Donnington were as close to twins as any two men Mariah had ever seen.

The Man in the Iron Mask had always been one of her favorite stories. The true king imprisoned, while the brother ruled in his stead.

“Your feet must be sore,” she went on, her words tripping over themselves. “I can bring you shoes and stockings, and … undergarments, as well. Blankets, of course, and pillows. What else?” She pretended not to notice how ferociously focused he was on her person. “A comb. Shaving gear. Fresh water. Towels.”

The prisoner listened, his head slightly cocked as if he didn’t entirely take her meaning. Had he been so long without such simple comforts? Yet his face lacked even the shadow of a beard, his hair was not unclean, and his body, though not precisely fragrant, was not as dirty as one might expect.

Again she wondered who looked after him. Someone on the estate knew every detail of this man’s existence, and she intended to find the jailer.

She resolved, in spite of her fears, to try a new and dangerous tack. “Do you … do you know Lord Donnington?”

His reaction was terrifying. He flung himself against the bars and banged at them with his fists. Mariah started up from the chair, prepared to run, then stopped.

This was more than mere madness, more than rage. This was pain, crouched in the shadows beneath his eyes, etched into the lines framing his mouth. He reached through the bars, fist clenched. Mariah held her ground. Gradually his hand relaxed, the fingers stretching toward her. Pleading. Begging her to overcome her natural fear.

Drawn by forces beyond her control, Mariah took a step toward him. Inch by inch she crossed the five feet between them. By the tiniest increments she lifted her hand and touched his.

His fingers closed around hers, tightly enough to hurt. His strength was such that he could have pulled her into the bars and strangled her in an instant. But he was shaking, perspiration standing out on his forehead beneath the pale shock of hair, his mouth opening and closing on low, guttural sounds she had no way of interpreting.

Desperation. Yearning. A final effort to make someone listen to the words he couldn’t speak.

“It will be all right,” she said. “I will help you.”

His shaking began to subside, though he refused to let go of her hand. But now he was astonishingly gentle, running his thumb in a featherlight caress over her wrist. It was her turn to shiver, though she fought the overwhelming sensations that coursed through her body and pooled between her legs.

Oh, God.

“Please,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

He did, but only with obvious reluctance. She took a steadying step back, but not so far that he would become upset again.

Her feelings meant nothing. Not when he needed her so much—this stranger who had captured her mind and heart within a few vivid minutes.

“I …” She struggled to find words that wouldn’t alarm him. “I must go now. I’ll come back soon with the things you need. I promise.”

He gazed at her as if he were trying to memorize everything about her. As if he didn’t believe her. As if he expected never to see her again.

“I promise,” she repeated, and retreated toward the door. His broad shoulders sagged in defeat, and she knew there was no more she could say to him now; he would not trust her until she returned.

Her stomach taut with foreboding, she picked up the chair, moved it back to its place in the antechamber and continued through the door. The prisoner made not a sound. She poked her head out the second door, saw no one, left the chamber and hastily locked the door.

She leaned against it for a moment, breathing fast, until she was certain of her composure. Then she assured herself that there was no observer in the vicinity, replaced the key under the stone and set out for the house.

He hates Donnington, she thought, sickened by the implications of the prisoner’s reaction. Why? And what if he knew that I am Lady Donnington?

It didn’t bear thinking of. And it didn’t really matter. She would do exactly as she said. Help him, as she hadn’t been able to help Mama.

Perhaps that would be enough to save her.

D O YOU KNOW who you are?

He had understood the question, but he had not been able to answer it, just as he had been unable to tell the female what he wanted above all else.

Freedom. Memory. All the bright and beautiful things that had been stolen from him, though he had no recollection of what they had actually been.

She had not known him, though he had seen her before. She had been present on that day of pain and turmoil, when he had tried to escape his captors. The female.

Woman, he reminded himself, pronouncing the word inside his mind. The woman who had been with the man, his tormentor, in that time he couldn’t remember.

She had been afraid then, as he had been afraid. She had fallen and grown quiet, so quiet that he had believed her dead. Then Donnington had taken her away, and he had been compelled to endure this numb emptiness of captivity.

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 had 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.

“The dowager Lady Donnington requests your presence in the morning room, your ladyship,” she said, never meeting Mariah’s eyes.

Mariah wondered if Vivian had already heard about her conversation with Nola. “What does she want, Barbara?” she asked warily.

Barbara was clearly dismayed by Mariah’s directness. “Mr. Ware has come, your ladyship,” she said.

“Sinjin!” Mariah instantly forgot her worry and smoothed her skirts. Not that he would care about her appearance; he had excellent taste in ladies’ fashions and an extraordinary eye, but he was, after all, her brother-in-law. He and Mariah had been friends from their first meeting.

“Please inform the dowager that I’ll be down directly,” Mariah told the maid, who was off in a flash. Mariah glanced at the mirror over her washstand to make certain her pins were still in place, and then descended to the morning room.

St. John Ware rose to his feet as soon as she entered. He smiled at her … that sly, enigmatic smile that suggested he and she shared a secret no one else would ever know. Mariah nodded to the dowager and greeted Sinjin with an extended hand.

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

He rolled his eyes at her unaccustomed formality and turned to Vivian. “The dowager was kind enough to let me in despite the early hour.”

Vivian looked askance at him. “And why should I not welcome my own son at any hour?” she asked crisply.

“Your scapegrace son,” he said. “Or ought that title now go to Donnington?”

The very room froze as Vivian understood his jest. She stiffened, her spine as rigid as one of Donnington’s elephant guns.

“You will not speak so of your elder brother,” she said.

Sinjin managed to seem chastened. “You’re quite right, Mother,” he said. “Please forgive me.”

Forgiveness was not in Vivian’s nature, but she nodded with the graciousness of a queen. “You may ring for tea.”

He moved swiftly to the bellpull and summoned Parish, the butler. Barbara arrived with the tray a short while later. The dowager poured without acknowledging Mariah’s right to do so.

She is still angry about the question I asked her, Mariah thought. But why? Is it merely because it might have implied …

“What brings you to Donbridge, Sinjin?” Vivian asked briskly.

Sinjin examined his fine china teacup. “Why shouldn’t I pay my respects to my own mother?”

“You have never shown much respect for anything, let alone your mother,” Vivian said.

“You quite wound me,” Sinjin said, too lightly to be reproachful. “I have the utmost respect for you, my dear.”

Vivian was incapable of being less than dignified, but she came very close to a snort. “What do you require, Sinjin? A loan for the repayment of your debts?”

Sinjin’s expression grew pained. “I am not so mercenary as you think, Mother.”

She sipped her tea delicately. “If you had gone into the army as your father intended, you would not be in such straits.”

For all the relative brevity of their acquaintance, Mariah knew how much Sinjin despised this topic. “Lady Donnington,” he said pointedly, “must find such a subject tedious, Mother.”

Mariah knew it would have been politic to absent herself, but Sinjin’s eyes begged her to stay, and she wasn’t of a mind to hand the dowager an easy victory. “The army is a fine vocation,” she said. “For those suited to it.”

“Indeed,” Sinjin said. “A vocation to which I could not have done proper justice.”

A teacup rattled in its saucer. Vivian waited while Barbara mopped up the almost invisible spillage where the dowager had set down her cup with a little too much force. “You do proper justice to very little,” she said in a brittle voice. “If your brother were here …”

“But he is not, is he?” Sinjin stood abruptly. “I shall not impose upon your sensibilities any longer.”

Vivian looked almost surprised at the vehemence beneath his veneer of unruffled courtesy. “There is no need for you to go.”

“But I cannot replace the earl as company for you and Lady Donnington,” he said. He bowed with soldierly precision, first to his mother and then to Mariah. “If you will excuse me …”

His stride was brisk as he left the room. Mariah excused herself with equal haste, earning a glare from the dowager, and hurried after him.

“Sinjin!”

He turned, slightly flushed, and doffed the hat he’d already retrieved from Barbara. “Lady Donnington,” he said. “I apologize for my hasty departure.”

“Oh, pish,” Mariah said. “Don’t come all formal with me, Sinjin.”

His anger evaporated into his usual good humor. “How you deal with her every day is beyond my capacity to understand.”

“No it isn’t. You’ve dealt with her all your life.”

He offered his arm, and she took it. They left the house, and Mariah was distracted by thoughts of Ash, so near and yet so far away.

Ask Sinjin. He would be glad to help.

But what if he already knew about the prisoner?

She refused to believe it. Not Sinjin. He was a good man.

As Donnington is not?

“A penny for your thoughts,” Sinjin said, peering at her face with his keen brown eyes. “You look positively pensive, my dear. Are you yearning for Donnington?”

“It’s nothing,” she said, refusing to rise to his bait.

“Ha! Mother won’t leave it alone, will she? How can she blame you?” He laughed. “Then again, how can she not? It’s in her nature. My brother can do no wrong.”

It wasn’t the first time the subject had come up between them, and ordinarily Mariah would have been glad for his sympathetic ear. But self-pity seemed very unimportant in light of this morning’s encounter.

“I do find it a bit odd that she has remained so calm,” he went on, oblivious. “I should have expected her to go a little mad, not knowing where her darling has gone.”

Mariah flinched at the mention of madness. It’s only a word, she thought. But it wasn’t. Not today. Not ever.

“Mariah.”

She looked into Sinjin’s eyes. He wasn’t laughing now. “How has it been with Mother?” he asked. “I am perfectly fine, Sinjin.”

He drew her hand from the crook of his arm and held it in his. “Has she made any sort of comment … any kind of intimation that you … that you might be …”

“Might be what?”

Seldom had she seen Sinjin look as uncomfortable as he did in that moment. “Seeing someone,” he said.

“Seeing someone? I see Lady Westlake, Lady Hurst …”

“A man, Mariah. Seeing a man.”

Slowly she began to take his meaning. “A man?” Her face grew hot. “Do you mean—”

But she really didn’t have to ask. He was talking about an affair. Something she’d only read about in books and heard of in the ghosts of rumors about a society to which she didn’t belong.

“Don’t look so shocked, Merry,” Sinjin said, using her nickname in the familiar way to which they both had become accustomed since her arrival at Donbridge. “You may not have much experience of the world, but I know you aren’t that naïve. Mother’s wanted an excuse to end your marriage to my brother ever since he brought you to England. She’d love to think the worst of you.” He sighed. “She mentioned to me once—just in passing, you understand—that she thought it odd that you spend so much time walking alone in the early mornings. Ridiculous, I know. There is no one in the world less likely to be unfaithful than you.”

But she scarcely heard his reassurances. All she could wonder was how long the dowager had harbored such suspicions. Since the very night Donnington had left? A week after? A month? Did she have someone specific in mind?

“I shouldn’t have spoken up,” Sinjin said, his voice tight with remorse. “I just thought that perhaps it would never occur to you that she might think such a thing. She isn’t quite rational when it comes to Donnie.”

Mariah removed her hand from Sinjin’s. “I’m glad you did,” she said. “I knew there was something more to her anger than blaming me for Donnington’s sudden absence.”

Sinjin puffed out his cheeks. “Well, then,” he said. “You’ve handled the whole thing admirably.” He caught her hand again and lifted it to his lips. “You know you may always count on me for anything.”

She managed a smile. “And you may count on me. I shall send a check for whatever you need.”

If he had been as mercenary as his mother supposed, he wouldn’t have looked so uneasy. “I’m not so badly off as all that. I shall recoup.”

“If only you’d stop the gambling—”

“For God’s sake, Merry. One Lady Donnington is quite enough.”

“I apologize. Sinjin …?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you very busy at Marlborough House?”

“Not terribly. I come and go. Why?”

“If you can spare the time, I might ask for your assistance.”

“With what?”

“I would prefer to explain when I have … certain additional information.”

“How very mysterious.” She could see he was about to make an unfortunate joke before he thought better of it. “Just as you wish, little sister.”

They turned and walked back to the house. After Sinjin had gone, Mariah wrote a letter to her banker in London, authorizing a transfer of funds to the Honourable St. John Ware. At least it was her money to do with as she chose, now that Parliament had passed the act allowing wives to keep at least some of their own wealth.

Somehow she made it through the rest of the day, trying not to think about what Sinjin had told her of Vivian’s suspicions. She wrote a cheerful letter to her father, sketched flowers in the garden and supervised the running of the household as much as the dowager permitted.

But she couldn’t forget. The dowager wanted to end her marriage to Donnington. She wanted to believe that Mariah was capable of being unfaithful to her husband, a notion that offended Mariah deeply.

And yet you already knew you must hide your next visit to the folly, she thought. Even if her reasons had been entirely innocent, based upon her desire to keep anyone else from learning that she had discovered Donbridge’s strange prisoner.

Now she had another reason for concealing her activities.

You are going to see a strange man. Alone.

For compassion. For justice, since some wrong had clearly been done. To Mariah, Ash was simply a patient in need of healing, a human being worthy of assistance and respect. And there would be bars between them … at least until she could determine what had happened and what must be done.

He touched your hand.

She shut the memory away and moved through the afternoon like a wraith. Dinner was an unpleasant affair, with long stretches of weighted silence and the occasional tart comment from the dowager. The elder Lady Donnington stared pointedly and repeatedly at the empty seat at the head of the table. Mariah imagined that she could hear Vivian’s thoughts.

I know why Donnington left you.…

There was no lingering at the table when dinner was finished. Mariah excused herself to her own rooms. Night fell at last, though the sky remained suspended in twilight until past ten.

The dowager was slow about going to bed, but Mariah waited until the house was silent. Then she retrieved her rucksack and raided the linen closet for blankets. The kitchen was dark save for a faint glow in the huge hearth; she entered the dry larder and found half a loaf of bread, along with several peaches from the conservatory. She chose a small knife from a row hung on the wall. She found an empty bottle and filled it with water from the kitchen tap.

She wrapped the food in a kitchen towel and then in one of the blankets, slung it over one shoulder and looped the rucksack over the other. Satisfied that she had the supplies she needed, she lit a lantern and passed quickly through the entrance hall.

It wasn’t a noise that made her stop, nor any sign of movement. But something caused her to look up at one of the heavy ceiling beams over the door, hung with a shield bearing the Donnington coat of arms.

Cave cornum meum: Beware my horn. The motto of the earls of Donnington was a silver unicorn rearing atop a blood-red field, ready to charge at any potential enemy.

There was no earthly reason to shiver. Mariah had seen the shield every time she left the house. But it troubled her now in a way she couldn’t understand.

Beware my horn.

Taking herself in hand, she opened the door and set off across the park. As always, the night was silent; there were faint rustlings of small creatures in the grass and shrubbery, but no indications of human presence. London was far away, and the nearest village was hardly a hotbed of activity so late at night.

She reached the folly in record time. No sound came from inside, and though she knew the heavy walls of the interior chamber were thick, she faced a moment of panic. She dropped the bag and blankets on the portico, rushed to the stone at the foot of the stairs and felt under it frantically.

The key was still there. No one had moved it. Ash must be where she had left him.

Wasting no further time, she unlocked the outer door and set the bag on the chair, laying the blanket with the food on the floor beside it. She hesitated just outside the inner door.

He’s ill, quite possibly mad. What will I do if I can’t save him?

The fear paralyzed her for all of ten seconds. Then she raised the lantern, set the key in the lock and opened the door.

Ash was waiting for her, pressed against the bars, clutching them with the same ferocity. His black gaze met hers, speaking just as eloquently as before.

Help me.

As if of their own accord, her eyes took him in as they had done that morning, cataloging every detail of his body. She had never seen her husband like this. She had glimpsed him once without his shirt, but that—and the brief touch of his lips and clasp of his hand—had been the extent of her experience with his body.

Would he look so magnificent, so powerful, so—

He is a patient. A patient, Mariah.

She turned away to collect the bag and blankets. “I’ve brought you some things you need,” she said. “Clothing, blankets, food. It isn’t nearly enough, but it should do for tonight.”

Without looking up to observe his reaction, she removed the clothing, food and books, and immediately laid the bread and fruit on the kitchen towel. Only then did she pause to consider the narrowness of the gap between the bars.

There would be no trouble, of course, with the bread or fruit. They could be cut. She wasn’t so certain about the bottle.

“You must be hungry,” she said, simply to fill the quiet. She selected one of the peaches, cutting off several small slices. Sweet juice coated her fingers, and she wiped the excess on the towel.

She rose and turned toward the cell. Ash hadn’t moved. Immediately she saw the second problem. In order to give him the food, she must venture within his reach.

You’ve done it before, she told herself. He won’t harm you. But she remembered too keenly how she had felt when he’d run his thumb up and down the back of her hand.

“I am going to give you the fruit,” she said slowly. “Do you understand?”

His dark gaze flickered to the slices of peach in her palm and back to her face. She moved closer. His eyes never wavered. She reached the bars and extended her hand just far enough that he could take the fruit.

He didn’t. Mariah was both puzzled and frustrated. Someone had fed him, though not generously. He wasn’t mad enough to require constant care, like an infant. Perhaps the problem was that he still had no reason to trust her.

“See?” she said, and took a bite of one of the slices. Juice trickled down her chin, and she licked her lips. “Delicious.”

His gaze moved from her eyes to her mouth. The floor gave the tiniest lurch under her feet.

“Here,” she said, pushing a piece through the bars. “Try it.”

He took the fruit as delicately as a butterfly alights on a flower petal. Long, strong fingers lifted it to his lips. With strange fascination, she watched him eat it with a kind of sensual deliberation, as if he were savoring every bite. When he finished, she saw what might have been real pleasure in his eyes.

“More?” she asked. She adjusted the knife to cut another slice, and the blade slipped. She felt a stab of pain as the sharp edge cut into her thumb. Blood welled on her skin.

Ash reached through the bars and grabbed her hand, pulling gently until her own fingers were inside the cell, and drew them into his mouth.

Sparklers exploded inside her head. She gasped. His tongue rolled over her skin as if seeking the wound. She closed her eyes, incapable of moving as he licked between her fingers and laved her thumb almost tenderly.

Her senses returned too late, and she snatched her hand away. Heat flowed through her arm, into her chest, and continued on to her stomach and thighs. Her most secret place ached as it never had before, not even when she had been most in love with Donnington.

But there was another unexpected change in her body. She examined her thumb. It no longer hurt. More remarkably, the cut was gone, leaving only a trace of pink healing flesh where it had been.

Impossible.

She set the peach on the towel, nearly dropping it in her haste. Her fingers trembled as she picked up a chunk of bread and placed it on one of the blankets. She didn’t dare allow Ash to accost her again.

Her second approach was far more cautious. She laid the blanket on the ground, several inches from the bars. Then she backed away and watched.

Lithe as a panther, he crouched and took the bread. He lifted his head and continued to watch her as he ate, not wolfing the food as one might expect him to do, but eating with all the finesse of a courtier at a prince’s table. Mariah put the rest down for him and withdrew again, half-ashamed that she should still be letting her fear rule her.

If it were only fear.

Ash made a sound in his throat. Mariah jumped, recovered, and saw that he had finished the bread. She remembered the water but could think of no way of giving it to him … unless she found a way to open the cell door.

It was unthinkable. She still knew nothing about him and was no closer to learning.

“Are you very thirsty?” she asked.

He lowered his chin, the veil of hair obscuring his eyes, and shook his head. She felt only a little relieved.

Remembering the blanket, she shook it out, refolded it and placed it at the foot of the bars again. Ash didn’t touch it. That uncanny stare continued to follow her as she bent all her attention on selecting one of the books.

Will he understand? Or is this all just wasted effort?

No, not wasted if there was the slightest chance of discovering just how much he could understand.

She sat in the chair, the chosen book in her lap, and set the lantern a little distance from her feet. It cast eerie shadows about the room and provided the bare minimum of light she would need to read. Her hand still tingled from the feel of Ash’s tongue on her flesh, and several times her fingers slipped from the pages.

At last she found her place. She cleared her throat.

“‘East of the Sun and West of the Moon,’” she read aloud.

Ash cocked his head, dropped into a crouch against the wall nearest the bars and let his hands dangle over his knees. As she began to read about the girl whose destitute father had given her to a mystical white bear in exchange for wealth and comfort, she began to wonder why she had chosen this tale, in particular, of all those in the book, or why this book of the three she had brought.

And she wondered—as she related how the girl had been visited every night by the same handsome prince, only to be deserted each morning—why, instead of the great white bear, she saw another creature, pale and elusive as a ghost, a beast very much like a horse but a thousand times more beautiful, his eyes black as a moonless night, his broad forehead topped by a glittering spiraled horn.

Startled, Mariah lost her place and looked at Ash. He was listening intently, but otherwise neither his posture nor his appearance had altered.

The Donnington coat of arms. Why should it so vividly come to mind at this moment? No one could have looked less like such a magical creature than Ash. It was certainly beyond any possibility that he should guess what fancies tumbled through her mind, and he looked entirely unresponsive to the story she was reading.

He doesn’t understand. How shall I ever hope to—

Suddenly he stood, moved to the bars and opened his mouth. His lips moved without producing any sound, but he pointed at the book and then gestured toward Mariah’s face.

“What is it?” she asked, half rising.

He gave a sharp, impatient gesture, and something very near anger crossed his features … not the savagery of their first meeting, but an arrogant, impatient emotion, as if he were no mere prisoner but a prince himself.

“You wish me to finish the story,” she said.

He nodded and gestured again toward the book. With a sensation quite unlike the satisfaction she had expected to feel at his response, she bent to the pages once more.

She related how the girl lived in luxury but saw no other person by day and only the prince by night. The girl became very lonely. One night, she bent to kiss the prince as he slept but woke him by letting drops of tallow fall on his shirt. He told her that he had been cursed by his wicked stepmother to be a bear by day and a man only by night, but that now he would be forced to leave her and marry a hideous troll.

Glancing up again to gauge Ash’s reaction, Mariah saw that his lips were forming a word she could almost make out: troll. It was if he recognized that one word out of all those she had spoken.

The possibility encouraged her. She continued the story until she’d reached the end, where the girl, who had undertaken a long and dangerous journey to reach her prince at the castle East of the Sun and West of the Moon, had helped him to outwit the trolls who held him captive.

“‘The old troll woman flew into such a rage that she burst into a thousand pieces, taking the troll princess with her. The bear prince and his love freed all the trolls’ captives, took the trolls’ gold and silver, and flew far away from the castle that lay East of the Sun and West of the Moon.’”

She closed the book and let it rest in her lap, watching Ash out of the corner of her eye. Frowning, he walked away from the bars and began to pace the length of his cage with his long, graceful stride.

Suddenly he swung around, his nostrils flared and his eyes unfathomable. He studied her so intently that her stomach began to feel peculiar all over again.

“Why a bear?” he asked.

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.

Beautiful. Perfect.

His gaze fell on the basin. He knelt before it and stared into the clean water. He touched his jaw, his cheek, the line of his nose.

Human.

He jerked back, the word ringing inside his head. He knew it well, though Mariah had never spoken it nor read it in her book. It described what she was, just as much as the word “woman.” He touched his chest, feeling the organ beating beneath his ribs.

Am I not human?

He looked into the water again. The face was that of a man, like Mariah’s and yet different. A face he almost recognized. But behind that face he saw another, pale as his hair, as different in form as iron was from silver: long, elegant, noble in shape and form. From the broad forehead sprang a horn, spiraled and sculpted as if from stainless ivory. A horn of incalculable value to those who would use it to command the obedience of others.

He touched his own forehead, naked and smooth. But the appendage was not entirely gone. It was only hidden, like the gleaming white hide and pearlescent hooves and the speed to outrun either human or Fane.

I am not human.

Rocking back on his heels, he felt the knowledge sweep through him in a rush like liquid fire. Not human, but rather that other he had seen in the water. A lord. A king.

A unicorn.

He tossed his head as the name slipped out of his grasp. He searched through the images that had come to him so suddenly, and another word arrested his thoughts.

Fane.

In his shattered memory he saw something that looked like a man, tall and wearing garments that sparkled as they caught the light. But its true self was to a human as Ash’s former shape was to this foreign body he wore: seductive, certain of its power, outshining everything that stood in its presence.

Fane. His enemy. The one who had sent him into exile.

Shuddering with anger, Ash bared his teeth, and a growl rumbled deep in his chest. They had been together, the Fane and Donnington. They had conspired against him. They had made him nothing.

Nothing except to Mariah, who had given him a name and a purpose, though that purpose was only beginning to take shape in his mind. Escape, that first. Then find the ones who had done this, and.

No. There was more. More he must do.

A well of longing opened up inside him. A yearning to be again what he had been, to live his life among others of his own kind.

Why am I here? Why have I been punished?

There were no answers. His memory remained clouded; Mariah had no idea who he was now, far less what he had been in that other world. But punished he had been, driven from his home, given this mortal body in which to suffer pain and humiliation.

He upended the basin and watched the water darken the hard stone floor. Only a few moments ago he had been thinking of surrendering Mariah in exchange for his freedom. Now he began to see the course he must take. Mariah was not merely the path to escape.

Mariah was the key. The key to everything.

To give her up would be disaster.

Ash returned to his usual place and slid down against the wall. Mariah would come to him again. And when she did, he would begin to remember why she, more than anything else in the world, could save him.

CHAPTER FOUR

“WHY DID THE countess take Lord Donnington’s clothing from his room?”

Nola shivered, afraid—as well she might be—to have been summoned into her former mistress’s presence, but Vivian was in no mood to salve the girl’s anxiety.

“Come, girl. I know you spoke to Lady Donnington privately. Why did she ask you to attend her?”

The maid gulped audibly. “My … my lady … the countess only wanted to ask about the coal and … she said she had taken a chill and would like a bit more to—”

“You are not a practiced deceiver, Nola, I can see that well enough.”

“I beg your pardon, your ladyship.” Nola straightened, and Vivian almost wondered if she were attempting some pathetic sort of defiance. “The countess only wanted to talk.”

“To a chambermaid?”

“She was very kind to me, your ladyship. I didn’t know the countess took any of his lordship’s clothing.”

This time Vivian’s well-honed sense for duplicity told her that the maid was telling the truth, however much else she might wish to conceal. “Most peculiar,” Vivian said, displeased. She folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward, fixing Nola with a gaze that had intimidated many a greater personage. “She said nothing about Lord Donnington?”

“She said she knew how much your ladyship missed his lordship.”

Her words bordered on the impertinent, but once more Vivian detected a large element of truth in what the maid disclosed. Odd that Mariah should be concerned about her mother-in-law’s feelings for her son.

“Did she say she missed him, as well?” Vivian asked shortly.

“Perhaps …” Nola brushed at her uniform and gazed at the figured carpet under her feet. “Begging your pardon, your ladyship, but if she took Lord Donnington’s clothing, perhaps it was because she wanted something of him near her.”

Nola’s imagination was impressive for a girl of her age and occupation. Vivian allowed a little of the starch to go out of her spine, selected a biscuit from the silver tray on the table beside her and broke off the most minute piece she could. Her hands began to stiffen and ache with the old complaint.

“You are quite well-spoken for a maid, Nola,” she said, doing her best to disregard the pain. “Where did Mrs. Baines find you?”

“In the village, your ladyship.”

“Is your family there?”

“No, your ladyship. My mother is in Barway, and is not well. She must have medicines. I was employed as a seamstress’s assistant.”

Then her coming to Donbridge was a great improvement in her circumstances, for which she must be daily grateful, Vivian thought.

“I am sorry to hear of your mother’s affliction,” she said.

Nola curtseyed. “You are kind, your ladyship.”

As kind as you are stupid, my dear, Vivian thought. “You have some education,” she said.

“A little, your ladyship.”

“Enough to make you worthy to converse with a countess.”

Nola never lifted her gaze from the floor. “I never expected such an honor, your ladyship.”

Vivian was rapidly growing weary of the interrogation. “Let me get directly to the point, Nola,” she said. “I would like you to make the most of this new confidence.”

The girl finally looked up, a flash of alarm on her round, seemingly guileless face. “I don’t understand, your ladyship.”

With the most delicate of motions, Vivian crumbled the bit of biscuit into a napkin without tasting it. “I should think a girl of your obvious intelligence would comprehend me very well. Are you capable of discretion?”

Nola hesitated, but not a moment longer than she should. “Yes, your ladyship.”

“There are many things my daughter-in-law prefers to keep to herself, and I wish to get to know her better. You might be of great assistance to me in this enterprise.”

“How, your ladyship?”

“By making yourself easily available whenever she wishes to talk. By proving yourself her most loyal confidante.”

“But my duties, your—”

Vivian brushed the crumbs off her fingers. “You shall be excused from any duties which might interfere with your new appointment. There shall be no penalties … unless you choose to decline my suggestion.”

Their gazes met. The girl was under no illusion as to what Vivian implied. “Am I to report anything she says to me, your ladyship?”

“I see we understand each other, Nola.” Vivian permitted herself a beneficent smile. “You shall also discreetly follow her when she walks the grounds, especially in areas out of sight of the house. You must by no means allow her to see you.”

“Does your ladyship fear she might injure herself?”

Such questioning from a maid was beyond anything Vivian would ordinarily have allowed, but she had set her course and intended to follow it to the end.

“I do fear for her,” she said with a sigh of mock concern. “One never knows what a young matron might do when she is so early separated from her husband.”

Which was a topic even this bold chit didn’t dare to address. “Yes, your ladyship,” she murmured.

“You shall find me very appreciative of your services to me. Perhaps your mother will recover more quickly than you anticipated.”

Nola flushed. Angry, Vivian guessed. But not prepared to let such unsuitable emotions rob her of her position and the hope Vivian had offered her.

“I am honored to serve your ladyship in any way,” Nola said with a deep curtsey, which effectively concealed her true feelings.

“Excellent.” Vivian glanced toward the drawing room door, aware that Barbara might return at any time to take the tray and refresh the tea. “Do you have any questions? Is anything I have said unclear to you?”

“No, your ladyship. Everything is very clear.”

“Excellent.” Vivian rose. “I shall expect you to present yourself to me, discreetly, in a few days’ time. If the countess does not call for you soon, you are to find a way to attract her interest again. I know you are clever enough to do it.”

There was no answer, but Vivian required none. She swept past the girl and through the drawing room door, massaging her hands in a way that no one might see.

She would know what Mariah was scheming, one way or another. She had long been convinced, given Donnington’s sudden departure following his wedding night, that his marriage to the girl had never been consummated. And though proof of the validity of Vivian’s suspicions might be long in coming, she could certainly find other damning evidence against the hussy … evidence that, when combined with the almost certain fact of Mariah’s virginal state, might prove the basis for dissolution of the ill-conceived union.

Donnington might already be longing for an escape from his ties to Mariah. If he were to be assured that such a dissolution was both possible and desirable.

As the Americans said in their usual vulgar fashion, there was more than one way to skin a cat. And if the cat’s pelt might be acquired with so little trouble to herself, so much the better.

“WILL YOU HAVE ANOTHER piece of cake, Lady Donnington?”

Mariah smiled at Lady Westlake with her best attempt at sincerity. “It is a delicious cake, Lady Westlake. My compliments to your cook.”

“Our chef is indeed an excellent practitioner of his craft,” the viscountess corrected with apparent gentleness, a reminder that her household employed a real French chef instead of the simple cook who served Donbridge.

It was one of those not-so-subtle remarks meant to remind the young matron of her responsibility to make improvements at Donbridge in her husband’s absence, responsibilities that had clearly remained unfulfilled in the wake of the dowager’s refusal to relinquish control of the household.

Lady Westlake and her luncheon guests regarded Mariah with variations of secret glee, hostility and thoughtful speculation. Mrs. Jonathan Brandywyne took pleasure in any discomfiture Mariah might show, while Mrs. Joseph Roberts’s expression was one of puzzled disapproval. Only Madeleine, Lady Hurst, appeared sympathetic to Mariah’s unfortunate plight.

But Lady Westlake was obviously of the same mind as the dowager. Mariah must have driven Donnington away, or he would not have left so suddenly. She made little secret of her belief in the new Lady Donnington’s faults, even as she served up cake and smiles.

Why do you suffer this? Mariah asked herself. But she knew why. She had committed herself to this life and this marriage for her parents’ sake. Hiding away from those who had become her peers would do no good and would only confirm Vivian’s low opinion of her.

As if I care for that. Nor had she, until she’d heard Sinjin’s warning. And since she had found Ash, everything had changed. There was no telling what might happen when he left his cage, which eventually he must do.

Ash. Her thoughts wandered dangerously in his direction. She hadn’t been able to see him today; household concerns, unexpectedly dropped in her lap by the dowager, had kept her occupied all morning. Then there had been this luncheon, which would not end until two at the earliest.

She might comfort herself with the knowledge that, since she still had the key, Ash was unlikely to be disturbed by his unknown keeper, but that didn’t really ease her mind. Eventually she would have to put the key back, and she couldn’t bear the thought of his being alone in that place. If only she could go to him now.

“Your cake, Lady Donnington.”

She snapped back to the present and accepted the second piece from Lady Westlake. Mrs. Brandywyne smothered a titter. She, like many other Englishwomen, obviously thought Mariah’s healthy appetite yet another sign of American ill-breeding.

“Tell me, Lady Donnington,” Mrs. Brandywyne said sweetly, “how are you faring while Lord Donnington is away? How difficult it must be for a young wife.”

“Difficult?” Lady Westlake said. “Some young ladies should be glad to see very little of their husbands after the first few days of marriage.”

A silence fell, partly compounded of titillated shock and partly of agreement that could not be spoken. It was a generally accepted fact that English ladies bore their husbands’ attentions from a sense of duty and the need to provide an heir as quickly as possible, but they were not supposed to enjoy the means of getting a child. Mrs. Brandywyne and Lady Westlake clearly hoped to provoke Mariah.

“I do regret his absence,” Mariah said, meeting Lady Westlake’s probing gaze.

“Of course you do,” Mrs. Brandywyne opined. “Such a lovely young bride as you are, Lady Donnington.”

“When he returns, we shall be all the happier to be together again.”

“‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder,’ as they say,” Lady Hurst put in.

“Let us indeed hope so,” Mrs. Roberts said, her first words in a good half hour.

For a moment, that seemed to be the end of the skirmish, minor as it had been, but Lady Westlake was far from satisfied.

“How fares your father in America, Lady Donnington?” she asked, pretending to take another tiny bite of her own half-finished cake.

Mariah set down her plate. “Very well, thank you. He keeps himself busy.”

“With business interests,” Mrs. Brandywyne said. “How industrious you Americans are.”

“Indeed,” Mariah said. “Hard work agrees with us. Men like my father prefer to earn their own way to prosperity.”

Mrs. Brandywyne nearly dropped her teacup. Lady Hurst smiled.

Lady Westlake smiled, as well, but far less pleasantly.

“We have our own of that kind here in England,” she said. “They feel themselves quite equal to those whose heritage and titles extend back to the service of our greatest monarchs.”

“But your workers are serving the current monarch now, by bringing prosperity to the nation,” Mariah said, “and allowing the titled to continue to enjoy their more … stimulating pursuits.”

This time there was an audible gasp, though Mariah wasn’t sure from whom it emanated. Lady Westlake maintained her smile.

“Oh, their scheming for position only amuses us,” she said in a bland tone. “Though our dear prince shows most admirable tolerance for individuals of lesser station.”

“More’s the pity,” Mrs. Brandywyne said. She was not a part of the coveted Marlborough House Set, the prince’s circle, though she very much wanted to be. Mariah had heard that Bertie preferred his women beautiful, witty and a little fast. Louise Brandywyne was on the wrong side of plain and completely lacking in conversation. Mariah could almost sympathize with her thwarted ambitions.

“How is that you have never applied to join our prince at Marlborough House?” Lady Westlake asked. “Even Americans are permitted there.”

“It would be quite remiss of me to go gallivanting about while my husband is away,” Mariah said. “I prefer a quiet life at Donbridge.”

“Take care it does not become too quiet,” Lady Westlake said with a touch a venom, “or you might be tempted to find some questionable diversion to dispel your loneliness.”

Questionable diversion. Mariah worked to suppress her anger. After what Sinjin had told her, she could not mistake the meaning of Lady Westlake’s remark. Now she knew that Vivian’s unfounded and insulting suspicions were shared by someone else … one who was far more the dowager’s friend than she was Mariah’s.

Mariah rose abruptly. “Ah,” she said, glancing pointedly at the clock on the elaborately carved marble mantelpiece. “I am behind today. Please forgive me, but I must take my leave.”

Lady Westlake rose very slowly to take Mariah’s hand. “I am sorry, Lady Donnington. I hope you will be able to join us at Newmarket.”

“Thank you, but I believe I shall remain at Donbridge for the time being.” She turned her attention to the other guests. “Mrs. Roberts, Mrs. Brandywyne.” She reserved her warmest smile for Lady Hurst. “Please enjoy the remainder of your afternoon.”

She left without further ado, sweeping past a startled parlor maid with a stride as long as her skirts would permit. Fury propelled her as the carriage drew up in the drive.

Vivian and Lady Westlake. It was not the first time that Mariah had been invited to one of Pamela’s luncheons, but the woman had never made such insinuations before. The dowager had always encouraged Mariah to attend the neighbors’ social events; had this particular invitation been a ploy to catch Mariah out?

It hardly mattered what the two of them intended. The appearance of a stainless reputation was every bit as important as the fact of it.

And her reputation could be in very real danger.

But will that stop you?

Never. Neither would Vivian’s designs on her marriage, nor Lady Westlake’s spite, nor her own increasingly disturbing feelings for Ash. She was in control of her own actions.

The catch was that she had no way of predicting what Ash might do next. For all his struggles with speech and memory, he could not be dismissed as a mere lunatic. He might be caught in a web of confusion, but he had not been humbled by the experience. He had spoken like a nobleman, like a lord accustomed to command.

“Am I a gentleman?” he had asked. At the time she hadn’t answered him, having no answer to give. But now his simple question sparked a new comprehension. He could not be anything but a gentleman. A gentleman who had, for some reason beyond her current understanding, been horribly wronged.

She climbed into the carriage, her heart beating with new purpose. Whatever the dangers to herself, she must help Ash recover his memory. She must teach him what he could not remember. And she must make certain that he was restored to whatever life he had been compelled to abandon—even if she must shock the dowager in the process.

But she could not do it alone. She must have an ally, one who would lend respectability to the endeavor once it was brought into the open.

And she knew who that ally must be.

More than a little worried, Mariah rode all the way back to Donbridge with her fists clenched in her skirts. She hurried up to her room to change into her riding habit and waited impatiently for a groom to fetch Germanicus, her favorite mount. She slipped away before Vivian could accost her and urged the gelding to a fast pace, eager to make the necessary call on Sinjin at his country home before he returned to London.

Presenting her card to the parlor maid who answered the door, she strode into Rothwell’s entrance hall. She was immediately shown into Sinjin’s study, a masculine sanctuary into which few gentlemen would ever admit a lady.

“Ah, Lady Donnington,” Sinjin said, rising as he finished rubbing out the end of his undoubtedly expensive cigar into the ashtray on his desk. “I had not expected to be graced with your charming presence so soon.”

Mariah removed her hat. “I hope it is not an inconvenience.”

“An inconvenience?” He chuckled and waved her toward one of the hard, straight-backed chairs. “After your recent generosity, your coming could never be an inconvenience.”

Mariah felt far too agitated to sit or bother with the niceties. “I hope you are prepared to listen to a very strange tale,” she said.

Ware peered at her with interest. “Has this anything to do with your mysterious request for assistance?”

“Yes.”

“Will you have tea?”

“I’ve only just had luncheon.”

“With Lady Westlake?”

“How did you guess?”

“Something about the look on your face. And Lady Westlake holds you in particular fascination, you know.”

“She seems to share the dowager’s assumptions about my … my supposedly bad behavior.”

“You do know why, don’t you?”

Mariah was in no mood for further unpleasant revelations. “Sinjin …”

“She’s been in love with Donnington for years.”

“But Lady Westlake is married!”

“You’re being naïve again, Merry. There are some who actually do ignore their marriage vows.”

“You mean that she and my husband have been … they’ve—”

“Not as far as I am aware. But that doesn’t keep Pamela from hoping.”

Mariah played nervously with the hem of her riding jacket, striving to hide her agitation. “Do you know her well, Sinjin?”

He sighed. “Do take a seat.”

She sat, and he did the same, drumming his fingers on the table beside his chair. “She’s frequently at Marlborough House,” he said. “One could scarcely miss her. And the Viscounts Westlake have been our neighbors since my grandfather’s time. Pamela has recently become a great friend of my mother’s.” His face settled into a scowl. “I don’t think Donnie has seen her since well before your marriage, but you’d do well to stay away from her, Merry.”

“I may avoid her, but not your mother. She still hopes to discover grounds for her dislike of me. And if matters at Donbridge proceed without your assistance, I fear she may get her wish.”

Sinjin started. “What matters?” he demanded. “Mariah, what have you done?”

“Nothing very bad, unless you consider discovering a hidden prisoner on the estate an evil on my part.”

He laughed. “I beg your pardon?”

“I have found a man at Donbridge, imprisoned in a folly.”

Sinjin leaned back in his chair and reached for the crushed cigar, which was quite beyond recovery.

“Get another, if you like,” Mariah said. “I’m used to my father’s cigars, you know.”

Sinjin got up, paced around the room and swung to face her. “What nonsense, Mariah. I always suspected you had a vivid imagination, but this exceeds my wildest expectations.”

She tried very hard not to flinch at his tone. Though her determination hadn’t wavered, she had guessed that Sinjin would be bound to wonder about the state of her mind.

“It isn’t nonsense,” she said, very low. “Is anyone likely to hear us?”

“I usually banish the servants when I’m in my study,” he said. “What has that to do with … with this fantastic story of yours?”

She took a deep breath. “This must be a secret between us, Sinjin.”

“A secret.” He waved his hand. “Very well, it shall be our secret.” He laughed again, though the sound was strained. “Get on with it, then.”

His rudeness was the least of her concerns. “When I was walking out by the mere yesterday morning,” she said slowly, “I saw something at the folly—”

“You mean that Georgian monstrosity?” He chuckled to himself, glanced at Mariah’s straight face and sobered. “What did you see at the folly?”

“A man.”

“A man?”

“A man caged up like an animal, behind bars. A man who has obviously been a prisoner for some time.”

Sinjin frowned, wore another circle in the carpet, revisited his unhappy cigar, and finally took his seat again.

“A prisoner?” he echoed. “In the folly?”

“As I said.”

It was too much for even an intelligent man to absorb all at once. Sinjin slumped in his chair, pinching his chin between his thumb and forefinger. “This isn’t just a story, is it?”

“Do you think I’m a liar, Sinjin?”

“Good God, no.” He raised his head. “Who in hell is he?”

Mariah released her breath. As miraculous as it seemed, he believed her. Or at least he was doing a very good job of pretending.

“I don’t know,” she said. “When I first found him, he couldn’t speak. And though he has regained the power of conversation, he doesn’t know his name.”

“What do you mean?”

“Just that. It is as if he suffers from a form of amnesia. He was in a very poor state when I found him, with only stale water and no food.”

“Good God,” Sinjin repeated. He glared down at the crease in his trousers, his expression dark as storm clouds. “What does this fellow remember?”

“Very little,” she said. “He has obviously suffered some sort of shock, but he is a gentleman, that much is clear.”

“A gentleman?”

“Yes, though it might not appear so at first. His speech, his manner …”

“This is beyond anything.”

“I know.”

He remained deep in thought for several tense minutes. “How did you come to find this man, Mariah?”

“I saw a stranger lurking about the folly and found a key to an inner chamber. That is where I discovered the cage.” She braced herself. “There is something else, Sinjin. This man … The prisoner looks almost exactly like Donnington.”

“What?”

“Except for the color of his hair, he could be Donnington’s twin.”

Sinjin muttered something under his breath. “Are you quite certain all this wasn’t a dream?”

The chair seemed to lurch under her. “I can see that it was a mistake to come here. I shall take my leave.”

“Merry, I—” He stared into her eyes. “Good God. You’re as white as a sheet. I’ll ring for a glass of—”

“I’m all right.” Mariah sat very straight and gazed at him earnestly. “What I have said is no exaggeration. I felt it was necessary to prepare you.” She hesitated. Should I tell you that he not only looks like Donnington, but blames your brother for his imprisonment?

She had no choice. But that could wait until tonight … if Sinjin agreed to come.

“Did you or did you not mean it when you said I could count on you?” she asked.

“Of course I meant it,” he said, though his usual aplomb had deserted him completely. “You haven’t spoken of this to anyone else?”

“I did question one of the maids regarding rumors related to a captive somewhere on the grounds.”

“Rumors? You’d already heard about this?”

“Not at all, but I thought if anyone would know.” She hesitated. “She confirmed that she’d heard stories of someone being held at Donbridge.”

“For God’s sake!” He shook his head. “I’ve never heard a word of this, and I can scarce credit—” He broke off. “A man who looks like Donnington. Did this maid say who is supposed to have committed this … this offense?”

“No.”

“But you have a theory.”

“I’ll tell you what little I know tonight.”

Sinjin didn’t press her. He rose and walked to the sideboard, where he picked up a glass and set it down again. “The proof is in the pudding,” he said grimly. “When shall I meet this … gentleman?”

Her heart resumed its normal rhythm. “Come to Donbridge,” she said, “but secretly. I don’t want to alert anyone who might have taken part in this.” She hurried on before he could interrupt. “Meet me at eleven tonight, by the folly. I’ll show you everything, and then we can decide what we ought to do.”

“Why do I think you’re about to get me into a situation I’m going to regret?”

“Will you do it?”

“Of course I will.”

Once again he offered refreshments and tea, but she declined and hurried away. If she were very lucky, there would be time to speak to Ash and prepare him for the visit of another stranger.

But once she got back to Donbridge, the opportunity never arose. The dowager, uncharacteristically attentive in spite of her usual hostility, made it impossible for Mariah to slip away from the house until after dinner. It was gone ten when the dowager finally retired. Mariah waited for another half hour, made certain the house was quiet, and then put on her simplest dress, a shawl and half-boots. She was halfway down the stairs when Nola appeared out of the shadows.

“Nola!” Mariah hid the pillowcase of newly hoarded food behind her back, though she knew she had little hope of keeping it concealed for long. Nola curtseyed, her face wreathed in concern.

“Begging your pardon, Countess,” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“You didn’t. I was just going down to the kitchen. Why are you up and about so late?”

“I … I thought you might need help, your ladyship.”

“Help, Nola? I can find my way to the kitchen by myself.”

“I was just remembering what you told me, your ladyship,” she said. “About the prisoner and all.”

“I’m afraid my imagination ran away with me,” Mariah said with a strained smile. “You needn’t give it another thought.”

The maid bent her head, peering at the level of Mariah’s hip where the pillowcase protruded from behind her skirts. “You’re going to see him, your ladyship?”

Mariah began to feel that the girl might prove to be every bit as difficult now as she had been helpful before. “What makes you think I’m going to see anyone, Nola?”

“Just a feeling, your ladyship.”

A feeling. Mariah suppressed a shiver. “Is there something you haven’t told me? Something about the subject we discussed yesterday?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Then what I do is really none of your business,” Mariah said, more harshly than she’d intended. She immediately regretted it.

“I know your intentions are good,” she said, “but I’m really just trying to find out what’s going on. It would be better if no one else were involved.”

“But I saw Mr. Ware, your ladyship,” Nola said. “Out in the park.”

Nola’s tone was anything but sly, yet Mariah was very much on her guard. “And why were you creeping about outside, Nola?”

“I often go for walks at night, though Mrs. Baines doesn’t approve.” She performed another curtsey, which worked well to hide her expression. “I’m sorry, your ladyship.”

“I should avoid annoying Mrs. Baines, if I were you. As for Mr. Ware, he is known to do just as he wishes. Our grounds are considerably larger than his and have excellent prospects by moonlight. There is a full moon tonight. Perhaps he had an urge to view it.”

“Yes, ma’am. But.” Nola dropped her voice very low. “I could make sure she doesn’t see you.”

Mariah froze. Was that what the girl’s interference was all about? Did she—did all the servants—know what the dowager suspected of her daughter-in-law?

“I am not concerned about the dowager,” Mariah said sternly. “But I should not wish to disturb her. She has quite enough concerns as it is.”

“Then you are going to see the man who looks like Lord Donnington.”

Matters had proceeded to the point that denials would probably have little effect. She had begun this, and she could hardly blame the maid for behaving like the intelligent girl she was.

“Tell me, Nola,” she said, “why should you want to help me?”

“Because Lord Donnington’s going away wasn’t your fault, not like some people say.”

Good Lord. “You might find yourself in trouble if you gossip about such matters in the servants’ quarters.”

“But I don’t, your ladyship,” Nola said. “Never.” She glanced over her shoulder into the entrance hall. “What can I do, ma’am?”

Countering Nola’s stubborn resolve was no more likely than convincing her that her mistress had nothing to hide. “Stay here,” Mariah said. “If I find a way for you to help, I’ll certainly let you know.”

“I hope … I hope you will be very careful, your ladyship.”

“I shall.” Mariah held the girl’s gaze. “No matter what else happens, you must keep our meetings absolutely secret.”

Nola nodded solemnly. “I understand, your ladyship.”

“Very good. You go up to bed now, Nola.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Realizing full well that she was taking a very great risk, Mariah stood at the foot of the stairs until Nola had disappeared into the shadows. She could afford to delay no longer.

Outside, England’s lingering twilight had finally given way to darkness. Mariah kept the lantern as dim as she could and went directly to the folly.

Sinjin was already there. He wore dark riding clothes and carried his own lantern, unlit. His horse, Shaitan, grazed contentedly on the long grass beside the lakeshore.

Sinjin turned into Mariah’s light, hand raised to shield his eyes.

“Merry?”

“Sinjin! It isn’t yet eleven!”

“Sorry, but I was rather eager to see what this is all about.” He shifted slightly, and the lantern’s light caught metal near his waist.

A gun.

“For God’s sake, Sinjin!” she hissed. “There’s no need for that.”

“He might be a lunatic,” Sinjin said, unfazed.

“I never said—”

“If there’s a prisoner in the folly, there has to be good reason for it. A poacher, most likely. A temporary punishment—”

“A poacher who looks like Donnington?”

His eyes told her that he had not lost any part of his skepticism. “I am most eager to observe this resemblance.”

“Observe it, but don’t speak of it.” She reminded herself that what she was about to say was absolutely necessary. “You suspected that I had a theory about who might have done this to him. But it isn’t my theory, Sinjin. It’s his.”

“I thought you said he didn’t remember anythi—”

“He blames Donnington,” she said in a rush. “He believes that Donnington did this to him.”

Sinjin was too stunned to laugh. “Do you know what you’re saying?”

“I didn’t say I accepted his claims,” she said. “But you must be careful, Sinjin. Don’t question him about it. I don’t think he realizes how much he looks like … like the man he blames for what’s happened to him.”

“How is any of this possible?”

“I don’t know.”

Reflected light glazed the gun’s barrel as Sinjin gripped it reflexively. “I’m sorry, Merry, but I—”

“Put that away. You won’t need it.” She stared into his eyes. “Wait here until I call you.”

“Mariah …”

“Please, just do as I say!”

Sinjin subsided, though his expression was anything but sanguine. Mariah carried her pillowcase up the stairs, readying the key for the lock. She entered with every bit as much apprehension as she had the second time, half afraid of what she might find.

Everything was as she had left it. No one had been inside since she’d last come. Ash stood at the bars, his face turned so as to look beyond her, toward the square of darkness framed through the two doors.

“Who?” he demanded in a harsh voice. “Who is he?”

CHAPTER FIVE

ASH SMELLED THE man before he walked into the room, his hand near his hip and the glitter of iron at his waist. He was dark-haired and brown-eyed, lean and well formed, and he wore a shirt, trousers and the overgarment that Ash remembered was called a “jacket.”

He smelled almost exactly the same as the enemy who had put Ash in this place.

Mariah blocked the stranger’s path, but he clearly saw Ash. His eyes widened in astonishment.

“My God,” he said. “My God.” He stumbled into the wall, breathing heavily, and continued to stare.

Ash flung himself at the bars, and the stranger jerked away. Mariah approached the cage, hand raised, the slim, straight lines of her brows drawn over her eyes.

“Ash? Are you all right?”

He didn’t know how to answer. “All right” meant feeling well, and he didn’t feel well. Mariah had been away too long. He was furious at the presence of the second human, who intruded with his Cold Iron and his thick male scent that was so much like Donnington’s. If there had been a way out of the cage, Ash would have charged him, knocked him down, impaled.

“Who is he?” he repeated.

“My name is Sinjin Ware,” the man said hoarsely, pushing away from the wall. “Who in hell are you?”

“I call him Ash,” Mariah said. “Please, Sinjin, stand back.” She turned to Ash again. “Mr. Ware has come to help us. There is no reason to be afraid of him.”

Ash laughed, drawing a startled expression from both humans. “Ware,” he snarled. “Donnington.”

The man exchanged glances with Mariah. “My God,” he repeated. “Did you tell him who I—”

“Do you still think he’s a poacher, Sinjin?” Mariah said before he could finish.

“No. I had … no idea.”

Ash banged at the bars with his fist. “He did this.”

Sinjin drew his hand over the fringe of dark hair above his lip. “Believe me, Mariah. I had nothing to do with—”

“You are his,” Ash said, no longer caring if his flesh touched iron. “His.”

The human male looked ill. “What is he saying, Mariah?”

She took his arm. “We shall return soon, Ash,” she said. She led the man she called Sinjin from the room and half closed the door. Ash realized at once that she did not want him to hear what they said to each other.

“We must be careful, Sinjin,” she said in a low voice that Ash easily heard. “Ash is very—”

“What the hell is going on?” Sinjin demanded.

“I told you that Ash blames Donnington. He hates him. Somehow he’s realized that you are related to him.”

“How? Giles and I look nothing alike!”

“As I said at Rothwell, I am convinced that Ash has no idea how much he looks like Donnington. And I never mentioned you. I certainly never told him that you are Donnington’s brother.”

“Does he know Donnington’s your husband?”

“No. And it is too soon to tell him.”

“You’re afraid of him. You do think he’s mad.”

She didn’t answer. Ash pressed as close to the bars as he could without touching them.

“Think carefully,” Mariah said at last. “Who in your family might resemble your brother?”

“You aren’t suggesting—”

“Who, Sinjin?”

“No one!”

“No one that you know of.”

“Don’t you think I would be aware … Do you actually think this man is here because of my brother?”

“I don’t know what to believe. Please stay here, Sinjin.”

A moment later she returned to the inner chamber, fetched the bag she had brought with her and opened it, producing another loaf of bread, small red fruits, a white stone-like container and another shaped of clear crystal.

“Bread, strawberries, butter and jam,” she said, smiling at Ash. She sat in the chair, spread a cloth across her heavy skirt and removed two pieces of the bread from its wrapping. She coated them with the yellow substance in the stone container and the thick, sweet-smelling fruit from the crystal.

Ash could see Ware peering through the crack in the door. Donnington’s brother, though Ash didn’t know what that word might mean. He only knew it was important. As was husband, though he refused to consider why it hurt so much to think of Mariah bearing a connection to his enemy.

And Mariah had said he looked like Donnington. Ash had not seen Donnington when he had gazed at his own face in the water, yet something in him knew it was true.

The thoughts flying through his head made his hunger go away, but he knew he must remain strong. He took the bread through the bars, and then Mariah left the room again.

“You speak to him as if he doesn’t know what bread and jam are,” Ware whispered. “And he’s only half-dressed.”

“He was left with almost nothing,” she said. “Nothing to eat, nothing to wear.”

“You brought him those clothes?”

“Of course. What else was I to do?”

“You said you saw another stranger by the folly. This man hasn’t been completely neglected. Someone must come here to feed him, clean his …” He paused. “What did your maid say?”

“Nola said there was a strange man living in a cottage on the grounds, and no one knows what he does. Ash implied that someone comes to him every few days. Someone who doesn’t want anyone else to know that Ash is here.”

Sinjin made a harsh, angry sound. “This is a highly volatile situation, Mariah,” he said. “Obviously this man has suffered, but as for his identity or Donnington’s … involvement, we’ll have to give this very careful thought. Acting too quickly can only—”

Mariah strode back into Ash’s room, Ware on her heels. He caught at Mariah’s arm. “Mariah, listen to me. We—”

The bars rattled as Ash banged against them. Fire coursed over his skin.

“Don’t touch her,” he commanded. “Don’t touch her!”

Both humans started. “He is a lunatic,” Ware said.

Mariah shook him off. “He’s nothing of the kind.” She moved as close to Ash as she could without touching the bars. “Don’t, Ash. Please.”

The fire licked at Ash’s forehead. “Stay away from him.”

“Sinjin won’t hurt me, Ash. I promise you, he’s our friend.”

“Merry, this man is obviously disturbed,” Ware said. “Don’t promise him anything. Not until we know what he’s done.”

“Done?” She whirled to face him. “What could he have done to deserve this?”

“We need to keep our wits about us. You must see that.”

“Yes. We must all keep our wits about us.” She smiled at Ash, though her lips trembled. “Try to be patient, Ash. We both want to help, to find out why you’re here so we can let you go.”

“Merry …” Sinjin warned.

But she wasn’t listening to him. “Have you remembered anything new, Ash?” she asked. “Anything you can tell us?”

To offer her the truth would be to admit too much. That he was not human. That there was some other world ruled by those who were not human. That he had possessed another life, another form far mightier than this one. No, he could not offer her the truth.

For she had not given him the truth.

“No,” he said.

“We’ll find a way, Ash.”

“Which will require considerable finesse,” Ware said. “And you will leave the investigation to me, Mariah.”

“First we must find Ash’s keeper.”

“I’ll look into it as soon as it’s light enough to search,” Ware said. “You go back to the house, Merry. Pretend that nothing has happened.”

She flashed another glance at Ash and pushed Sinjin out of the room again. “Suppose Donnington does know about this?” she said. “Might Vivian not know, as well?”

“Mother? You’re joking.”

“Perhaps. But, as you said, we can make no judgments as yet. I’ll learn what I can in the house. You find this keeper. And you must discover how Ash is related to your family.”

“If he is—”

“No judgments, Sinjin.”

“I’ll do just as you say. But, Merry … Don’t say anything to my mother. Not under any circumstances. She would be worse than shocked if she saw him.”

“This can’t be kept hidden for long.”

“Go back to the house. I’ll stay with him until dawn.”

“That would not be wise.”

“I’m not leaving you alone with him. He’s shown a propensity for violence.”

“Can you blame him?”

“Hasn’t it occurred to you that you simply haven’t been questioning him the right away?”

“What do you propose? Torture?”

“I’m beginning to wonder, given his startling resemblance to Donnington, if your desire to help isn’t some sort of obsession.”

“It ought to be every bit as much of an obsession with you, Sinjin! This man could be your direct relation.”

There was a long moment of silence. “I was right, wasn’t I? This isn’t just natural concern on your part.”

“Do you believe that compassion isn’t sufficient reason to help someone?”

“I mean the way you look at him, speak to him—”

“We shouldn’t leave Ash alone,” she said. The door swung open again, and Mariah walked straight over to the bars.

“I’m sorry, Ash,” she said. “Mr. Ware and I—”

“Release me.”

She stared at him, her lips slightly parted. Ware walked up behind her, examining Ash through narrowed eyes.

“A gentleman, is he?” Ware said. “He does speak rather like a duke I once knew. Truly, Merry, you must realize that this man may not be sane, let alone capable of or willing to speak the truth. We—”

There was scarcely room between the bars for Ash’s hand, let alone his arm, but he struck at once. His flesh screamed in pain as his fingers clutched the collar of Ware’s jacket and jerked the man against the bars.

“Truth?” he snarled. “What do humans know of truth?”

The silence became frozen. Ware breathed sharply through his nose. Mariah, who had grabbed Ash’s wrist, went very still.

“Humans?” she whispered.

Ash released the other man and pulled his arm back, holding it against his chest. “Men,” he said. “Men like Donnington.”

“Can you fail to doubt his sanity now?” Ware asked, straightening his clothing with sharp, angry motions.

“Considering your own behavior …” Mariah frowned into Ash’s face, then glanced at his arm. Already the marks were fading. “Ash knows the meaning of truth. Would anyone not of sound mind understand such a concept?”

“Who knows what a lunatic might or might not understand?”

Mariah glared at him. “Do you know how to open this lock?”

“You aren’t seriously thinking of letting him out?”

“Can you break it?”

“I won’t. He’s dangerous, Mariah. He’s also strong, however badly he’s been treated. I can defend myself, but you can’t.”

“He would never hurt me.”

“How long have you known him? Two days?” Sinjin snorted. “No. I won’t do it.”

She turned back to Ash. “I’m sorry, Ash. You must wait a little while longer. A day, at most.”

“I told you not to promise him anything,” Ware said, his face darker than it had been before. “I’ve got to find that keeper first.”

They looked at each in a way Ash could hardly bear. “Very well,” Mariah said. “Ash, we shall both be leaving now. But it will only be for a little while.”

He wanted to wail and beat his fists against the walls of his cage, to rage and roar and attack the bars again and again. But he merely withdrew into the shadows where their light boxes’ feeble illumination couldn’t reach. He watched as Mariah and Ware spoke quietly, and then, after touching Mariah’s hand, the other man left the room.

A dozen heartbeats later Mariah was at the bars again. “Ash,” she whispered, “I have an idea, but I must make sure the coast is clear first.”

He remained where he was while she followed Ware, listening to her feet in their small tight shoes tap against the stone. When she returned, her face was flushed, and her movements were as quick and darting as those of a bird.

“I am going to get you out,” she said. “Tonight, whatever Sinjin may say.”

Ash knew then that he had won the battle. “How?” he asked.

“I shall find a way to break this lock.”

“Why?”

She had never looked at him so directly or so clearly. “Because I see how it will be. I thought I needed Sinjin’s help. I still do. But he won’t soon agree to let you go, after what you … after how you behaved.”

It was a reprimand. He did not like it. “What is he?”

“Sinjin? I meant to tell you—”

“Donnington’s brother,” he said. “What does it mean?”

She searched his eyes, her face almost white. “You heard us, didn’t you?”

“What does it mean?”

“Brothers are family. They have the same mother and father.”

“Mother is the female who bore you?”

“My mother, yes. As their mother bore them.”

“What is family?”

The delicate skin over her throat trembled. “A mother and father and children—brothers and sisters—make a family.”

The food in Ash’s stomach would not remain still. “I am Ware’s family? And Donnington’s?”

“We … we don’t know, Ash.”

“I look like Donnington.”

“You don’t … you are different. It isn’t as if—”

Ash laughed. “I am my enemy.”

“No. No, Ash. There is so much we have yet to learn. You must give us time.”

Time meant waiting. Time meant this room, this cage. He tried to think of something else.

“What is Ware to you?” he asked.

“He is a friend.”

She had called herself Ash’s “friend.” But it wasn’t the same. He knew it was not.

“He does not believe that Donnington did this to me.”

“Whatever Donnington may have done, Sinjin knew nothing about it. You must remember that.”

Ash looked from the tops of the bars to the point where they sank into the ground. “What is husband?”

“Ash—”

“Tell me.”

“A … a husband is like a father. A husband … lives with his wife.”

“Donnington is your husband and you are Donnington’s wife.”

As Ash had been before, so she was now: mute, voiceless.

Why had she not spoken the truth earlier, when she’d had the chance? She could not be afraid of Ash, or she would never have returned. But she was afraid.

“He kept you like this?” Ash said, his hatred doubling.

“Like.” Her hand swept to the base of her neck, where the heavy cloth covered her flesh. “No, Ash.”

“You escaped,” Ash said. “You found me.”

“I.” Her face was beaded with tiny drops of moisture. “Ash, I am not living with him now, but he did not keep me in a cage.”

“Then why were you his wife?”

“Because … because I didn’t know what he’d done to you.”

There was something hidden in her eyes and voice, but he could not make sense of it. Fury boiled under his skin. “Where is he?”

“Away. I don’t know where. But he will return. That is why, when we leave this place, you must remain hidden.”

“I will not hide.”

“Only for a while. But you cannot stay in this cage for one more hour.”

A promise, like the others she had made—and kept. Yet when she left, Ash could not forget that she had not told him about Donnington. Her husband. His enemy.

He paced along the front of the cage, striking the bars each time he reached the end and turned for another pass. The pain became a part of him, keeping his anger strong. His heartbeat slowed to match the steady rhythm.

And then they came.

Memories. Not like the others, fragmented and seen through the prism of a dream, but solid and bright and real.

He lay in the shadow of great gray stones cupped in a circle of trees, his mind a voiceless sphere spinning inside his head. Two others stood near him: one was Donnington—like Ash, save for the darkness of his hair.

The other was Fane. While the human was not unimpressive, the Fane would draw all eyes to him wherever he appeared. His body was lithe and slender, his features finely drawn, his hair a richer nut-brown than anything that could be conceived on earth. His eyes were silver shaded with green, his clothes woven of light and thread so fine it could hardly be seen. He gazed at Donnington with contempt, everything about him speaking of power and arrogance.

“I kept my part of the bargain,” Donnington was saying. He gestured to the girl lying at his feet. “I brought her, as you asked. Where is my unicorn?”

The Fane slowly turned his head. Cold eyes surveyed Ash where he lay. “There,” he said.

“This man?” Donnington started toward the Fane lord, who moved not a muscle, and then stopped to stare at Ash. “He looks exactly like me!”

Cairbre—for that was the Fane lord’s name—smiled a little. “An odd effect of the transfer. You were the first human he saw when he passed through the Gate, so his body shaped itself in your image.”

Donnington shuddered. “He wasn’t supposed to be human!”

“He was cursed to assume human form in your world, but I expected this to be a temporary condition.”

“You’re saying it isn’t?”

“Oberon is still powerful. He will not be so for long.”

The human scowled. “Can it … can it understand us?”

“It has not yet learned human speech.” The Fane lord stared at the human until Donnington dropped his gaze. “You have said that you kept your part of the bargain, but you have not fully succeeded, either. The girl is resisting my power. I cannot bring her through the Gate.”

“Because you’re nothing but a ghost.”

“It has nothing to do with Oberon’s restrictions on our appearance in your world,” Cairbre said coldly.

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