Lord of Legends. Susan Krinard
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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.