Lord of Legends

by Susan Krinard

  “A little.”

  He didn’t elaborate, and she didn’t inquire further. She could scarcely think at all, enveloped in the warmth of his grip and that unique masculine scent. No one must ever know how swiftly her body reacted to the nearness of his.

  He leaned closer as the waltz spun toward its finale. “Mariah,” he said against her ear, “what has come between us?”

  “You have moved well beyond what I can teach,” she said. “This is your world now.”

  “But it is not yours.”

  “It need not be, Ash. Not if you’ve found your place.”

  “I have no place without you.”

  She flinched in his arms. “If that were true, this would not be the first time we have truly conversed in three weeks.”

  “I did not wish to stay away from you. I only—”

  The final beats of the waltz broke abruptly into silence. Mariah tried to pull away, but Ash kept his grip on her hand.

  “Do not dance with anyone else,” he said softly.

  “Is that a command, Your Royal Highness?”

  He seemed to miss her irony. “There are no men in this room worthy of you.”

  “But there are plenty of women worthy of you. Enjoy them.”

  She worked her hand free and moved quickly toward the chairs. Oh, yes. Let Ash enjoy the ladies he had charmed so well. And she would enjoy this ball without giving him another thought.

  But it was not to be. She danced a quadrille and a polka with two different and very presentable partners, but her mind refused to obey her will. Ash’s gaze was on her every moment, even when he danced with the loveliest women of the prince’s Set. Sinjin claimed her hand for the Schottische, but it was very clear that her brother-in-law was distracted by the presence of Lady Westlake, who flirted with one man and then another as if her lover didn’t exist.

  By the sixth dance, Mariah recognized the futility of remaining at the ball even a few minutes longer. She was halfway to the door when a man intercepted her. She tried to move past him, but somehow he was in front of her again, smiling with such sympathy that she was compelled to give him a second glance. And then a third.

  He was attractive, like many men in the room. But unlike most, he was clean-shaven like Sinjin and Ash. And his face…

  Ash was undeniably handsome, but there was a strength of masculinity about him that removed any hint of the feminine in his face or manner. This man was simply gorgeous, like a romantic poet, with his long, fair hair, his strangely colorful garments, and eyes more silver than green. He moved as gracefully as Ash, something she would have thought impossible.

  “Do you find it too warm, ma’am?” he asked in a lilting voice. “Perhaps I might fetch you a drink, or escort you out to the terrace?”

  His forwardness deserved a brisk refusal, but she could not look away. “I do not find it too warm,” she said. “I merely sought a few moments of privacy.”

  He laughed, the sound as silvery as his eyes. “Privacy? At one of Bertie’s balls?” He searched her eyes. “I am sorry, Lady Donnington. We have not been properly introduced. I am Julius Caber.”

  Mariah had never heard the name, yet there was something familiar about him. Something she couldn’t put her finger on, no matter how much she tried.

  “Mr. Caber,” she said with an inclination of her head. “I am Lady Donnington, as you are obviously aware.”

  “How could a man not know of one of the most beautiful women at Marlborough House?” he asked, reaching for her hand. He kissed it, and she could feel the warmth of his breath through her glove. “If you can spare the time, will you do me the honor of a dance?”

  “Mr. Caber…”

  “Bertie can confirm my credentials, if you wish,” he said.

  “That is not necessary. It’s just that—”

  “Please don’t deny me, Lady Donnington. It is only one dance.”

  She permitted Mr. Caber to lead her onto the dance floor, where the other couples were gathering as a new waltz began.

  If she had found Ash to be a superb dancer, he was a mere apprentice compared to Caber. They seemed to fly across the floor. At last she had been shaken free of her melancholy. At last she could forget the invisible ties that held her to the man across the room.

  Only as the music drew to a close did she noticed that everyone in the room was staring at them.

  Caber didn’t seem to notice the stares at all, nor the whispers that buzzed from couple to couple. Someone tittered. Bertie stood with a lady on his arm, watching Mariah like the others. Even his pleasant face wore a mask of bewilderment.

  “Mr. Caber,” she whispered, “what is wrong? Why are they…?”

  He didn’t answer. He had vanished, no more solid than London fog, and she could find no sign of him anywhere in the room.

  “Dear Lady Donnington.” Lady Westlake was suddenly at her side, her voice all consolation. “You are ill. I shall accompany you up to your room.”

  “I am not ill!” Mariah said. “What is the matter? What have I done?”

  “Nothing, my dear. You only require a little rest.”

  “Tell me what is going on!”

  Pamela sighed, took Mariah’s arm and began leading her toward the double doors that led to the hall outside. “Do you really not know?” she asked. “You were dancing alone. Quite alone.”

  Mariah was certain she hadn’t heard the other woman correctly. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You behaved as if you had a partner, but there was no one there. You laughed and held out your arms and danced in a most elegant fashion, but—”

  “What do you mean, I was alone? Mr. Caber invited me to dance.”

  “Mr. Caber? I am not familiar with the name.” Lady Westlake steered Mariah out into the hall. “Clearly you are overtired. A good night’s sleep will surely cure what ails you.”

  “No,” Mariah said, batting Pamela away. “You’re lying.”

  “Even if I were,” Lady Westlake said, “I’m quite certain that Lady Strickland would tell you the truth. Shall I fetch her? Shall I collect the opinions of the entire ballroom?”

  Mariah made her way to the nearest chair. Lady Westlake might lie to her, but she wouldn’t mention Lady Strickland if she believed the other woman would contradict her account.

  There had been no partner, no Mr. Caber. He had existed only in her imagination, just like the fairies—and she had displayed herself, her madness, in front of society’s best and brightest.

  I am not mad! There is some explanation. Some other reason.

  She rose, clinging to her dignity, and met Pamela’s gaze. “I will excuse myself to the prince,” she said.

  “That is hardly necessary, my dear. I will make my apologies for you.”

  Mariah could guess what such apologies would consist of. Ignoring the other woman’s offer, she turned and walked into the ballroom. The buzz of gossip had begun to fade, but her reappearance quieted all the voices at once.

  She approached Lady Strickland. “Lady Strickland,” she said, “I am sorry to have caused such a commotion.”

  The marchioness gave her a frigid smile. “My dear, your high spirits might better have been spent in engaging conversation than in mocking everyone in this room.”

  Mariah was stunned. “It was not mockery, Lady Strickland. It was…it was only—”

  But the older woman was already turning away, and the cut was as deliberate as anything Mariah had ever experienced. She looked around the ballroom. They could not all believe that her behavior was some sort of playacting or mockery. But the curious, disapproving and even sympathetic eyes refused to meet hers for more than a moment, and even the prince pretended not to notice her.

  Isn’t their disapproval better than their belief that I am mad?

  She backed away from Lady Strickland and her circle of friends, lifting her chin high as she walked toward the door. Familiar warmth rushed over her as Ash took possession of her arm.

  “May I escort you, Lady
Donnington?” he asked.

  “It is not necessary,” she said.

  “You should not be alone.”

  “But I wish to be alone.” Nevertheless, she allowed him to support her until they were in the empty corridor and then faced him squarely. “You saw what occurred.”

  “Yes. You surprised them.” He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. “I was not surprised.”

  “Why not? Because you think I am…I am—”

  He leaned into her, his lips against her hair. “Mariah,” he murmured. “What is it? What is wrong?”

  She almost laughed. “Why should you think there is anything wrong? I merely danced all about the ballroom in the arms of an invisible gentleman.”

  “He was not invisible to you.”

  She could not think of any response, especially an honest one, that would do anything but lend credence to her private fears. “I must leave,” she said. “It is time that I returned to Donbridge.”

  “No. I will speak to them. I will tell them—”

  “No!” A flush of heat started in Mariah’s toes and worked up to her face. “I am very well. I…” Her hands began to tremble, and then the tremors spread throughout her body until she could no longer stand.

  A dark veil fell behind her eyes. The last thing she remembered was Ash catching her in his arms.

  SHE WOKE QUITE ALONE in her own chamber. Nola had evidently retired to her own small room in the female servants’ quarters, but Mariah knew she had been there; her shawl lay across a chair pulled close to the bed, and an empty teacup, evidently forgotten, stood on the small side table. Mariah couldn’t possibly have undressed herself and put on her nightclothes without assistance.

  How long had it been? Mariah sat up, swallowing the unpleasant taste in her mouth, and found that her dizziness wasn’t completely gone.

  Neither were the fairies. They floated around her head like dust motes that had escaped the maid’s mop and broom. They fled the wave of her hand and then returned, their tiny voices piping.

  She forced herself to get up, nearly fell, and righted herself again. The night table and chair provided some support until she could reach the washstand, where she splashed her face and rubbed it with a towel until her skin was pink. There were deep circles under her eyes. She looked ten years older than her age.

  Just as mother had before she died.

  Mariah blinked the tears from her eyes. Her best hope was to return to Donbridge and seclusion. If the worst happened, she could hide it there better than anywhere else.

  She half stumbled back to the bed and put on her dressing gown, pulling the sash tight. She had just finished when she heard a tap at the door.

  It must be Nola. She didn’t really want to see anyone, but she couldn’t ignore the young woman who had so obviously tried to help.

  She opened the door. There was no one there. The corridor seemed empty until she saw a ghostly form moving away. She bit her lip.

  “Nola?”

  The figure paused and looked back. In the light of the candle Mariah held, she could clearly make out the face of Lady Strickland. Another door opened, and Mr. Denham stepped out into the hall in a state of undress.

  For a few seconds they stared at Mariah. Then Lady Strickland hastily walked away, and Mr. Denham closed his door.

  Nauseated, Mariah closed her own door and leaned against it. Lady Strickland, who had expressed such disapproval of the goings-on at Marlborough House. Lady Strickland, who had said that “we” Americans should stick together, only to turn her back on Mariah in her time of greatest need.

  The hypocrisy didn’t astonish Mariah as much as numb her to all feeling entirely. She sat down on the bed, digging her fingers into the counterpane.

  They would all turn their backs on an odd and naïve little fool, she thought. Everyone but Ash.

  There was another tap on the door, barely audible. Mariah determined to ignore it, but the visitor didn’t leave. Instead, the door opened soundlessly, and Ash stepped into the room.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  MARIAH SPRANG TO her feet.

  “Ash,” she whispered. “What are you doing here?”

  He closed the door and approached the bed. He was still fully dressed, but his warmth was like a blessing, his face filled with quiet concern.

  “I could not leave you alone,” he said.

  “You cannot be here,” she said. “Not alone with me, in the middle of the night.”

  “It is nearly morning.” He went straight to the chair beside the bed. “How are you feeling?”

  She twisted to face him, clutching her dressing gown closer across her chest. “Very well,” she lied. “Ash…”

  “You are not very well,” he said, leaning forward to look into her eyes. “What do you fear, Mariah?”

  She might have said she feared the rejection of the prince’s court, but that would have been a lie. There was only one person in the world to whom she could confess her greatest fear: the man who had known what it was like to suffer from madness.

  Still she hesitated, knowing that she would be taking an irrevocable step. She would be revealing to him her innermost heart, opening the door to a new, even deeper kind of intimacy, one scarcely less shameful than what she had witnessed between Lady Strickland and Mr. Denham in the corridor.

  “Tell me,” he said, the dark pools of his eyes drawing her in with promises of complete and selfless understanding. He reached across the bed to brush her cheek with his fingertips. “Tell me, Merry.”

  His touch nearly undid her. She closed her eyes and threw away the last of her scruples.

  “Ash,” she whispered. “I fear I am going insane.”

  He dropped his hand, his gaze tilted away from hers. “Insane,” he said softly. “How?”

  No condemnation, only gentle inquiry. Relief rose like a tide into Mariah’s throat and brought tears to her eyes.

  “I have been…seeing things,” she said.

  His gaze swept back to hers. “The man in the ballroom.”

  “Yes.” Now that the worst was out, there was nothing else to stop her. “But there is more. Have you ever heard of creatures called fairies?”

  It must have been her imagination that he stiffened, that his pupils seemed to constrict as if all the darkness of his eyes had gathered in one pinprick-sized spot.

  “Yes,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Small creatures, often with wings.”

  “Yes.” She swallowed. “They are only imaginary, of course. But I have begun…begun to—”

  “You are seeing these fairies.”

  “I am. I have been seeing them since before we came to Marlborough House.”

  He cocked his head, his expression intent. “When, Mariah?”

  “I…I don’t remember.”

  But she did. And she couldn’t tell him. Not now.

  She reached across the space between them to grip his hand. “I’m seeing things that aren’t really there.”

  “And this frightens you.”

  “Of course it frightens me!” She heard the shrillness of her own voice and took herself in hand. “Should I not be frightened of…of losing my—”

  “Mariah.” He turned his hand in hers to clasp her fingers. “I am here.”

  She felt her heartbeat begin to slow. “I have not begun this properly,” she said steadily. “There is something else I must tell you. My mother…she was not an ordinary person. In fact, she was quite extraordinary in many ways. But she paid the price for her uncommon nature.”

  “You mother saw the same creatures.”

  She started. “How did you know? I never…”

  “Go on, Mariah.”

  “She…she began having visions before we moved to New York from Denver, but they were very minor at first. It wasn’t until we were living in the city that they became worse. She claimed to hear voices and catch glimpses from another world.” The very thought of her mother’s suffering made the tears overflow. “I tried to take care of her
, but after a while…my father had to send her to a place where she could be treated by special doctors.”

  “An asylum,” he said grimly.

  She briefly wondered how he knew, and realized that she didn’t care. “After a while,” she said, “Mama couldn’t see this world at all. She didn’t want to. Oh, she was lucid sometimes, but at the end…”

  Ash rose abruptly and walked across the room. “Can you describe her visions?”

  “She said she saw a beautiful place, where no one ever dies. There were beautiful people in garments no seamstress could have envisioned, and all kinds of fantastic animals. She especially loved—” She twisted her fingers into the bedclothes. “She especially loved the unicorns.”

  She almost thought she saw him flinch. “This madness began when she first saw the Fa—the fairies?”

  “Yes. Just as it is now happening to me.” She stared at him without seeing more than a vague dark shape. “Am I becoming like her, Ash? Am I going mad?”

  His breath exploded. “No! No, Merry. You are not going mad.”

  “How do you know?”

  He swept toward her like an invincible force and knelt at her feet. “You are not mad,” he said, gripping her arms. “Such things have been seen by men before.”

  “By…by you?”

  “By others. The ancients, men of intelligence and wisdom. Others no more mad than you or I.”

  She searched his eyes, seeking the presence of some comforting deception. But he never looked away.

  “Are you saying that such creatures exist?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But how can you know if you’ve never seen them?”

  “I cannot tell you. But I believe there are many things that exist beyond this world.”

  She collapsed against him, resting her forehead on his chest. “If only I could believe.”

  “You must.” He spoke into her hair. “Since you are sane, there is no alternative.”

  She burbled a laugh into his waistcoat. “But my mother…if what she saw was real—”

  “You could not have known.” He put his arms around her. “Do not be afraid, Merry. Trust me.”