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
