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
