Lord of Legends

“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.”