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 gaze leaped to hers.
“Yes,” 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 …”