Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Eight

THE sun lowered toward the western horizon where it was obscured by a gathering mass of dark clouds. As night draped the land with its blanketing cloak of blackness, lightning began to flicker in the distance and was followed by a low rumble of thunder. The storm advanced in slow degrees, grumbling and stamping its way across the leaden landscape and finally reaching its peak in the early hours of the morning. It seemed bent on thwarting Ashton’s attempt at sleep, but he could hardly blame his lack of slumber on the thundering crashes. He hated the small bed in the guest room where he had grudgingly agreed to stay until a judge could decide the matter of Lierin’s identity. Neither he nor Lierin had wanted the separation, but for the sake of appearances and to ease the minds of the elder ladies, they had thought it best to sleep apart. It had been a week of unparalleled torture for Ashton, for he had been haunted by the fear that he was about to lose Lierin all over again. He found no rest in his lonely bed. He missed her warmth and her softly curving form snuggled close against him; he missed reaching out and touching her in the middle of the night; he missed holding her in love.

The fury of the storm was mirrored in his mood as he tossed and turned in a tempest of his own. A blinding flash of lightning bleached the darkness from the night, setting the rain-drenched windows aglow. A sharp crack of thunder trod on its heels, bringing Ashton upright with a curse. His temper had reached its zenith, and he threw himself from the bed. With long, irate strides he crossed the floor to the bathing room and, quickly traversing the cubicle’s narrow width, entered the master bedroom. The play of streaking lights beyond the crystal panes lighted the chamber and showed him the slender, white-garbed figure sitting in the middle of the huge four-poster. Her arms were wrapped about her folded limbs, and her knees were tucked beneath her chin. Her gaze was unswerving as she watched him come forward, and when another bolt of blinding brightness seared a path across the ebony sky, her eyes flicked downward to his naked loins. She showed no alarm at the passion he displayed, but calmly waited until his knee came upon the bed and the mattress dipped beneath his weight. His hands slipped to the hem of her gown, and she lifted her arms as he drew the garment over her head. With a soft sigh she sank back beneath his encroaching weight, and their lips began a leisured search as they savored the bliss of their love. He cupped her face between his hands, staring down into her eyes through the darkness, and realized her hair was slightly damp.

“Where have you been?” he asked in wonder.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered, “and I stepped out on the balcony.”

“In the rain?”

She nodded. “I was so lonely I hardly noticed.”

He pressed a kiss to her cheek. “You should have come to me.”

“I wasn’t sure you wanted me.”

“Good heavens, madam!” he responded, feeling rather astounded by her statement. “Have I been so lax in telling you how much I love you…and want you? How can I convince you of what my heart feels…?”

“Just show me,” she breathed.

His head lowered to her breast, and her mouth came open in a soundless cry as his tongue caressed a soft peak. His hands moved with unhesitating boldness over her body, while her own explored the familiar sinews that rippled beneath his warm flesh. He lifted her hips to his, and they merged as lovers who were bound to each other for all eternity. His hard-thrusting passion drove her beyond the flickering lights of the present world, took her to a haven where a myriad of images danced through her mind. Other flights of sensual pleasure flashed in twinkling rapidity through her consciousness, teasing her with brief glimpses of a naked man whose face and form eluded the grasping efforts of her concentration. Strive though she might, she could not bring the darkened visage into focus, but the man was as bold and lustful as the one who was with her now.

She came slowly to herself again, and the illusions disappeared in a vapor as she felt the thudding beat of Ashton’s heart against her breast.

“I was hoping you would come,” she sighed. “I’ve been so miserable this week, having this huge bed all to myself.”

Aston braced on an elbow and gazed down into the glistening sheen of her eyes. “I couldn’t stay away another moment.”

“What are we going to do now?” she asked quietly. “How can I ever stop thinking I’m your wife and accept the idea that I belong to Malcolm?”

“I’ll have difficulty with that myself,” he sighed and brushed his lips against her ear. “I’m not willing to let you go.”

“But you must…if I am Malcolm’s wife.”

“I can’t believe that you are,” he groaned and rolled onto his back. He rubbed a hand over his brow. “It’s too painful even to think of letting you go. I nearly ceased to function as a man when I thought you were dead, and now that I have you again, how can I possibly allow another man to take you?”

Lierin rose above him and lightly traced a finger over the scar on the side of his chest. “I feel safe here with you, as if it’s where I belong.”

His long fingers slipped beneath the weight of her hair and gently kneaded her nape. “We can go to Europe….”

She shook her head, and a long tress tumbled over his arm to fall in a thick curl upon his furred chest. “You’re not a man who runs from the truth, Ashton.”

His hand moved downward until it lay soft upon her breast. He could feel the warmth and smoothness of her flesh beneath his palm and was aware of the reawakening fires in his own body. He thought no more of losing her when loving her took hold of his mind. Her mouth came down to meet his, but the kiss was but a heartbeat away as a distant pounding intruded into the silence of the room.

Ashton glanced toward the mantel clock, but its blackened face gave no hint of the hour. “Who the devil…? It must be two or three in the morning.”

The summons came again, this time louder and more insistent. A voice called, and the words were faint but clear: “Massa, wake up! Yo warehouses are burnin’ in Natchez!”

“Damn!” The expletive exploded from Ashton as he leaped from the bed. He ran naked across the room, tore through the bathing room, and, hastily thrusting himself into a robe, flung open the far door. Willis stood before the portal with a nightcap sitting askew on his head and the neck of a nightshirt showing above a long, hastily donned robe. His eyes stared in wide-eyed alarm above the flickering flame of the candle he bore.

“Massa Ashton,” the butler addressed him in anxious tones. “Dere’s a man at de front door, sayin’ one o’ yo warehouses down by de waterfront done caught fire in de storm, an’ he say dat most likely by de time yo gets dere, de others be goin’ up in smoke, too.”

“Send someone to fetch Judd and tell him to gather some men to fight the fire! I’ll be down as soon as I can throw some clothes on.”

The black hesitated. “Massa, if’n it’s all right, Ah’d like to go wid yo. Ah is pretty good at totin’ buckets.”

“Be quick about it then. We don’t have much time to spare.”

“Yassuh!” Willis jumped to action before the door slammed shut.

Lierin entered the bedroom, tying the belt of her dressing gown about her narrow waist. “What’s happened?”

“I’ve got to go into Natchez,” Ashton replied, jerking out of his robe. “My warehouses are on fire!”

She hastened to lay out his clothes as he tugged on a pair of trousers. “It’s raining pretty hard. Can we dare hope that it might stop the fire from spreading to the other warehouses?”

“How I hope!”

As he shoved the tail of his shirt into the waistband of his pants, she stood beside him holding his coat. “Whatever happens, be careful,” she pleaded.

He brought her close against him for a moment and crushed her lips beneath a quick, hard kiss, then spoke in a husky voice: “You can forget about separate bedrooms from now on. I’m not giving you up. Malcolm Sinclair will have to kill me before I’ll allow him to take you from me.”

A blade of fear stabbed through her heart. “Oh, Ashton, don’t say that!”

“It’s what I mean!”

Tearing himself away, he ran from the room and down the hall. Near the stable Judd was already gathering the men into a wagon, and a tarpaulin was being spread to protect them from the elements. Pulling down the brim of his hat and tugging up the collar of his oilskin coat, Ashton squinted toward the eastern horizon where the sky was still black. There was no hint of dawn behind the mass of dark clouds that roiled across its face. He climbed up beside Judd on the driver’s seat, and beneath the crack of a whip, the team plunged forward, setting themselves to a muddy, reckless race into Natchez.

All the while Ashton dared to hope, and at the end of the trail, he found cause to be grateful for the rain that had thoroughly soaked them on the road, for the downpour had also confined the fire to the middle shed, leaving the adjacent buildings unscathed. He stood with Judd and the warehouse boss under the tin roof of an open-sided shelter and surveyed the thickly smoldering ruins.

“Did we lose much?” Aston asked.

“Enough, suh,” the manager answered above the steady drum of raindrops pelting the metal roof. “But it could’ve been a lot worse. So happens, a boat picked up a whole load of cotton just yesterday, so there were only thirty or so bales on hand, maybe a dozen bales of flax, a few barrels o’ molasses, and some odds and ends. That’s about it. If it weren’t for the fact that lightning probably started it, you can consider yourself a lucky man, ’cause without the rain everythin’ would’ve gone up in flames.”

“Pardon me…” a gravelly voice intruded from behind them. “Any o’ you fellers Mistah Wingate?”

They turned to find a short, straggly-haired beggar standing close. His clothes were wet and ragged, and he wore badly worn boots that turned up at the toes.

“I’m Mr. Wingate,” Ashton replied.

Sniffing, the vagrant rubbed a dirty sleeve across his nose and gestured toward the gutted warehouse. “If ye’ve got an extra coin in yer pocket, I can tell ye somethin’ ’bout how that there shed caught on fire.”

Ashton patted his pockets and found them empty. His manager had a similar lack of luck in his search and shrugged as he apologized. “Guess I got dressed in a hurry.”

“I’ll have to owe you,” Ashton pledged.

“Seein’ as how it’s yerself doin’ the promisin’, Mistah Wingate, I’ll take yer word for it. I guess I owe ye that much.”

“What do you mean?”

The beggar shrugged and chortled. “For some time now, I’ve been beddin’ down in that there shed o’ yers. I always slipped in through a broken window in the back, an’ I’d find a cotton bale that weren’t too hard. It’s always been nice an’ dry in there, kinda cozy on a night like this….”

“You said you could tell us how the fire started,” Ashton urged.

“Yes, suh. I’m gettin’ to that. Ye see, I was tryin’ to catch a few winks when I thought I heard some voices right outside that there broken window. Well, it sorta startled me, an’ I sidled on up to the window to listen for a spell. Then it come to me. They were plannin’ on firin’ up the place. Well, the idea o’ bein’ caught inside scared me plum peaked. I nearly swallowed my tongue thinkin’ ’bout it, but how could I leave while they were there to catch me?”

“How many men were there?” Aston probed.

“Three or four maybe. I think I’ve seen at least one of ’em down at the Razorback Saloon a time or two, but I can’t be sure it was him. It was real dark outside until the lightnin’ began to move in, an’ that’s when I saw the biggest feller had two fingers missin’ from his left hand. Well, it reminded me o’ that mean ol’ bruiser I seen once down at the saloon.”

“You said there were others?” Aston pressed.

“Yeah.” The man scratched his bristly chin. “One was a short, squat feller…dressed kinda fancy…and seemed to have a nervous twitch or somethin’….”

Ashton glanced at Judd. “Sounds strangely like Horace Titch.”

The black frowned thoughtfully. “Do yo reckon he got ’nuff gumption to be a party to dis?”

“With Marelda urging him,” Ashton replied derisively, “anything is possible.”

“Yo reckon dis was done fo’ revenge?”

“I don’t know why it was done, but I’m going to find out.” Ashton raised a questioning brow to the black man. “Are you with me?”

Judd grinned broadly. “Ain’t Ah always been?”

Willabelle crossed the room almost hesitantly and stood nervously smoothing her apron until her mistress glanced up. Lierin had never seen the woman so unsure of herself, and a prickling of apprehension warned her that she had not come on some simple errand.

“What is it, Willabelle?”

“Missus…” The housekeeper’s dark eyes conveyed her concern as she struggled to make the announcement: “Dat man what say he yo pa is downstairs askin’ to see yo.”

A coldness congealed around Lierin’s heart. The dull gray light of the storm-plagued morning had failed to cast its shadow over her memories of the bygone hours with Ashton, but now a sudden depression descended to strip away those feelings of contentment.

Almost hopefully Willabelle asked, “Can Ah tell him to come back later after de massa returns?”

Lierin rose from the small writing desk. Her limbs were trembling, and a lump had formed in her throat, but she managed a calm facade. “No, Willabelle, I’ll hear what he has to say. It’s the least I can do.”

The housekeeper rolled her eyes skyward. “Ah knowed dis was gonna be a bad day when Ah opened mah eyes dis mornin’,” she mumbled. “First de warehouses burnin’, an’ now dat man acomin’ when de massa ain’t home.”

“There’s no need to upset yourself, Willabelle,” Lierin comforted her. “Just tell him I’ll be down in a moment.”

“Yas’m,” the black woman replied glumly and waddled from the room. When she entered the parlor, she found the man had already helped himself to a glass of brandy and had lighted one of the master’s cigars. His audacity grated on the servant’s good humor, and she glared at him before he faced her. She conveyed the message stiltedly: “De massa, he ain’t home, but de missus say she be right down.”

“When do you expect Mr. Wingate to be returning?”

“Ah don’ know,” the woman muttered, “but de sooner de better.”

Robert Somerton arched a querying brow at the black. “Have you something against my seeing my daughter?”

“Miz Lierin, she done been mighty upset by all dis commotion ’bout her bein’ another man’s wife….”

“Her name is Lenore.” He flicked the ash from his cigar, casually aiming for the porcelain dish on the table and missing it by a wide margin. “Remember it if you can.”

A dark fire had started smoldering in Willabelle’s eyes even before she witnessed the carelessly tossed ash, but now flares of anger were beginning to ignite in their black depths. She went to the table where the tiny cinders had fallen and swept them off into her hand as she stated, “De massa, he say she Miz Lierin, an’ dat suits me jes’ fine.”

Robert laughed with rancor. “Then I’d say you are as blind and foolish as your master. He demanded proof, and we gave it to him, but he has ignored good common sense. Mark my word, he will not continue to use my daughter’s illness for his own ends. I’ll see to that! He took her sister and abused her, but now he will be stopped!”

“Ah gotta tend some chores,” Willabelle announced bluntly.

Robert swept his hand in a gesture of dismissal. He didn’t know why he had stooped to argue with a servant anyway, especially one so obstinate. “Then you’d better be about them before your master comes home and beats you.”

Willabelle puffed up like an enraged toad. “My massa, he ain’t never laid a hand on any of us!” she squawked in outrage. Lifting her nose imperiously, she stalked from the room, rattling the crystal insets in the china cabinet with her heavy strides as she crossed the dining hall. Her ire was sorely strained, and in that moment she could understand quite vividly why the master had remained reticent about his father-in-law. There was nothing good to be said about the man.

A few moments later Lierin entered the parlor, her manner subdued and almost fearful. She tolerated the man’s kiss of greeting upon her cheek and allowed him to lead her to the settee, then listened in the manner of a dutiful daughter as he related stories of their past life in England. He showed her a painted miniature of twin girls, and she had to concede she bore a striking resemblance to both of them, but it was not until he brought out a sketch of a Tudor-style manor home drawn on a hill beyond a body of water that she began to sense a familiarity with the things he showed her.

“You drew this yourself,” he said, gesturing with his replenished drink to the etching. “’Tis our home in England.”

Lierin carefully studied the drawing and, in that moment, could almost imagine herself skipping through the mansion’s long galleries. She could envision walls lined with portraits, lances, and shields, and long tables placed between tall, majestic chairs.

“I think I’ve been there before,” she acknowledged. “The place seems familiar to me.”

“Aha!” Robert cried in jubilant victory. “Now we’re getting somewhere! Perhaps you’ll even concede that I might be your father….”

Her shoulders lifted in a small noncommittal shrug. She was reluctant to go that far, for doing so would give him and Malcolm Sinclair the advantage over Ashton, and she knew with whom her loyalty abided. “Whether I am Lenore or Lierin, you could still be my father, but how can I really claim you are when I don’t even remember you?”

Robert was thoughtful for a space of time, and when he began to speak, he chose his words carefully. “I honestly think you need time and a quiet place to consider this without any interference from either Malcolm or Ashton. Why don’t you let me take you to Biloxi? We have a place there on the beach. You have your own clothes there and everything else you need.”

She frowned, distressed at the thought of leaving Belle Chêne…and Ashton. “I’m happy here….”

“But you won’t be if you start remembering what Ashton Wingate did to your sister. She’s dead because of him, and you vowed one day to have your revenge on him. In fact, I don’t understand how you can hate this man so much and still think of him as your husband.”

“I don’t hate him,” she protested. “I…”

He peered at her closely, waiting for her to continue, but his curiosity was left wanting. “You know of course that Malcolm is planning on calling him out in a duel.”

Her heart stopped in sudden fear, and she stared at him with eyes wide and searching.

“Malcolm is very good at firearms,” Robert stated. “It’s doubtful that Ashton will escape.”

“You’ve got to stop them,” she urged.

“How am I going to stop them?” he inquired in amazement. “You’re the only one who can do that.”

She moaned and wrung her hands, feeling the trap closing in on her. “If I stay with Ashton, Malcolm will insist upon a duel. If I go with Malcolm, Ashton will come after us and demand the same thing. I know him. He’s already said he won’t give me up. And I don’t want anyone killed.”

“That’s why I say your only safe option is to do what I suggested…go with me back to Biloxi. It’s not likely they’ll call me out in a duel.”

Wearily Lierin slumped on the settee, hardly relishing his proposal, yet accepting the merits of it as reasonable. It offered her what was perhaps the only possible escape from her predicament. “I’ll have to think about it.”

“You don’t have much time, my dear,” he advised. “Malcolm is making arrangements to come out here and challenge Ashton very soon. If you delay, it could mean death for him.” He shrugged. “Of course, I wouldn’t mourn his passing, considering he took Lierin from us.”

“Can a father mistake his own daughter?” she asked in a tiny voice, and lifted her gaze to his bemused countenance. “Are you sure that I am Lenore?”

He flung up his hand in an impatient gesture. “What’s a father to do when his own daughter won’t believe him? How can I make you understand? The mistake is not mine but Ashton’s! Or rather some ploy of his. It’s got to be a trick he’s playing on us all. He knows Lierin drowned.”

Slowly Lierin pushed herself to her feet and passed a shaking hand across her brow. “Aunt Jennifer and Amanda are resting upstairs. It’s probably better if I leave now without them being aware of it. If you’ll wait in your carriage, I’ll just go upstairs for a moment and write a note to Ashton.”

“You won’t tell him where we’re going….”

“No,” she sighed. “That would only be an open invitation for him to come after us. I’ll just ask him not to interfere.” She left the room and climbed the stairs, feeling as if her whole world had come to an end. With tears blurring her vision, she composed a brief letter, signed it “Lenore,” and brushed a kiss upon the wedding band and placed it on top of the missive. Taking only the clothes on her back, she retraced her steps to the lower level and slipped out the front door, glad that she had not had to confront Willis or Willabelle before her departure. Tears trailed down her cheeks as she gazed back at the house, and she wondered if she would ever return.

Ashton pushed open the tall, swinging doors of the Razorback Saloon and took two steps into the smoke-filled, crowded room before letting the panels rattle shut behind him. He had taken a leisured meal at the inn, and then had gone to the River Witch to wash and garb himself in fresh attire. Judd had joined him there to review the possible whereabouts of those who had torched the warehouse, and they had both decided that a visit to the Under-the-Hill tavern was worth the effort.

Rather than give the impression that he was seeking a fight, Ashton had come dressed much like a riverboat gambler in black coat, cravat, and trousers, with a crisp, white shirt setting off his silver-and-gray-brocaded vest. His tall, rakish figure drew the admiring stares of the harlots who serviced the place, and they greeted him with sultry smiles as he paused inside the door to consider his surroundings. The ceiling was low but the room was wide, with the space broken by large posts that supported the upper floor. A stout bar, pockmarked from a multitude of brawls, angled across one corner of the hall, while the open area was crammed with small tables and crude chairs. A good many of these were filled with patrons, and a pair of scruffy characters leaned against the bar. A more sensitive nose might have turned away from the stench of sweaty bodies, soured ale, tobacco, and mold, but Ashton was no pampered prig. He had seen both sides of the world around him, but it was times like these when he felt very fortunate for his own way of life.

Ashton strolled across the room and selected a dimly lighted table where he pulled out a chair facing the door. Almost before he settled into it, a gaudily dressed strumpet was at his side. Her cheeks were heavily rouged, and when she braced her arms on the table and leaned toward him with a smile, letting the bodice droop away from her breasts, she presented him with a full view of other areas where the red color had been applied.

“What’s yer favor, handsome man?”

“Tonight,” he responded, drawing a deck from his vest pocket, “only a game of cards and a drink.”

The trollop shrugged. “If ye’re only aftah a drink, mistah, I’ll send Sarah over here to serve ye. I can’t waste no time with a man who won’t buy, even if he is pretty. But if ye should change yer mind, me name’s Fern….”

Casually Ashton began to shuffle the cards while he slowly scanned the faces of the men who watched him. They were a disreputable lot, and one by one they turned away as his gaze touched them. The reputation of this man had preceded him, and they were not fooled by his unthreatening mien or his fancy coat and spit-polished boots. A fire had destroyed a warehouse that morning, and the word was already out that it had been set. They also knew whom it belonged to and could smell trouble brewing. No one bothered with Ashton Wingate’s property or possessions without meeting the man; it was like sending out an invitation.

Ashton felt a presence near his elbow and, leaning back in his chair, peered up into the bone-thin face of the woman who stood awaiting his attention. In the smoky haze it was hard to discern the color of the pale, lusterless eyes or the hue of the snarled hair that was drawn into a crude bun at her bony nape. Rags were tied around a badly worn pair of oversized shoes, securing them to her feet, and the coarse blue dress had obviously been made for one a good twenty pounds heavier. He made a rough guess as to her age, placing it somewhere near his own, but he had a feeling she looked much older than she actually was. When she spoke, her tone was flat and void of emotion.

“Fern said you were wanting a drink.”

“What’s the best one in this place?”

“Ale,” the serving maid returned promptly. “It’s the only thing that can’t be watered much.”

“Give me an ale, then…Sarah?” He looked at her inquiringly and received an answering nod. “And in a clean mug if you can find one.”

“You’d have better luck finding one at Belle Chêne,” she advised. “And you’d be a whole lot safer, too.”

Ashton’s brows lifted in surprise. “Do you know me?”

Sarah cut her eyes toward a group of men who had gathered near the bar. “I heard them talking about you and how you took a madwoman into your house and claimed she was your wife. Those are some of the same ones who came out to your place looking for her. They’re saying they lost some good horses because of you.”

Ashton responded with a soft chuckle. “Then why don’t they come and make their complaints known to me?”

Her heavily lined brow puckered into deeper furrows as she pondered his question. “I guess they’re afraid of you, but I don’t understand why. There’s more of them.”

“Just find a place to hide if they manage to gather up their courage,” he suggested.

“You’d be wise to take your own advice. I haven’t been here very long, but I’ve seen what some of these ruffians can do. In fact, you’d be wise to leave now.”

“I came looking for a man, and I haven’t found him yet. He has two fingers missing from his left hand….”

“No one in this room fits that description,” she stated and moved away. Beneath the ragged hem of her gown, her loose slippers made a slight flip-flop sound on the sawdust floor. Her appearance seemed very much a part of this desolate life, and yet as he studied her, Ashton wondered if she might not have known a different way once. She carried herself with a subtle grace the harlots could not match. While they slumped and sauntered their way among the men, trying to provoke some business for the night, she moved with the delicate air of a queen, albeit a ragged one. Even the way she talked hinted of some tutoring.

Coming back to his table, Sarah set down a sparkling mug and a tin pitcher of lukewarm, foamy ale beside it, then stood back and folded her hands as she waited patiently for him to lay out the necessary payment. When he did, her eyes widened in astonishment at the shiny gold color of the coin.

“Oh, that’s far too much, sir, and I doubt if I can get the proper change from the barkeep. He’s sure to raise the price and keep as much of it as he can.”

Ashton reached into his pocket and placed the larger, duller coin on the table beside the gold piece. “This is for the barkeep; the gold is for you…for finding me a clean glass.”

She hesitated briefly, seeming bewildered by his generosity; then with tears in her eyes, she gathered the coins into her hand. “Thank you, Mr. Wingate. I won’t forget this.”

Ashton sampled the ale from the mug and then wrinkled his nose at the acrid taste of the brew. If this was the best drink in the house, he mused with repugnance, he would certainly be hard-pressed to sample any other.

With unhurried aplomb he settled his black, low-crowned hat upon his head, disregarding the manners of a proper gentleman, and laid out the cards again, playing with the casual air of one ultimately bored. He continued in this vein for some time, and was just about to give up his watchful vigil when a group of four men pushed open the swinging doors. The leader was a thickset hulk of a man whose forehead sloped toward bushy brows and narrow, recessed eyes. A remarkably large, purple-veined nose jutted out and downward over thick, sneering lips. Just inside the door he halted and braced his left hand on a post while he surveyed the crowd. Ashton was quick to note the absence of two fingers from the meaty paw, and he felt a prickling on his neck when the piggish eyes settled on him.

The hulking brute straightened and squared his shoulders, straining the seams of his short jacket as he thrust out his barrel chest. He hitched up his trousers over his protruding belly and then raised both hands to settle his knit cap at a jaunty angle on his head. He strolled ponderously forward, swinging his heavily muscled legs wide with each step before planting his large feet firmly beneath him. Ashton stiffened as the ungraceful fellow approached, for the man seemed to be leading his cronies directly toward his table. His tension eased considerably when the miscreant settled at a table next to his, and he let out a slow breath of relief.

“’Pears we’ve got the hoity-toity folks from Upper Town acomin’ down to our digs these days.” The huge lout chortled as he jerked his thumb in Ashton’s direction.

Ashton surmised that it would not be long before the foursome found some excuse to set upon him, yet it was as if some perverse patience urged him to wait them out. Lazily bracing a booted foot on the rung of a chair, he continued his game of solitaire, but was no less primed for action.

The bear-sized giant banged a beefy fist on the rough planks of the table as his voice rose to an ear-numbing bellow. “Here now! Where’s a servin’ wench? Bring us some ale!” He lowered his voice and sneered aside to his companions: “H’it’s gettin’ so’s a man has to beg to get a drink ’round here.”

The strumpets kept their distance, having a care for their continued good health, and it was Sarah who hastened to fill large pitchers and bring them brimming to their table. They ignored the mugs she provided and reached for the tins, but halted as Sarah cleared her throat and announced, “The barkeep said you have to pay before you drink.”

The leader glared at her, but she returned his stare unflinchingly. Finally he dug into the pocket of his jacket, bringing out a handful of coins from which he laboriously counted out a sum and laid it on the table.

“That’s enough for only three pints,” Sarah informed him smartly. “You received four.”

The pinheaded lummox grudgingly added more coin to the rest, then with a leering grin added a single penny to the heap: “And a little somethin’ fer yerself, me dearie.”

The woman gave him a wan, unenthused smile and reached out to sweep the coins into her hand, but before she could draw back, the two fingers of the maimed hand closed with vicious intent upon her upper arm. With a cry of pain she jerked away from the hefty bully and glowered at him as she rubbed the already darkening bruise.

“You mindless red-neck!” she snapped. “Keep your dirty hands to yourself!”

“Eh, now!” he hooted. “I likes a woman with spirit. Why don’t ye go find one o’ them fancy gowns what yer sisters are wearin’ an’ dress yerself up fer me? Ye wouldn’t be half bad to look at in the proper clothes.”

“The same certainly can’t be said of you,” Sarah retorted and sidestepped his sweeping slap, saving herself another bruise, but her agility seemed to challenge the man’s own questionable spryness. Half rising from his chair, he snatched her skirts and spun her around into his embrace. She screeched in outrage as he pulled her down onto his lap, and almost immediately his hand settled between her thighs. The abused woman’s eyes widened, and she gasped at the affront while she struggled desperately to escape his grasp.

Now Ashton had been taught at an early age to respect womankind whatever the circumstance, and he had generally subscribed to that ethic. This display of beastliness was simply too much for him to endure. Rising to his feet, he tugged down his vest and stepped to the other’s table to confront the uncouth lecher.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I believe the lady desires to be free of you. Why don’t you save us both a lot of bother and release her peaceably?”

The swinish one spilled the ragged woman to the floor in some astonishment. No one had ever had the gall to interfere with him before. Reaching down, Ashton assisted the serving maid to her feet and pushed her toward the bar as the calloused rapscallion came out of his chair with an apoplectic purple mottling his face. The man had not yet attained a state of balance when Ashton’s fist swung around, with his full weight behind the blow. He caught the burly one on the jaw and sent him sprawling backward across the table into his companions. Chairs splintered asunder as the three progressed rapidly to the sawdust floor, with loud “whomphs” and “whoofs” attesting to the force of their landing. The quartet struggled up, grasping for knives, clubs, or whatever weapon came quickly to hand. Ashton forestalled their efforts by kicking the table, along with its contents, on top of them. Ale spewed out of tin pitchers, stinging eyes and filling flaring nostrils. Snarled curses filled the air as the foursome went down again in a thrashing tangle. Unrelenting, Ashton added confusion to the melee by sailing his own table toward them with a lusty heave. The brawny leader had rolled and risen to his hands and knees when the wooden piece caromed off his backside, launching him headlong into his cohorts.

More unfriendly shapes approached through the gloom of the place, forming a veritable wall of darkness that crept ever closer. Ashton recognized the vengeful gleam in their eyes, and cautiously backed away, snatching up the broken leg of a table as he went.

“Ssst! Mr. Wingate! Over here!”

Quickly Ashton glanced behind him to see Sarah crouched in an open doorway. Leaping over a fallen chair, he accepted her invitation with proper haste and charged through the portal, slamming it closed behind him and ramming home the bolt. The pair of them fled through the stacks of provender that filled the dimly lighted room until their flight was halted by the stout rear door that was stuck fast in its frame. Ashton lent a shoulder to open the reluctant barrier as the uproar rose in the tavern behind them. Finally after another forceful shove, the outside portal swung free, allowing them to escape. The alley was narrow and slippery with mud, but his guide knew every bend and puddle. She was little more than a dark shape flitting through the shadows as Ashton paused to barricade the rear exit. He followed apace and was within a step of a corner when the stout door crashed open again. The sudden shouts of the unruly gang attested to the fact that they had been seen, and the chase was on.

Ashton caught the slender arm of the woman and pulled her along with him as he raced around the corner of the shanty. They ran up the sloping incline of Silver Street, pushing every ounce of energy into their limbs. The way was muddy, and the wet mire sucked at Sarah’s ragged slippers, impeding their progress. With the pursuing ruffians rapidly closing the distance between them, there was no time to bend down and free the shoes from their cloth bindings. A wagon had been drawn across the street on the upper part of the hill, and they dashed around it, no more than a few short strides ahead of the following band. Shouts of victory were already being raised as the rowdies sensed the imminent capture of the pair. They followed around the end of the van, but slid and skidded to an uncertain halt as a slightly larger collection of darker shapes rushed out of the shadows into the lantern light. Sarah gasped as she found herself in the swarm and threw herself behind her champion, only to hear him chuckle.

“It’s all right. They’re friends.”

“You mean they were waiting here all along?” she questioned loudly as the two forces came together.

Ashton chuckled. “I always like to plan ahead when I can.”

He sobered abruptly as a bearded man seized his lapel, and he spun about, driving a hard fist into the other’s belly and following with a cross to the chin. The man’s head snapped back with the force of the blow, but Ashton was given no respite as another pressed for attention. Judd entered the fray with a zeal that nearly shriveled the valor of their adversaries. Not only was he quick and powerful, but with his long arms he could reach out a goodly distance and land hard blows, which his opponent had to survive in order to strike back. Not to be outdone, Sarah jumped on the back of another would-be attacker and clawed at his face from behind. A bite on his ear made him yowl in pain, and he redoubled his efforts to shake off the she-cat who rode him.

From every aspect it was a wild and mucky melee. Mud was plentiful, and with the momentum of hard-driving fists, many were sent sprawling or sliding through it on their backs or bellies. The dark ooze soon coated friend and foe alike until it became a chore to discern who was who in the meager light of the street lanterns. There were more than a few who took on the appearances of river monsters as large globs clung to them and created awesome shapes. Brief queries began to precede blows, and many, realizing their mistakes, turned away from companions to fight back to back against the enemy.

Still, the ranks of the Lower Town antagonists began to dwindle as one by one they slithered senseless into the muck or crept away, unable to summon the proper incentive to endure further punishment. Ashton was beginning to feel some hope for the outcome when a bellow of glee made him spin about. He found four ominous shapes advancing upon him from the edge of the fray. They were relatively untouched by the filth as if they had held themselves apart from it, but in any circumstance the four would have been recognizable by the broad, square shape of the one who led them. They hefted heavy cudgels in meaty fists and spread out as they moved in.

“Mr. Wingate, suh,” the brawny one addressed him with a chortle, “you’re ’bout to meet your maker.”

“Fo’ ’gainst one?” a deep voice questioned from nearby, and Ashton felt a measure of relief as he recognized it instantly as Judd’s. “Somehow dat seem a mite unfair, but jes’ a mite, mind yo. How ’bout makin’ it fo’ to two?”

The heavy man gave no pause, but lunged at Ashton. He had been shamed in the tavern and relished the idea of delivering a death stroke to this one. Ashton sidestepped his rush and swung a smarting clout to the man’s head as he passed. The eager one bellowed in pain and lurched around like a wounded bull. Ashton struck again, this time a chopping blow at the arm that bore the bat. The weapon fell to the ground, but the bearlike assailant closed and grasped Ashton in a crushing embrace. He felt his ribs creak with the strain and heaved upward with his arms. The other’s grip slipped slightly, and Ashton heaved again until he found enough space to move his arms. He drove the knuckles of both hands up under the man’s lower ribs and was rewarded by a howl when the fellow staggered back with his arms spread in agony. Ashton followed his retreat and repeatedly slammed his fist into the other’s face, flattening the bulbous nose, then driving a blow into the flabby belly and another to the chin. Still, the man reached out to grasp with those massive arms. Ashton stepped back and, with all his weight behind it, sent a fist straight into the sagging mouth. The man’s head jerked back with the blow, and he staggered away in a daze. He had no time to clear his thoughts before three stumbling forms rushed past. Catching their cohort’s arm, they dragged him along with them as they fled, slipping and sliding down the hill. Ashton turned in wonderment to find Judd grinning broadly. The black man stood in a victorious stance with legs spread and arms akimbo.

“What happened?” Ashton asked in bemusement.

The black shrugged casually. “Ah reckon dey figger de odds was too much fo’ dem.”

“As usual, you took care of more than your share of the battling,” Ashton said with a grin.

Judd chuckled. “Ah ain’t sure what my share shoulda been, so Ah jes’ took what was left over.”

Ashton clapped him on the back and laughed. “Feel perfectly free to help yourself to any leftovers like that you might find.”

Judd gestured down the street at the fleeing rogues. “Yo reckon we oughta go aftah dem? Dere ain’t no short dandy among ’em, but Ah noticed de big one missin’ two fingers.”

“I’ll inform Harvey of their whereabouts and let him drag them in. I don’t have any more fight left in me.” He walked over to the wagon where Sarah was sitting with chin in hand. A cudgel dangled from the other hand, and it was obvious from the small heap of bodies that lay in the mud near the forward wheel that she had used the bat with wicked intent.

“There’s been times in the past year or so,” she muttered, “when I’ve wanted to do something like this, especially when I thought of the brute I had for a husband.”

Ashton cocked a brow at her in amusement. “Madam, I pity the man if you ever lay your hands on him.”

“Humph,” she responded. “I won’t pity him. I’ll probably have him drawn and quartered, not only for what he did to me, but for what he did to my family.” She blinked at the moisture that suddenly filled her eyes and, in some embarrassment, thrust her hand into the pocket of her muddy skirt. Dragging forth a ragged kerchief and applying it to her wet cheeks, she sniffed and composed herself. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wingate. I didn’t mean to bother you with my problems.”

“No bother at all, Sarah,” he said and, with gentle concern, inquired, “What will you do now? It will be too dangerous for you to go back to the Razorback Saloon.”

“I don’t know,” she answered quietly. “I have a brother who sailed to the Far East several years ago. I’m not sure when he’ll return, and he was always something of a black sheep anyway. He rebelled against the idea of taking over the business affairs when my father passed on.” She laughed without humor. “Believe it or not, Mr. Wingate, I was born into wealth. My father made a fortune maintaining several general stores and supplying them with goods he shipped in on his own vessels. I used to keep his books for him, so I know he was successful. Now my family has been utterly destroyed. My father is dead, the fortune is gone, and I don’t know if I’ll ever find my brother again.” She stared into space, as if her thoughts had taken her far beyond the moment; then she heaved a long sigh. “I think I only exist to see the day my husband receives his due.”

Thoughtfully Ashton wiped a glob of mud from his sleeve. “If you’ve had some experience keeping journals, I can give you work at the office of my shipping business.”

Sarah stared at him in wonder. “You don’t have to feel responsible for me, Mr. Wingate. What I did back there at Razorback Saloon I did out of gratitude. The fight started because of me, and you owe me nothing.”

He peered at her with a slowly spreading grin. “My business has a need for someone with a talent for ciphering and keeping books. If you don’t think yourself capable, I’ll try to find someone else.”

Her thin face took on a glow that nearly equaled the moon shining high overhead. “I’m capable, Mr. Wingate. I know I am.”

“Good.” The matter was settled. “You’d better come back with us to Belle Chêne tonight. It will be safer there. In the morning my wife can take you to get some clothes.” He smiled. “She’s not really from the madhouse, you know.”

Sarah smiled rather sadly. “I know that, Mr. Wingate.”

The hour was late when Ashton paused outside the back door to shed his muddy boots and as much attire as he dared. He had accomplished the first and had shrugged out of coat and vest when he became aware of muffled sobs coming from the kitchen. With worry crowding his mind, he leaped up the steps and entered the room in stockinged feet. Willabelle turned about with a start, clasping the hem of her apron over her mouth. From her eyes streamed a torrent of tears, and the red-eyed stares of Luella May and Bertha convinced him that they also shared in the sorrow. When Willabelle recognized the mud-smeared visage of her master, she drew a deep breath and began to sob with renewed vigor.

“Why are all of you crying?” he demanded. “What’s happened?”

“It’s Miz Lierin, massa,” Willabelle moaned, and the other two dissolved in a fresh spate of sobs and sniffles.

Sharp talons of dread raked Ashton’s heart, and his mind began to race. “Where is she?” he cried. “Has she been hurt?”

Again Willabelle supplied the information as she wept in her apron. “Gone, massa.”

“Gone? Gone where?” He was completely bewildered.

The housekeeper sniffed loudly and, wiping her face with the apron, drew a quavering breath as she struggled for control. “Ah don’ know, massa. Dat Mistah Somerton, he come out here an’ talk wid her for some time. Den Mis Lierin an’ him jes’ up an’ left widout nobody knowin’. Yo grandma an’ Miz Jenny…dey took to deir beds wid a powerful case o’ de mulligrubs.”

“But why?” Ashton asked, confused and hurting. “Why would she go?”

Willabelle lifted her massive shoulders in a helpless shrug. “Ah don’ know, massa. Maybe Mistah Somerton, he worked her into believin’ she was Miz Lenore.”

A great weight descended on Ashton’s shoulders. Of a sudden he was tired, and his body ached from the abuse it had taken. His mind labored to sort out the realities, but he felt the pressing burden of a mountain he could not climb. Blinking at the gathering moisture in his eyes, he turned away and blindly made his way to the door. “I’ll find her,” he mumbled. “I’ll start the search in the morning.” He paused in the portal and lamely gestured toward the back door, remembering that he had left Sarah somewhere outside. “I brought a woman home with me. Take care of her and give her something to wear.”

The wails began anew, and he turned his head to bend a gloomy regard on the housekeeper.

“What is it now?”

“Nothin’, ’ceptin’ Miz Lierin done gone off widout her clothes,” Willabelle choked out. “All dem purty gowns you bought, she left dem all behind. She left jes’ like some ghost, needin’ nothin’ an’ takin’ nothin’ wid her.”