Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Nine

LENORE or Lierin. Which was it to be? The woman who was presented the choice debated the matter from the moment she left Belle Chêne. It was a cruel quandary she found herself in. She could hardly accept Lierin as her name without closing her mind to the presence of her father and the proof he had presented. If she selected the appellation of Lenore, she was denying all hopes of a future with Ashton. It was a war between emotions and reality, and no matter how she wanted it to be otherwise, the facts seemed to be tilting the scales heavily toward Malcolm Sinclair. The naked truths of life had a way of ignoring the longings of one’s heart. Ashton had thought his wife had drowned, and so had many other people. He had never found her, and in the three years following the accident, she had not been seen or heard from again. Surely, if Lierin had loved him and she were alive, she would have braved the fires of hell or the frigid climes of the North to come back to him. It was what she, the woman with one name too many, would have done.

Enter Malcolm Sinclair. Even before they had met the man, they had heard about his search for his wife. The innkeeper, having seen her, had thought she was the one. The portraits suggested that she looked more like Lenore than Lierin. Her father had also insisted that Malcolm was telling the truth. What more proof did she need?

The journey from Natchez to Biloxi gave her plenty of time to mull over the problem in her mind. It also gave her cause to lament that she had not brought a change of clothes. Had they traveled from Natchez to New Orleans by steamboat and then by ship to Biloxi, they would have greatly reduced their time en route, but Robert Somerton had brought a fine carriage to the city on the bluff, and by this mode he would return. They stopped two nights along the way, the first one finding whatever rest they could alongside the road, and the second acquiring questionable accommodations at an inn, the question being whether or not it was an improvement over the previous night.

The way was hot and dusty, but her father seemed immune to the discomforts. His nose and cheeks grew red with the aging day, but it had little to do with the heat, rather with whatever was in the silver flask he frequently tipped. At the Pearl River he sought to gain a free crossing by challenging the ferryman to a drinking contest, which would likely have seen them both under the table in a drunken stupor. His daughter strenuously objected and frowned her displeasure until he relented and doled out the necessary coin.

It seemed part of the routine that by midafternoon he was feeling high of spirit. She was amazed at the endless repertoire from which he was able to draw, for he recited long and varied verses with a silver-tongued flair that softened his crisp English accent. Well into his cups, he was very garrulous and would start to relate stories that seemed foreign to his life as a merchant; then with a chortle he would slash his hand back and forth before him as if to erase the tale and explain, “That was before I met your mother, my dear.”

Occasionally he napped, and his loud snores filled the confines of the well-appointed conveyance until his daughter was tempted to nudge him to awareness again. She wished she could have found that same depth of slumber for herself, but whenever she closed her eyes, Ashton was there waiting. He haunted her through every waking hour, and when she fled in exhausted relief to the arms of slumber, her dreams took up the chase. Perhaps it was because she had no prior memories of her life that she cherished these recent ones with Ashton so much. Whatever the case, she was frustrated by failure when she sought to direct her mind to other things that might have been less disturbing.

By the third day she was nearly spent, and her frayed nerves could no longer deal with the constant conflict within her. She deliberately set herself the task of accepting this man who rode with her as her father, striving diligently to cast aside any doubt that he could be mistaken, while at the same time making a concerted effort to regard herself as Lenore. After all, if anyone knew who she was, surely it would be her father. Still, when she considered his constant tippling, she wondered if he really had enough presence of mind to tell who she was.

It was by dint of will that she took on the name Lenore, though the conflict of her identity still raged within her. The application of her resolve further sapped her energies, and by the time they reached the large house on the shore and the carriage swept up the curving drive, she was totally drained, both mentally and physically.

Robert Somerton stepped nimbly down to aid in her descent as a maid hurried across the porch. Lenore accepted his helping hand but avoided meeting his gaze, and without pausing she moved up the path toward the wide steps, letting her eyes sweep over the graceful facade of the two-story house. Dark green shutters trimmed the french doors and windows that were positioned in symmetrical order along the porches on both levels. Wood railing closed the area between square-columned supports and swept up the curving stairway that led to the upper veranda. Though it did not come close to the beauty of Belle Chêne, the house was not without appeal, and she felt a strange kinship with it, as if it had once offered comfort and security.

The cheery-faced maid dipped into a quick curtsey as Lenore mounted the steps to the porch. She guessed the woman’s age to be at least ten years older than her own, but her manner was sprightly and energetic, as if she held the secret of eternal youth within her grasp. Her blue eyes twinkled kindly above a bright smile.

“Me name’s Meghan, mum,” the maid announced. “I be hired by Mr. Sinclair to see to the needs of the household, if ye be havin’ no objection, mum.”

“Mr. Sinclair?” A delicate brow arched in question. “I was not aware that Mr. Sinclair was lending his authority to the management of this house.”

Meghan appeared momentarily confused by her comment. “Well, seein’s as it be yer house, mum, isn’t it right fer yer husband to attend to such matters in yer absence?”

Lenore half turned to regard her father with open suspicion. She had been assured that only the two of them would be living in the house with the servants.

Clearing his throat, Robert hastened to speak in a hushed tone to his daughter: “Malcolm said he would move out, Lenore, so there’s no reason to get upset.”

“I hope not.” Her tone was perhaps somewhat less than gracious, but she was leery of being pushed into a situation she was not ready to accept. “As I’ve tried to explain before, I will need time to adjust.” She reiterated her stance while wondering how many times she had done so thus far. On the trip her father had been effusively complimentary about the younger man, as if trying to sway her toward an early acceptance of their marital state. At the moment, she had no desire to become intimate with Malcolm, for her heart was still much entangled with Ashton, and that is where she feared it would remain for some time to come.

“Come into the house, mum,” Meghan gently urged. “Ye’ve had a long journey, an’ I know ye must be tuckered clear to the bone.”

Lenore entered the hall as the maid held the door and halted just inside to let her eyes adapt to the darker interior. Despair congealed in the pit of her stomach when her vision adjusted, for what she saw made her sure that she had been in the house before. She could name neither the day nor the year, but she had the distinct recollection of having been in this same hall many times before. The narrow corridor ran the full length of the structure, with a staircase laid against one wall and then curving to the other for its ascent to the upper level. The decor was tasteful and uncluttered, with cool, serene colors providing a sense of space and airiness. Rugs of varying sizes adorned the wooden floors in the hall and the adjoining rooms. The largest of these nearly filled the spacious parlor on her right and lay beneath a grouping of several chairs, small tables, and a settee. Across the hall and in the opposite direction, a pale-hued Persian carpet was spread beneath the dining room table and chairs.

“We’ve had some lemonade cooling in the well, mum,” Meghan stated. “Would ye be wantin’ me to bring ye some, with maybe a few teacakes to nibble?”

Lenore smiled. “That sounds very tempting.”

“Ye rest yerself in the parlor, mum,” Meghan encouraged. “I’ll be back shortly.”

In the ensuing silence Robert Somerton peered at his daughter and finally came to stand beside her. “Well, girl, do you find anything that seems familiar to you?”

Without committing herself to an answer, Lenore entered the parlor and approached the french doors that offered a panoramic view of the shore. Aware that her father watched her closely from the hallway, she opened one, allowing the tangy salt smell of the sea to waft in on a fresh breeze.

“The servants haven’t been here long, have they?” she stated matter-of-factly.

His wispy brows shot up as his gray eyes fixed her with a questioning stare. “How come you to arrive at that conclusion, my dear?”

“Meghan introduced herself to me.” She shrugged casually. “If she had been here all along, she would have known me.”

“The old servants were let go when you were kidnapped. Malcolm had to hire new ones in their stead.”

She turned to him in bemusement. “Were there none who returned? No favored one who came back to work?”

“Ah, no…I think they had all found employment elsewhere.” Robert wiped the back of a shaky hand across his mouth, while his eyes searched about the room. He spied a set of crystal decanters on the sideboard, and for a moment it seemed as if he battled a strong urge as his tongue flicked out to wet his lips. Nervously smoothing his coat, he yielded to the impulse and hurried across the room to pour himself a liberal glass of whiskey. “I don’t really know the detail of it. I came here only a short time ago myself.” He tossed down a goodly draft before he faced her again. “After you…and Lierin…left the nest for your respective homes, I did some traveling. Then I decided to visit here and see how you and Malcolm were getting along. I guess it’s lucky I did.”

“Lucky?” Lenore whispered the word distantly and gave him a wan smile. “That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

Robert looked at her closely. “Whatever can you mean?”

Thoughtfully Lenore drew off her gloves and doffed her bonnet, laying them both aside before strolling leisurely about the room. She inspected the appointments, hoping some minor object would encourage a deeper recall. She eyed her father in much the same manner, wanting to know with unmistakable conviction that he was blood kin. “It’s only that Malcolm will take some getting used to. I had begun to believe that I was Ashton’s wife, and it was a considerable shock to learn that it might have been a mistake.”

Her father stared at her in consternation. “Are you saying, young lady, that you actually…shared a bed with the man?”

Lenore felt an insidious warmth creeping into her cheeks. How could she tell him of all the nights she had spent in Ashton’s arms? How could she allow those moments, which were still precious to her, to be aired and sullied by him and Malcolm Sinclair? She had given herself to Ashton, believing she was his wife, and she would not reveal that knowledge just to appease their curiosity.

“I’ve been here before,” she acknowledged, ignoring his question. “I know that. Everything seems familiar.” She inclined her head toward the sea and, for a brief moment, watched the surf lap lazily at the pale shore. “I’ve felt the waves rush across my bare feet as I walked along this lonely stretch of land.” She swept her hand about the room in an encompassing gesture. “I accept the idea that this is my home…but…” She came around and stared at him with eerie effect as the setting sun, shining in through the crystal panes, stripped away the deep green hue of her eyes and imbued them with a shining light until they seemed like two crystals glowing between jet lashes. “But…I still don’t remember you.”

Staring into those bright orbs, Robert Somerton felt the hackles prickle on the back of his neck. A chill seemed to penetrate to his inner soul, and he had to shake himself from the spell of it. He gulped down another hearty portion of whiskey and straightened his back indignantly as he turned from her. “It’s a terrible thing when a daughter forgets her own flesh and blood.” He rubbed the back of his hand beneath his nose and sniffed as if he fought a sudden battle with tears. “I must say, Lenore, it grieves me deeply that you’ve thrust me from your mind.”

“I don’t remember Malcolm Sinclair, either,” she murmured in a small dejected voice. She discounted the carriage ride in New Orleans that had stirred a recall of a man with a mustache, for the memory had been too vague and general. There were a goodly number of men who could fit that description.

“And that’s another thing. Forgetting your own husband.” Somerton swung around and stared at his daughter, as if astounded that such words had come from her lips. He sipped from the glass and, rocking back on his heels, shook his head in sorrowful lament. “I don’t know what’s taken hold of your senses, girl. The men who’ve held you most dear you’ve pushed from your memory as if we meant nothing to you…as if we were no more than a speck of froth on yonder sea.” He drained his glass in a single gulp, then sucked in a deep breath as the liquor traced a fiery path down his throat. “In the same course, you’ve taken to your heart a man who led your sister astray, then discarded her as worthless trash when he had had his will with her. Ashton Wingate might not have murdered Lierin himself, but if he didn’t, he’s at least responsible for her death. If he hadn’t taken her off, she’d still be with us today.” He plumbed the depth of her clouded gaze as if trying to find some hint of agreement. “Don’t you remember how we mourned her loss? Don’t you recall your vows of revenge?”

In roweling distress Lenore shook her head, rejecting his arguments. “Ashton loved Lierin. I know he did! And I will not accept your claims that he deliberately murdered her or is responsible for her death.”

Robert Somerton went to his daughter and, in a conciliatory manner, reached out to lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but with a small cry, Lenore shrank away from his touch. A weary sigh slipped from him as he returned to the sideboard. He refilled his glass and, savoring the spirits, began to pace the room in pensive concentration.

“My dearest Lenore.” He assumed the lecturing tone of a disturbed father, speaking slowly and carefully so that each word would carry its full impact. “I do not wish to distress you unduly. Heaven knows your mental state is delicate enough. I only wish to point out several facts that you must already know. The man is an accomplished roué, and I can understand why a helpless and confused young girl could be easily swayed by his intense persuasion, but, my dear child,” he chuckled lightly, “I cannot accept the idea that such a man believes in ghosts. ’Tis more reasonable for me to believe that he knew who you were all the time.” He took a deep draft and smiled in what could only be satisfaction with his own logic. “Can you not see room for some error in your conclusions?”

A wearying perplexity nagged at the edge of Lenore’s mind. Her father made it seem so simple, but she could not and would not doubt Ashton’s passion for his Lierin, and she was far too tired to explain her reasons to her father. Her hands became white-knuckled fists as she clenched them in her lap. Slowly she shook her head from side to side. “I will hear no more of this.” A trace of anger crept into her voice. “You will refrain from degrading Ashton Wingate in my presence ever again. He is a man of honor, and despite what you say, he is a gentleman!”

“What’s this I hear? Is it possible that you’re in love with the man?”

Lenore stared at her father while she fought the urge to cry out, “Yes…oh, yes! I love him!” She wanted to scream the declaration to the world at large, and her eyes filled with tears as she thought how her statement would be crushed beneath the stern heel of criticism.

Her father considered her with a lazy smile. “Malcolm had better not hear how you’ve fastened your fancies on another man. You know what will come of that?” He nodded as if he knew she understood. “That’s right. A duel.”

Of a sudden Lenore found herself running from the room. She had heard enough!

“Lenore!”

Her father’s cry only spurred her on. Her cheeks were hot with the flow of tears, and her chest ached as she struggled to contain the sobs. She fled across the hall, nearly colliding with Meghan, who was approaching with a tray of refreshments. She brushed past the maid, hardly caring that she had not partaken of a meal since daybreak, and flew up the stairs.

The journey had taken its toll, but this latest abuse nearly rent her soul. As she reached the upper landing, the sobs burst from her in a torrent of emotion, and she ran, giving no heed to her direction as she turned down the hall to her right and burst through an open doorway at the far end. Her gaze chased wildly about the room as she entered, and through a teary blur she saw a tall four-poster and other furnishings appropriate for a large bedchamber. The french doors and windows were open to catch the cooling breezes from off the ocean, and like the parlor below, the room was suffused with a light that now had begun to take on a pinkish cast. The delicately hued floral wallcovering seemed to glow with a soft sheen that was both inviting…and familiar. Smothering her sobs beneath a trembling hand, she stumbled across the room to the french doors and there leaned her head against a frame as she stared out with misty gaze upon the crashing surf. The burden in her breast seemed unbearable, and a ragged sigh did not ease the pain. Though the view could have been appeasing, she yearned to have the lush green lawns of Belle Chêne in sight and to know within her mind that she was Ashton’s beloved, no matter what name she bore.

Her chin lifted, and her heart quickened as she detected a man on horseback riding at a full canter toward the house. For a moment she held her breath, wanting it to be Ashton, but all the while knowing it could not be.

She fell further into despondency as the rider came nearer. The man’s body was too thick, and he rode without the skill of the other man. Recognizing Malcolm Sinclair, she waited with quaking heart as he dismounted and came into the house. Eons seemed to pass before she heard the scrape of his boot against the stairs. His footsteps came down the hall, pausing before each door as if he searched for her in the other rooms. A rising panic took hold of her as he drew near, and she cast her gaze about for someplace to hide, but she forced herself to remain where she was, knowing that reality had to be dealt with and that she would have to face the man sooner or later.

Malcolm paused at the door of her bedroom and cast a glance inward, then seeing her, entered with a rather sheepish smile. “I thought you might have forgotten which room was ours.” He spread his hands. “I’ve been waiting here, hoping your father would be successful in bringing you home and yet fearing that Ashton would not let you go.”

Lenore appraised him with a reserved air. He was as tall as Ashton, a stone or two heavier, and perhaps five or so years younger. He had to be considered handsome with his brown eyes and tawny hair. His mustache was neatly trimmed, lending him a rakish look. He was dressed in the height of fashion, and his riding apparel obviously had cost him a considerable amount, but he failed to do for them what Ashton did for his old riding garments. He did not carry himself with the same proud, straightforward stride of the other man. There was almost a careless swagger to the way he moved, a slight rolling of one shoulder or the other as he sauntered forward.

“I know this is my room.” She gathered her courage and forced herself to meet his gaze. “But I can’t recall sharing it with anyone.” She managed a meager smile. “I’m sorry, Malcolm, but I just can’t lay hold of any memory of you in my life.”

“That’s easily solved, my love.” He laughed softly and, laying his hands on her waist, tried to draw her near, but Lenore broke free as a sense of desperation filled her. She quickly stepped away, widening the distance between them as she moved across the room, conveniently taking a place behind a chair.

“I’ll need time to adjust, Malcolm,” she said firmly. She was even more serious now than she had been when she had pleaded with Ashton for the same consideration. “Even though I’ve been assured that you are my husband, I am unable to turn my thoughts around and accept the idea of our marriage right now.”

As if his mind could not fully grasp her meaning, he stared at her, and slowly lowered his arms to his sides. “Are you saying that I must find another bedroom for myself?”

“Not only a bedroom, Malcolm, but another house,” she stated boldly. “I only came here because my father assured me that you would not be living with us. He said you were willing to move out until I’ve had some time to adapt.”

A troubled frown came to his brow. “That will be difficult to do, Lenore.”

Some intuitive suspicion that she was being duped made her wary of his answers. There was no question in her mind that she would have stayed with Ashton if she had known she would be pressed to abide with this man. Her gaze was cool and unswerving as she inquired, “Why would it be difficult?”

Malcolm shrugged his broad shoulders and casually sauntered about the room, halting beside the chair she stood behind. “There’s just not another place in Biloxi where I can stay.”

“Surely you can find a room at the inn,” she argued.

His pleasant demeanor was momentarily transformed into an irate frown as he looked at her sharply. “Did you also insist upon living apart from Ashton Wingate? The two of you seemed cozy enough, what with your kissing him in broad daylight.”

His jealousy and hatred of the other man were apparent, and knowing full well that he could still challenge Ashton to a duel, she carefully avoided giving him any insight as to what really had happened at Belle Chêne. “I was put in a guest room after the accident, and while I was there, Ashton comported himself as a perfect gentleman. He never at any time forced me to accept the idea that I was his wife.”

Malcolm digested this a moment, but whether he accepted her answer or not could not be determined as he turned his back to her. Dropping into the chair, he stretched his legs out before him. “You say, Lenore, that you don’t remember anything about me. I am trying to understand, but it’s difficult when I remember how close we once were.” Leaning across the space where she stood, he patted the cushioned seat of a nearby chaise. “Sit, my love, and let’s talk about this for a while. I’m sure we’ll both gain some insight into this problem of yours if we can discuss it together.”

Lenore lowered a cool stare to the back of his tousled head, feeling no desire to comply with his request, but finding no polite way to avoid doing so. Reluctantly she moved between the two chairs and felt his scrutiny as she settled with stiff-backed caution on the edge of the chaise.

“Relax, my dear,” he cajoled. “I’m not a monster who will tear you to shreds.” He raised himself from his chair to fluff the silk pillows against the back of her chaise. “Come, lean back,” he urged, dropping a hand upon her shoulder.

In abrupt reaction Lenore pushed away his arm and, feeling suddenly closed in, moved quickly in the opposite direction until she sat at the far end of the cushion. She stole a wary glance at him, unable to explain her sudden panic even to herself, and found him staring back at her in surprise. She forced a weak smile. “I’d rather sit here if you don’t mind, Malcolm. I get dizzy when I lie down.” She could probably lay the blame for this recent malady on her fatigue, but it seemed an appropriate excuse to use to avoid being confined to an area in close proximity to him.

Malcolm dropped into his chair again and regarded her for a long moment, seeming completely bewildered. “Are you afraid of me, Lenore?”

“Do I have reason to be?” she asked quietly.

He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “I can’t think of one, but you seem so…so distant.”

Remaining aloof, she returned his gaze without giving him the benefit of a reply. Beneath her steadfast stare, Malcolm sighed and glanced around, feeling at a loss.

“You’ve always intrigued me, Lenore,” he murmured, searching for the appropriate words that would draw her from her shell. “I am indeed fortunate to have such a beautiful wife. I remember the first time I saw you, you were wearing green…the same color as your eyes. I stopped and stared, but you were with another man, and I couldn’t intrude….”

“Who was the man?”

“An older man.” His broad shoulders lifted casually. “A cousin, perhaps. I really can’t say. I was too involved with watching you to pay much attention to your escort.” He closed his eyes and smiled in dreamy reflection as he leaned his head back against the chair. “I can still remember how your skin gleamed beneath the lamplight and how tantalizing the curves of your breasts were beneath your gown….”

Lenore lifted a palmetto fan from a table near the chaise and leisurely applied its function toward the cooling of her cheeks, prompting Malcolm to open one eye and peer at her with a confident smile. She averted her face from his amused regard, irked that he should find any pleasure in her blush.

“If it was a cousin of mine, then we must have been in England. I don’t have any kin here in America anymore.” She issued the statements as if she were reading a humdrum report, and then glanced up at him with an inquiry, fervently hoping to find some gap in his story. “Can you describe the interior of the manor house in England?”

He placed the fingertips of both hands together as he delved into reflections. “I was there only briefly as a guest, so I didn’t see all the rooms, but there was a large central room…or, as your father called it, a great hall. Next to that was a long room with a huge hearth and stone stairs.”

“Do you remember if there was anything on the wall?”

He paused a long moment in deep thought. “Portraits of your ancestors, I think, and some shields and crests.” He canted his head as another memory came to mind. “There were also two other portraits hanging there, one of you and the other of your sister…larger replicas of the ones your father gave Judge Cassidy.”

Lenore shivered inside as his words struck a familiar chord within her. She could almost see the pair of paintings mounted side by side above the hearth. “Where did you say they were?”

“Above the fireplace, I think.” He nodded after a thoughtful search of his memory. “Yes, that’s where they were.”

Her hopes sank to a dismal level with his affirmation, and she felt drained and listless as she continued the interrogation: “You undoubtedly knew my portrait was at my grandfather’s house, but I’ve been wondering how you came by that information. Were you there before?”

“We went there together, my love. Don’t you remember?”

Lenore frowned as she failed to recall the event. “No, I don’t.”

He seemed amazed that she should forget. “Don’t you recall how upset you were when you learned of your grandfather’s death? The house was closed up by then, and you kept blaming yourself for having left him as you did.”

Lenore raised her head in alert attention. “How did we get there? I mean, did we walk…?”

“We took a barouche, and you were sobbing so much I wondered if I’d have to find a doctor to give you some laudanum.”

The piece fit neatly into the puzzle, but it gave her no pleasure to know that it was Malcolm who had comforted her in that faraway memory. She was earnestly trying to assimilate this latest bit of information when another question came to haunt her: “Where did you say we were married?”

“Here in Biloxi,” he replied easily. “I came to live here, and it was not very long after that that you decided to move from England and also take up residence here.” He gave her a slow grin. “I like to think you made that choice because of me.” He detected a small, puzzled quirk in her frown and let a long sigh slip from his lips as he lifted his gaze toward the ceiling. “We’ve known each other for some time now…three or so years, I guess. I keep thinking, all the years…forgotten. It seems like such a waste.”

“I’m sorry if my condition distresses you, Malcolm.” Her tone held no emotion. “It distresses me even more.”

“I’m sure it does, my love,” he murmured softly, lowering his head to stare at her. “But there’s no reason why we can’t renew some of those memories.”

Lenore took a warning from his warming smile. His eyes had grown dark and now smoldered with a light that made her fearful of what the next moments would bring. Flicking downward in one bold caress, his gaze seemed to strip her bare, and there was almost a leer lifting the corner of his lips when he raised his eyes to meet hers again. “There are times when a man needs to be reassured, and it’s been some time since we’ve made love….”

By some inner strength Lenore subdued her quaking and attempted to appear casual as she deliberately misread his meaning. “What assurances do you need, Malcolm? If you still have any qualms about Ashton, I told you that he was very polite while I was there.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and for his consideration put forth several conjectures that would hopefully ease the impact of her rejection: “I don’t know, but it’s possible that Dr. Page said something to Ashton about the delicacy of my condition and persuaded him to treat me gently. It’s difficult to say how I might have reacted had I been forced. Surely the shock would have caused me to suffer serious trauma. Even now, whenever I’m upset, I start to have strange visions. I even imagine a man being beaten and murdered….”

Malcolm’s eyebrows came up in surprise. “Murdered?”

“Oh, I know how strange it sounds, Malcolm, but during moments of stress, I begin to hallucinate. I really can’t say whether I begin to recall, in visions, events I’ve actually experienced or if it’s just my imagination creating horrible illusions. Whatever the case, it’s very disturbing.” She hoped fervently that a small part of her father’s talent for acting had rubbed off on her and that she was being successful in convincing Malcolm of her frailty. It would ease her mind considerably if she could live in the house without fear of rape. “Can you understand how I might have been affected if I had been coerced?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” He seemed almost eager to placate her fears. “I wouldn’t want you to be upset about anything, my dear. I want you to get well as quickly as possible.”

The brisk clatter of heels came along the corridor and halted at the open door. They looked around to see a young maid pausing at the threshold. Her uncertainty was obvious. Beneath their combined stares she seemed to debate whether to make a tactful retreat or chance an advance.

“Come in,” Lenore invited, extremely grateful for the interruption.

The girl entered hesitantly, casting an anxious glance toward each of them. Her black hair, blue eyes, and soft fair skin delicately touched with a blush were a striking combination, but she seemed naively unaware of her comeliness as she nervously straightened her cap. Trailing strands of dark hair had escaped the starched headpiece and were hanging about her face. Though her apron was crisp and clean, it was slightly misaligned with her dark blue gown, lending her a rather untidy demeanor.

“Excuse me, mum,” she apologized, dipping her knees in a quick curtsey. “I be Mary, the housemaid. Meghan sent me up to ask if ye’d be wantin’ a bath.”

Lenore flashed a look toward Malcolm, who was thoughtfully rubbing a finger along his chin. He stared at the girl, but he seemed lost in his musings, as if he were still mulling over her comments. Perhaps she had given him reason to fear her sanity, but if it would keep him at bay, it was what she wanted. She also desired a bath, but she was leery of giving an affirmative answer while he was still in the room.

Malcolm finally became aware that he was being observed, and with a debonair smile he faced the green eyes that rested on him. “If you will excuse me, my love. There are some matters in town that need my attention.” Rising to his feet, he took her hand and dropped a kiss on the tips of her fingers. “Until this evening, then.”

Graciously Lenore nodded, immensely relieved that he was leaving. She only hoped that, while he was gone, he would reconsider and find another place to live.

Not since her first bath at Belle Chêne had Lenore felt such a need to soak away her stiffness and the ache in her muscles. The journey from Natchez had been a grueling ordeal, for she was sure the carriage wheels had found nearly every rut and crevice in the road. Slammed and jostled about the interior, she had been left both bruised and battered. As she sank with a long, grateful sigh into the steamy water, she closed her eyes, and let her mind wander at will. A definite path seemed laid out for her thoughts, however, for she was soon remembering when Ashton had attended her bath and the resulting play of passion that had led him to strip off his wet clothes and press his hard, naked body full against her own. Though she knew she was letting her mind travel a dangerous course, she savored the recollections. Otherwise, she would have sunk into the pit of despair and been overwhelmed by sorrows.

Memories of another toilette wandered with ghostlike grace through her mind as she continued her bath. It seemed that the hour was late, and she had just traveled a long distance and was preparing for bed….

Her mind took up the path in visual recall, and she found herself clothed in a nightgown with a cloak thrown over it. She was walking through darkness; then a burst of light intruded, and she recoiled in sudden fear as the too-familiar nightmare came upon her. The poker lifted, but now it was as if she were standing afar off watching the event from a distance. The silhouette of a darkly cloaked man flitted across a narrow space, and gloved hands brought the iron down on the shaggy head of another.

She almost screamed as she came upright in the bathtub. Slowly the fear waned, and as it did, her thoughts became crystal clear. Of a sudden she was struck by the realization of what she had just envisioned, and the full force of that revelation nearly snatched her breath.

“It wasn’t me!” she whispered in amazed relief. “I didn’t do it!” She glanced about the room as the peace of that knowledge drifted down upon her, while at the same time the condemnation of her fears was lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in many weeks she felt free, as if she had been saved forever from the gallows of death and hellish retribution. She wanted to cry in relief and at the same time shout with joy, and yet the tragedy of that moment still plagued her. She sensed more than ever that what her mind had given her was not a dream but the actual murder of a man. But whose?

She shook her head as she failed to find an answer for that question. If Malcolm’s tale was true, she had been kidnapped from this very same house and spirited away to Natchez. Her father’s wealth might have been a cause….

Below the surface of her memory she felt a twinge of another vague recall. Leaning back in the tub again, she closed her eyes and gave deliberate attention to that feeling. At first she was able to grasp only a faint flicker of a shadowy illusion, but then, images of a group of men began to form in the roiling, confused haze of her reflections. Their appearance was rough and their speech liberally spiced with profanities. She cringed in distaste as one of them sauntered near to leer into her face.

“Awh, ya’ll bring us a handsome purse, ya will, missy,” he boasted between chortles. “But what’s stickin’ in me craw is why in the bloody hell can’t we have some fun with ya first? Ya’re a right fine-lookin’ lady, ya are, an’ seein’s as Ah’ve never bedded a real lady before, I’m ’bout as curious as a stud sniffin’ after a filly. Ah ain’t alone, Ah tell ya. Me friends are of the same mind.”

A soft rap on the door put fantasy to flight, and Lenore sat up in alert attention. Rising from the tub, she wrapped a towel about herself and moved carefully to the door. Her questioning call was promptly answered by Meghan, and with a great deal of relief, Lenore twisted the key in the lock and stepped back, pulling the door open to admit the woman. The securing of the portal was a measure she had taken to ensure that her bath would remain private, just in case Malcolm turned curious or, worse, amorous. With her father continually praising him, she was not sure if she would have an ally in the house, and she felt a need to be cautious.

“I found this in yer trunk, mum. I hope it will do,” the maid said, carrying in a pale blue organdy gown over her arms. She spread the garment on the bed for Lenore’s inspection and stood back to give it her own critical appraisal. “What with yer clothes bein’ wadded up and left in the trunk these many months, it took a bit o’ ironin’ to get all the wrinkles out. Someone must’ve been in an awful hurry when they packed for ye.”

Lenore paused as the words of the innkeeper in Natchez came clearly to mind. She distinctly remembered him describing Malcolm’s departure: “…loaded up his wife’s trunks in her coach, hired a man to drive it, and left.”

Meghan heaved a sigh. “An’ such a nice new trunk, too. All fancy an’ fresh inside an’ large enough to hold yer gowns without nary a wrinkle. I can well understand why the mister let go the help, doin’ yer lovely gowns that way. They ought to been ashamed o’ themselves.”

“It doesn’t really matter now, Meghan. You’ve made the gown look new again.” Indeed, Lenore could find no flaw in the maid’s work or the creation itself. The rounded neckline was trimmed with appliqués of satin leaves, delicately worked with embroidered veins, and a spattering of seed pearls resting like dewdrops over the foliage. Though voluminous, the pale blue sleeves ended midarm with similarly adorned bands. A satin sash would cinch the elevated waist and, like the layered skirt, bore a sparse trailing of leaves down its length.

The woman beamed. “’Tis a lovely gown, it is, mum, an’ ye’re sure to look like a bride wearin’ it.”

Lenore tilted her head as something very fleeting flashed through her consciousness. Did she glimpse a wall of smiling faces surrounding her? And was Malcolm Sinclair standing beside her, looking very much like a groom while he accepted the congratulations of these others?

Suddenly atremble, Lenore sank to the seat of a nearby chair and tried desperately to discern what she had viewed in her mind. Was she the bride in that gathering? And was Malcolm truly the groom?

A multitude of questions formed in her mind, but she found for them no firm answers. And yet, it seemed, since she had arrived at this house, she had started hallucinating more or, hopefully, recalling actual events from her past, some of which came only in bits and snatches, while other parts seemed clearer. It truly saddened her that they were not in accord with the desires of her heart. She had found a memory of Malcolm in her life, but thus far she had not been successful in finding a place for Ashton.

Disconcerted, she lowered her head in her hand and closed her eyes, wanting to banish the recollections back to oblivion. Her failure to find any recall of Ashton swept away any hopes of a joyful conclusion to her malady and left her weak and listless. Although she knew she had to face the truth, her heart still cried out for him. Sweeter by far were the moments she had spent with him.

“Mum?” Meghan reached out a hand to lay it gently on her shoulder. “Are ye all right, mum?”

A long, weary sigh slipped from Lenore as she leaned back against the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling at all well this afternoon.”

“Come lay down on the bed, mum,” the maid coaxed. “I’ll fetch a cool, wet rag so ye can bathe yer face whilst ye rest.”

“Shouldn’t I be getting dressed for dinner?” Lenore tightened the towel across her bosom, but could not find the energy to begin the actual dressing.

“There’s plenty o’ time, mum. Just ye slip on yer wrapper an’ lay down till ye’re feelin’ better. What with ye an’ yer father travelin’ all the way from Natchez, a little sleep might do ye good.”

Obeying the woman’s suggestion, Lenore donned a light cotton wrapper and stretched out on the bed. The sheets were cool and freshly scented, and the comfort of the down-filled tick soon swept her into the dark sea of slumber. For a time she drifted in a nirvanic limbo where reality was but a mere haze behind long, undulating veils. Dreams began to filter through, and in carefree abandon she floated from one to another, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the fluttering draperies closed in around her and began to glow, as if suffused with sunlight. A broad-shouldered form came to her, at first indistinct and dark; then her heart tripped a beat as Ashton’s sun-bronzed features came into focus. He leaned his head down to press a lover’s kiss upon her naked breast, and before her eyes his visage slowly broadened and changed. A thin mustache appeared above leering lips, and she found herself staring into the warm regard of Malcolm Sinclair. The veils became flaming walls that surrounded her, and she writhed in agony as their fiery tongues flicked out to torment her. Then from the core of the flames human forms emerged and pressed in close around her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Everywhere she turned she was met by a myriad of smirking faces. Goblets were lifted in tribute, as if to celebrate her descent into this roiling pit of hell…except for one man who stood apart from the proceedings. He was more like a frightened ferret scurrying about from one hiding place to another, moving stealthily but ever closer to her. Then suddenly his countenance filled her vision, and his soundless scream echoed through her brain.

Lenore came awake with a gasp and stared wildly about the room, unable to tear herself from the nightmare. Any second she expected to find that tormented visage hiding in one of the nooks and crannies of her room, and her heart quaked in fear as she braced herself for the discovery. A dark shadow seemed to hover close beside the bed, and when reality slowly returned, she realized it was Meghan who stood there. Gazing down at her with sympathic gaze, the maid smoothed the tumbled hair away from her brow and cheek.

“Ye’ve been tossin’ an’ mumblin’ like ye were havin’ a bad dream, mum, an’ I think ye’ve got a wee bit o’ fever.”

Still apprehensive, Lenore cast a wary glance about the room. “Is someone with you?”

Meghan frowned in bemusement. “’Tis only yerself an’ me here, mum. There’s no one else.”

A trembling sigh slipped from Lenore’s parched lips as she leaned back into the pillows. “Yes, I must have been dreaming.”

“Aye, mum. That ye were,” Meghan agreed, placing another moistened cloth across her forehead. “Ye rest yerself some more, an’ I’ll wake ye when it’s time to dress for dinner. If ye’re not better by then, I’ll tell yer father ye won’t be comin’ down.”

“I am tired,” Lenore admitted.

“O’ course ye are, an’ ye’ve a good reason to be.”

Lenore sighed and let sleep overtake her again. It was vague and restful, with only a fleeting moment of distress when her dreams wandered through a confused maze and she heard a cacophony of muted voices, the snarled curses of an angry man, the muffled weeping of a woman, and the slurred oration of a drunken poet.

Startled, Lenore sat upright, wondering for a moment where she was. Then as memory returned, she rose and allowed herself to be dressed in the gown that Meghan had laid out. Opening the chamber door, she slipped out into the corridor and crept down the stairs.

The illusive night sounds of the marsh drifted in through the open windows, blending with the soft, distant crashing of the waves on the beach. The french doors of the parlor stood wide to catch the cooling breezes, but as Lenore approached the room, she felt a chill sweep over her. The fever had not left, and reality seemed rather indistinct, but Meghan had done her best with dressing her hair, and her lackluster mood was not revealed. The fever filled her cheeks with color and brightened her eyes while the blue gown did much to compliment her fair skin.

The slightly slurred voice of her father came to her ears as she paused in the hall near the parlor: “What is this chiding? Have I not done well by you? The Bard said it well, he did. ‘It is a wise father that knows his own child.’”

Malcolm’s reply seemed rather brusque. “Happy is the child whose father goes to the devil.”

“Tsk! Tsk!” Robert shamed. “Have you no respect for your elders, man?” A moment of silence followed by an appreciative sigh gave evidence that Somerton had just taken a long sip of his favorite tipple. He chortled as he gave a warning: “Be careful now. I’ll leave me fortune at some other’s door, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find another.”

“You’re drunk,” Malcolm chided.

“Am I now?” Robert sucked his breath in through his teeth and might have delivered a retort if Mary had not come into the hall with a tray of clean glasses for the parlor and greeted her mistress.

“Good evenin’, mum. ’Tis good to see that ye be feelin’ better.”

Lenore smiled lamely, not wishing to correct the young woman. Then since Mary hung back, Lenore preceded her into the parlor. Malcolm quickly rose from his chair and came forward, wearing a strange smile as his eyes caressed her. Stiffening slightly as his hand slipped behind her waist, she pressed trembling hands against her skirt to quell the urge to draw away.

“Come join us, Lenore. We have been severely starved for your beauty, and now you have given us a feast. It is difficult to take in such radiance with just a mere glance. Let us savor it at our leisure.”

Robert pushed himself rather clumsily from his chair and held up his glass in salute to her. “I must agree. Surely the loveliest daughter a man could want.” He liberally indulged himself in the toast, then with a knuckle lightly whisked both ends of his mustache upward. Clearing his throat, he stared down into his empty glass and then beckoned for Mary to fill it. “Be a good girl now and fetch me another whiskey.”

Malcolm’s forehead crinkled into a reproving frown as he escorted Lenore to the settee. “Shouldn’t you wait until after dinner?”

With a casual wave of a hand Somerton dismissed the younger man’s suggestion and spoke directly to the maid. “A splash or two more won’t hurt, me dearie.”

Uncertain as to what to do, the maid looked to Malcolm for approval and then, at his reluctant nod, replenished the libation. Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Robert chortled as the servant brought him the glass, and being in good spirits, began to recit a little verse. “Yestre’en the queen had four Marys, This night she’ll hae but three; There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton and Mary Carmichael, and”-he winked at the girl as he changed the ending to his liking-“and thee, me sweet Mary Murphy.”

The young woman clapped a hand over her mouth to squelch a burst of giggles and hurried from the room. Malcolm observed her flight and, shaking his head at the antics of the pair, took a place beside Lenore on the settee. His gaze warmed as it rested upon her.

“Strange that you should choose to wear that gown this evening, my dear,” he murmured, flicking the soft flounce with a finger.

“Strange? How so?” A small, worried frown flitted across her brow. She could not shake the notion that she had worn it for an important occasion. “Is there some special significance to this gown?”

A tender smile touched his lips. “You could say that, madam. It happens to be the gown you wore when we were married.”

His words fell with a thud against her heart, heralding doom for all her romantic aspirations. She could only whisper a weak reply: “I didn’t realize the gown was that old, or perhaps I’ve misjudged the time we were married. When did you say…?”

“We married shortly after we met, madam. The gown has been kept well-preserved.”

“Meghan found it wadded up in the trunk,” she commented distantly, trying to remember when he had said they had become acquainted.

He dropped a hand upon hers and squeezed it in an affectionate manner. “I gave no heed to the details of packing while I worried for your safety. I had no idea where that madman had taken you.”

Her gaze moved dully about the room, hardly caring what object it settled upon. A fireplace had been built into the east wall between two windows, and above the mantel hung a landscape that was not particularly exceptional. In fact, it was of mediocre quality, and it seemed somehow out of place with the rest of the fine furnishings. At the moment the presence of that painting exemplified her sentiments toward the two men. Despite repeated confirmations to the contrary, she felt as if the pair did not belong in her life. She wanted Ashton!