Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Ten

THE soft, fuchsia hues of the breaking dawn swept outward in undulating rays from the eastern horizon and skimmed over the tossing surf, touching the white, foamy crests with a pinkish cast and awakening Lenore’s heart to the beauty of the morning. Idly brushing her hair, she strolled out onto the veranda to view the sight at a better vantage point than her bedchamber allowed. The servants were in the kitchen, preparing the morning meal, and beyond her room the house was quiet except for the muffled snores drifting from Robert’s room. She had come to think of him as “Robert” or “Mr. Somerton” rather than “Father” or some other endearment, for without a memory of him in her past, he meant nothing more to her. He was simply Robert Somerton. From the comments Ashton had made, she had known her father would be a hard man to deal with, yet she had not been prepared for his fondness for whiskey. He began each day with brandy-laced coffee, and from there it seemed any brand or variety would suffice as long as he had it in hand.

Her pale dressing gown swirled about her as an ocean-scented breeze swept across the porch, and she inhaled deeply, savoring its fragrance. Although it had scarce been more than a fortnight since her arrival, it seemed as if an eternity had passed since she had left Belle Chêne behind her and traveled to this house by the sea. She had spent several days in bed, wavering between reality and delirium; then at last the fever had left her, and she had been able to move about and acquaint herself with the house, with those who lived there, and with the surrounding area. It had not taken her long to realize that she had once loved this house and that she had been comfortable here. She knew every corner of it, every pleat of canopy and drape, the windowpanes framing trees that were now cast in summer’s green array, but which she knew she had seen in autumn’s hennaed splendor and in dreary winter’s nakedness. She drew pleasure from the sound of the rushing waves and the sight of the seabirds swooping down to pluck tiny morsels from the shallows. She had glimpsed mere specks on the horizon and seen them advance toward land and become large ships with their white sails gleaming beneath the sun. When they swept in closer, she could almost feel the rolling deck beneath her feet and the full run of wind through her hair. More disturbing, she could also imagine a manly form pressed against her back and strong, sun-bronzed arms encompassing her.

Lenore turned with a trembling sigh and entered her room. It seemed of late she could not have a thought without the intrusion of that dream. It did not ease her plight to know who lurked behind every spoken word or conscious thought or to realize the yearnings of her heart could not be set aside.

Once again she went to the small writing desk and, with quill in hand, tried to compose a letter that would explain her position and circumstance to Ashton. She wanted the missive to be of such irrefutable logic that it would solve her dilemma before it reached the catastrophic proportions she feared it would. Though she struggled, the brilliant, clarifying phrases failed to come to mind, much less flow from pen to paper.

Shaking her head in mute frustration, Lenore leaned back in the chair and tried to focus her mind on the task at hand. Like playful children her thoughts drifted elsewhere, unwilling to go where she was wont to lead them. Absently she lifted the quill and spun it between her fingers, watching the play of light and shadow on the pearl white plume. A face formed in her memory, a strong, appealing visage that grinned rakishly as it drew near and turned slightly as a parting mouth reached to meet hers….

“Ashton!” Her lips formed the name with a sigh, but her imagination plunged on in wild and reckless haste. She could almost feel the warming excitement of his hand moving beneath her robe and cupping her breast while his thumb lightly danced a rousing game upon its burning crest.

Breathing a small, helpless moan, she threw aside the quill and rose to pace the room. Her cheeks were hot with a blush, and she could not slow the thudding beat of her heart. Whenever she loosened the restraint on her will, her mind was wont to fly away with her, and she had begun to wonder if a willful Lierin wasn’t hiding just behind the door of her memory, awaiting the opportunity to come forth and claim her mind and body.

The long mirror in the corner reflected her image, and Lenore paused to consider the soft, liquid glow in the eyes and the taut peaks, erect and thrusting beneath her gown. She rubbed her brow and resumed her restless meandering. As long as she yearned for Ashton so desperately, she knew she would never be satisfied as Malcolm’s wife. His failure to find other accommodations had caused her a good measure of concern. The knowledge that his room was just down the hall had convinced her of the necessity of locking both the hall door and the french doors that led from her room. The resulting warmth and stuffiness was almost unbearable, but she did not dare ease her plight for fear of inviting a worse disaster.

Even now, she was wary of his whereabouts, for he seemed to come and go with the stealth of a disembodied spirit. He could, at will, walk across a room without her even sensing his presence. It unnerved her to turn and find him watching her with unswerving attention, and in that moment she knew exactly how a tiny mouse felt under the steady regard of a sleek and hungry cat. His eyes could undress her in a brief flicker, while his slow, self-assured smile gave promise of other abilities that could not be spoken of in good manner. He seemed to delight in flaunting his masculinity, as if this would entice her to his bed. The cut of his trousers might have been more generous than Ashton’s, no doubt to accommodate the heavier-muscled buttocks and thighs, but the way they clung to him, she could only assume he wore nothing underneath, and the effect was intentional. The exhibition only made her more cautious and prompted her to barricade her bedroom doors with chairs, lest he try to prove his manhood with a more physical advance. She knew there would come a time when she would have to acquiesce and become the mate for this strutting peacock, but right now she would just as soon keep their relationship simple, at least until she learned the secret of getting Ashton out of her blood.

She was beginning to sense there was some underlying quality about each man that reminded her of the other, but as yet she could not quite decide what it was, whether it was something in their physical appearance, their mannerisms, or their personalities. Ashton was sensual and hot-blooded, but his appeal was more refined than the other man’s. Perhaps his age accounted for his suavity, but with only a trace of a smile and a look from beneath those magnificent brows, he could emit waves of masculine attraction, yet at the same time catch her heart with a subtle essence of boyish charm. With his aristocratic features and princely bearing he was certainly the more handsome and appealing of the two.

Malcolm, however, was not without charm. He was good-looking, and at times she suspected it was something in his visage that stirred a memory of Ashton, yet when she studied his broader cheeks and full, sensual lips she gained no insight into the illusive mystery. She had no doubt that he had instigated many a carnal thought in the minds of women. It seemed exactly what he solicited by his cocky manner. There was a sternness in him too, which she glimpsed when her father imbibed too much or was wont to be effusive or to spill Shakespearean phrases in his cups. There was no big outward show of this, only a hardening in his eyes and around his mouth whenever he looked at the elder man. His irritation could be understood; Robert could test the patience of a saint at times, and she was not without her moments of sensitivity. Whenever the elder man maligned Ashton’s character, she felt tempted to shred apart the concept of parental honor and give him a lambasting he would not soon forget. If he thought he was of such perfect reputation that he could defame the Wingate man, then he needed a clearer insight into his own flaws.

The thunderous approach of horses’ hooves jarred Lenore from her musing and brought her flying to the french doors just in time to see the carriage careen up the drive and come to a skidding halt in front of the house. She knew the signature of Malcolm’s reckless arrivals, for he was the only one who urged the driver to such a headlong pace. Although the height of his excitement or agitation was usually indicated by his haste, he needed no excuse to whip the horses into a frenzy. He seemed to thrive on speed, and the faster the race, the better he liked it.

The fact that he was returning at this early hour could only mean that he had spent the night elsewhere, and although this did not grieve her, Lenore could only wonder where he had finally found a room or with whom he had stayed. He had ridden off shortly after her father left with the carriage the night before. Much later she had heard the elder man’s stumbling progress as he made his way to his room. In whatever fashion Robert had returned, it was without the benefit of the landau, and here was Malcolm coming home in it, with his horse tied behind.

She heard the thud of Malcolm’s boots across the porch, the slam of the front door, which rattled every window in the house, and then his racing climb up the stairs. She braced herself as he came down the hall, wondering what she had done to set him off. Much to her surprise, his footsteps halted at the door across from her own, and without so much as a knock for admittance or regard for the one who slept inside, slammed the portal wide and barged into Somerton’s room. If his entry did not wake the slumbering man, then his loud shout was meant to do just that. The men’s voices engaged and then lowered to a muffled drone, broken now and again by Malcolm’s angry bark. From somewhere deep within her Lenore sensed that her father of yesteryear would never have meekly submitted to such an attack, no matter the cause. It nettled her that he did not rouse himself from this subservient attitude and take firm hold of the argument. She was even more piqued at the cavalier manner with which Malcolm treated him. If her father was one to tolerate it, she was not.

Fastening the top frog of her dressing gown, she left her room and crossed the hall. At her knock the door was snatched open, and she found herself staring into Malcolm’s blazing eyes. It was clear the spurs of rage still goaded him, but as his gaze fell on her, his manner changed abruptly to a more pleasant mien. For a leisured moment his gaze swept the curves the dressing gown could not hide; then he stood back, sweeping an arm inward.

“Come in, my dear,” he bade with a smile. “I was just having a discussion with your father.”

“So I heard,” she rejoined dryly as she accepted his invitation.

Malcolm lifted a questioning brow at her disapproving tone. “Perhaps I should explain, madam. Your father made the rounds of all the taverns last night, forgetting where he had told the driver to wait. I not only wasted a whole night searching for him and the carriage, but at this early hour I have also heard some of the rumors this drunken braggart has invited upon us.”

Lenore glanced toward the bed where her father sat in much humbled dejection. His shoulders were slumped, and his head hung low in shame. She could not justify the sight in her mind. Indeed, it would have seemed more natural to her if he had thrown Malcolm out on his ear for having dared insult him. She could not grasp any reasoning for that particular impression, but one thing she could clearly discern from the situation, and that was something in her own character. Despite the recent times he had irritated her, she was still his daughter, and she felt a strong inclination to defend him, just as she would any of her kin.

“I would be pleased, Malcolm, if you would take into consideration that he is my father. This is my house, and until I have some recollection of you as my husband, I can only think of you as a guest here. I don’t care at the moment what rumors he has started, but I would greatly appreciate it if you would give him more respect, or at least stop abusing him in such a manner. If you cannot, you may leave…posthaste.”

The dark eyes hardened perceptively as Malcolm returned her stare, and he opened his mouth as if to retort, but immediately squelched the desire and responded with a stiff smile: “Forgive me, my dear. I shall try to be more respectful in the future. I was only concerned about our reputation here in Biloxi and how your father might have damaged it.”

Lenore smiled stiffly in response and, feeling a pang of pity for her father, considered his sorry state. He seemed bewildered by her defense and stared back at her with doleful eyes rimmed with red and bordered underneath with dark bags. His cheeks were limp and flaccid, much like the jowls of a hunting hound, and beneath a sagging chin his dewlap hung slack. A bristly stubble grayed the jaw, and the shirt he wore was soiled and rumpled, as if he had slept in his clothes. Growing restive beneath her regard, he tried to smooth the wrinkles from his vest and cast an anxious glance about for another container of that strong, amber liquid. To him, it was the restorer of joy in that it provided a blessed numbing for his conscience.

“I…ah…” He licked a mottled tongue over dry and cracked lips and cleared his throat. “I didn’t mean to create a disturbance, and I can surely understand Malcolm’s annoyance with me. No need for you to harp at him, girl. ’Twas all my fault. I should never have forgotten myself like that.”

She glanced at Malcolm to receive his gratified smile and felt a strange inclination to wipe the smirk from his face with some caustic retort. She disliked his arrogance and the confident leer that came into his eyes when his gaze dipped to her bosom. The question of whether or not he was seeing something there which might have warranted the lustful gleam prompted her to issue a vague excuse and depart their company. Much to her consternation, Malcolm followed a few, brief moments later, bringing a thin valise and her father to her room. The older man stumbled in and brought himself up before the writing desk where she sat. Beneath the mildly questioning frown that marred her smooth brow, he twisted his hands self-consciously and gave an explanation for their visit.

“I…uh…Malcolm has…ah…some affairs he wishes to discuss with you, my dear.” He swallowed heavily against the thickness in his throat, while his gaze roamed the room for the whiskey he had yet to find.

With the quill Lenore gestured toward the washstand. “There’s some cool water in the ewer if you’d like a drink.”

Somerton had difficulty subduing the tremor in his hands as he poured the liquid, and the lip of the pitcher rattled shakily against the rim of the glass. He could not suppress a shudder of distaste as he downed the unfermented draft, and when he glanced up, he was met with Malcolm’s disdaining sneer. His ruddy cheeks darkened, and sheepishly he lowered the glass to stare down at it in shame.

Malcolm’s displeasure took on a facade of gracious charm as he came to the desk. He bent to bestow a kiss upon his bride, but Lenore turned her face aside, and his lips fell upon her cheek. He cocked a wondering brow as she rose and moved to the other side of the desk.

“You had a matter you wished to discuss?” she probed.

Malcolm rested the thin valise on the table and removed from it a sheaf of formal papers. “I had a meeting with our attorneys in town this morning, and they informed me that these documents should be signed by you.”

Casually Lenore swept her hand to indicate the desk top. “Leave them there, and I’ll read through them sometime today.” She glanced up as Malcolm shuffled the papers awkwardly and cleared his throat. Wondering what disturbed him, she asked, “Is there something wrong with that?”

“Nothing except the lawyers wanted them back by this afternoon. Your father has examined them all and given his approval. It’s nothing too important, only some loose ends that need tying up.”

“If you’re in a hurry to return them, I can look them over now and let you take them back. It shouldn’t take too long.” She reached out a hand to receive them, but he frowned.

“Actually”-he returned the documents to the case-“I came back to get your father to sign them. We were both reluctant to leave you alone with just the servants here, and thought your signature might save us the trip.” He snapped the case closed with finality.

Robert had turned his back upon the couple and, stepping out onto the veranda, flinched when the sunlight struck him full in the face. Retreating quickly into the shadow of the overhang, he leaned against the outer wall, needing its sturdy support. He let his gaze sweep the broad expanse of gray-blue sea beyond the beach, and then suddenly he straightened in alert attention. “What the blazes is that?”

Malcolm seriously doubted the possibility of Robert seeing anything worthwhile in his condition. Tucking the valise under his arm, he crossed to the french doors and paused there to speak to the elder. “Come on, Robert, you’ll have to hurry and dress if we’re going into…” He glanced out toward the sea as the elder continued to stare, then threw the cigar aside and ran to the outside balustrade. “What the bloody hell!”

Wondering what strange malady had affected the men, Lenore joined them on the porch and looked out to where a plume of black smoke was being belched into the air through tall, twin stacks that perched atop a black, gold, and white edifice. The riverboat labored against the tossing waves, but even as Lenore watched, an anchor splashed off the bow and another was tossed from the stern, tethering the craft several hundred yards offshore and squarely in front of the beach house.

“The River Witch!” Her lips formed the words, but no sound issued forth. She had no need to read the letters on the side of the steamer to recognize that huge white bulk with its black-and-gold trim. A sheathing of boards and canvas had been added to the outside of the lower railing, no doubt to keep the waves from washing over the deck.

The paddle wheel stopped its churning, and the ship lay back gently against her anchor chains. A tall figure emerged from the pilot house and paced aft a few steps to stand and stare toward the house with hands braced low on narrow hips. The strength dissolved from her limbs, leaving her knees quivery and weak as she recognized the stance. It was one she had often admired with the lusting eyes of a woman in love. Her heart began to beat with an overwhelming intensity in her breast, and she had to breathe in small gasps, for the fragrant air of jubilation was far too rich to savor all at once.

“It’s him!” Malcolm showed his teeth in a savage snarl. “It’s that bastard Wingate!” He bent an accusing stare first on Robert, who shrugged lamely, then upon Lenore, and his eyes flared with jealous rage as he questioned her: “Did you know about this? Did you send for him?” His eyes swept inward to the small desk where she had been sitting, taking in the trimmed quills in the ink stand and the paper. “You wrote him!” he accused. “You told him where we were!”

“No!” Lenore shook her head and did not dare show the emotions she was experiencing. Joy. Excitement. Pleasure. They ran together and mingled with a wildly racing exhilaration. Ashton was near! Ashton was near! Her mind kept repeating the words over and over. He had come to show his colors boldly and make it known to all that he wanted her, that he would not give up the battle so easily.

“But how could he…?” Malcolm’s voice trailed off as he frowned in bemusement; then he glanced up at her sharply. “Did he know you had a house in Biloxi?”

Lenore shrugged and spread her hands to convey her innocence. “I didn’t have to tell him. He already knew.”

“I should have known he’d find out,” Malcolm muttered. “And that bastard found us, just like a hound smelling out a bitch in heat.” He swung his head back and forth like an raging bull. “I know why he’s come. He thinks to steal you back.” He flung out a threatening finger toward the vessel as he loudly declared, “But he won’t stay! I’ll see to that! I’ll get the sheriff and have him moved!”

Robert carefully lowered himself into a porch chair as he made comment: “I don’t think there’s anything you can do about it, Malcolm. The man’s well in his rights. This may be our property, and if he dares trespass, we can have him seized, but the open sea belongs to anyone bold enough to venture upon it.”

With irate strides Malcolm passed from the veranda and left the room, but in a moment he was back on the gallery with a twin-barreled hunting gun. “Just let him try coming ashore. I’ll have him shot before he can set foot to dry ground.”

Lenore’s elation was promptly smothered beneath Malcolm’s threats. There was no telling how far his hatred would push him, nor could she expect his anger to ebb before the two men met. Somehow she would have to warn Ashton not to come ashore, but how could she manage that?

“The only thing about firearms,” Somerton mumbled, “is that one can never be quite sure of the other man’s abilities. We heard that Wingate is a dangerous man to tangle with. If he’s as good a shot as they say, I’d advise you to take care.”

Lenore stared at her father in surprise, remembering the afternoon when he had come to Belle Chêne and boasted of Malcolm’s skill with firearms. Now here he was warning that same man of his rival’s reputation. What sort of game was he playing?

“He may be good,” Malcolm sneered, “but I think not good enough.” He looked smug as he caressed the barrel of the weapon. “The only way Wingate will be able to leave here without confronting me is to turn that damned boat around and go back to New Orleans.”

“Do you plan to watch the steamer all the time?” Somerton inquired in amazement.

Malcolm turned to glower over his shoulder, bestowing it on the elder man. “No, Papa, you’re going to help me.”

The winged brows shot up in surprise and then gathered in a disturbed frown. “I’ll watch for you, but I won’t touch that fowling piece. I don’t know the first thing about guns.”

Malcolm smiled blandly. “You won’t need to. I intend to keep that pleasure for myself.”

A strange, brooding uneasiness crept over Lenore and settled as a cold lump in the pit of her stomach. Something was wrong, but she was not quite sure what. She could only lay it to her concern for Ashton and expressed her worry in a timid question: “You wouldn’t really murder him, would you?”

Malcolm’s answer was cold and deliberate: “It won’t be murder, my dear. I have a right to protect what is mine, and it should be obvious to all of us what the man intends. He’s come to steal you away from me.”

“Perhaps if you let me talk with him,” she cajoled. “I’m sure he’ll leave if I explain that I’m here of my own free will.”

Malcolm tossed his head up with a short, jeering laugh. “I’ve heard about your precious Mr. Wingate. Nothing can deter him if he wants something badly enough.” He strode along the balustrade without taking his eyes off the distant vessel and slowly retraced his steps in the same manner. “The man has his gall, anchoring offshore like that, right there where he can spy on us.” Becoming more incensed, Malcolm threw a hand toward the steamer. “Look at him! He’s even gotten himself a glass!”

Somerton squinted bloodshot eyes toward the vessel, trying to focus on the one who provoked them. The long brass cylinder glinted beneath the sun as the other stared through it, making it easier for Somerton to spot it. “By jove, so he has.”

Lenore could hardly keep her own gaze from wandering to that tall figure. She could almost feel the touch of Ashton’s unswerving stare through the glass. Her cheeks were flushed, but it had naught to do with the morning heat.

“I wish I had a dozen cannons right now,” Malcolm ground through his teeth. “I’d blow that bloody fool out of the water just to see him come sailing down in tiny pieces.”

Lenore felt a desperate need to try again. “Would you let me send him a letter?”

“No!” Malcolm barked. “He can sit out there until I figure a way to get to him; then I’ll make sure he won’t bother us ever again. He’ll soon know which of us is the better man.”

Joy was as irresistible as the tide. It came sweeping back upon Lenore when the men left her to her thoughts. The knowledge that Ashton had cared enough to come after her made her almost giddy, and for a time she thrust aside the qualms that Malcolm’s threats had provoked and relented to the pleasure of knowing that Ashton was near. She pressed both hands to her mouth to squelch an insane giggle of sheer happiness, while her shoulders trembled with the effort to suppress the urge. Meghan was puttering about the room, readying her bath, and it seemed foolish to rouse the woman’s suspicions when she had found no cause to trust her. Still, it was difficult to contain her elation, especially when the maid would glance toward her as if she sensed some change. Finally curiosity had its way.

“Be ye feelin’ all right, mum?” Meghan inquired.

Lenore nodded eagerly and tried to hide the threatening smile as she lowered her hands to her lap. “Yes.” She cleared her throat to disguise the laughter in her tone. “Why do you ask?”

Meghan pursed her mouth as she regarded her mistress. During these last weeks she had watched the young woman and been saddened by the way she had resigned herself to her fate and dutifully gone through the motions required of her while in the men’s presence, but in her chambers the girl had moped and stared wistfully out to sea as if longing for something more. Now the green eyes danced with a lively élan, and for the first time since coming to the house the mistress seemed really alive. Earlier the angry voices of the men had carried into the house from the veranda, and Meghan had found it hard to ignore them. They had declared there was a man on board the steamer who intended to take the lady, and as Meghan considered the transformation, she determined it would not be entirely by force.

“Ye needn’t be afraid o’ me, mum,” she assured her mistress. “I’ve formed no loyalties to Mr. Sinclair, if that’s what ye be thinkin’.”

Lenore stared at the maid, somewhat taken aback by her perception, and sought to hide behind a cloak of innocence, afraid to reveal the secrets of her heart. “Whatever are you talking about, Meghan?”

The woman folded her hands over her apron and inclined her head toward the stern-wheeler. “I know there’s a man out there who’s come here for ye, an’ by the shine on yer face, I’d say ye’re not too disappointed.”

Lenore’s eyes widened in alarm. She bounced from the bed and, rushing to Meghan, grasped her arm with an intense admonition: “You mustn’t tell anyone that I’m glad he’s here. Not anyone. Especially Mr. Sinclair or my father. Please. They both hate Mr. Wingate, and I don’t know what either of them will do.”

“Rest yer worries, mum,” Meghan soothed, taking the slender hands within her own. “I was in love once meself, so I understand what ye be feelin’.”

Lenore was still careful. “How much do you know about me?”

With a shrug the maid replied, “Oh, I’ve heard the men talkin’ an’ know about ye losin’ yer memory an’ maybe thinkin’ ye were married to someone else.” She paused as a realization dawned and looked at her mistress closely, meeting that one’s hesitant gaze. “It’s him, isn’t it? I mean, it’s that Mr. Wingate ye thought was yer husband?”

Lenore lowered her eyes from the other’s probing stare and could see no reason to lie when the woman read her so well. “Yes, and I love him, but I’m trying hard not to….”

“A real task ye’ve laid for yerself, mum. I can see that.”

A slow nod of agreement came from Lenore. To cease caring for him would be difficult indeed, if not totally impossible.

The small desk clock had struck the second hour in delicate tones, while the larger timepiece in the downstairs hall seemed to echo its refrain in the silent house. Lenore did not pause as she carefully molded the shape of the pillows beneath the sheet. A moment later she stood back to survey her handiwork. A silvery shaft of moonlight streamed in through the windows, casting enough light over the bed so that anyone who came to look would have a view of her form. Under casual inspection, the pillows would add to the deception that she was still asleep, granting her enough time to slip out of the house and carry word out to Ashton that he must not come ashore. Malcolm’s threats had taken on a more serious note at dinner, and uncertain as to what he might do, she had made the determination that Ashton had to be warned. The chore boy had left the small dinghy near the water’s edge when he had gone fishing the day before, and it would provide her a way out to the River Witch. At her request, Meghan had borrowed some of the lad’s clothing but had carefully refrained from asking why she might have need of them, preferring to remain ignorant of her intentions.

Lenore stuffed the long, softly curling mass of auburn hair beneath a cap and wrinkled her nose in distaste as she checked her appearance in the standing mirror. The clothes were hardly the sort a genteel lady would wear. The shirt had no buttons to speak of, and she had tied it in a knot at her waist to hold it secure, leaving a deeply plunging décolletage. The breeches fit well enough, but were worn thin by age and use. The placket had no other fastenings except the cord that drew the garment tight about her waist. In all, she presented quite a wanton sight, and if she were caught, she might be accused of blatantly inviting rape. Just to be safe, she added a worn canvas coat.

As she prepared to leave, she paused beside the hall door and held an ear against the panel to listen. From the loud snores emerging from her father’s room, she could suppose that Malcolm’s chastening had convinced him that he should stay home for the night. That of course left only Malcolm to be wary of, but he was the one she feared most. He would not accept lame excuses. If she was caught, he would know immediately where she was bound.

Taking up a pair of string sandals, she slipped out onto the veranda and paused in the shadows to watch for any warning signs of movement. None were seen, and she continued her careful flight, easing down the stairs one slow step at a time. The bottom tread creaked slightly as her weight came upon it, and with bated breath she waited for a commanding shout to halt her flight. When none came and the flow of life returned to her fear-numbed body, she sprinted across the lower porch and hurried down the steps. She paused on the last to slip her feet into the sandals, then took off again across the lawn. The dinghy had been pulled up on the sand, and she placed the oars in the oarlocks and, with a fierce determination, dragged the heavy boat into the softly lapping waves.

Several lanterns had been lighted on the decks of the steamer, and the windows of Ashton’s quarters showed a faint glow. Turning her back on those directing beacons, she began to row out, now and then casting a glance over her shoulder to check her direction. It soon became apparent that she had misjudged the distance between the shore and the stern-wheeler. It was not long before her arms began to tremble and ache from the unaccustomed labor, and when she reached the craft, she rested over the oars, letting the dinghy bob against the side of the steamer while she waited for her strength to return. The tremor would not leave her arms, and it seemed only an effort of will would overcome her lagging energy. Gathering what she could from that source, she chose a dark spot near the stern to make her ascent, just in case Malcolm or Robert glanced toward the steamer, and with painter in hand pulled herself up, climbing over the planks that protected the lower deck. The difficult feat of boarding accomplished, she knotted the rope around a post and sagged against the deck to let some of the tension ease from her arms.

There were no lanterns nearby to reveal an approaching form, and she was not quite sure when she began to sense someone standing over her, but when the full realization struck, she rolled with a startled gasp, trying to avoid the hands that reached down to seize her. One grabbed her knee, while another the collar of the loose coat. Her panic was spurred on by the painful grasp, and she gave no thought to explaining her presence as she struggled frantically to free herself. Like a slippery eel she slithered out of the garment, leaving it in the man’s hand. She fell forward with a grimace as he tightened his hold on her leg, then his free hand dipped down to catch the back of her shirt, and her eyes widened in sudden dismay as she felt the knot come free. The armholes bit into her skin as the shirt caught, and then there was a long, rending tear as the garment split and made its departure. With a muffled cry she ducked and gathered her arms close over her naked bosom, trying to twist away before her modesty was completely savaged. The man growled a low curse and caught her again, this time by the arm while he hooked his other hand inside her belt. He snatched her up, nearly jerking the breath from her as the rope bit into her waist, and gave her a harsh shake.

“Who sent you out here, boy?” the man barked in her ear.

“Ashton!” Her gasp was one of relief as she recognized the deep voice. Never in her limited recall had she heard such a beautiful sound.

“What the…” The hard fingers relaxed their grip immediately. “Lierin?”

Even with the covering of darkness she could feel his closely peering perusal. A blush warmed her cheeks as his gaze dipped to her bosom, and timidly she hugged her arms across her chest.

Ashton knew not what miracle had brought reality to his dream, and though he was most appreciative of her apparel, or the lack of it, there was a need for haste. “For whatever reason you’ve come, my love, I’m deeply grateful,” he murmured huskily, “but I think we should adjourn to my quarters, considering the man on watch will be making his rounds along this deck any moment now.”

Lenore was spurred to action at the idea of being caught in such disarray and made an abbreviated plea as she hurried toward his cabin. “My shirt…”

Ashton swept up the garments and followed, stepping close behind her when she halted at the door and fumbled with the knob. His arm came around in front of her to perform the service, and Lenore closed her eyes and shivered with suppressed longings as his hard, furred chest pressed against her bare back. The contact was no less explosive for Ashton. It sent the hot blood rushing into his loins, and somewhere between the opening and closing of the door, her coat and shirt left his other hand. Her pale shoulders gleamed in the golden glow of the cabin lamp, inflaming his mind with the sight. His arm curled about her, gathering her close, and a low moan slipped from Lenore as his hands began a questing search of her soft breasts. The cap tumbled to the floor as she leaned her head back against his shoulder and the loosely curling tresses spilled free, filling his head with a heady fragrance. The thin breeches gave her little protection from the burning heat of his arousal or the hand that stroked beneath them. This was not what she had come for, but every nerve and fiber of her being cried out for him to take her, to make her his own again. It was agony to think of denying him.

“We mustn’t…” she pleaded in a frail, weak whisper. “Ashton, please…we cannot do this thing now.”

“We must,” he breathed against her ear and pressed fevered kisses upon her throat. To have her close again fulfilled every notion of what was right for him. “We must…”

He bent and lifted her in his arms. In two long strides he was to the bed, that same haven wherein they had in times past enjoyed the full tide of rapturous bliss. He laid her down, and his burning gaze swept her in a longing caress; then he was there beside her, taking her in his arms again. Lenore placed a hand upon his naked chest and turned her face aside, trying to avoid his heady kisses before they besotted her mind. “I only came here to warn you, Ashton.” Her tone was one of desperation. “Malcolm will try to kill you if you come ashore. You must go away.”

Ashton lifted his head and stared down at her with hungering hazel eyes. Sometimes love could come and go like the errant winds that were wont to sweep the shore; then again, it could be a timeless thing that distance, years, and hardships could not defeat. For Ashton it had been around for more than a trio of years, and she was rooted at the very core of his life. The note she had left was meant to convince him that she was Lenore and that she was doing the right thing, but how could he agree when she had taken his heart with her? “Forget Malcolm and all he’s tried to tell you. Stay with me, Lierin, and I will leave here. If need be, I’ll take you to the ends of the earth.”

Tears began to course down her cheeks. “Oh, Ashton, can’t you see? You want her and not me.”

“I want you!”

“I’m not the woman you think I am, Ashton. I’m Lenore, not Lierin.”

“Your memory…” he began hesitantly, almost fearfully. “Has it returned?”

“No.” She did not dare meet his gaze. “But I must be Lenore. My own father has said I am.”

“Your father hated me, remember. He has cause to hold us apart if he can.”

“He wouldn’t go that far,” she argued.

Ashton let his breath out in a long sigh. “If you insist, I’ll call you Lenore, but it changes nothing. In my heart you’re still my wife…you’re still part of me.”

“You must leave here,” she urged anxiously. “You must go and save yourself.”

“Will you come with me?” he pressed.

“I can’t, Ashton.” Her voice was tiny. “I must go back. I must know the truth.”

“Then I will stay…and I will fight for you until this thing is settled.”

“Oh, please…please, Ashton,” she begged wearily. “I won’t be able to bear it if anything happens to you.”

“I can’t go back. I am bound to stay.”

She shook her head in exasperation. “You’re as stubborn as they say you are. Why don’t you accept the inevitable?”

“The inevitable?” He rolled on his back with a harsh laugh and stared up at the low ceiling above his bed. “For three years I searched, but I could find no woman to take your place. I was a man, and yet I could not settle back into the relaxed standards of a rutting bachelor. I had this burning hunger in my loins that haunted me, but I could find no release. Call me bedeviled. Call me mad. Call me hopelessly and completely in love with a dream that only you can fulfill.” Rolling his head on the pillow, he gazed at her. “I know what it was like without you, and I want no more of it. I have come to fight, my love, and fight I will.”

Lenore raised herself until she rested on his chest. She made no effort to pull the sheet between them, but allowed her naked breasts to press upon that bare and broad expanse. Her eyes were tender with devotion as they caressed his face, and her lips curved in a wistful smile. “We make a pair, the two of us, wanting what we cannot have. I must go back, and you are determined to stay. Yet if I could, I would persuade you differently.” She hesitated a moment; then somewhat ashamed of the proposal she was about to make, she continued without meeting his gaze: “If I give myself to you now, for the moment allowing that you may be right in thinking I am your wife, will you leave before some harm comes to you?”

Ashton lifted her until she lay full length upon him. There was no mistaking his ability to accept her offer, but he slowly shook his head. “I cannot make such a pact, my love, even though it would serve to ease my present desire. I love you too much to be satisfied with a parting gesture. I want all of you, and I will settle for nothing less.”

She heaved a weary sigh. “Then I must go.”

“There’s no need to leave now. Stay with me for a while. Let me love you.”

“It’s not right anymore, Ashton. I belong to Malcolm now.”

A deep scowl drew his brows down sharply, and he glanced away, tormented with jealousy. The muscles in his cheeks twitched as he resisted the urge to tell her how he had found the precise location of the house. A tour of the taverns in Biloxi had turned up not only a handful of Robert’s drinking cronies but an interesting array of strumpets as well. It seemed more than a few had serviced the libertine Sinclair. “I don’t like the thought of your going back to him.”

“I must,” she whispered. A light brush of her lips against his, and she slipped away from him. Smiling down into the eyes that watched her, she donned the torn shirt and jacket and gathered her hair beneath the cap.

“I’ll take you back,” he sighed, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and rising to his feet.

The memory of the exhausting trip was fresh in Lenore’s mind, and she was not anxious to argue with him. “But how will you get back?”

“I’ll tie another dinghy behind and return in that.” He reached for a shirt and felt her hand glide admiringly over his flexing ribs as he slipped it on. The gentle caress made him tremble with longing, and he stared down at her, wanting to take her in his arms but knowing there would be no turning back if he yielded to the desire. His mouth moved to whisper the words that were aching to be said: “I love you.”

“I know,” she murmured quietly, “and I love you.”

“If I didn’t think you’d grow to hate me, I’d keep you here, but it’s a choice you’ll have to make. Until you do, I’ll be near enough to come to your aid if you should need me.” He placed a small derringer in her hand. “I’ve shown you how to use this. I can hear a shot from the house. Just keep out of harm’s way until I get there.”

He took her back to shore, and after a last parting kiss, Lenore made her way to the upper veranda. She leaned against the balustrade as she watched him row out, then entered her room, heaving a forlorn sigh. She was already lonely.