Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Twelve

THE crew from the River Witch set about clearing the brush from the land across the shallow inlet. Setting short posts, they spiked planks to the sides and, over the whole, laid boards to form a sizable platform some eighteen inches above the ground. Upon this the men began to erect a large canvas shelter, and like a mushroom, it kept expanding until Malcolm had visions of a tent large enough for a sheikh and his harem. His snide speculations were not far from the truth, for Ashton had acquired his would-be quarters from a man who had once traded with Bedouin Arabs and had given the tent to Ashton after that one had befriended him in a time of trouble. For several years Ashton had despaired of ever finding a use for it. Now he considered owning it a stroke of good fortune, for the sumptuous shelter was precisely the touch he required to rub salt in an open wound.

Malcolm went out to view the proceedings from the lower porch, and this time it was he rather than Robert who quaffed a strong whiskey. He tossed a warning glower at Lenore and her father when the pair came out to join him, daring them to make any comments that would ignite the powder keg of emotions that roiled within him. They carefully refrained from doing so.

As the hours passed, the area across the inlet took on more of a look of permanency. Other men came to bend their backs to the labor, and supplies continued to arrive from off the boat or from town. Fine pieces of furniture were brought along with Oriental rugs, a standing mirror, and Ashton’s personal baggage. There was even a bathtub! As the wagon delivered it from town, Lenore chewed a knuckle to hide her amusement as Malcolm’s scowl darkened perceptibly. She could almost imagine the steam coming from his ears as he silently seethed.

A somewhat smaller tent was erected nearby for the cabin boy, Hickory, and the horses. The black arrived close to noon, driving the carriage and bringing behind him a pair of wagons, one loaded with a large supply of hay and the other with boards for the construction of makeshift stalls. As he passed the house, Hickory wore a smile that was so broad it seemed to stretch from ear to ear. Malcolm noticed the gleam of white teeth from the porch, and the sight started an angry growl deep in the corded throat until the guttural utterance promptly reminded him of its rawness.

“We can’t have that damn nigger living here on our property,” he rasped in protest. “He’ll steal us blind.”

The emerald eyes settled on him with cool disdain, while the softly curving mouth managed a smile of comparable warmth. “Hickory is as honest as a man ought to be, Malcolm. You’ll have nothing to fear from him.”

Malcolm dismissed her statement with a caustic comment: “He’s probably just like that pack of thieving murderers Wingate has for a crew. There’s no telling what crimes they’re apt to commit. Sheriff Coty ought to do something about them before it’s too late. To be sure, we’ll have to set out guards to watch over you while those men are out there”-his square chin jutted toward the River Witch and then in the direction of the tent-“and that fool, Wingate, is here so close.”

Lenore could well imagine how closely she would be watched while Ashton was near. If the idea did not distress her so much, she might have found cause to laugh. “I hope you won’t trouble yourself too much, Malcolm.”

“Whatever the cost, madam, it will be worth it,” he replied, choosing to ignore her sarcasm. “You’re too rare a gem for me to put at risk.” He considered how fresh and lovely she looked in her cream-colored gown trimmed with embroidered lace and took special note of the rosy glow in her cheeks. He might have blamed her carefully groomed state on the proximity of the other man, except that she had always dressed well and had remarkably good taste in clothes, seeming to know exactly what to wear to complement her beauty. The soft blush in her cheeks, however, had been all but absent until Ashton Wingate had ventured into the area.

“You seem to be feeling better, madam,” he stated bluntly.

Lenore was tempted to retort that she might have been feeling a lot worse if Ashton had not come to her defense that morning. Instead, she gave him a serene smile, blandly agreeing with his observation. “Better than I have for some time, thank you, Malcolm.”

Hot anger shot through the dark eyes before his eyelids narrowed to mask it. Somerton gestured with his glass, directing the younger man’s attention to the working crew. “It looks like Wingate’s settling in for keeps.”

Lenore went to lean against the porch railing and, from there, watched as Ashton instructed his men in the placement of potted shrubs and the planting of others near the tent. Oaken barrels had been sawed in half to accommodate the larger greenery, which included a wide variety that had been selected when the clearing had begun. Around the wooden planking that now served as an informal courtyard were smaller bushes which from a distance looked suspiciously like jasmine shrubs in bloom. In all, the landscaping provided a certain lushness around the porch, and it was not long before a wrought-iron table and chairs appeared to finish the setting.

Toiling in the sweltering heat, the crew of men shed their shirts, threw off their shoes, and rolled up their trousers. Ashton seemed like a prince among paupers as he remained garbed in fawn-hued riding breeches, low-crowned hat, tall boots, and loose-sleeved shirt opened to the waist. He was continually on the move as he directed the project. Giving orders to some or turning to answer the inquiries of others, he was ever in demand, and by the time the sun lowered in the west, he had with the aid of his men created quite a fine sight for anyone to behold. With such elaborate lodging, it was clear he intended to stay as long as he deemed necessary.

The stoical gloom of the evening was keyed to the somberness of Malcolm’s dour temper. Lenore took note of it as soon as she joined the two men in the parlor. Her husband sulked like a punished lad and went as often to the decanter as his father-in-law. He was forever strolling out onto the veranda and peering westward where a faint glow marked the location of Ashton’s tent. His mood lightened as the intoxicant began to take effect, until finally he broke the cautious, stilted silence with a derisive chortle.

“At least that beggar will be supping alone tonight in that great gaudy tent of his.”

Robert was sober enough to pick up on Malcolm’s comment and offered some observations of his own: “Aye, and if a little blow comes off the gulf, he just might find that damned boat of his sitting in his lap.”

The two waxed almost gleeful in their contemplation of possible disasters that might befall their new neighbor. Lenore found the macabre bent of their humor annoying and did her best to ignore them. Even when they went out to lounge on the veranda, it proved a difficult task.

“Behold!” Robert’s hushed tone of amazement came drifting through the open french doors. “What ventures out from yonder craft? Some sweet surcease to ease the varlet’s plight?”

His mixed prose was less than pure Shakespearean and more than slightly slurred, but it was enough to stir Lenore’s curiosity. Lifting her sherry glass, she strolled out onto the porch where she could view the object of their attention. Pointedly keeping her distance from her companions, she chose a spot near the railing and leaned her back against a post as she turned her gaze out to sea.

Beyond the tumbling surf a lighter nudged out of the dark shadow of the River Witch and skimmed through the moonlit waters, heading for the lantern that marked Ashton’s encampment. As the lighter neared the beach the rhythmic creak of oars came softly to her ears as the two men bent their backs to the rowing. Soon the boat scraped the sandy bottom of the shallows, and the two dragged it ashore. The pair of servants, complete with white-coated uniforms, lifted a huge, silver-domed tray from the prow and quickly bore it to the courtyard table. Setting to work, they lighted torches and staked them on poles around the deck, making every corner of the platform visible, much to Malcolm’s chagrin. A white cloth was spread and upon it the necessary accoutrements were placed for an elegant setting, complete with a silver candelabrum and two place settings for a full-course dinner. All were curious to see who the expected guest might be and waited in anticipation, Lenore no less than the others.

The first mellow strains of the cello drifted on the wings of the night breezes, and everyone on the porch paused to listen. Lenore kept her face carefully blank as Malcolm’s eyes settled on her and hardened. The chords wandered through a brief medley, then settled into one they had shared as a favorite. Restlessly Malcolm paced along the veranda and paused at the far end to stare at the brightly lighted area. Lenore leaned forward to catch the soft, musical refrains and closed her eyes as she luxuriated in the memories she had of Belle Chêne and its master. The music filled her heart with a soft bliss until her pleasure was soured by Malcolm’s return.

Chafing, he glanced around at her father as his lips curled in contempt. “Would you listen to that wailing? It sounds like a wounded swamp cat caught in a trap. And you can guess what part they caught.”

Robert sniggered into his glass. “Nay, lad. ’Tis only the guts they string out on a fiddle.”

“It’s not a fiddle,” Lenore corrected crisply, irked at their crudities.

Her father peered at her dubiously. “A modicum of wit ye have tonight, lass. Have ye no laughter in ye?”

“It’s that rutting tomcat yowling and prowling about out there, working her up into an itch,” Malcolm jeered. “She’d like to join him.”

And why not? Though silent, the retort flared through her mind. She would gladly have traded the inanities of the men for the affectionate attention that she longed for and which she knew Ashton would freely bestow on her.

A servant stepped to the door of the tent to speak to someone inside. The music halted, and Lenore held her breath as Ashton emerged, quite alone and quite handsomely groomed. He paused beside a jasmine shrub and, picking a blossom, laid it on one of the plates. He settled in a chair across from it, and a wine was poured into his silver goblet. Ashton sipped it, nodded his approval, and the full-course dinner progressed while the place across from him remained untouched. Finally Lenore understood the significance of the jasmine on the plate. It served as an invitation to her. Whether she was Lenore or Lierin, and when or if she ever chose to join him, she would be welcomed.

Malcolm also caught the impact of Ashton’s boldness and turned upon her with a glare of seething outrage. She met it without flinching and smiled softly into his burning eyes. Still, when Meghan stepped to the french doors and announced their own dinner was to be served, she breathed a pray of thanksgiving that the diatribe would be forestalled. Throughout the meal she held the warm, tender feelings of love close to her heart, giving no heed to either the heated stares of Malcolm or the disapproving frowns of Robert.

The next morning Lenore sent her excuses to the dining room via Meghan and indulged in a light, peaceful repast in her own chamber. This seemed to vex Malcolm sorely, for a short time later she heard him storm out of the house in a high raging temper, leaving Robert to ensure that the two lovers were kept apart, Lenore to her house and Ashton to his tent. The distance was there, separating one from the other, but their minds seemed well in tune, for when Lenore strolled out onto the upper veranda to view the splendor of the morning, Ashton lifted the flap of his tent and stepped out, almost in unison with her. As he turned to glance toward the house, she appeared at the railing, and for a moment in time they stared across the space, totally aware of the other. Even with the stretch of land between them, she felt his eyes caress her, while her own gaze completed an admiring appraisal of him. A narrow breechcloth covered his loins and provided a minimum of modesty as it bulged over his manhood. The heat crept into her cheeks at the sight of him standing there like some bronze-skinned Apollo. From her memory she reconstructed details left obscure by the distance. The light furring of his muscular chest dwindled into a shadowed line as it trailed down his belly, which was flat and, as she knew, hard as oak. The legs were long and straight, lightly corded with muscles, and as finely toned as the rest of his body.

The long-endured ache of suppressed passions began to spread through her, stirring a quickness in her blood, and she wondered if he also was consumed by a lusting hunger, for he lifted a large towel from a wrought-iron chair and flung the long cloth over his shoulder, letting it hang past his loins. Her eyes followed and lowered to the flexing buttocks as he strolled out to where the waves lapped lazily at the shore. Dropping the towel beside the water’s edge, he waded out toward the deep; then, arching his back, he plunged out further with a clean dive. His arms stroked the waters relentlessly, heedless of direction. She could almost sense his reasoning, his need to work out his frustrations. An ache was there in the pit of her own stomach, and she wished she might have been able to wear herself out in such a way, at least to an exhausted complacency. Instead, she had to endure the craving lusts and hope in time that she could come to accept Malcolm as easily as she had accepted Ashton.

She rubbed her brow, hoping to find a breach in that restricting wall that encased her memory and open it for a thorough examination. If only she could find a place for Ashton, some cherished moment remembered, but even before her attempt she knew it was useless. He was of her present, not her past.

The sun blazed down in shimmering heat waves, and slowly a mirage formed in her mind. She was on a sunny beach somewhere faraway. An auburn-haired girl played with a sand castle and a small doll. It was she. Or was it Lierin? Her vision was limited, as if she stared through a short tunnel, but she knew she ran and played with one who looked like her. The children, perhaps six or so of age, laughed and squealed as they chased each other to the water’s edge. Then from afar a woman’s voice called:

“Lenore?”

The young girl turned and shaded her eyes.

“Lierin?”

Her own vision widened, and she saw a woman she knew as Nanny standing on a grassy knoll. A mansion of generous proportions loomed behind her.

“Come now, the two of ye,” the ruddy-faced woman bade. “’Tis nigh unto noonday. Time for a wee bite to eat an’ then a nap before yer father returns.”

The illusion swirled and faded, and Lenore blinked as reality once again presented itself. She was almost afraid to bring the fantasy back, yet the question blazed. Was that moment really a part of her past? Or had she conjured it from the fabric of her fondest hopes? If the other girl had answered true…

She paced the porch and tried to summon something more. Some hint. Some clue. Something to point out the truth to her.

“Lenore!”

A prickling shivered along her spine as the name tore through her concentration; then she glanced around, realizing reality was there and coming in the presence of a dapperly garbed man who was hurrying up the stairs. Robert Somerton’s cheeks were scarlet, and his agitated state was most apparent.

“You shouldn’t be out here in your nightgown where everyone can see you, girl,” he admonished, drawing her attention to her light apparel. “Go in and get dressed before some harm comes to you.”

Lenore started to comply, then noticed how his eyes kept nervously flitting toward the beach. Her curiosity aroused, she turned her gaze outward and saw the reason for his unrest. Ashton was wading from the water, and if he went in looking good, he came out looking marvelous. His hair was wet, and the beads of moisture that clung to him glistened beneath the sun, giving his dark skin a lustrous sheen. She could imagine what embarrassed and worried her father the most. It was the skimpy cloth covering which now was molded wetly to Ashton and came very close to indecent display as it sagged slightly with the weight of the water.

“The man has lost his wits.” Robert’s sensibilities had been unduly shocked. “The very idea! Prancing about out there like that and flaunting himself before you! What does he think you are, anyway? Some hussy off the streets? It’s surely no sight for a lady!”

Lenore hid a smile of amusement as she moved away, but from beneath her lashes she stole one last, admiring glance at that tall, muscular form before she entered her room and closed the french doors.

Robert Somerton’s sense of propriety had been severely challenged, and he hurried down the stairs again, intending to confront this near-naked strutter. It was one thing to see the bare thighs and bulging flesh of a woman in places of ill repute, but quite another to have a man showing himself in such a manner before a lady…. And before such a fine one, too! It was too much!

Somerton flicked the ends of his mustache up in an outraged gesture as he hastened to intercept the lewd rascal who casually sauntered toward his tent. “Here now! I want a word with you,” he called, commanding the younger man’s notice. That one raised a brow in wonder as he turned and waited for the other to reach him. Halting before him, Somerton shook a shaming finger beneath his nose. “You have your nerve coming out dressed like that, offending my daughter with your display. I’ll have you know, sir, that she is a lady.”

“I know that,” Ashton agreed pleasantly, taking some of the wind out of the other’s sails.

The white-haired man searched for another form of attack. “Well, sir, you are no gentleman, I can tell you that!” The elder man swept his hand to indicate the long length of Ashton’s form. “Look at you! All but naked, you are! Flaunting yourself in front of my daughter!”

“She’s a married woman,” Ashton responded with a tolerant smile.

“Not to you!” Robert shouted, catching the subtle drift of his meaning. “What more proof do you need to convince you?”

“Nothing from you or Malcolm,” Ashton replied promptly and, toweling his hair dry, continued on his way. The stride of his long legs made it necessary for the shorter man to hurry to keep up with him. Although it was but a mere step or two to the courtyard, by the time Robert reached it, his face had taken on a deeper shade of red, and he was ready to accept the cool libation Ashton offered him. He slipped out of his coat, loosened his collar, and, after being offered a chair, sank into it with a sigh of gratitude as he sampled his drink. Ashton excused himself a moment, and in his absence, the elder gazed about him, realizing that the architect of the porch and dwelling had had enough foresight to place them both under the sprawling limbs of a huge tree, which offered a soothing, cooling shade. In his contemplation of the intelligence of the younger man, he managed to down more than half of the drink before Ashton returned in more modest attire.

“You’ve done well by yourself here,” Somerton remarked, encompassing the encampment with a sweep of his hand. “’Twould appear you’ve thought of everything.”

Surprised at the unexpected compliment, Ashton glanced at the man. The anger had certainly fled from his countenance, and he seemed almost amiable as he surveyed his surroundings. The credit for the change had to be given to the lulling affect of the mint julep, and Ashton was not of a mind to deny the man when he asked for a refill.

“I used to be young once,” Robert reflected after some length. After a thoughtful pause, he chortled and, draining the glass, held it out for a second replenishment. “I’ve even turned a few lady’s heads in my time. Maybe not like you’ve managed to do with the girl over there.” He gestured casually toward the house. “She’s taken with you, all right, and Malcolm’s bent on making her love him again.”

“Did she ever?” Ashton posed the question with a hint of sarcasm, but the white-haired man missed the thrust of the subtle gibe.

“Malcolm believes she did…before she lost her memory.” Robert scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Sometimes I wonder how it’s all going to end. She’s a good girl, she is. A little hot-tempered at times. Came charging to my defense when Malcolm was lambasting me for getting drunk.”

Ashton smiled as a memory came winging back. “That sounds like her.”

“Well, there I was, deserving everything Malcolm said about me, and she fairly set him back on his heels.” Robert shifted the lower part of his jaw out to the side as he sat a long moment in pensive silence. “She deserves better than me for a father,” he said and nodded his head as if agreeing with his own logic. “And maybe, just maybe, she deserves better than Malcolm for a husband.”

Ashton’s eyebrow rose sharply. “I’ll agree with that outright, but I’m not convinced she is his wife.”

“You’re a stubborn man, Wingate,” Robert observed wryly. “The fact that you’re here proves it.”

“I’m not denying it,” Ashton replied readily. “Malcolm stole something from me I cherished above all else. I still say he has yet to prove his claim.”

“But he has!” Robert insisted. “Don’t you think I can tell the difference between my own daughters?”

Ashton shrugged as he watched the other drain another glass dry. “A father should be able to.”

“Of course, and I tell you I have done just that!” Robert hiccuped and leaned back in the chair as he contemplated the now empty crystal. The warmth of the day and the rapidly imbibed whiskey were beginning to show their effect. “I know what you’re thinking.” The slowly reddening eyes lifted and tried to focus on the crisp, handsome features. “You think I drink too much, don’t you, and that I’ve made a mistake. Well, I’ll tell you a secret, my friend. It takes a lot to make me lose my wits. That’s one thing Malcolm knows that you haven’t learned yet. I am a man who knows the part he plays in this life!” To emphasize his statement, he slammed the goblet down on the surface of the wrought-iron table, and then gasped in pain as it shattered, and the pieces jabbed cruelly into his palm. Turning his hand over, he stared down in horror as the blood gushed forth from the wounds. His face twisted and contorted as if he saw some evil there in his palm. “’Out, damned spot!’” he whimpered. “’Out, I say!…Hell is murky!…What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?’”

Ashton arched a dubious brow at the man and, reaching across the table, plucked the broken slivers of glass from the rent palm. Quickly assessing the damage, he fetched a linen napkin from inside the tent, then pressed it into the other’s palm. Attempting to reach through the other’s stupor, he directed in commanding tone, “Now make a tight fist and hold it, do you hear? Hold it!” The order penetrated, and with a hand beneath the other’s arm, Ashton lifted Robert to his feet. “Come on, I’ll take you home. Lierin can clean up those cuts for you.”

“She’s a good girl,” Somerton mumbled distantly and weaved unsteadily when Ashton let him go. “She deserves better…”

Ashton saw the hopelessness of the man’s condition and, supporting a good part of the man’s weight against him, escorted him back to the house. The short journey seemed too much for the besotted older man, and he sagged limply against the younger as Ashton took him across the porch. Stepping through the front door, Ashton glanced around and, seeing no one, called out. “Lierin? Lierin, where are you?”

“Ashton?” The gasp and the sound of running feet drew his gaze to the upper balustrade as Lenore came into view. He smiled a greeting while his eyes admired the vision she presented in a pale lilac gown. Her own eyes were wide with surprise, and her lips slightly parted, but the sight the red splotches on her father’s white coat sent tiny shards of fear shooting through her.

“What’s happened?” she demanded, but did not wait for an answer as she lifted her skirts and flew down the stairs. Her voice came in a tone of worry even as she descended. “Oh, Ashton, you haven’t hurt him, have you?”

“Upon my honor, madam, I have not,” he assured her with a lopsided smile as she left the last step and ran to them. She began searching for a wound under Somerton’s coat until Ashton took her wrist. “Your father only cut his hand, Lierin. Believe me, he’s all right.”

“His hand?” She straightened and, with some bemusement, took the mentioned extremity. She lifted the cloth and wrinkling her nose in a grimace she began to examine the cuts.

“I thought you should clean it,” Ashton suggested, leaning close. He would seize upon any excuse to be near her. He noticed the sweet smell of her as his eyes touched the soft nape, and he was reminded of his wont to kiss that delicate spot.

“Take him into the parlor,” she directed. “I’ll have Meghan fetch a pan of water and make some bandages and be right back.”

Ashton complied and helped the elder man to a chair. Somerton clasped the napkin tightly again and cradled his wounded hand against him. “She would tend me,” he whimpered like a child lost and confused. “Gentle angel though she be, and me the foulest wretch…” He brushed at the rush of tears that invaded his eyes and, sniffing loudly, drew himself up with a proud air, dropping his good hand on a knee. “A good child, she. Don’t you agree?”

“Definitely more than a child,” Ashton murmured as she came into the room. His eyes touched the soft womanly beauty of her and lingered when she knelt before the old man and gently began to tend him.

A thundering of hooves approached the house, and the three paused to listen, Lenore and Robert in some alarm. In his usual fashion Malcolm charged his mount head-on to the house; then coming to ground, he rushed up the steps.

“ ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes,’ ” Robert moaned. “ ‘Open, locks, Whoever knocks!’ ”

Malcolm slammed the door wide and strode into the hall, stopping short when he saw the threesome. His narrowing eyes searched the worried countenances, then flew to the brazen, confident smile of Ashton Wingate.

“What the bloody hell are you doing here in my house!” he raged, sailing his hat down the hall in a fine display of temper. He would have charged the man and done battle with him, but the memory of his most recent defeat made him wary of such a foolish attack.

“Lierin’s father cut his hand and needed assistance,” Ashton explained. “I gave it.”

“You gave it, now get out!” Malcolm flung his arm to indicate the front portal. “Now, I say!”

Ashton strolled leisurely to the door and paused there to make a parting comment. “I wasn’t invited, so you needn’t take your anger out on Lierin or her father….”

“Lenore!” Malcolm shouted, rattling the panes of glass. “She’s my wife! Not yours!”

Giving the man a passive smile, Ashton turned and left. As he made his way across the porch he noticed a pair of men riding toward the house. The larger of the two looked distantly familiar, but Ashton could not quite place where he had seen him before. It seemed as if it had been aboard one of his steamers and that the fellow had been part of the crew. Ashton mentally shrugged. It was useless to try to keep account of all the faces that had come and gone. There had been too many.

“The minute I’m gone”-Malcolm began his ranting, and his voice did not dwindle in strength as he gave full vent to his fury-“the pair of you bring that scoundrel in here. Well, I won’t have it, do you hear? I’ve hired guards to protect this house and all that’s in it from him and his kind!”

Lenore decided that she had had enough of waiting in the carriage. It was hot and stuffy, and she could not be sure just when Malcolm would return. A light dappling of perspiration moistened her upper lip, and she felt the cloying wetness of her fine muslin gown against her back. The landau was parked alongside the boardwalk, precisely where Malcolm had told them to wait, but there was no shade, and the horses were as hot and restless as she was. They swished their tails at the annoying flies that buzzed about them and nervously stamped their feet, now and then nudging forward when one of the tiny demons alighted and bit.

Stepping down to the boardwalk in something approaching a heated huff and not caring that she had left her bonnet behind, Lenore asked Henry to convey her whereabouts to Mr. Sinclair when and if he should happen to return. Malcolm had seemed most adamant when he had asked her to wait, and she had done so, until she had not been able to bear the torture another moment. The driver was quick to make an affirmative reply to her directive, and Lenore stalked into the nearby general store, plying her lace kerchief in a jerky, fanning motion as her heels struck the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Once she passed through the door, she replaced her frown of annoyance with a smile.

“Why, good mornin’, Mrs. Sinclair,” the storekeeper greeted her as he turned from stocking the shelves. “How are you? My goodness, it’s been some time since I last saw you.”

Lenore tried to bring some recollection of the man to mind, but as always she could not place the face. Almost hesitantly she asked, “Do you know me?”

“Why, yes…I mean…” The shopkeeper displayed his uncertainty before he made further reply. “I thought you were Mrs. Sinclair. Am I mistaken?”

“No,” Lenore returned quietly. “I guess not.”

Confused by her reply, he studied her closely. “Aren’t you feeling well, ma’am?”

She fanned herself with her handkerchief, this time with leisured strokes. “It must be the heat.”

The kindly man indicated several chairs that sat against the wall at the back of his shop. “Would you care to rest yourself for a moment?”

“No, I’ve sat too long as it is.” Her lips curved gently upward as she rejected his offer. “I was waiting in the carriage for my husband to return. I guess his business took a little longer than he expected.”

The man chuckled and nodded. “I know how that can go.”

She glanced around, wondering how she might dare ask him his name without having to explain her malady. He had seemed so befuddled by some of the questions she had already asked him. “I’ve thought of writing a journal to keep an account of everyone I know here in Biloxi.” She had seriously contemplated doing so, just to see if there were any names that pricked her memory. “And, of course, you would be a part of that list…. I was wondering how you spelled your name.”

“B-l-a-c-k-w-e-l-l.” He said the letters proudly. “J-o-s-e-p-h Blackwell.”

Blushing lightly, she waved her handkerchief before her warm face and laughed. She might have felt better had he a more difficult name, and she was half afraid she had given him the impression she was something of a dunce. “Just as I thought.”

“You must be planning on staying around these parts for a while if you’re thinking of writing a journal,” he observed.

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “At least, my husband hasn’t talked about going any other place. Besides, my father is staying with us.”

“Oh?” Joseph’s bushy brows raised in surprise before he chuckled. “How did you persuade your father to leave England? I thought you said he hated it here and refused to refer to the States as anything but the colonies.”

Her slender shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I guess he just changed his mind.”

The shopkeeper nodded understandingly. “He probably couldn’t stand being away from his family. Sometimes it’s difficult for a father to admit that his daughter has desires contrary to his. It must have been a real blow for him when you decided to move here from England, coming all this way to live by yourself. By the way, how is your sister?”

A sad, wistful look replaced Lenore’s smile as that girl-child of her dreams flickered back through her memory. “She’s dead.”

“Oh, I really am sorry, Mrs. Sinclair.” The man spoke softly in sympathy. “I didn’t know.” He shook his head sadly. “First your husband, and then your sister. I’ve got to admire your spirit for being so brave after such losses.”

She glanced up at him in wide curiosity. “My husband?”

Joseph looked at her strangely. “Why, yes. You were a widow when you first came here.” He scratched his head in bemusement. “At least, that’s what I thought you said, but I could be wrong. We really never talked much, only to pass the time of day now and then. Why, it was hardly a month or so ago that I actually learned about your marriage to Mr. Sinclair.”

Her head swam with a flurry of confused images. From the vague, featureless forms, she knew instinctively that one was her father. Though he remained hardly more than a shadow, he stood with outstretched arms, bidding her to come and be comforted. A phantomlike form moved beside her, seeming to urge her toward the elder man, and this one she knew was Malcolm.

“There you are!” The familiar voice came from behind her.

Blinking, she turned as Malcolm hurried toward her, and for a brief moment, she had trouble sorting reality from illusion. In her mind she saw him being clapped on the back by a sturdy male hand.

“I didn’t know you were going to leave the carriage,” Malcolm chided a bit crisply. “You worried me, leaving like that.”

“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but it was very hot out there.”

Malcolm realized Mr. Blackwell was watching them in a curious manner and reluctantly explained, “My wife has been sick. I hope she hasn’t bothered you too much.” He ignored the startled glance his wife shot him. “She’s been a bit confused lately and can’t seem to remember too well.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Blackwell responded kindly.

Malcolm smiled stiffly. “If you don’t mind, we must be on our way now.” He made the appropriate apologies. “I’m sorry. I had arranged to meet her father at a certain time, and we’re late now. Good day to you, sir.”

Holding Lenore’s arm in an almost painful vise, he escorted her out and across the boardwalk, then handed her into the carriage. He frowned at her when he took the place beside her. “I told you not to leave.”

“It was hot out here,” she complained with rising ire. “And you were taking your own good time. I think the only reason you wanted me to come is because you were afraid of what Ashton would do while you were gone.”

“I’m not afraid of that bastard,” Malcolm muttered.

“I can’t see why you were so persistent about me staying here. I had a nice chat with Mr. Blackwell.”

“Oh?” His eyes were cold as they came upon her. “What did the old man have to say?”

“Something interesting.” A light frown touched the creamy visage. “Why didn’t you tell me I was a widow when you married me?”

Malcolm’s brows lowered in pique. “I thought it would only confuse you more if you knew. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been trying to shield you from the gossip in town. I just didn’t know what kind of trauma it would cause.” He seemed most inquisitive as he asked, “What else did your friendly storekeeper have to relate?”

“Nothing, really. From what he said, I gathered he didn’t know me too well. We didn’t have too much time to talk before you came in.”

Relaxing back in the seat, Malcolm lifted his hat and wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “It is hot,” he stated in a more pleasant tone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more considerate. I just got tied up and couldn’t get away.”

Lenore’s curiosity had not yet been appeased, and she ventured, “Do you know anything about my first husband?”

The heavy shoulders lifted casually. “I think some kind of fever took him shortly after the two of you were married. Beyond that, I don’t remember too much of what you told me about him, except that he lived on an island in the Caribbean.”

“His name…do you know his name?” Lenore pressed.

Malcolm ran the handkerchief along the inside of the hatband and glanced at her askance as he replied, “Cameron Livingston.”

“Livingston…Livingston…” She rolled the name over and over on her tongue, finding that it had a familiar ring. “Yes, I think I’ve heard the name before.” The delicate brows came together as she tested her given name with it. “Lenore Livingston? Lenore…Livingston. Lenore Livingston! Yes! I know I’ve heard it before.” She laughed, pleased at her accomplishment. “Perhaps I’m beginning to remember again. Oh, that would be so nice if I could.”

The dark eyes turned to her above a wan smile. “It’s been some time now since your accident. I’m beginning to wonder if your memory will ever come back and if you’ll remember what we once meant to each other.”

“I remember more than I did when I came here,” she admitted. “It’s coming back slowly, but at least I’m making progress.”

Malcolm reached for the thin valise that he had tossed on the far seat. “There are some papers here your father wants you to sign. We’re going now to meet him. Are you up to it?”

“Do you suppose we can make it another day?” she asked. The intolerable heat had drained her. “I don’t feel up to reading right now.”

“You really don’t have to read anything, my dear. Your father has taken care of that for you.”

“My father brought me up better than that. He’ll expect me to heed his advice.” She canted her head, wondering where that notion had come from.

Malcolm sighed impatiently. “Really, Lenore. The documents are not important enough that they must be read over in detail.”

“I’d rather not attend to the matter just now, Malcolm,” she stated, rather firmly. She resented being pressured by him. “If my father wishes to bring the papers home, I’ll read them there. That is the most I will promise.”

He responded with a derisive snort. “You’ve gotten very high-minded lately, especially since that nigger lover has roosted on our front lawn. Don’t forget, madam, that I am your husband…not Ashton Wingate. You’ll give me the respect that is due me.”

Lenore’s amazement was complete. She saw no reason for him to fly into a temper over her delay in signing papers that he had said himself were not important. “Malcolm, I only ask to be allowed to read the papers.”

“Well, it’s almost an insult the way you insist. It sounds as if you don’t trust me…or your father. We’re only seeking what is best for you.”

“My father taught me long ago to look after my own interests.”

“To hell with your father!”

“Malcolm!” She stared at him in astonishment. “I see no reason for this display of temper.”

“I can!” he snapped. “I ask you to do one simple thing, but you refuse. I bet if your precious Mr. Wingate were here, you’d fall all over yourself doing what he asked.”

“Your jealousy is showing,” she said soberly.

“Isn’t it the truth?” His dark eyes fairly snapped as he threw the accusation at her. “If you had the chance, you’d take that bastard into your bed.”

“Malcolm, you’re going too far,” she warned.

“By doing what? Calling him a bastard or you a bitch?”

Lenore gasped in outrage and, now in a high-flown temper herself, rapped the handle of her parasol crisply on the small door behind the driver. “Henry, you may let me off here, please,” she requested when the tiny portal came open. “I have some further shopping to do.”

“You’re not getting out!” Malcolm protested as the servant brought the conveyance to a halt. “I’m going to take you home.”

“Then you’ll have to kill me here and now, Malcolm, because if you don’t let me out of this carriage this instant, I’m going to create such a scene that you won’t be able to stay in this town another day.” The words were slowly and carefully enunciated and the determination in the emerald eyes convinced him that she meant everything she had said. If he did not use caution and let her go, he could expect to take the consequences.

“If you get out, then you’ll have to walk home,” he threatened.

“Gladly!” Lenore glared at him. “Just move out of my way.”

Her face was flushed and angry as she pushed open the door. Without a backward glance, she descended to the rutted thoroughfare and, snapping open her parasol, marched toward the boardwalk, heedless of the activity on the road. To an oncoming team and wagon, she gave little regard except a brief, cold-eyed glare that might have done much to shrivel the pride of the stout team. They had made large men scurry out of the way, but this trim lass did not display a flicker of fear. The team’s driver sawed hard on the reins, turning the pair aside and shouting as he passed her. “Are you crazy, lady? You almost got yourself killed!”

Lenore mumbled beneath her breath. “Rude despicable lout! God only knows why I ever married him! I wish I had never seen him.”

She stepped onto the boardwalk and walked briskly past several shops. A tall, nice-looking man who was leaning on a storefront ahead of her saw her coming and, with a sudden gleam of admiration in his eye, gallantly swept off his tall, beaver hat.

“Good morning, miss. Can I be of assistance?”

Ignoring him, she stalked past, and with a hurried twist of his body, the roué fell in behind. He ogled the shapely back as if the stylish clothes did not hinder his view of the slender body they covered and smiled broadly when she tossed a glower over her shoulder. She passed another doorway and drew a long, slow whistle from the barber, who was plying his razor to the well-lathered face of a customer.

“She’s a redhead, all right,” he commented in appreciation. “Hotter’n some of them peppers the Cajuns grow in Louisiana.”

The one he attended raised his head to view this sight, and even with a hurried glimpse of her profile through the window, Ashton could not mistake that fair face.

“Lierin!” He threw himself from the chair, and, snatching the towel from his neck, used it to wipe the soap from his face. He dodged several chairs and men on the way out, causing one to start when he dropped the soapy linen in his lap.

“Your coat, sir!” the barber called after him. “You’re leaving your coat!”

“I’ll come back for it!” Ashton flung over his shoulder. He ran after the sprightly stepping woman, gaining the attention of the man who was following closely in her wake. That one frowned and set his arms akimbo in obvious vexation when Ashton ran past him.

When a hand came upon her arm, Lenore came around, ready to jab the pointed end of the parasol into the one who boldly accosted her until she looked up and recognized the handsome face that grinned down at her.

“Ashton! What are you doing here?”

“I followed you and Malcolm into town,” he admitted, “and then when I saw you get in the carriage, I decided I’d get myself a shave.”

She laughed as she rubbed a streak of soap from his cheek. “I don’t think you waited for the barber to finish.”

Ashton scraped a hand over his bristly chin. “Forgive my appearance, madam. I left in a hurry this morning.” He tossed a glance up and down the street. “What are you doing here? Where’s your carriage?”

Lenore lifted her slim nose into the air, still miffed at the one who had caused her anger. “I sent Malcolm and our carriage on their way.”

A sparkle of interest began to gleam in Ashton’s eyes. “Malcolm left you here alone?”

“I suppose my father is still here somewhere.” She gave a flippant shrug. “Though I really don’t care one way or the other.”

Stepping aside, Ashton laid a hand behind her shoulder and swept an arm before them. “If you’d allow me time to get my coat, madam, I’ll be more than happy to escort you wherever you desire to go.”

The handsome roué stood stock-still in the middle of the boardwalk, his feet braced apart and his hands set low on his hips. He might have been slow with his approach, but this wench was clearly one to squabble over. He made no move to step out of their way. Ashton met his challenging gaze with hardening eyes, then lightly handed the lady past the man. When she was securely beyond all danger, Ashton came back with his arm, sharply jabbing an elbow into the man’s chest, right below the rib cage. The fellow staggered back, surprised at the tenacity of this one who had whisked the lady right from under his nose.

“Begone with you if you have a care for your hide,” Ashton growled low. He was not about to endure another man’s interference. “This one is mine.”

The man regained his breath and caught Ashton’s shoulder, ready to make a protest. “I saw her first…”

The frilly parasol was snapped shut in a second, and the pointed end quickly found a tender spot in the roués ribs. He yelped in sudden pain and, deciding the pair were too much for him, stepped into a stance of surrender.

“If you insist!” he cried, holding his arms outspread. He backed away, immediately relinquishing any claim on the fine-figured filly. It was obvious she had chosen her escort.