Come Love a Stranger

Chapter Fifteen

ROBERT Somerton returned home with a houseguest, a man of like years and with a comparable penchant for drink. Samuel Evans was said to be an artist and indeed seemed talented with a quill, even the one Lenore had discarded as useless. It was his favor to doodle at the writing desk in the parlor, where he enjoyed the company of her father. From there, he expounded with rampant verbosity about the wide variety of adventures he had experienced in his life. Lenore raised a wondering brow at his penchant for raving on with boasts and embellishments, and it seemed the more he imbibed, the more he enlarged upon his exploits and the more fanciful the strokes of his quill became. He created extravagant flourishes and long sweeping lines that took on more of a look of an ornate or elongated script than any landscape or drawing. In the creation of the latter he appeared to be lacking, but he was capable of changing the scrivening to whatever fashion suited his whim. Lenore was fascinated with his abilities and watched from over his shoulder as he penned his name in several different styles.

“Here now!” Robert chortled. “I can do as well.”

Samuel hooted in laughing disbelief. “Not likely, my good man! Ye can’t even write yer own name so it’s legible. How do ye expect ye can wield a quill to yer likin’ when ye can’t even do that?”

“I’ll show you!” Chuckling, Robert dabbed the quill in the inkwell and, with a great show, swept it across the parchment. When finished, he studied the results, then proudly displayed them to his guest and daughter. “There! ‘Robert Somerton!’ ’Tis clear as the nose on your face.”

Lenore accepted the sheet with an amused smile and, at first, saw nothing more than a wild tangle of sweeps and rolls; then she frowned in bemusement as another signature came to mind. Strangely, it was the one in her father’s book of plays. Of course, that did not seem likely. To write another man’s name in one’s own book…Why would anyone want to?

Her eyes lifted, and she stared at the elder man in puzzling question. Lately she had sensed a softening in his heart for her, and though she was not aware of the reason, it had pleased her to be treated more like a daughter of worth than one of no account. Still, there were times when she had trouble feeling anything more for him than pity.

“Come, Lenore,” he urged, offering her the quill. “Show this good fellow here what a beautiful hand you have.” He chuckled, tossing a glance toward his guest, who eyed the pair of them. “Your name, girl. Write out your name for us.”

Lenore accepted the stiff feather and bent forward to fulfill the request, but hesitated as a chilling draft wafted through her body. There was almost a gleam of anticipation in Samuel Evans’s eyes as he waited for her to perform the simple task. Though she could not say why she might have cause, his manner made her apprehensive. To compare one’s writing with another seemed a simple, inconsequential thing…almost nonsensical. At least, it should have been.

She returned the quill to the well, noticing his surprise as she did so, and moved to the french doors in a rush as she heard a horse whinny outside on the lawn. It was Heart o’Mine, being exercised by Hickory. He led the mare at the end of a rope, and she trotted with precise, lighthearted cadence before her audience of one.

“It’s that new mare of Ashton’s,” Lenore announced over her shoulder, thankful for the timely excuse. If she was being foolish, she had no wish to offend the men, but if there was something more to it than what they told her, she would just as soon avoid gratifying their whims…unless of course they first explained their reasons. “She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Robert mumbled a noncommittal answer and went to replenish his glass. “I’m not much of a horseman.”

Lenore glanced around in some surprise, struck by his statement. What had made her think her father loved horses and was himself an exceptional rider…or at least used to be? Her brow puckered in a tiny, perplexed frown as her mind flitted back to the name in the volume of plays. “I was wondering…sir”-calling him Father still came hard-“who Edward Gaitling might be.”

Robert choked and spewed out a mouthful of whiskey. Being the recipient of the gushing fount, Samuel Evans jumped up and hurriedly wiped at the side of his face and sleeve as he shot a sharp glance at her father. That one had some trouble getting his breath and, after so doing, took a long time clearing his throat. Mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, he sank into a chair and looked at her hesitantly. “Why do you ask, girl?”

Lenore faced the porch again, and her eyes fondly followed the high-stepping mare as she flagged her tail and pranced past, barely seeming to touch the ground with her black hooves. Finally remembering that her father had made an inquiry, Lenore glanced back over her shoulder. “I just saw the name in your book of plays and was curious, that’s all.”

“Oh, he’s just some actor I’ve known for some time. He…ah…signed the volume for me after performing in one of the plays.”

“Oh.” His answer only left her more puzzled. “I see.” She frowned, haunted by what she had seen in her father’s handwriting. Was she making too much ado about something that was nothing?

Robert stepped toward her with a brief chuckle. “Speaking of signing one’s name, Lenore, you were going to…”

She stepped out onto the veranda, leaving the men and that particular issue behind her. From the porch, she strolled out across the lawn where Hickory was stroking Heart o’Mine’s neck and praising her for the fine horse she was.

“Ain’t she somepin, Miz Wingate?” the black asked with a large, white-toothed grin.

Lenore’s eyebrows came up in surprise. “I’m Mrs. Sinclair now, Hickory.”

“Oh, Ah knows what dey sayin’, missus, but Ah still has trouble believin’ a sweet lady like yose’f would marry a man like Mistah Sinclair.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Anybody’d try to kill a horse like dis gotta be mean clear through.”

Lenore smiled wryly. “My father once said that one can always tell a man by the temperament of the horse he ke…” She paused in midword, clearly confused. Her father had just denied knowing anything about horses, so where had the thought come from?

Hickory drew back his lips to display his broad, white teeth in a wider grin. “Mr. Wingate, he’s gots some mighty nice ones, missus.”

She rubbed the steed’s silky nose as she glanced at the black. “You like the Natchez man, don’t you, Hickory?”

“Yas’m.” The black gave a definite nod and patted the mare’s neck. “Ah sho’ do.”

“I do, too,” she sighed. “And therein lies the problem.”

Hickory chuckled. “Ah kinda reckoned yo liked him, missus.”

His comment made her wonder if her feelings were a secret to anyone. Her voice turned wistful. “I do believe my sister made the better choice in husbands.”

A soft chuckle shook the man’s shoulders. “Like Massa Ashton say, Miz Wingate, we jes’ have to wait an’ see ’bout dat.”

The River Witch was pulled up close to the dock and bedecked with garlands and flowers, enough to cover the recent canvas and board additions along the rail and to fill the air with a fresh and fragrant essence as the guests came aboard. Men in formal attire and women in silk and satin gowns, with jewels twinkling at their throats and fingers, passed along the decks and entered the large gleaming halls, where in one an orchestra was playing or in another the cards were being shuffled and games of chance being waged.

Lenore entered the second on the arm of Malcolm, and heads turned to view the couple in wide curiosity. Those closely acquainted with the Natchez man had heard some of the rumors floating about and were anxious to see the lady who was causing such a stir. She was hardly a disappointment! Gowned in pearl pink satin with touches of ecru lace adorning the sleeves and narrow bodice, she looked as delectable as any confection that was available on the lavishly filled tables. Her auburn hair was swept up in a soft, elegant coiffure, and at each ear teardrops of pearl dangled prettily from clusters of diamond-wreathed rubies. Falling around the long, slender column at her throat were two carefully matched strands of the same opaque gems, brought together with a similar catch of ruby encircled with smaller diamonds. The jewels were a recent gift from Malcolm, who declared them a peace offering for the way he had lost his temper over Heart o’Mine. He was most anxious for her to know that he could be generous with her, too.

The décolletage bared her shoulders sublimely and dipped enticingly to reveal the higher curves of her creamy breasts. Malcolm seemed taken with the display of the jewels on such a beautiful setting, but eyed his gift far less than he did the tempting roundness that was pressed full and taut above her gown. There his gaze lingered with much admiration.

With her at his side, the tawny-haired man strutted like a proud peacock with his hen, except in this case the latter far outshone the male. His manner seemed tender and solicitous as he stroked his hand along her arm or squeezed her waist, bestowing his caresses most whenever others were around and she could not resist without drawing some notice. He seized upon this advantage when they stood at the gaming tables. There, under the guise of watching the fall of cards, he laid an arm about her shoulders and stroked her arm, now and then brushing his long fingers against her bosom. Lenore blushed beneath his careless caresses and cast a surreptitious glance about to see who might be watching. To her relief everyone seemed more interested in the game of cards and the high stakes that were being waged than in her; everyone, that is, but Marelda Rousse, who had come to stand beyond the players at the far side of the table. As always, Horace Titch was with her and seemed as nervous as ever as his eyes flitted about in search of the Natchez man, who had not yet made an appearance. Marelda was troubled by Malcolm’s display of affection, but she was amused by the distress it caused the younger woman. Any form of misery that came upon that one was bliss to her soul. She smirked as the green eyes clouded darkly beneath a disturbed frown, then raised a mocking brow when they found her and widened in surprise. Marelda offered a condescending smile and a meager nod of greeting. More than that might have indicated some slight forgiveness in her heart, and there was none.

Lenore’s evening took on a lighter, warmer sheen when Ashton stepped through the door. Unmindful of how Malcolm’s features tensed as he glowered at the other man, she filled her own gaze with the much-welcomed sight. Ashton was looking no less than magnificent in midnight-blue dress coat and trousers, gray silk vest, and blue-and-gray striped silk cravat. The usual crisp, white shirt struck a stark contrast to the bronze skin that had taken on a deeper, richer hue since his venturing to Biloxi. As he paused in the doorway, his gaze wandered searchingly through the guests, and when it touched her, his questing perusal ended. The green-brown eyes swept her with a slow, unhurried regard, then, lifting to meet hers, communicated a compliment with a warmth that was clearly unmistakable. If love was a substance to be seen and felt, then it was what she saw in his eyes and felt at that very moment. He wrapped her within its tender tendrils, and for a small space in time she reveled in her spiraling senses. She loved him; she could no more deny that fact than she could dismiss what he conveyed to her now.

At her side Malcolm sneered: “I suppose the fool thinks he can whisk you off to his cabin while you’re here aboard his ship. He’d like nothing better than to show you a lengthy view of the ceiling.”

Lenore coughed as she choked on her wine, and she turned her face away, delicately clearing her throat as a flush of color crept into her cheeks. She could not bring herself to tell Malcolm that she had already savored that view. Not only once, but on several different occasions.

An amused chuckle drew Lenore’s regard back to the man at her side. “Wingate has no doubt arranged this whole affair to bring about such an end, but I have no intention of letting that happen.” The dark eyes dropped to her. “You will stay by my side throughout the evening, madam. I have not forgotten the sight of you favoring the man with a kiss on the shore, and I wouldn’t want you to embarrass me by falling all over him here.”

“I don’t intend to fall all over anyone, Malcolm,” she stated crisply.

“Ah, my dove, I see I’ve ruffled your feathers.” He laughed without humor. “Well, ’twill be more than your feathers I’ll ruffle if I ever catch you with him, and I will start by gelding the man…before your eyes.”

Lenore stared at him in horror and dismay, dreading the day when she would have to tell him that she was carrying Ashton’s child. She shivered as his hand lightly caressed her arm and carefully lowered her eyes to hide her distaste.

Ashton sipped his drink as he watched the broad hand glide fondly over the arm of the one he loved. Unable to see her face at the moment, he could not tell how she was accepting this freely bestowed attention, but envy prodded him with cruel spikes, for it was strong in his mind that he should have been the one standing there claiming her as his wife. He noted Marelda nearing the couple and distantly wondered what mischief she was brewing.

The dark-haired woman halted before the pair and extended her hand to Malcolm, who immediately affected a gracious mien as he accepted it.

“I don’t think we’ve met, sir,” she murmured warmly. “I am Marelda Rousse….” She turned aside to indicate her escort of the evening: “And this is Mr. Horace Titch, a good friend of mine.”

Gallantly Malcolm brushed his lips against the thin fingers. “Malcolm Sinclair, at your service, my lady,” he vowed and, straightening, rested a hand on the small of Lenore’s back, feeling her stiffen as he did so. “And this is my wife, Lenore Sinclair.”

Marelda’s eyes briefly touched Lenore, and her smile grew slightly mocking. “I had the pleasure of meeting your wife while she was at Belle Chêne. Except that then, everyone…that is, almost everyone…thought she was Ashton’s wife.” She nodded in a curt acknowledgment of Lenore. “Your jewels are lovely, my dear. They remind me of some I’ve seen before, except those were lost…or stolen….” She tossed the subtle gibe down like a thrown gauntlet and, then dismissing Lenore, turned back to continue her conversation with Malcolm: “I, of course, realized at the time that it was impossible for a drowned woman to come back alive, but Ashton was clearly befuddled and insisted that she was his wife.”

“He can be a difficult man,” Malcolm replied, briefly directing a cool glance toward that one.

“I see that you’ve had some disagreement with him.” At his brief nod Marelda laughed gayly and shrugged. “Haven’t we all.” She bestowed a tight smile on Lenore. “With the possible exception of your wife, of course. The two of them seemed quite cozy there for a time. It’s a wonder that you and Ashton didn’t end up in a duel.”

Malcolm raised a wondering brow as he considered his wife. “I fear Mr. Wingate took unfair advantage while my wife was in his home, but she has quite dearly rejected all thoughts of being his wife now.” The dark eyes met the hesitant glance of the green ones. “It’s been enjoyable having her home where she belongs.”

“I’ve heard that Ashton is still pressing the matter.” Marelda glanced aside at Horace, who was eager to accept any attention she gave him. His dark, watery eyes glowed with warmth until she continued: “Someone should tell him he’s not welcome here.”

Horace opened his mouth to deny the possibility that he would be the bearer of such a declaration. He thought he would just as soon avoid any frontal clash with Ashton, but when Marelda’s eyes hardened, Horace felt the sweat pop from his pores, and he groaned within himself. Hadn’t he done enough for her already?

“I’ve tried.” Malcolm put on an injured expression. “But the man is stubborn and refuses to listen, even to Lenore’s father.”

“I…ah…don’t think he listens too well,” Horace stated nervously.

“Then he should be shown,” Marelda suggested. “A man who is blind must be led about by the hand.”

“He doesn’t lead too well either,” Malcolm observed dryly.

“Come now,” Marelda cajoled and turned a taunting smile upon Lenore, noting how the color had drained from her cheeks. She could not believe the little twit cared enough for Ashton to become physically upset by their discussion. “There must be a way to deal with a man like that.”

“I…ah…think I’ll go out for a breath of fresh air,” Horace said and hurriedly excused himself. Wiping his heavily sweating brow, he hastened across the room. He would never object to Ashton Wingate getting his due. Indeed, he hoped it would fall upon him soon…but not from him personally.

As he stepped beyond a small grouping of people and came into a small open space, Horace raised his gaze and was startled to meet Ashton’s mildly amused and inquisitive stare.

“Good evening, Mr. Titch.” Ashton conveyed the greeting over the rim of his glass.

A chill coursed through Horace’s veins, and ducking his head, he stumbled away with a lame excuse: “I’ve got to talk to a man outside about some business.”

He charged out of the suddenly airless room and, gaining his escape, leaned against the outside wall to pant for breath. It seemed to be a growing fear of his that Ashton would one day take revenge for all he had done. A form moved in front of him, and not sure who it might be, he gasped in sudden fear.

“Mr. Titch?”

Horace sagged in relief. It was not the Natchez man, but the one he had consented to meet aboard the vessel.

Inside the hall Lenore fought her own discomfort as Malcolm’s hand settled on her bare shoulder and pulled her to him, but her growing nausea roiled up like an ugly serpent. Marelda had turned the topic to the weather, engaging the man in conversation, and observed the play of his fingers on the naked skin while she discussed the past history of violent storms along the coast. One of similar intensity raged up within her as she witnessed his casual caresses. It set her on edge that he displayed such an eager interest in his wife. Ashton had been equally enamored with the wench, and yet, when she, Marelda, had offered him the untainted gift of her body, he had coldly rejected her, as if she might be something worthless in his eyes. It galled her unmercifully that both men lusted after the little tart. Yet as she continued conversing with Malcolm, Marelda began to detect a subtle leer in his smile and eyes that hinted of an interest in her. The idea of extending an invitation to the man tickled her fancy. She could then show his haughty wife what it was like to lose a man to another woman.

“Tell me, Mr. Sinclair…”

“Oh, please, there’s no reason to be so formal,” he objected with a smile. “Malcolm is my given name, and I freely give you leave to use it.”

Marelda accepted the correction with a slight nod: “Malcolm, then.”

“That sounds better,” he replied. “Now, you were saying?”

“I was going to ask if you had ever toured the River Witch.” Her dark eyes glowed above a sultry smile. “There are a number of rooms to see, all rather quaint and cozy…very private. Would you care to see them? I’d be more than happy to show you around…and, of course, Mrs. Sinclair. I’m sure Ashton wouldn’t mind.”

Malcolm glanced aside at his wife, putting the question to her in the form of a raised eyebrow, but Lenore had been standing tense and very still throughout their conversation, hoping against hope that her nausea would go away. It seemed evident to her that Marelda Rousse quite literally sickened her. “I’m sorry, Malcolm, but I’m really not feeling too well at the moment.” She made the statement cautiously, hardly daring to breathe. The air in the room seemed stale and musty, and she had difficulty maintaining a calm demeanor while the heat pressed down upon her, and her stomach threatened to rebel against the strong wine. Even Malcolm could not mistake the pallor in her cheeks as she urged, “But please, go on without me.”

Malcolm inclined his head, readily accepting her direction. He could clearly see that she was ill, and he doubted that even Ashton Wingate could become amorous with a woman who was threatening to heave up her stomach. As for himself, he was going to indulge himself for a few moments and possibly initiate an intimate friendship.

When the two left, Lenore walked slowly and carefully through the press of people. Her goal was the nearest door, whatever direction that might be, and she dared not turn her head to see where Ashton was as she made her exit, for any slight movement might prove her undoing. As the night air settled its warm breath upon her, she heard Marelda’s distant laughter mingled with Malcolm’s deep chuckle and turned stiltedly in the opposite direction.

Ashton dabbed his handkerchief in a glass of water and leisurely strolled across the room. He left by the same door and then paused on the deck to listen. He thought he saw Horace Titch stumble back into the shadows farther down the passageway, no doubt to avoid meeting him, but he caught no glimpse of the one he wanted to see. He strode along the deck, his eyes probing the darkness between the lanterns until, on the far side of the steamer, he detected the pale glow of Lenore’s gown near the railing. He moved to where she leaned against a post and laid an arm about her shoulder, making her start and stare up at him in wide-eyed surprise.

“It’s all right,” he soothed in a whisper.

Lenore sagged against him in relief, feeling weak and completely drained. She marveled at his gentleness as he bathed her face, and beneath his tender ministering the waves of revulsion began to ebb.

“Feeling better?” he murmured after a moment.

She nodded lamely. “I think so.”

“Do you want to lie down in my cabin?”

“Oh, no. Malcolm would be angry.” She started to laugh, but gulped and waited until the twinge of sickness passed before she again attempted a smile. “I think Malcolm is afraid of the sights you’ll show me in your cabin.”

Ashton placed a gentle finger beneath her chin and lifted it until he could meet her gaze. The moon cast a multitude of starry lights in her eyes, and he lost himself in their tender warmth.

“You’ve been drinking,” she observed. The smell of brandy on his breath was strong enough to make her heady. “More than your usual glass or two, I’d wager.”

“Worry can drive a man to drink,” he replied wryly.

“Worry?” She searched his face with the inquiry. “What are you worried about?”

Ashton chafed as he confessed, “Malcolm…and his hands on you…and you being up there in the house with him all the time…while I have to stand and watch you from afar.”

Footsteps came along the deck toward them, and they looked around to see Malcolm approaching them with long, irate strides. His cravat was gone, and his shirt and vest were open down the front, showing his wide chest. Apparently he had been busy in the short time he had been gone.

“Something told me I’d find you making a pest of yourself!” Lunging forward, he caught Ashton’s shoulder and shoved him back against a post. “Damn you! I want you to leave my wife alone!”

“And I want you to leave mine alone!” The retort snapped back as Ashton tossed away the offending hand. He was not long on temper tonight.

Malcolm shook a large fist before the other’s nose threateningly. “She’s mine!”

Ashton scoffed: “I say not, and if you care to, we can settle the matter tonight.”

In a quick movement Malcolm slid his hand inside his coat and snatched forth a small derringer. Ignoring Lenore’s startled gasp, he shoved it beneath Ashton’s chin. “Don’t think you can make her a widow so soon, my friend.”

He had hoped to arouse at least the same show of concern he had seen in Ashton’s face on the beach, but this time the tolerant smile remained. Distantly Malcolm wondered if the icy rivers of the North coursed through his adversary’s veins. He craved to shake that unperturbed confidence just once and see the man grovel for mercy at his feet. He hated that unruffled composure almost as much as the man himself. “Go ahead. Move one muscle,” he urged. “I’d like to blow your head off. It wouldn’t distress me in the least to feed your carcass to the fish.”

“You have a witness,” Ashton calmly reminded him, “unless you intend to do away with her as well.”

“I’m sure she’ll be happy to be rid of you,” the younger man sneered.

“Malcolm, stop it!” Lenore was not as casual about the threat as the one who was being menaced. “Please! Put that thing away before you hurt someone!” Her fear mounted as he ignored her request, and her panic drove her to be forceful. “Put it away, Malcolm, or by all that’s holy, I’ll go to Ashton’s cabin and forget that I ever had anything to do with you!”

Ashton’s brows rose in heightened interest, and he taunted the man with a lopsided grin: “Well, what should the lady do?”

“Ashton!” Lenore cried, aghast at his careless disregard of the danger he was in. “He will kill you!”

The tiny derringer prodded Ashton under the chin as Malcolm’s fingers tightened convulsively on the ivory handle. He wanted so desperately to have the man out of his hair, but there was much he would lose, and he did not consider himself a fool when it came to what was important. Still, he trembled at the sheer temptation of what was at hand…until there was a loud clatch and something small and hard probed into his belly. Warily Malcolm’s eyes descended and then widened as he saw the bore of a somewhat larger pistol pressed into his midsection.

“I’ve had enough of your threats; now I have one of my own to give.”

Malcolm stared in rapt attention as Ashton’s words thudded into him like fists pounding against his chest. Or was it his heart that thumped so hard against the inner cavity?

“I’m going to start counting,” Ashton informed him, “and if you don’t kill me before I reach three, you won’t get another chance.” He stretched out his free hand and pushed Lenore gently away, ignoring her frantic pleas for them both to be reasonable. “One…” His eyes glittered as he felt the pistol shake against his throat. “Two…”

The weapon was jerked away with an angry curse, and Malcolm ground his teeth as he met the mockery in those hazel eyes. As he stepped back, Ashton slid his own pistol beneath his coat and, in its stead, pulled out a long cheroot, which he leisurely puffed alight.

“I suggest you take care with your threats from now on, Malcolm,” he said. “Someone might take offense and blow your fool head off.”

Malcolm did not appreciate the advice. “We’ll see what comes of all this, Mister Wingate.” Taking Lenore’s arm, he marched her along the deck, putting Ashton far behind him in a short amount of time.

Ashton followed at a slower pace, wishing he had Lierin’s approval to dismiss Malcolm from her life. Until he had it, he could do nauht but watch them from afar, and it was no easy or pleasant task.

Malcolm paused outside the gaming room to adjust his clothing and glared at his wife as he smoothed the lapels of his coat.

“Your cravat is gone,” she reminded him calmly and asked offhandedly, “Did Marelda enjoy her view of the ceiling? Or could she see much in that short a time? Indeed, you must have just completed the swiftest seduction ever performed.”

“Youuuu!” Malcolm growled. “Right when…” He searched about for the proper words and found none he could tell his wife. “Then it struck me, and all I could see was you…with him…having your fun with him!”

“Marelda was probably disappointed that you couldn’t finish what you had started.” Lenore lifted a brow to a lofty height as he pushed his face close and gnashed his teeth at her. “I’m truly sorry, Malcolm, that I disturbed your moment of conquest. If I see the matter correctly, you were only thwarted by your reluctance to have me do the same thing you were doing, and I find that rather amusing.”

His hand caught her arm again, none too gently, and gritting out a smile, he entered the ballroom and swept her into a waltz. They moved with stilted motion, each annoyed with the other, each angry, and each aware of the attention they had gained. It vexed Malcolm that the dance lacked the fluid grace of another he had been witness to, and that was the one when the Wingate man had led her in a swirling motion around the pavilion. Absent, too, were the appreciative comments made by the guests.

“Have I told you how divine you look this evening, madam?” he asked, trying to break the ice that encased her and held her reserved from him. “You’re the most beautiful woman here.”

Lenore caught a glimpse of Marelda coming into the room, and by the woman’s reddened countenance and the glare she tossed at Malcolm, Lenore decided the woman was none too pleased. “Marelda is back,” she informed him coolly. “And she’s looking slightly enraged. Don’t you want to go to her and make your amends?”

“She doesn’t matter to me,” he scoffed. “She’s only someone to relieve myself with until you yield to me.”

Lenore stared at him in amazement. “How can you even think of me yielding myself when you act like a rutting tomcat? And certainly not after you’ve been with Marelda.”

“Are you jealous?” He smiled, amused by the idea.

“Fear would better explain my reasons to avoid going to bed with you, Malcolm. I might catch something I don’t want.”

Malcolm’s ego was seriously deflated. “You’re a cold woman, Lenore Sinclair.”

She averted her face, remembering a time when she had played chase with Ashton through the master suite at Belle Chêne. Giggling and dropping pieces of her clothing in his path, she had fled before him, and it had seemed at the time that he had purposely delayed catching her until the last garment had followed the descent of the others; then with a long arm he had reached out and brought her close to him. There in his embrace she had teased him with a wanton kiss, then had pulled away and danced against him in a manner that Salome had never dreamed of. Was she truly cold? Or just particular about the man she was with?

She stiffened as Malcolm’s arm tightened about her narrow waist and brought her closer to him. He bent to drop a light kiss on the pale shoulder, now aware that Ashton had entered the room. He knew the other closely observed them, and his spirits soared as he thought how he could torment the man. His warm breath sighed close to her ear. “If your Mr. Wingate insists upon sniffing after you, my dear, then I think I should make him suffer.”

“What do you mean?” Worry was evident in the lovely visage as Lenore lifted her gaze to him again.

Malcolm loosened his embrace, allowing her to move back a step. His expression was almost cocky as he led her around the floor. “It’s obvious the scum wants to get into you, but since you belong to me, I shall remind him of that fact.” His fingers dallied at the small of her back, and he gave her a warning glare when she turned a bit rigid. “Be careful, my love. If you do not allow me this moment, I’ll make you pay dearly.”

“Pay?” She repeated the word with growing trepidation. “What is it that you’re trying to do?”

He tilted his head in Ashton’s direction. “I want that buffoon to realize finally just whose wife you are, and I’m going to make him rue the day he contrived this little gambit. While we’re here aboard the River Witch, you will allow me to touch you as much as I want to.”

“Do I detect a threat in your plan?” she asked with rampant sarcasm.

Malcolm seemed as smug as a pampered cat as he replied, “You have kept me from your bed for some time now, madam, but I am growing impatient. The idea of separate bedrooms is becoming intolerable, and I think the time will soon come when I must reaffirm our married status…just in case you’ve forgotten how it was between us.” His eyes dropped to devour the fullness above her gown. “Thus far I’ve been concerned for your welfare, but you seem fit enough to bear his attentions. So, why not mine? I am your husband.”

Ashton’s jaw tightened as he watched the lustful perusal sweeping the swelling bosom, and as the cabin boy passed with a tray, he reached for a liberally filled glass of brandy. He hated those probing gazes that were wont to linger there upon her breasts. He disliked the mouth that kissed her smooth skin and the hands that pressed her narrow waist. Perhaps he had made a mistake in creating interest among his friends for this occasion. At the moment it appeared that Malcolm was the only one enjoying the event.

Lenore stared up at Malcolm, aghast at what he proposed. “Are you saying that I must allow you to maul me in front of all these people?”

A corner of the large mouth drew up in a subtle sneer. “I don’t care about the others, my dear. My only concern is that fool who persists in calling you Lierin.”

Lenore nodded slowly in displeasure, beginning to understand his ploy. It was not passion for her that prompted him to be amorous as much as hatred and jealousy of the other man. “And if I don’t cooperate, you will force your attentions on me anyway.”

Malcolm shrugged indolently. “While you’ve kept to your chaste bed and denied me my husbandly rights, I’ve had to appease myself with harlots, but I’m getting tired of those bawdy butts twisting beneath me.” He stared intently into the wide emerald eyes. “I crave fresher game to sport with.”

“So either way I’m caught.” She assessed her situation drearily.

“Choose which is worse, madam.”

“I think you already know the answer to that.”

His eyes flared with the insult of her light gibe; then he chuckled sneeringly. “You think he can pleasure you more than I can?” He flung up his head and snorted contemptuously. “You don’t know very much about men if you believe that.”

“I’ve forgotten a lot, that’s true.” Her tone was bland. “But I’m relearning swiftly, and I’m beginning to think that I was in a state of distress when I married you, or else I saw something in you that just wasn’t there.”

There was a stir in the room, and everyone turned as Sheriff Coty came through the doors, holding a struggling Horace Titch by the scruff of the neck. Everyone gaped and gathered around as the lawman halted beside Ashton.

“Here’s one of your thieves, Mr. Wingate. I caught him red-handed, trying to sneak away with the rest of the pirates, but we caught some of ’em…and this one.” He shook Horace as a dog shakes a rat, much to the outrage of that one.

“You fool!” Horace twisted around on the tips of his toes, which were the only part of his body that could reach the floor and allow him some leverage to resist this humiliating seizure by the lawman. “I tell you I was being robbed myself! And they made me go with them!”

“Certainly, Mr. Titch, and you just happened to have these jewels in your pocket.” Sheriff Coty dipped a hand into his own pocket and pulled out a diamond pendant. “We found some of the guests locked in one of the forward cabins, and they had been robbed. They went out for a stroll on the deck, and that is when his men”-he nodded toward Horace-“caught them unawares and took what they had. It would have been only a matter of time before they came in here.”

“But I was out on the deck,” Lenore commented, clutching a hand to her throat.

“Then you were lucky, ma’am,” Sheriff Coty observed politely. “Someone musta been watchin’ over you.”

“And I was out there,” Marelda stated, pushing her way through the gathering.

“Marelda, tell them I didn’t have anything to do with this,” Horace pleaded.

“He a friend of yours, ma’am?” the lawman questioned.

“Yes,” Marelda replied slowly, wondering what trouble she might be letting herself in for.

“Well, that’s probably why you didn’t get robbed, ma’am. Mr. Titch likely told the brigands not to hurt any of his friends.”

“This whole thing is ridiculous!” Horace declared in outrage.

“That’s what I thought, too, when Mr. Wingate asked me to watch over his steamer, just in case someone tried anything. You can imagine my surprise when me and my men started seeing them thieves poppin’ out of hidin’ and then flittin’ across the dock to come on board. Looked like they planned it real good, except Mr. Wingate had a better plan.”

“Has any of the guests been hurt?” Ashton asked in concern.

“Just a mite shaken, that’s all,” the lawman replied. He jerked his head toward Titch again. “I’m going to put this one behind bars and then ask him some important questions.”

“Someone make him listen to me!” Horace pleaded as he held out his arms in desperate supplication. “I didn’t take anything! I tell you, the thieves put that necklace into my pocket to make it seem like I did.”

“That’s fine and dandy, Mr. Titch, but one of them brigands also said you were one of them. He met with you here on board, and you paid him to do it.”

Horace searched about for an answer. “I don’t know who he was. I just met him in the tavern, and he asked to speak with me while I was here on the riverboat.”

“What reason did he have?”

“None.” Horace shrugged his shoulders. “I mean, he didn’t give any. He just robbed me.”

“Well, if he did, you came out better for it with that there necklace in your pocket…at least, you would have, had you not been caught.”