Come Love a Stranger

Chapter One

MARCH 9, 1833, MISSISSIPPI

A CIRCLING, confused wind had pelted the earth with a slashing rain for most of the day, but as night settled its ebon shroud upon the land, the driving storm and the erratic breezes abated. The countryside grew quiet in hushed relief. The very air seemed to hang in breathless suspense as an eerie white mist formed close upon the ground. The wraithlike vapors twined in aimless questing through the marshes and black-shadowed thickets, spreading ever onward, filling low hollows and rills and curling about massive trunks. High above the invading tendrils, gnarled branches waggled their mossy beards and sent small droplets plummeting into the roiling mass. Now and again the pale moon pierced the broken, scudding clouds and, with its silvered light, created an unearthly landscape of dark shapes rising from a luminous haze. A decrepit brick mansion, hugged by a cluster of trees in an overgrown yard and bounded on four sides by a tall, sharply spiked iron fence, seemed to merge with the small cookhouse in the rear. Together they drifted in the sea of fog as time slowed its passing. For a fleeting moment nothing moved and nothing stirred.

A squeak of hinges intruded into the silence, but the sound ended almost as quickly as it began. A bush twitched unnaturally by the back door, and a shadowy form cautiously emerged from behind the shrub. A waiting hush prevailed as the phantom carefully surveyed the enclosed yard; then like a large, winged bat the darkly cloaked figure flitted through the swirling vapors to the side of the house and settled beneath billowing folds at its base. There, the latticework between a pair of stone supports had been pulled away, and gloved hands hastily struck flint to steel over a small, sheltered mound of gunpowder. Sparks splashed outward until a sudden blaze flared up and became a cloud of dense gray smoke which mingled with the mists. Three slow fuses came to life in the flash and continued to glow after the powder was spent. Burning steadily, they trailed off in different directions beneath the house, meandering ever so slowly toward shallow, gunpowder-filled gullies that led to separate piles of oil-soaked rags and dry kindling. A nervous chittering and squealing grew as the fuses shortened, and as if sensing the approaching disaster, the furred denizens of the dank crawl space fled their burrows and nests to scatter abroad in the night.

The stealthy shadow retreated from the house and quickly crossed to the iron gate. A broken chain was lifted from it, and the earth-bound specter slipped through the opening and dashed toward the edge of the woods where a horse was tethered. It was a fine, tall gelding with a white star blazoned upon his forehead, an animal made for swiftness. Once astride, the rider held him in check, keeping him on the sodden turf to muffle the sound of their passage. When the need for caution was behind them, the quirt lifted and came slashing down, setting the steed to flight. Of a common hue with the night, the pair were quickly swallowed by darkness.

A deathlike stillness followed their passing, and the lonely house seemed to moan in sorrow for its impending doom. While jewel-bright raindrops fell like tears from its rotting eaves, a low, confused murmur began to drift from the house. Soft cries, distressed whimpers, and the mad, muted laugh of some demented soul shredded the night with haunting, mindless sounds. The distant moon hid its face behind a thick cloud and continued on its arc across the sky, heedless of time and these earthly things.

The triad of hissing serpents slithered with blind obedience along their prelaid paths until bright flashes marked their arrival at their goals; then larger heaps of gunpowder sputtered alight, suffusing the nearby mists with a pale, flickering yellow light. The fires jumped and spread as they feasted on the oiled rags and dry timbers, and soon the fresh-born flames licked hungrily at wooden floors. One of the front rooms began to show a dim light in the windows, and it brightened apace until the room was filled with a growing inferno and the black bars that covered the windows stood out in gaunt relief. The heat intensified, and the crystal panes burst, spraying shards of glass outward and allowing the flaming tongues to escape and lick upward over the brick walls.

The low, disconcerted moans that had come from the upper level became high-pitched shrieks of fear and deep-chested cries of outrage. Gnarled fingers clawed frantically at the bars, while bloodied fists smashed panes of glass. A heavy pounding sounded on the locked front door, and a moment later it crashed open, spilling forth a huge hulk of a man. He shielded his bald pate with both hands as if expecting to be struck down and scurried far out into the yard before he turned and stared in awe, much like a small child viewing some great spectacular event. An attendant escaped from the rear of the house and fled into the darkness, leaving the others to fumble in haste with reluctant keys and stubborn locks. Wailing cries and sobbing pleas came from those imprisoned behind locked doors, piercing even the loudening roar of the flames. One hefty hireling sought the release of those he could easily reach, while another of a slighter build was spurred to herculean effort by the sure knowledge that no one else would free the trapped inmates of the madhouse.

Soon a living stream of straggly, pitifully confused humans began to emerge from the burning house. They were garbed in various stages of dress; some had snatched shirts and gowns before being dragged or hustled from their cells. A few had seized their precious blankets and fared better for their foresight. Attaining safety, they huddled together in scattered groups like bewildered children, unable to comprehend what had befallen them.

Time and again the dauntless attendant braved the inferno to bring the helpless to safety until timbers began falling, blocking his way. Stumbling from the burning asylum for the last time, he carried a frail, elderly man out and dropped to his knees in the yard, where he gasped air into his aching lungs. Spent and exhausted, the attendant took no notice of the creaking gate or the several forms flitting through it. The escaping inmates fled into the brush, and the shadowy blur of their garments was quickly lost in the oblivion of darkness.

A reddish aura rose from the growing core of heat and flame and spread into the night sky, while a heavy, rolling mass of choking gray billowed above it. The constant roar deadened the ears to any other sound, and the hoofbeats came unnoticed as the long-legged gelding returned to that same hill where he had earlier trod. He was reined to a halt by the darkly cloaked figure on his back. Within the deep folds of the cowl, translucent eyes shone with the reflected light of the fire as they searched the clustered groups inside the yard. For a moment the gaze was steadfast and intense; then the rider turned, as if startled, to scan the crest of the hill behind. Slim hands jerked the reins, pulling the mount’s head aside, and a thump of a heel urged him on again, this time into the dark, mottled shadow of the woods. The steed’s flaring nostrils gave evidence of their rapid flight, but the one on his back allowed him no pause. It was a reckless, zigzagging dash through the wooded coppice, but one that seemed capably directed by the rider. The gelding soared over a fallen tree that lay across their path and came to earth again, flinging damp clods of leaf and mud helter-skelter while it scattered a chilling breath of fear before its flashing hooves.

The rushing wind snatched the woolen hood away, freeing long, curling tresses from its confines and whipping them out like a waving gonfalon. Spiteful twigs plucked at the silken strands and clawed at the flapping cloak as the girl rode past. Oblivious to these minor attacks, she raced on, throwing a hurried glance over her shoulder. Her eyes swept back along the trail as if she expected to find some fearsome beast following in slavering pursuit. The sudden movement of a deer darting through the trees brought a startled gasp from her, and she urged the gelding on, not caring how swiftly they flew along the untried path.

An open field, well lighted by the moon and raggedly cloaked with drifting shreds of fog, beckoned through the thinning trees. A shallow sense of relief surged within her throbbing breast. The rolling mead held a promise of an easier path where the horse could be pressed to its fastest gait. Almost eagerly she struck her bare heel against the steed’s side, and the gelding responded with a surging bound, lifting his hooves and springing forward to clear the low spot where the mists had gathered.

Suddenly a bellowed, wordless warning, joined by the squeal of brake shoes dragging against turning wheels, broke into the rider’s consciousness. The gelding’s forefeet had not yet come to earth when she realized that she had plunged her mount directly into the path of an oncoming team and carriage. Cold, congealing horror seized her as the charging steeds bore down upon her, and for the barest instant she thought she could feel their snorting breath and see their blazing eyes. The black driver fought frantically to turn the racing team aside or stop the skidding carriage, but it was too late. A scream sprang from her throat, but it was quickly silenced by a jarring impact that struck the breath from her.

The wild gyrations of the closed landau had torn Ashton Wingate from his dozing and nearly turned him out of his seat, giving him cause to doubt his driver’s sanity, but when the conveyance careened sideways through the slippery mire, he had a clear view of the collision and its result. A flailing form catapulted away from the tumbling mount and soared through the air like an injured bird, then fell, striking the road embankment, and rolled down into the ditch. Before the carriage slid to a halt, Ashton had flung off his cloak and was out the door, swinging down. As he raced along the slippery road, his anxious gaze reached beyond the wildly thrashing horse to where the motionless figure lay partially submerged in the water at the bottom of the gully. The mists swirled about him as he slid down the slick bank. He splashed through the frigid water, heedless of the mud that sucked at his boots, and braced a knee against the embankment as he pulled the unconscious girl from the murky riverlet and propped her against the sodden, overgrown bank. Her face was half covered by a snarled mass of wet hair, and leaning close, he could not detect any stirring of breath from her lips. He freed her arm and experienced a sudden trepidation as it hung limp in his grasp. He failed to find a pulse in the finely tapered wrist, and almost in dread he pressed his fingers against the slim column of her throat. There, beneath the chilled skin, he found what he sought…the assurance that she was alive, at least for the moment.

Ashton glanced up to find his driver standing on the shoulder of the roadway above him. It was the coachman’s wont in the colder months, what with being exposed on the open seat, to secure his prized beaver hat atop his head by wrapping a long woolen scarf over its crown and knotting it snugly beneath his chin. Now in fretful worry, he was twisting the loose ends of the scarf in his huge gentle hands, unwittingly pulling his headgear down upon his ears.

“Calm yourself, Hiram. She’s still breathing,” Ashton assured the frightened man. The horse screamed again in pure anguish, nearly drowning his words, and lunged about as it tried to rise. Ashton indicated the maimed steed with a jerk of his hand. “Hiram! Fetch that old horse pistol you have in the boot and put that animal out of its misery!”

“Yassuh! Ah do it right now!” Though the task was hardly a pleasant one, Hiram was relieved to have something to occupy him.

Ashton bent over the girl again. She showed no sign of regaining consciousness, but lay inert against the bank where he had placed her. The chilly water was already making his legs ache, and her thoroughly soaked cloak was tangled about her like a frigid cocoon. He searched out the silken frogs that held the garment in place and plucked them free. His brows rose sharply in surprise when he peeled the sodden cloth away. Even in the unsteady light of the carriage lanterns he could see she was no fledgling lass as he had first supposed. The clinging wetness of the thin nightgown readily displayed the fact that she was a woman, still quite young but certainly mature enough to cause him to adjust his thinking.

A gunshot cracked sharply through the stillness, bringing Ashton’s head up with a jerk. The thrashing died away with a gurgling moan, and the horse slowly collapsed, to slide into the water at the bottom of the ditch. Against the glow of the moonlit mists, Hiram was darkly etched with sagging shoulders. Ashton knew the servant had a sympathy for animals beyond other men, but the events of the moment left no time for such mourning when a more precious life was at stake.

“Hiram! Come on! We’ve got to get this girl home!”

“Yassuh!”

Spurred to action, the black came running back as Ashton extracted the injured woman from the bonds of her soggy cloak and lifted her in his arms. He raised her high, letting her head loll over his shoulder, then began the scrambling struggle up the slippery embankment to the roadway. Hiram was there to lend a hand the last step or two and sprinted on ahead to open the carriage door. As Ashton climbed inside, the servant mumbled a fervent prayer that all would be well. Death had been a cruel visitor to the Wingate man in the last ten years, first plucking the lives of his parents during a storm which swept away their home in the Carolinas; then three years ago it had come in the guise of a gang of river pirates who had disabled his stern-wheeler and caused the drowning of his new bride. Hiram was sure that if there was a choice, neither of them would elect to see the dreaded dark avenger for some time to come.

“Give me a moment to get settled,” Ashton tossed over his shoulder as he placed the woman on his cloak and gathered it about her.

“Is she…is she gonna be all right, massa?” Hiram asked anxiously, craning his neck to see past the other’s back.

“I just don’t know, Hiram. I’m sorry,” Ashton replied. He lifted his unconscious charge onto his lap where his own body would cushion hers and she could be held safe from further bruising during the rough ride ahead. As he cradled the seemingly fragile form close against him, a scent of jasmine wafted through his senses. A pang of sweet recall tugged at his memory, giving him pause, but he thrust the sensation away with a fierce determination. It could not be, and he would not let his mind torture him with impossible yearnings.

He reached up a hand to brush the tangled web of red tresses from her face. The begrimed mass resisted his effort, but with gentle persistance he separated the strands and swept a portion behind her ear. As he leaned back and the light caught the pale visage, he drew in his breath sharply. His mind tumbled to a halt, and he was held frozen by what he saw.

“Lierin?” he breathed as a piercing pain of longing went through him.

Like an avalanche, memories of that time in New Orleans when he had met and married his young bride came crushing down upon him. Though he had been assured that Lierin was dead, he was now struck with the thought that a horrible mistake had been made and it was she who was with him now. If not, the resemblance this young woman bore to his late wife was, to say the least, most startling.

Hiram failed to find reassurance in the wide range of expressions that crossed his master’s face. “Massa, what’s wrong? Yo look like yo just seen a ghost.”

“Maybe I have,” Ashton murmured in stunned amazement. An overriding hope began to build within him, mingling with an odd mixture of elation and fear. If this was Lierin…

The urgency of the moment pressed upon him, and his tone conveyed his growing anxiety as he commanded, “Hiram! Get up there, and lay the leather to those horses! Hurry!”

The startled man slammed the door and quickly climbed up to his place. Ashton braced his legs against the far seat as the brakes creaked loose and Hiram’s shout echoed through the still night. “Yeeeaah! G’yap dere!”

The well-matched team lunged forward, taking their duties to heart, and in the cool evening air the steam rolled from their backs as Hiram drove them at a breakneck pace around a bend, not even checking their stride when the wheels caught a rut and the closed landau lurched sharply sideways. Ashton swayed with the careening motion and cradled his precious charge as if it were his own heart he carried. As he bent over her, his spirits soared with unaccustomed joy, and he closed his eyes as a prayer filled his soul: “Oh, God, let it be Lierin…and let her live!”

The shifting light of the carriage lanterns lent her pale skin a golden hue that belied the chilling touch of it while it teased him with haunting views of the delicate features. His fingers trembled and his brow creased in a pained frown as he tenderly touched the discolored swelling on her forehead, that same which once he might have kissed with loving affection. His emotions were unmercifully churned. While his hopes climbed to lofty heights with the hope that this was his own beloved Lierin, his fears at the same time ran as deep as a bottomless cavern, for he could not guess the extent of her injuries. It would be cruel fate if, after finding his wife alive, she was again taken from him. Indeed, he might find himself icapable of coping with the tragedy all over again.

Letting out his breath slowly, Ashton attempted to gather his scattered thoughts into some semblance of logical order. Was he just being plagued by memories of his dead wife? Was he going mad? Did he see a dearly remembered visage on another because of some trick of his mind? Was it only the rising hope of an aborted dream that made him think that it was she? After all, he had known Lierin less than a month before exchanging vows with her. Several of his friends in New Orleans had teased him about marrying her in an anxious fever while barely knowing her name. Then the black hand of tragedy had struck, and he had seen his love swirled away from him in currents dark and foul. Since that time he had counted the days until they had aged into three years, a month, and a week short a day. Now here she was again…or some young woman incredibly like his memories of Lierin. He had to allow that there was room for error, and yet he resisted his doubts, though he knew he could be leaving himself open to more pain and grief.

Gently he traced his lean fingers along her cheek, pausing at her temple until he felt the faint throbbing of a pulse. A sigh of relief slipped from him, but he could not ease the pounding of his hart.

A shout from Hiram announced their approach to the plantation house, and Ashton peered through the darkness toward the distant glow of lanterns that marked the mansion’s presence among the huge towering oaks. Beyond sweeping grounds Belle Chêne stood with the magnificence of a French château, buttressed on either side by wide wings and tall trees. The thought flickered through his consciousness that he was at last bringing home his love.

As the landau neared the structure, Ashton became aware of the carriages crowding the lane and a number of horses tied to the hitching posts. He could only surmise that his grandmother had seized upon the excuse of his homecoming to have a party. His eyes passed gently over his companion. The elder lady would hardly be expecting this latest turn of events. His entrance with an unconscious and improperly garbed woman would likely give her a turn. After his brief courtship and marriage in New Orleans, Amanda Wingate had become leery of her grandson’s jaunts downriver, and here he was returning from another such trip. It mattered naught to him that the incident would add grist to the grinding mill of gossip, but he had to consider that his grandmother was getting on in years.

Hiram stood on the brake, and in the lane the tethered horses stamped their feet in sudden distrust of this apparition that careened wildly through their midst. The landau was brought to a skidding stop in front of the verandah. There, the black man scrambled down and hurried to snatch open the carriage door. Ashton bundled his cloak carefully about his treasured burden and pressed her head upon his shoulder to protect her face from the crisp air. As he did so, the illusive scent tore through his senses once again, unlocking all the yearnings he had held in check these past three years. Their time together mght have been brief, but he knew without a doubt that it had not been lacking in quality and worth.

“Send a fast rider for Dr. Page,” Ashton barked over his shoulder as he bore her up the steps.

“Yassuh!” Hiram was quick to respond. “Ah send Latham ridin’ out lickety-split.”

Ashton’s long, swift strides took him across the porch to the door. He fumbled with the knob until the catch clicked free; then he braced himself to kick the portal wide. The butler had almost accomplished the same duty, having heard the carriage arrive, and was there in the front foyer when the door burst open. As Ashton shouldered his way through with his burden, the usually imperturbable Willis stumbled back with sagging jaw. It was certainly not a moment for which his training in decorum had prepared him.

“Massa Ash-” His voice broke on a high note, and he had to clear his throat to start again. “Massa Ashton, it sho’ good to see yo, suh….” His speech fled completely as a snarled strand of red hair tumbled from the folds of the black woolen cloak. His prepared greeting somehow failed to fit the occasion, and he could only gape in stunned awe as the master of the house strode past.

Amanda Wingate shared the servant’s dismay when she led her sister and several guests from the parlor into the wide hall, halting Ashton’s progress to the stairs. Her attention was snared by the slimly curving bundle he carried and the telltale red tress, and her mind and heart gathered speed as she closed the space between them.

“Good heavens, Ashton!” She pressed a trembling hand to her bosom. “Have you stolen a march on us again and taken yourself another bride?”

Ashton felt the urgent need to take the girl upstairs, but he knew he should give his grandmother some sort of explanation for his entry. “It’s not often anyone steals a march on you, Grand-mere,” he murmured, using the form of address his own mother had affectionately reserved for the older woman. “However, in this case…”

“Amanda,” Aunt Jennifer cautiously whispered, laying her hand upon her sister’s arm, “perhaps we’d better not discuss what Ashton has done this time. At least, not while we have guests.”

Amanda suppressed the questions that burned in her, but she was still worried and confused. From the stillness of the one being borne, she inferred a state of oblivion, and she could think of no logical explanation for what she was seeing except what she had immediately assumed, that Ashton was carrying his sleeping bride to his chambers. She could sense his impatience to be on his way as he kept edging toward the stairs. She was about to remove herself from his path when the cloak slipped slightly, allowing a glimpse of the shadowed face beneath the satin-lined garment. “Quite lovely…” she mused, not at all surprised that he should choose such a beautiful wife. Then her eyes widened as the wrap continued its sliding descent, revealing thinly clad limbs, and she finished the initial thought in an unplanned gasp as she grabbed the wayward garment. “And quite unsuitably garbed!”

Amanda glanced around to see who else had viewed the display and was dismayed by the proximity of several elderly matrons whose mouths hung slack in shock. Whispers began as a small, murmuring ripple and quickly became waves of conjectures that surged rapidly through the guests, with the words nightgown and girl being tossed along the crest.

“Grand-mere, it’s not what it seems,” Ashton whispered urgently, seeking to allay her fears.

Amanda moaned softly. “I don’t know if I can bear the truth.”

Aunt Jennifer leaned near to bolster her sister’s courage. “Remember, Amanda. Papa always said to keep an even mind in the face of adversity.”

A man jostled his way near, and, having heard only part of the exchange, urged in a friendly manner, “Come on, Ashton. Let’s see what your new bride looks like. It’s about time you took yourself another wife.”

“Bride!” a strident feminine voice screeched from the adjoining room. “Wife!” There was a bustle in the crowd as the woman began to push her way through. “What is going on here? Let me by!”

Aunt Jennifer’s own composure crumpled a bit as she mumbled beneath her breath, “I do believe this is just the time Papa was talking about.”

A tall slender brunette stumbled forth and brought herself up with badly frayed dignity to view the newcomers. Marelda Rousse’s dark eyes followed the long fall of damply tangled red hair and widened as they dropped to Ashton’s wet trousers, then flew in questioning horror to his face. Breathless with worry, she struggled for composure. “Ashton, what is the meaning of this? You look as if you’ve been rolling in the swamp with this girl! Have you really gone and taken yourself another wife?”

Ashton chafed at this unexpected turn of questioning, but he had no intention of spilling his heart and his hopes before so many. His only concession would be to make them aware of the injured state of the one he carried. “There was an accident with the carriage, Marelda, and the girl was hurt when she was knocked from her horse.”

“She was out riding in her nightgown? At this hour?” Marelda cried. “Really, Ashton, how can you expect us to believe a story like that?”

Ashton’s jaw tensed with his growing irritation. Marelda Rousse had dared many things, but never had gone so far as to question his word, especially in his own home and before so many. “I don’t have time to explain now, Marelda,” he answered curtly. “The girl needs attention. Please, just let me by.”

Marelda opened her mouth to complain, but her words were squelched by his piqued frown, and she could only move aside as she sensed a growing current of anger in his manner. There were times when Ashton Wingate seemed almost cruel in his reticence, and she knew it would do her little good to insist.

Amanda was embarrassed that she had allowed her own suspicions to leap out of control and saw the need for urgency. “The pink room in the east wing is empty, Ashton. I’ll fetch Willabelle and send her up immediately.” As her grandson strode toward the stairs, she gestured to the young black girl who had been watching the proceedings from the upper balustrade. “Luella May, run ahead and make the room ready.”

“Yas’m, Miz Amanda!” the girl answered and promptly darted off.

Leaving behind a rising murmur of voices, Ashton swiftly climbed the winding staircase that swept upward against a curving wall to the second level. Three years ago he had dreamed of carrying his young bride up these same stairs and whisking her away to his own bedchamber. Now here he was, holding close to his heart a woman he believed was Lierin. Were she conscious, he might have settled the matter of bedrooms with a quick inquiry, and he would no more know the loneliness that had haunted him since that tragic night on the river.

He arrived at the guest room to find Luella May folding down the covers on the canopied bed. The girl quickly smoothed a narrow hand over the sun-whitened sheets, readying the place for the injured one before moving out of his way. “Dere ain’t no need to worry yose’f, Massa Ashton,” she assured him. “Mama be here directly, and she know what to do fo de lady. She knows all dere is to know ’bout doctahing….”

Ashton hardly heard the girl’s chatter as he lowered his charge to the bed. Reaching to the bedside table, he wet a cloth in the washbasin and began to gently wipe away the mud from the colorless cheeks. His task complete, he held the lamp close and carefully studied the oval face, seeking out whatever truth was to be found there. His eyes followed the slim, straight line of her nose downward to the soft, pale lips. The darkening bruise temporarily marred the perfection of her brow, but the creamy skin was otherwise unflawed. Soft brown brows swept upward in a delicate arc above thickly fringed black lashes, and he knew, if this was indeed his wife, the eyes were a deep emerald green and as lively as new leaves dancing before the wind. Her thick hair was matted with broken twigs, dried mud, and dead leaves, but the debris could not hide the bright hue. She was the very image of the one he had held so tenaciously in his memory. It had to be his wife!

“Lierin,” he breathed in a yearning whisper. How long had he kept that name from his lips? Was he wrong in letting it escape for a second time this evening?

A tall woman of generous proportions entered the room and made a brief analysis of the situation before she gave hurried instructions to the girl: “Go fetch dat nightgown Miz Amanda was lookin’ for, an’ bring some hot water so’s Ah can give dis lady a bath.”

Luella May took off like a shot, and her mother hastened to the bedside to examine the bruise on the cool brow. Ashton watched from the end of the bed, where he gripped a post with white-knuckled tension.

“What do you think, Willabelle?” he asked anxiously. “Is she going to be all right?”

The housekeeper heard the concern in his voice, but did not pause as she lifted the girl’s eyelid. “Now don’ go frettin’ like dat, massa. God willin’, dis li’l gal gonna be fine and dandy in a few days.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

Willabelle wagged her white kerchiefed head sorrowfully. “Massa, Ah ain’t no doctah. Yo jes’ gonna have to wait an’ see.”

“Damn!” Ashton growled and, turning from her, began to prowl about the room in restless agitation.

Surprised by his manner, the housekeeper considered him with increasing concern. There was more here than just what appeared on the surface. When the waters were troubled, one could bet that beneath the roiling turbulence there was a cause. She was even more certain of this when he returned to the foot of the bed.

“Isn’t there something we can do until Dr. Page arrives?” he pressed.

“Yassuh,” the black woman answered solemnly. “Ah can bathe her an’ make her fresh an’ comfor’ble, whilst yo go an’ do de same fo’ yo’se’f.” She met his piqued frown, knowing she had offered him what wisdom she could.

Reluctantly Ashton relented, finding no argument to put forth. Laying his coat over his shoulder, he strode to the door and from there gazed back at the one in the bed. She lay deathly still, and it filled him with a cold, expanding dread. “Take good care of her, Willabelle.”

“Ah aims to, massa,” she vowed. “Don’t yo worry ’bout dat.”

Ashton swung the portal closed behind him and slowly made his way down the corridor. Pausing a moment beside the upper balustrade, he rested his hand on the polished rail and bowed his head in thought, trying to find answers for the many questions that plagued him. He knew it would have taken a miracle for Lierin to reach the far shore after she fell into the river, but if she had accomplished such a feat, why had she not let them know she was there? The River Witch had remained on the sandbar until the repairs were made, giving his men enough time to search several miles up and down the river, but they had failed to find any trace. If she had not drowned, why in the three years following the incident had he not received some word from her?

Finding no plausible explanations to encourage his hopes, he rolled his head back along his shoulders in an attempt to ease the ache that had formed behind his neck. As he tried to push the troubling doubts to the back of his mind, he deliberately focused his attention on his surroundings. He had built the mansion after accumulating some wealth, and now he wondered how Lierin would accept his home, if she would find it a delight as so many had before her, or if it would compare unfavorably with her father’s estate in England.

His gaze wandered over the pale marble floor of the lower hall and the delicately hued mural that swept around the curving wall. He saw things he had taken for granted for many months, while he remembered facts he had let slip from his mind. High above the circling balustrade, a large crystal chandelier hung from an elaborately plastered ceiling where dancing prisms of light frolicked and played and chased each other across the raised scrolls and flowers that formed the intricate pattern. No evidence now remained of the damage suffered when a drunken, fun-loving river rat from Under-the-Hill broke into the house and, encouraged by Ashton’s absence, threatened the servants by using the fixture for target practice. It was Amanda who had set the miscreant to flight when she had leveled a loaded gun at him. Later Ashton had demanded that painstaking care be taken by the craftsmen he hired to restore the hall to its former beauty; then he had sought out the brutish fellow who had caused the destruction and presented the bill to him. Just to even the odds in that rat hole by the river, he had taken a man with him, and between the two of them, they had taught the foolish buffoon and a full half-dozen of his cohorts a good lesson: keep their penchant for mayhem confined to the river’s edge and pay their bills when due, especially when the one doing the asking was Ashton Wingate, ably assisted by his huge black overseer, Judd Barnum.

Ashton continued on to his suite, but he could find no relief from the fears that beset him. Moving automatically, he doffed his muddied clothes and went through the process of washing, shaving, and dressing before he returned to the door of the guest room. Willabelle gently shooed him away, saying she was still attending the girl, and reluctantly he made his way down the stairs. When he entered the parlor, he was met by a veritable wall of eager male faces.

“Tell us about her, Ashton,” they urged.

“Who is she?”

“Where did you find her?”

“Is she from around these parts?”

“What was she doing out at night and all alone?”

“Is it true she was only wearing a nightgown?”

The questions flew at him with ever-increasing fervor, like a flock of disturbed bats. He held up a hand to plead for mercy and gave them a wry smile. “Gentlemen, please. I’m not a soothsayer. I can put no name to her at the moment. She’s not from this area and, as far as I can tell, no one that any of you know. To explain why she was out there in a nightgown would be difficult, except that there’s been a fire of some sort in the area, and she might have escaped from a burning house. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that she caught us completely by surprise when she came charging out of Morton’s Woods.”

“I hear she’s a real beauty, Ashton. How do you manage to be so lucky?”

Lucky! His mind screamed the word. How could they even suggest such a thing when he had lost his love and then perhaps…in the very act of finding her again…had nearly killed her? “I won’t consider myself lucky until I know she’s all right.”

“Aye, that’s true,” an elderly gentleman agreed. “If she’s seriously hurt, I think all this caterwauling about Ashton bringing her home will bear heavily upon our conscience.”

Marelda eyed Ashton from across the room, pricked that he had not seen fit to join her immediately. She contemplated several courses of action to convey her displeasure with him. Remaining distant for a noticeable period of time was one option, but when he seemed oblivious to her now, she could guess that such a ruse would be wasted. Had it been some other man, she might have fetched her wrap and left, but Ashton was an exceptionally handsome man. Indeed, a most magnificent specimen. Even in something less than the carefully tailored garments he now wore, he cut a figure to be admired, and she certainly had no wish to jeopardize her tenuous relationship with him. Perhaps a more direct maneuver would be advantageous. After all, she had gained much already by her boldness.

Marelda approached her host with as much determination as a full brigade of charging horsemen. She had spent many an hour perfecting a pretty pout and gave Ashton what she considered a best effort as she slipped an arm through his.

“I should scold you, Ashton, for making such a startling entry tonight.”

Ashton accepted the hurried excuses of the other men and watched them scatter. They no doubt assumed Marelda’s confrontation would lead into a lover’s spat, and it was amazing to him how she had managed to establish herself as his chosen one. Still, he had to admit that as a widower he had been rather lax and blasé about her warming attentions and frequent visits. His indulgence had probably given encouragement to many unwarrented assumptions. “I apologize, Marelda. I didn’t plan ahead to create a scene.”

Marelda turned her head slightly to allow him an unhindered view of her profile. She knew she was pretty and was quite fond of her own silky black eyes and raven curls. “I suppose you couldn’t help the little dear throwing herself into your path, but you do seem to have that effect on women….” A sudden thought struck her, and she asked hopefully, “Or is she a child? She seemed so small….”

Ashton shook his head slowly. “Definitely more than a child!”

“And of course you would know that”-her pique was clearly audible-“having seen her in her gown. She certainly knew what to wear to catch your eye.”

For her comment she received a casual regard with a hint of bland humor hiding somewhere in it. She had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her in the back of his mind, but jealousy had already sunk its sharp claws into her and would not free her from its grasp. Finally he deigned to give her a lazy shrug. “Actually she was wearing a cloak over her nightgown.”

“She was still undressed underneath it!”

“Whatever your preference, Marelda,” Ashton rejoined with light sarcasm. “It doesn’t change the fact that it was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” Marelda scoffed. “She only waited to see if it was your carriage before driving her horse into it.”

“I’m sure Dr. Page will soon be here to disclaim any doubts about her condition.”

A high-pitched giggle came from behind them, and they turned, realizing they had gained an audience in the person of M. Horace Titch, a squat little man whose dark, liquid eyes seemed always on the brink of tears. Now he plainly relished his ability to deliver some news: “Doc Page can’t come.”

Ashton knew the fellow as a tiresome individual who made a point of minding everybody’s business but his own. Amanda only invited him out of friendship for his sister, a woman who had, by good common sense, saved a sizable inheritance and the family plantation from the bungling efforts of her brother. Horace apparently had not been gifted with the same talent for management or astuteness as the older sibling had inherited and was definitely the last person Ashton wanted to see tonight.

“The doc’s gone out to the Wilkins’ place,” Horace announced bluntly. “They’ve got another brat coming, and with the trouble the missus had the last time, Doc Page didn’t want to take any chances. Seems to me they’d be a sight better off if they were to lose it, considering the mouths they have to feed.”

Ashton smiled without humor. “Too bad there wasn’t someone as selective as you when you were born, Titch. They might have brightened the whole outlook of Natchez.”

Horace reddened profusely, and with his straight, dark hair standing out from his head, he gave a good impression of an enraged porcupine. “I…I’d advise you, Ashton, to keep a civil tongue in your h-head,” he stuttered. “Re-remember some of that cotton you haul on your boat belongs to me.”

Ashton laughed sharply. “I do business with your sister, Horace, and provide for her a larger profit than any vessel on the river. If she is ever of a mind to take her trade elsewhere, there’ll be another planter to fill the space.”

“Don’t even speak of it, Ashton,” Corissa Titch said as she joined the gathering. Somewhat brassy and unfeminine, she was not one to remain silent when there were matters to be set straight. “I know where I get the better value for our crops”-she stared hard into her brother’s reddening face-“even if Horace doesn’t.”

Horace met the hazel eyes of his host and recognized the mockery gleaming in their smoky depths. Unable to deliver the threats he wanted to, he stumped away, chafing and silently vowing revenge upon his host. Corissa shrugged a mute apology to Ashton and followed her brother, knowing how his moods were wont to wallow in self-pity. Sometimes she wondered what his fits of depression would lead to someday.

A servant paused beside Ashton to offer champagne, and he used the respite to cool his irritation. Taking two goblets from the tray, he handed one to Marelda. She lifted hers in silent toast, and her heart tripped a time or two as she looked into the handsome visage. His features were crisp and classic, lightly bronzed by the wind and sun. His lips were sometimes warmly expressive, other moments stern and forbidding. Discounting the heavily lashed appeal of those smoky green-brown eyes flecked with gray, she sometimes thought his cheeks were the most expressive and fascinating feature about him. Beneath well-sculptured cheekbones the flesh was taut over muscles that were wont to tense and flex when he became angry.

Smiling up at him with glowing warmth, she reached out and caressed his lean, brown knuckles. “Welcome home, darling. I missed you. I missed you terribly.”

Thick lashes were lowered over cool, hazel eyes as he stared into the pale amber wine. His thoughts were on Lierin, and it was a long moment before he responded: “It’s always good to come home.”

Marelda ran her fingers beneath his lapel, and the feel of the firmly muscled chest against the back of her hand brought a curious stirring in her own breast. “You worry me when you go off to New Orleans on one of your ventures, Ashton,” she murmured. “It does something to you, makes you reckless. Why can’t you just stay home and take care of your plantation like any normal planter?”

“Judd is more than adequate as an overseer, Marelda,” he stated, “and I have no qualms about leaving the management of this plantation in his hands while I search out potential customers for my steamboat trade.”

“You set a lot of store by Judd Barnum, don’t you? Indeed, you’re the only planter in these parts who has a black man for an overseer.”

“May I remind you, Marelda, that I am also thought of as one of the most successful. Judd has proved that he and his judgment are to be trusted.”

Marelda was never one to give up easily. “It just seems like you’d get more work out of your blacks with a white man taking over Judd’s position.”

“Make no mistake, Marelda. Judd expects them to work and work hard, but they’re given enough food and rest to compensate for the hours they spend in the field. Considering Belle Chêne’s prosperity, there’s absolutely no reason for me to change the way I run the plantation. Now”-Ashton stepped back with a shallow bow of apology-“if you will excuse me. I thought I heard Latham returning, and I’d like to hear what he has to report.”

Marelda held up a hand to delay him, intending to invite herself, but he quickly turned on a heel and was gone. She sighed and watched him leave the parlor. At times she was awed by his ability to bring life into a room with his mere presence and even more sure that, when he left, he took the joy with him.

Ashton made his way into the kitchen just as the boy came running in from the stables. Between gasps the lad announced that the doctor would not be coming until morning, but it was for a much different reason than they had supposed.

“De madhouse burnt, Massa Ashton,” the youth explained. “Right down to ashes an’ cinders, all ’ceptin’ de cookhouse. Ah seen it all mahse’f when Ah tracked down de doctah dere.”

“The madhouse!” Amanda gasped in horror, having entered a moment earlier with her sister. “Oh, how dreadful!”

“De doctah say he gotta tend de ones what’s hurt, and dat’s why he cain’t come,” Latham explained. “Dere’s some been burned, but mostly dey got out alive.”

“Mostly?” Ashton made the singular word a question.

Latham shrugged. “Some o’ dem madfolk, dey either ’scaped or dey died in de fire. Dey ain’t all been counted fo’ yet, Massa Ashton.”

“Did you make it known to Dr. Page that we will need his services as soon as possible?” Ashton pressed.

“Yassuh!” the young black readily affirmed.

Ashton drew the cook’s attention from the hearth as he asked, “Do you think you can find this boy something to eat, Bertha?”

The old woman chortled and swept her hand to indicate the food-laden table. “Dere’s plenty fo’ dat chil’, massa.”

“You heard her, Latham.” Ashton inclined his head toward the feast. “Help yourself.”

“Thank yo, suh!” Latham responded with enthusiasm. Eager to sample his reward, he found it difficult to restrain himself as he fetched a plate and went around the table selecting from the vast assortment of delectables.

Ashton went to stand near the hearth and frowned into the flickering flames. He was troubled by the news the boy had reported and equally confused by Lierin’s meager attire. The location of the madhouse was a good jaunt from town and yet only a short distance beyond the woods where she had emerged. If she had not escaped from the house and had been on her way out to Belle Chêne instead, why would she have come dressed in such a manner and riding so recklessly?

“Those poor, confused souls,” Aunt Jennifer lamented, shaking her head sadly.

“We must take a wagonload of food and blankets over tomorrow,” Amanda proposed. “Perhaps some of the guests will want to help, too. I’m sure there’ll be a need for lots of clothing and quilts….”

Aunt Jennifer frowned suddenly in thought. “Ashton, do you suppose the injured girl could have been from the madhouse?”

His head snapped up in surprise, and as he stared at his great-aunt, he could find no reply to give her. It was his grandmother who came to his aid.

“What would make you think such a thing, Jennifer?”

“Because there was some speculation about her escaping from a burning house, and now we hear the asylum has burned down.”

“Probably only a coincidence,” Amanda suggested, “and nothing to fret about. I’m sure the child will be able to explain it all when she wakes.”

Ashton savored the word coincidence. The two events could not really be related, he told himself, nor could he give serious credence to the idea of Lierin being in such a place. It seemed foolish to muse on the possibility and to let his imagination race far ahead of his logic.

He returned to the guest bedroom and, pushing open the door, paused on the threshold for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the meager light. A low fire burned in the hearth, softly illumining the room, while a chimneyed candle on the bedside commode cast a yellow glow across the tall, tester bed and its occupant. The fragile features remained still and undisturbed, and for a moment his heart halted in sudden trepidation; then he detected the slight rise and fall of her chest, and he was able to breathe again.

Across the room Willabelle pushed herself from a rocking chair, making him aware of her presence. “Ah been ’spectin’ yo back.”

“How is she?” he asked, approaching the bed.

The black woman joined him there. “She ain’t woke up yet, Massa Ashton, but it seems like she be restin’ easier now. She sho’ been bruised, an’ she gots a funny welt on her back dat Ah cain’t quite figger out, almost like somebody done hit her.” Willabelle rubbed the slender hand lying on top of the covers. “Luella May he’ped me wash her hair, an’ we dried it, den Ah give her a bath an’ put a fresh gown on her. Jes’ bein’ warm an’ clean might he’p.”

“I’d like to be alone with her for a while,” Ashton murmured.

Willabelle looked up at him in surprise. His distant expression did not invite inquiry, but she delayed a moment out of her concern for him. He had grieved so deeply after the loss of his wife, she could not help but worry what effect this accident was having on him. “Miz Amanda was up here a li’l while ago, an’ she’d reckon it mighty strange yo bein’ up here alone wid a stranger.”

“I’ll have to talk to her.”

His laconic reply prevented any glimpse of his inner emotions, and she made no further attempt to draw him out. She went to the door with a comment. “Ah reckon yo be wantin’ to know: Miz Marelda, she done made plans to spend de night again.”

Ashton sighed heavily, accepting the news with disappointment. One night could be dealt with, but Marelda was wont to extend her visits until it served her purpose to leave.

“Call if yo needs me, massa,” Willabelle murmured gently and closed the door behind her.

As the sounds of the woman’s footsteps faded in the hall, Ashton turned to the bed. He could feel the ache of loneliness building in his chest as his eyes slowly traced the softly curving form. She lay on her back with her long, red hair tumbling over the pillow. He reached out to touch her hand and found the skin soft and smooth beneath his fingers. The nails were long and carefully tended just as Lierin had always kept hers. They brought to mind a night aboard the River Witch when she had leaned over his shoulder as he worked at his ledgers and playfully raked her fingernails across his bare chest. Continuing to tease him, she had nibbled at his ear and rubbed her lightly clad bosom against his shirtless back. After such sweet temptations, recording figures in a stodgy accounting book had seemed far less important.

His mind flowed easily into the natural channel of remembering Lierin, and he relaxed his tightly held restraint, allowing his thoughts to wander where they would. He lowered his weight to the edge of the bed, recalling an afternoon in a hotel room when the sunlight had filtered in through louvered shutters and, with its radiance, had set the sheer white hangings of the bed aglow, wherein he and his young wife had lain entwined. Her jasmine fragrance had drifted with heady effect through his senses while he reveled in their shared intimacy. The pale-hued breasts, sleek limbs, and creamy-skin nakedness had whet his appetite until he had been driven to touch, taste, and possess, and in their brief time together they had savored their newly wedded bliss full measure. If it were possible to enrich such a deep and consuming love, then they had done just that. The intimate moments they had shared had made him marvel, for though he had experienced similar ventures with other light-o’-loves, he had never taken hold of the real treasures of true love until Lierin.

The shadow of the door, elongated by the well-lighted hall, moved across the ceiling, jarring Ashton back to reality. He looked around as Marelda cautiously entered the room.

“Ashton? Ashton…are you here?” she called softly, then glanced toward the bed as he rose to his feet. “Oh, there you are. I was beginning to wonder if I had the right room. I saw no one….” She paused and looked about as her words dawned with full realization; then she stared with hardening eyes at the woman in the bed before lifting a rather skeptical gaze to him. “I thought at least there’d be someone else in the room, Ashton. This is hardly proper.”

“No need to fear, Marelda,” he said with a trace of sarcasm. “I haven’t ravished the girl in her helpless state.”

Marelda was nettled by his mockery. “Really, Ashton, you know how the gossips are. Your character would be lambasted from here to Vicksburg if this were known.”

“If what were known?” A mildly tolerant smile lifted a corner of his lips. “That I was here alone with an unconscious woman who is my-” He bit off the word that would have staked his claim to the girl. How could he issue such a statement when there were so many questions yet to be answered? Still, too much had already been said, and he knew that Marelda would not give him rest until he finished with what he had started.

“Your what?” Marelda barked out. “What is that little trollop to you?” She grew more enraged by his coolly tolerant stare. “Dammit, Ashton, I want to know!”

Crossing to the door, he pushed it closed to prevent her voice from carrying through the house, then faced her with a suggestion. “I think you’d better sit down, Marelda,” he said calmly. “You’re not going to like what I have to say.”

“Tell me!” she cried.

“I believe the lady is”-he smiled apologetically-“my wife.”

For the second time that evening Marelda was thrust into a state of near panic. “Your wife?” She seemed to reel from the blow of his revelation and had to grasp hold of a nearby chair for support. She continued in a less volatile tone, though her voice was ragged with emotion: “I thought you said you hadn’t taken another wife.”

“I haven’t.”

She frowned at him, totally confused. “What are you trying to tell me?”

Casually he indicated the one in the bed. “I’m saying that I believe this woman is my first wife, Lierin.”

“But…but I thought you said she had drowned,” Marelda stammered in bewilderment.

“And that was what I also believed until I saw this woman’s face.”

Marelda considered him a long moment in deepening suspicion; then, setting her jaw, she went to the bed, lifted the candle, and held it close to the pillow where she could have a better look at the one lying there. Her eyes flared as she viewed the fairness of her rival, then narrowed with jealous hatred. Had she been alone, she might have added a few more bruises to that pale visage, for this was the woman who had already caused her so much pain and anguish. Or was she?

Realizing Ashton had spoken in an attitude of conjecture rather than fact, she faced him, taking hold of whatever uncertainty he might be harboring and using it as a battering ram against him. “Surely you’re mistaken, Ashton. Your wife has been dead for three years now. You said yourself that she fell overboard, and you were unable to save her because someone shot you. Have you considered how farfetched the coincidence would be if this woman were truly your wife? You must admit that the likelihood of Lierin arriving in Natchez and then colliding with your carriage merely by chance is much too preposterous to accept. Somehow someone planned this whole thing as a scheme to make you think Lierin is alive, so you’d be tricked into giving her everything she asked for. Why, I bet right now the little darling, whoever she is, is hearing every word I say.” Marelda gazed contemptuously at the still form. “But then, she’d have to be a very talented actress, or you’d have seen through her ploy from the beginning.”

“Marelda,” he said flatly, “it is Lierin.”

“No!” she railed, slashing a fist downward through the air. “She is just some slut who is trying to get your money!”

“Marelda!” His voice had hardened. “Lierin has no need of my wealth. Her father is a rich merchant in England, and she has properties of her own in New Orleans and Biloxi, left to her by her kin.”

“Oh, Ashton, please look at this objectively,” Marelda implored, deciding a change of tactics might influence him. She went to him and tried to slip her arms about him, but he set her from him impatiently. A small sob caught in her throat, and tears began to spill down her cheeks. “As sure as you are, Ashton, that this is Lierin, I am just as convinced that it’s not. If it were, what kept her away from you these past three years? Would you call her absence wifely devotion?”

“There’s really no need to discuss any of this,” he stated bluntly. “The matter will be settled when she wakes.”

“No, it won’t be settled, Ashton, for she will surely claim you are her husband, but it will be a lie, contrived by some money-hungry mind.”

“I would know Lierin anywhere.”

Dramatically Marelda straightened herself in the manner of one who faced the world alone. He was growing stubborn, and she needed time to think. “I’ll leave you now…with her…I shall go to my room, but I will not sleep. Remember, Ashton, how much I love you.”

A heroic martyr going gallantly to her doom could not have held her head as high as Marelda managed to do as she glided from the room. There was a brief but significant moment of suspense as she halted beyond the threshold, allowing Ashton to brace himself. Then the door slammed with a loud crash that was undoubtedly heard throughout the whole house. Ashton envisioned her flowing gracefully down the hall to her room, and he waited for the second thunderous closing of the door in the distance. He was not to be disappointed. The event sent a wave of noise echoing through the mansion and finally receded to be replaced by the rapid clatter of heels and the confused chatter of feminine voices in the hall. Ashton glanced up as the door was thrust open and could not subdue a smile as the startled pair of ancient siblings entered, gasping for breath.

“Good heavens, Ashton!” his grandmother exclaimed breathlessly. “What has taken hold of you? Why are you going about the house slamming all the doors?”

“Now, Amanda, don’t be harsh with him,” Aunt Jennifer coaxed. “With Dr. Page not coming until morning and with Ashton worried about the girl, you know he must be upset.” She looked to her nephew for affirmation. “Isn’t that true, dear?”

Amanda’s apprehensions were not to be set aside so easily. “I should have begged him not to take another trip downriver,” she fretted. “Something always happens when he goes to New Orleans. It’s almost like a bad omen.”

“Grand-mere, please calm yourself,” Ashton cajoled gently, taking her hands and drawing her to the hearth. “I have something to tell you that’s very important.”

She studied him with a dubious gaze. “First tell me why you were slamming the doors; then if your explanation seems reasonable, I’ll listen to the rest of what you have to say.”

Ashton chuckled and laid his arm about her narrow shoulders in an affectionate manner. “Would you believe me if I told you that it was Marelda who slammed the doors?”

“Marelda?” Amanda was astonished by his claim. “Whatever for, Ashton?”

“Because I told her that the injured girl is Lierin….”

“Lierin? Your wife Lierin?” Amanda questioned uncertainly. “But, Ashton…she’s dead.”

“She drowned, dear.” Aunt Jennifer patted his arm consolingly, sure that he had taken leave of his senses.

“No, she’s here. Alive! I cannot explain how she escaped from being drowned, but she’s here,” he insisted. “In this very room!”

Both women seemed stunned as they turned and went to the bed. Aunt Jennifer took the candle from the bedside table and held it where its tiny flame shone softly on the object of their perusal.

“She is pretty,” Aunt Jennifer observed.

“Exquisite,” Amanda corrected worriedly. She took a firm grip on herself, knowing that she must remain calm in the face of this latest event. Ashton had held to his grief so long, he might have unwittingly mistaken another of comparable looks for the woman he had loved so dearly. How could she be sure that he was not just fantasizing about his lost Lierin?

She glanced up as a thought struck her. There was a painting of Lierin hanging in Ashton’s chambers. Perhaps it would serve to confirm his claim or help present a denial. “Ashton, dear, I think the girl does bear a resemblance to Lierin’s portrait. Why don’t you get it and let’s make the comparison.”

Ashton complied with his grandmother’s wishes and returned at once to the guest room with the requested portrait in hand. One glimpse of the painting had reassured him there was cause to hope the girl and Lierin were one and the same.

In his short absence the two sisters had brought several lamps together around the bed and turned up the wicks to provide an abundance of light for a close study of their subject. Aunt Jennifer propped the painting against the headboard, then stood with her sister contemplating the comparison. The girl in the portrait wore a gown of yellow and had ribbons of the same hue coiled through her light auburn locks. Even on the flat surface of the canvas, the emerald eyes appeared to sparkle with a zest for life, yet for all of the similarity it bore to the one in the bed, there was still something lacking.

“The artist seems to have captured a certain warmth in his subject,” Amanda murmured, “but if this girl is Lierin, then the painting has failed to do her justice. The features in the portrait are not as refined and delicate.”

Ashton gave further study to the portrait, but the flaws seemed so small that he could only lay it to the inadequacy of the artist. Aunt Jennifer seemed to second his thoughts as she stated, “We can’t expect perfection in portraits, Amanda. Most of the time the best we can hope for is to have the right color eyes and hair.”

“You received the portrait after Lierin drowned?” Amanda made an inquiry of the statement and waited until she had received Ashton’s verifying nod before continuing her query. “But where did it come from?”

“Her grandfather left instructions in his will for it to be delivered to me. I never saw it until after his death, but I understand it was one of a pair and that the other was a likeness of her sister, Lenore. Both of them were given to Judge Cassidy when the Somerton family came to visit him from England shortly before I met Lierin.”

“It was really too bad you never had a chance to meet the rest of the family, Ashton,” Aunt Jennifer commented sadly.

“I thought it was terrible that I never got to meet Lierin,” Amanda declared. “How often did I stress to him that it was his duty to beget heirs for the continuance of the family name, and for so many years it seemed that Ashton wanted his liberty more than a family. When he finally did marry, he nearly caused my heart to fail by the suddenness of it, and then…poof!” Amanda snapped her fingers in the air. “He came home, wounded and…a widower.”

“You must be patient, Amanda,” Aunt Jennifer gently chided. “Ashton isn’t getting any younger, true, but at four and thirty he’s not exactly past his prime.”

“He might as well be,” Amanda quipped. “His mind seems set more toward building an empire than a family.”

“Ladies, you are picking me apart like a pair of hens squabbling over a cricket,” Ashton protested with a chuckle. “Have mercy!”

“Mercy, he says!” His grandmother gave him a sidelong stare, which was softened by a smile. “I should be the one begging for it.”

Ashton secured the house after the last guest had departed, or at least gone to bed, and made his way to his own chambers. A glowing lamp aided his passage through his study and sitting room, and a warming fire greeted him in his bedchamber. Willis had anticipated his need and prepared a hot bath in the adjoining room, a small space that had been set aside specifically for his grooming needs. He doffed his clothes and, lowering himself into the steaming liquid, leaned back to soak and think. The ash of a long, black cheroot grew lengthy as he mulled over the happenings of the day, and absently he flicked the gray flakes into a porcelain dish that resided, alongside a crystal decanter and various jars, on a table near the tub. Leaning his head back against the high rim, he watched the smoke drift lazily toward the ceiling, while a train of long-suppressed impressions flitted through his mind. It seemed almost strange to savor and enjoy them without the tormenting feeling of loss.

He vividly remembered the morning when he first saw Lierin. She had been with an older woman on a street in New Orleans where shops for frilly, feminine things abounded. So completely did she take his eye, he had ignored a pressing appointment and followed them at a distance for six blocks or more. She had seemed unaware of him until she paused in front of a millinery shop and, from beneath a silk parasol, gave him stare for stare with a coquettishly raised brow of question. Much to his disappointment, a barouche had stopped alongside, giving him no time to press for an introduction, and the two women were whisked from sight, leaving him without even the tiniest prospect of ever seeing her again.

His hopes dashed, he had finally turned to the issue of his appointment and hailed a livery to convey him to the man’s address. It had not promised to be a cordial meeting, and he had prepared himself for a heated debate, determined to protest the seizure of his steamboat and the arrest of its crew until he achieved satisfactory results. A charge of piracy had been brought against them, and the action was purportedly substantiated by proof, although a short time later the evidence was found to be falsified.

Arriving at Judge Cassidy’s residence, he was shown into the man’s chambers and was in the process of giving the honorable magistrate a piece of his mind when, from an adjoining room, an enraged and decidedly feminine shriek had brought him to an abrupt halt. No one had forewarned him that the aging magistrate was entertaining his granddaughter from England and that she was the very same one he had eyed so closely that afternoon. His anger had dissipated when she stormed into the room, and he had marveled at his good fortune at finding the young lady again. As for Lierin, she had suffered a momentary twinge of surprise when she saw him, but having a proper credit of Irish blood from her mother’s side and being well fired with indignation, she had soundly berated him on his undisciplined conduct before an official of the law.

Ashton had been more than happy to accept the chastening. From the first moment he had found himself staring into the darkly lashed, blazing green eyes of Lierin Somerton, he had known that his life would be lacking a most important substance without her in it. With the opportunity to evaluate her at closer range, he had quickly concluded that she was an exceptionally beauteous young woman. The flashing eyes, the slim, pert nose, and the soft, expressive mouth had been structured with a delicate stroke of perfection that had captured his total interest. Thoroughly intrigued, he had stared so long that Lierin had finally become flustered beneath his openly admiring stare. She had later confided that she had never seen such a bold light come into a man’s eyes, for they had fairly gleamed with warmth.

In a more decorous manner Ashton had offered a polite apology to her grandfather and went on to explain in careful detail the reason for his visit. Judge Cassidy had been amused by his infatuation with Lierin and extended an invitation for dinner on the premise that he wanted to review the case in more detail. Actually he had had more devious motives in mind, which he admitted to later, and they were to see one of his granddaughters settle down in close proximity to him so he could enjoy the companionship of his kin more freely than if they were wed to one of those English foreigners such as their mother had married. With the judge’s favor bestowed upon him, Ashton had courted Lierin with a carefully controlled zeal.

Ashton rose from his bath and rubbed a towel over his matted chest and muscular ribs as his mind continued to flit through his memories of Lierin. He donned a long velvet robe, poured a drink, and, taking the cheroot, went out onto the balcony. The cool night air was laced with the fresh, pungent smell of a nearby pine, and he inhaled its fragrance as one of the pleasures of being home. He rested a thigh on the rail and leaned back against a post as he lost himself again in his memories.

Lierin had changed many things in his life. Once upon a time he had avoided marriage as if it were a deadly disease, but when he had to face the prospect of leaving New Orleans without her, he had been loath even to consider it. He could not name the exact moment when he started to think of her as a prospective wife, but it was a hope that had quickly risen to the forefront of his mind. Then, for all of his experience in entertaining women and potential customers, when it came to asking for her hand, he had done so rather haltingly, afraid she would insist upon a long and normal courtship and the questionable blessings of her father, but to his surprise she had been as eager as he. He had felt strangely humbled when he saw her eyes light up with joy, and quite unabashedly she had thrown her arms about his neck and cried in sheer happiness, “Oh, yes! Yes! Oh, yes!”

Despite their mutual eagerness, there were still problems to be faced. Her father’s absence meant the marriage could not be sanctioned by him, and it had seemed doubtful that Robert Somerton would give his permission even if he were there. Lierin had sweetly suggested that her grandfather might be approachable on the matter of her hand. The strong possibility they were all inviting the wrath of the father did not escape their attention. Ashton had laughingly threatened to seduce her and get her with child, just in case her sire had to be convinced that she needed a husband.

Ashton had seen his own character go through other alterations during the abbreviated time he had been with Lierin. He had never really noticed flowers before, but while on a walk through a park, when Lierin had pointed out the beauty of them, he had become appreciative of their delicacy and fragrance. Throughout his years he had watched many a sun lower in the west and casually admired the hues, but when the two of them had shared a sunset from the window of their hotel suite, the event had become a glorious ending to an almost idyllic day wherein her face, her laughter, her soft voice had filled his heart with bliss.

Ashton placed his glass on the rail, and though the cigar stayed firmly clenched in his teeth, the coal died slowly as he perused the dark night beyond the balcony.

After a week of unparalleled rapture, the newly wedded couple had boarded the River Witch with the intention of journeying to Natchez to make the necessary introductions to his kin and to apologize for the haste of their marriage. They were also making arrangements to return to New Orleans when those plans were concluded, hopefully in time to meet the sojourning parent and sister. Lierin had warned him about her father. Robert Somerton was an Englishman who held no great love for the brash Americans. His one concession to this had been her mother, Dierdre, whom he had deeply loved. Because of Dierdre’s reluctance to leave her father and her home, Robert had chosen to reside in New Orleans until her unexpected death, then he had taken his two small children and returned to England, where he had remained until his daughter Lenore became betrothed to a young aristocrat from the Caribbean. Since a voyage was to be made to visit the prospective groom in his island paradise, Robert had relented to Lierin’s pleas and escorted her to New Orleans, giving her permission to stay with her grandfather while her sister and he departed to arrange the nuptials.

Ashton had guessed from the outset of his courtship that the more difficult task lay in telling Robert Somerton that, while he was away planning the wedding of one daughter, the other had fallen in love with a total stranger and married him. The trip to Natchez, however, had ended in tragedy, and subsequently the meeting between Ashton and Lierin’s father never materialized. Word of her death had reached New Orleans before Ashton had recovered enough from his wound to make the voyage. By the time he could journey to the port city, the judge was ailing and on his deathbed. Ashton was informed that the Somertons, estranging themselves from the grandfather, had set sail for England without delay, not even bothering to inquire whether the husband had survived the pirate attack or not.

A cool breeze stirred in the night, drawing Ashton’s mind back to the present. He turned his face into the fitful breeze and could feel the tingle of misty droplets on his face. A frigid puff of air billowed his robe and touched his naked body. The freshness of it brought back the memory of a similar night on the river, when the last moment of happiness in his life, up until now, had turned into one of pain. Though his own boat and many others had scoured the river for miles upstream and down, more than a week had passed before he finally conceded the inevitable. The moldering bodies of several pirates had been found, but there was no trace of Lierin, not even a shred of cloth or a muddied rag. He had finally had to face the tragic fact that the river had taken another victim to its bosom as it had so many times before and swept his love from the face of the earth while it continued to meander along in its lazy, unfeeling arrogance. The loss of his wife had haunted him for three long years. Now there was hope. Come the morrow, life would begin anew. Lierin was home.