Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  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 resiste
d 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 incapable 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 heart.

  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 might 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 fro
m 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?”