Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  A multitude of questions formed in her mind, but she found for them no firm answers. And yet, it seemed, since she had arrived at this house, she had started hallucinating more or, hopefully, recalling actual events from her past, some of which came only in bits and snatches, while other parts seemed clearer. It truly saddened her that they were not in accord with the desires of her heart. She had found a memory of Malcolm in her life, but thus far she had not been successful in finding a place for Ashton.

  Disconcerted, she lowered her head in her hand and closed her eyes, wanting to banish the recollections back to oblivion. Her failure to find any recall of Ashton swept away any hopes of a joyful conclusion to her malady and left her weak and listless. Although she knew she had to face the truth, her heart still cried out for him. Sweeter by far were the moments she had spent with him.

  “Mum?” Meghan reached out a hand to lay it gently on her shoulder. “Are ye all right, mum?”

  A long, weary sigh slipped from Lenore as she leaned back against the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling at all well this afternoon.”

  “Come lay down on the bed, mum,” the maid coaxed. “I’ll fetch a cool, wet rag so ye can bathe yer face whilst ye rest.”

  “Shouldn’t I be getting dressed for dinner?” Lenore tightened the towel across her bosom, but could not find the energy to begin the actual dressing.

  “There’s plenty o’ time, mum. Just ye slip on yer wrapper an’ lay down till ye’re feelin’ better. What with ye an’ yer father travelin’ all the way from Natchez, a little sleep might do ye good.”

  Obeying the woman’s suggestion, Lenore donned a light cotton wrapper and stretched out on the bed. The sheets were cool and freshly scented, and the comfort of the down-filled tick soon swept her into the dark sea of slumber. For a time she drifted in a nirvanic limbo where reality was but a mere haze behind long, undulating veils. Dreams began to filter through, and in carefree abandon she floated from one to another, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the fluttering draperies closed in around her and began to glow, as if suffused with sunlight. A broad-shouldered form came to her, at first indistinct and dark; then her heart tripped a beat as Ashton’s sun-bronzed features came into focus. He leaned his head down to press a lover’s kiss upon her naked breast, and before her eyes his visage slowly broadened and changed. A thin mustache appeared above leering lips, and she found herself staring into the warm regard of Malcolm Sinclair. The veils became flaming walls that surrounded her, and she writhed in agony as their fiery tongues flicked out to torment her. Then from the core of the flames human forms emerged and pressed in close around her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Everywhere she turned she was met by a myriad of smirking faces. Goblets were lifted in tribute, as if to celebrate her descent into this roiling pit of hell…except for one man who stood apart from the proceedings. He was more like a frightened ferret scurrying about from one hiding place to another, moving stealthily but ever closer to her. Then suddenly his countenance filled her vision, and his soundless scream echoed through her brain.

  Lenore came awake with a gasp and stared wildly about the room, unable to tear herself from the nightmare. Any second she expected to find that tormented visage hiding in one of the nooks and crannies of her room, and her heart quaked in fear as she braced herself for the discovery. A dark shadow seemed to hover close beside the bed, and when reality slowly returned, she realized it was Meghan who stood there. Gazing down at her with sympathic gaze, the maid smoothed the tumbled hair away from her brow and cheek.

  “Ye’ve been tossin’ an’ mumblin’ like ye were havin’ a bad dream, mum, an’ I think ye’ve got a wee bit o’ fever.”

  Still apprehensive, Lenore cast a wary glance about the room. “Is someone with you?”

  Meghan frowned in bemusement. “’Tis only yerself an’ me here, mum. There’s no one else.”

  A trembling sigh slipped from Lenore’s parched lips as she leaned back into the pillows. “Yes, I must have been dreaming.”

  “Aye, mum. That ye were,” Meghan agreed, placing another moistened cloth across her forehead. “Ye rest yerself some more, an’ I’ll wake ye when it’s time to dress for dinner. If ye’re not better by then, I’ll tell yer father ye won’t be comin’ down.”

  “I am tired,” Lenore admitted.

  “O’ course ye are, an’ ye’ve a good reason to be.”

  Lenore sighed and let sleep overtake her again. It was vague and restful, with only a fleeting moment of distress when her dreams wandered through a confused maze and she heard a cacophony of muted voices, the snarled curses of an angry man, the muffled weeping of a woman, and the slurred oration of a drunken poet.

  Startled, Lenore sat upright, wondering for a moment where she was. Then as memory returned, she rose and allowed herself to be dressed in the gown that Meghan had laid out. Opening the chamber door, she slipped out into the corridor and crept down the stairs.

  The illusive night sounds of the marsh drifted in through the open windows, blending with the soft, distant crashing of the waves on the beach. The french doors of the parlor stood wide to catch the cooling breezes, but as Lenore approached the room, she felt a chill sweep over her. The fever had not left, and reality seemed rather indistinct, but Meghan had done her best with dressing her hair, and her lackluster mood was not revealed. The fever filled her cheeks with color and brightened her eyes while the blue gown did much to compliment her fair skin.

  The slightly slurred voice of her father came to her ears as she paused in the hall near the parlor: “What is this chiding? Have I not done well by you? The Bard said it well, he did. ‘It is a wise father that knows his own child.’”

  Malcolm’s reply seemed rather brusque. “Happy is the child whose father goes to the devil.”

  “Tsk! Tsk!” Robert shamed. “Have you no respect for your elders, man?” A moment of silence followed by an appreciative sigh gave evidence that Somerton had just taken a long sip of his favorite tipple. He chortled as he gave a warning: “Be careful now. I’ll leave me fortune at some other’s door, and you’ll be hard-pressed to find another.”

  “You’re drunk,” Malcolm chided.

  “Am I now?” Robert sucked his breath in through his teeth and might have delivered a retort if Mary had not come into the hall with a tray of clean glasses for the parlor and greeted her mistress.

  “Good evenin’, mum. ’Tis good to see that ye be feelin’ better.”

  Lenore smiled lamely, not wishing to correct the young woman. Then since Mary hung back, Lenore preceded her into the parlor. Malcolm quickly rose from his chair and came forward, wearing a strange smile as his eyes caressed her. Stiffening slightly as his hand slipped behind her waist, she pressed trembling hands against her skirt to quell the urge to draw away.

  “Come join us, Lenore. We have been severely starved for your beauty, and now you have given us a feast. It is difficult to take in such radiance with just a mere glance. Let us savor it at our leisure.”

  Robert pushed himself rather clumsily from his chair and held up his glass in salute to her. “I must agree. Surely the loveliest daughter a man could want.” He liberally indulged himself in the toast, then with a knuckle lightly whisked both ends of his mustache upward. Clearing his throat, he stared down into his empty glass and then beckoned for Mary to fill it. “Be a good girl now and fetch me another whiskey.”

  Malcolm’s forehead crinkled into a reproving frown as he escorted Lenore to the settee. “Shouldn’t you wait until after dinner?”

  With a casual wave of a hand Somerton dismissed the younger man’s suggestion and spoke directly to the maid. “A splash or two more won’t hurt, me dearie.”

  Uncertain as to what to do, the maid looked to Malcolm for approval and then, at his reluctant nod, replenished the libation. Rubbing his hands in anticipation, Robert chortled as the servant brought him the glass, and being in good spirits, began to recit a little verse. “Yestre’en the queen had four Marys,
This night she’ll hae but three; There was Mary Beaton, and Mary Seaton and Mary Carmichael, and”—he winked at the girl as he changed the ending to his liking—“and thee, me sweet Mary Murphy.”

  The young woman clapped a hand over her mouth to squelch a burst of giggles and hurried from the room. Malcolm observed her flight and, shaking his head at the antics of the pair, took a place beside Lenore on the settee. His gaze warmed as it rested upon her.

  “Strange that you should choose to wear that gown this evening, my dear,” he murmured, flicking the soft flounce with a finger.

  “Strange? How so?” A small, worried frown flitted across her brow. She could not shake the notion that she had worn it for an important occasion. “Is there some special significance to this gown?”

  A tender smile touched his lips. “You could say that, madam. It happens to be the gown you wore when we were married.”

  His words fell with a thud against her heart, heralding doom for all her romantic aspirations. She could only whisper a weak reply: “I didn’t realize the gown was that old, or perhaps I’ve misjudged the time we were married. When did you say…?”

  “We married shortly after we met, madam. The gown has been kept well-preserved.”

  “Meghan found it wadded up in the trunk,” she commented distantly, trying to remember when he had said they had become acquainted.

  He dropped a hand upon hers and squeezed it in an affectionate manner. “I gave no heed to the details of packing while I worried for your safety. I had no idea where that madman had taken you.”

  Her gaze moved dully about the room, hardly caring what object it settled upon. A fireplace had been built into the east wall between two windows, and above the mantel hung a landscape that was not particularly exceptional. In fact, it was of mediocre quality, and it seemed somehow out of place with the rest of the fine furnishings. At the moment the presence of that painting exemplified her sentiments toward the two men. Despite repeated confirmations to the contrary, she felt as if the pair did not belong in her life. She wanted Ashton!

  Chapter Ten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Even now, she was wary of his whereabouts, for he seemed to come and go with the stealth of a disembodied spirit. He could, at will, walk across a room without her even sensing his presence. It unnerved her to turn and find him watching her with unswerving attention, and in that moment she knew exactly how a tiny mouse felt under the steady regard of a sleek and hungry cat. His eyes could undress her in a brief flicker, while his slow, self-assured smile gave promise of other abilities that could not be spoken of in good manner. He seemed to delight in flaunting his masculinity, as if this would entice her to his bed. The cut of his trousers might have been more generous than Ashton’s, no doubt to accommodate the heavier-muscled buttocks and thighs, but the way they clung to him, she could only assume he wore nothing underneath, and the effect was intentional. The exhibition only made her more cautious and prompted her to barricade her bedroom doors with chairs, lest he try to prove his manhood with a more physical advance. She knew there would come a time when she would have to acquiesce and become the mate for this strutting peacock, but right now she would just as soon keep their relationship simple, at least until she learned the secret of getting Ashton out of her blood.<
br />
  She was beginning to sense there was some underlying quality about each man that reminded her of the other, but as yet she could not quite decide what it was, whether it was something in their physical appearance, their mannerisms, or their personalities. Ashton was sensual and hot-blooded, but his appeal was more refined than the other man’s. Perhaps his age accounted for his suavity, but with only a trace of a smile and a look from beneath those magnificent brows, he could emit waves of masculine attraction, yet at the same time catch her heart with a subtle essence of boyish charm. With his aristocratic features and princely bearing he was certainly the more handsome and appealing of the two.

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

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