“Rest yer worries, mum,” Meghan soothed, taking the slender hands within her own. “I was in love once meself, so I understand what ye be feelin’.”
Lenore was still careful. “How much do you know about me?”
With a shrug the maid replied, “Oh, I’ve heard the men talkin’ an’ know about ye losin’ yer memory an’ maybe thinkin’ ye were married to someone else.” She paused as a realization dawned and looked at her mistress closely, meeting that one’s hesitant gaze. “It’s him, isn’t it? I mean, it’s that Mr. Wingate ye thought was yer husband?”
Lenore lowered her eyes from the other’s probing stare and could see no reason to lie when the woman read her so well. “Yes, and I love him, but I’m trying hard not to….”
“A real task ye’ve laid for yerself, mum. I can see that.”
A slow nod of agreement came from Lenore. To cease caring for him would be difficult indeed, if not totally impossible.
The small desk clock had struck the second hour in delicate tones, while the larger timepiece in the downstairs hall seemed to echo its refrain in the silent house. Lenore did not pause as she carefully molded the shape of the pillows beneath the sheet. A moment later she stood back to survey her handiwork. A silvery shaft of moonlight streamed in through the windows, casting enough light over the bed so that anyone who came to look would have a view of her form. Under casual inspection, the pillows would add to the deception that she was still asleep, granting her enough time to slip out of the house and carry word out to Ashton that he must not come ashore. Malcolm’s threats had taken on a more serious note at dinner, and uncertain as to what he might do, she had made the determination that Ashton had to be warned. The chore boy had left the small dinghy near the water’s edge when he had gone fishing the day before, and it would provide her a way out to the River Witch. At her request, Meghan had borrowed some of the lad’s clothing but had carefully refrained from asking why she might have need of them, preferring to remain ignorant of her intentions.
Lenore stuffed the long, softly curling mass of auburn hair beneath a cap and wrinkled her nose in distaste as she checked her appearance in the standing mirror. The clothes were hardly the sort a genteel lady would wear. The shirt had no buttons to speak of, and she had tied it in a knot at her waist to hold it secure, leaving a deeply plunging décolletage. The breeches fit well enough, but were worn thin by age and use. The placket had no other fastenings except the cord that drew the garment tight about her waist. In all, she presented quite a wanton sight, and if she were caught, she might be accused of blatantly inviting rape. Just to be safe, she added a worn canvas coat.
As she prepared to leave, she paused beside the hall door and held an ear against the panel to listen. From the loud snores emerging from her father’s room, she could suppose that Malcolm’s chastening had convinced him that he should stay home for the night. That of course left only Malcolm to be wary of, but he was the one she feared most. He would not accept lame excuses. If she was caught, he would know immediately where she was bound.
Taking up a pair of string sandals, she slipped out onto the veranda and paused in the shadows to watch for any warning signs of movement. None were seen, and she continued her careful flight, easing down the stairs one slow step at a time. The bottom tread creaked slightly as her weight came upon it, and with bated breath she waited for a commanding shout to halt her flight. When none came and the flow of life returned to her fear-numbed body, she sprinted across the lower porch and hurried down the steps. She paused on the last to slip her feet into the sandals, then took off again across the lawn. The dinghy had been pulled up on the sand, and she placed the oars in the oarlocks and, with a fierce determination, dragged the heavy boat into the softly lapping waves.
Several lanterns had been lighted on the decks of the steamer, and the windows of Ashton’s quarters showed a faint glow. Turning her back on those directing beacons, she began to row out, now and then casting a glance over her shoulder to check her direction. It soon became apparent that she had misjudged the distance between the shore and the stern-wheeler. It was not long before her arms began to tremble and ache from the unaccustomed labor, and when she reached the craft, she rested over the oars, letting the dinghy bob against the side of the steamer while she waited for her strength to return. The tremor would not leave her arms, and it seemed only an effort of will would overcome her lagging energy. Gathering what she could from that source, she chose a dark spot near the stern to make her ascent, just in case Malcolm or Robert glanced toward the steamer, and with painter in hand pulled herself up, climbing over the planks that protected the lower deck. The difficult feat of boarding accomplished, she knotted the rope around a post and sagged against the deck to let some of the tension ease from her arms.
There were no lanterns nearby to reveal an approaching form, and she was not quite sure when she began to sense someone standing over her, but when the full realization struck, she rolled with a startled gasp, trying to avoid the hands that reached down to seize her. One grabbed her knee, while another the collar of the loose coat. Her panic was spurred on by the painful grasp, and she gave no thought to explaining her presence as she struggled frantically to free herself. Like a slippery eel she slithered out of the garment, leaving it in the man’s hand. She fell forward with a grimace as he tightened his hold on her leg, then his free hand dipped down to catch the back of her shirt, and her eyes widened in sudden dismay as she felt the knot come free. The armholes bit into her skin as the shirt caught, and then there was a long, rending tear as the garment split and made its departure. With a muffled cry she ducked and gathered her arms close over her naked bosom, trying to twist away before her modesty was completely savaged. The man growled a low curse and caught her again, this time by the arm while he hooked his other hand inside her belt. He snatched her up, nearly jerking the breath from her as the rope bit into her waist, and gave her a harsh shake.
“Who sent you out here, boy?” the man barked in her ear.
“Ashton!” Her gasp was one of relief as she recognized the deep voice. Never in her limited recall had she heard such a beautiful sound.
“What the…” The hard fingers relaxed their grip immediately. “Lierin?”
Even with the covering of darkness she could feel his closely peering perusal. A blush warmed her cheeks as his gaze dipped to her bosom, and timidly she hugged her arms across her chest.
Ashton knew not what miracle had brought reality to his dream, and though he was most appreciative of her apparel, or the lack of it, there was a need for haste. “For whatever reason you’ve come, my love, I’m deeply grateful,” he murmured huskily, “but I think we should adjourn to my quarters, considering the man on watch will be making his rounds along this deck any moment now.”
Lenore was spurred to action at the idea of being caught in such disarray and made an abbreviated plea as she hurried toward his cabin. “My shirt…”
Ashton swept up the garments and followed, stepping close behind her when she halted at the door and fumbled with the knob. His arm came around in front of her to perform the service, and Lenore closed her eyes and shivered with suppressed longings as his hard, furred chest pressed against her bare back. The contact was no less explosive for Ashton. It sent the hot blood rushing into his loins, and somewhere between the opening and closing of the door, her coat and shirt left his other hand. Her pale shoulders gleamed in the golden glow of the cabin lamp, inflaming his mind with the sight. His arm curled about her, gathering her close, and a low moan slipped from Lenore as his hands began a questing search of her soft breasts. The cap tumbled to the floor as she leaned her head back against his shoulder and the loosely curling tresses spilled free, filling his head with a heady fragrance. The thin breeches gave her little protection from the burning heat of his arousal or the hand that stroked beneath them. This was not what she had come for, but every nerve and fiber of her being cried out for him to take her, to make her his own again. It was
agony to think of denying him.
“We mustn’t…” she pleaded in a frail, weak whisper. “Ashton, please…we cannot do this thing now.”
“We must,” he breathed against her ear and pressed fevered kisses upon her throat. To have her close again fulfilled every notion of what was right for him. “We must…”
He bent and lifted her in his arms. In two long strides he was to the bed, that same haven wherein they had in times past enjoyed the full tide of rapturous bliss. He laid her down, and his burning gaze swept her in a longing caress; then he was there beside her, taking her in his arms again. Lenore placed a hand upon his naked chest and turned her face aside, trying to avoid his heady kisses before they besotted her mind. “I only came here to warn you, Ashton.” Her tone was one of desperation. “Malcolm will try to kill you if you come ashore. You must go away.”
Ashton lifted his head and stared down at her with hungering hazel eyes. Sometimes love could come and go like the errant winds that were wont to sweep the shore; then again, it could be a timeless thing that distance, years, and hardships could not defeat. For Ashton it had been around for more than a trio of years, and she was rooted at the very core of his life. The note she had left was meant to convince him that she was Lenore and that she was doing the right thing, but how could he agree when she had taken his heart with her? “Forget Malcolm and all he’s tried to tell you. Stay with me, Lierin, and I will leave here. If need be, I’ll take you to the ends of the earth.”
Tears began to course down her cheeks. “Oh, Ashton, can’t you see? You want her and not me.”
“I want you!”
“I’m not the woman you think I am, Ashton. I’m Lenore, not Lierin.”
“Your memory…” he began hesitantly, almost fearfully. “Has it returned?”
“No.” She did not dare meet his gaze. “But I must be Lenore. My own father has said I am.”
“Your father hated me, remember. He has cause to hold us apart if he can.”
“He wouldn’t go that far,” she argued.
Ashton let his breath out in a long sigh. “If you insist, I’ll call you Lenore, but it changes nothing. In my heart you’re still my wife…you’re still part of me.”
“You must leave here,” she urged anxiously. “You must go and save yourself.”
“Will you come with me?” he pressed.
“I can’t, Ashton.” Her voice was tiny. “I must go back. I must know the truth.”
“Then I will stay…and I will fight for you until this thing is settled.”
“Oh, please…please, Ashton,” she begged wearily. “I won’t be able to bear it if anything happens to you.”
“I can’t go back. I am bound to stay.”
She shook her head in exasperation. “You’re as stubborn as they say you are. Why don’t you accept the inevitable?”
“The inevitable?” He rolled on his back with a harsh laugh and stared up at the low ceiling above his bed. “For three years I searched, but I could find no woman to take your place. I was a man, and yet I could not settle back into the relaxed standards of a rutting bachelor. I had this burning hunger in my loins that haunted me, but I could find no release. Call me bedeviled. Call me mad. Call me hopelessly and completely in love with a dream that only you can fulfill.” Rolling his head on the pillow, he gazed at her. “I know what it was like without you, and I want no more of it. I have come to fight, my love, and fight I will.”
Lenore raised herself until she rested on his chest. She made no effort to pull the sheet between them, but allowed her naked breasts to press upon that bare and broad expanse. Her eyes were tender with devotion as they caressed his face, and her lips curved in a wistful smile. “We make a pair, the two of us, wanting what we cannot have. I must go back, and you are determined to stay. Yet if I could, I would persuade you differently.” She hesitated a moment; then somewhat ashamed of the proposal she was about to make, she continued without meeting his gaze: “If I give myself to you now, for the moment allowing that you may be right in thinking I am your wife, will you leave before some harm comes to you?”
Ashton lifted her until she lay full length upon him. There was no mistaking his ability to accept her offer, but he slowly shook his head. “I cannot make such a pact, my love, even though it would serve to ease my present desire. I love you too much to be satisfied with a parting gesture. I want all of you, and I will settle for nothing less.”
She heaved a weary sigh. “Then I must go.”
“There’s no need to leave now. Stay with me for a while. Let me love you.”
“It’s not right anymore, Ashton. I belong to Malcolm now.”
A deep scowl drew his brows down sharply, and he glanced away, tormented with jealousy. The muscles in his cheeks twitched as he resisted the urge to tell her how he had found the precise location of the house. A tour of the taverns in Biloxi had turned up not only a handful of Robert’s drinking cronies but an interesting array of strumpets as well. It seemed more than a few had serviced the libertine Sinclair. “I don’t like the thought of your going back to him.”
“I must,” she whispered. A light brush of her lips against his, and she slipped away from him. Smiling down into the eyes that watched her, she donned the torn shirt and jacket and gathered her hair beneath the cap.
“I’ll take you back,” he sighed, swinging his long legs over the side of the bed and rising to his feet.
The memory of the exhausting trip was fresh in Lenore’s mind, and she was not anxious to argue with him. “But how will you get back?”
“I’ll tie another dinghy behind and return in that.” He reached for a shirt and felt her hand glide admiringly over his flexing ribs as he slipped it on. The gentle caress made him tremble with longing, and he stared down at her, wanting to take her in his arms but knowing there would be no turning back if he yielded to the desire. His mouth moved to whisper the words that were aching to be said: “I love you.”
“I know,” she murmured quietly, “and I love you.”
“If I didn’t think you’d grow to hate me, I’d keep you here, but it’s a choice you’ll have to make. Until you do, I’ll be near enough to come to your aid if you should need me.” He placed a small derringer in her hand. “I’ve shown you how to use this. I can hear a shot from the house. Just keep out of harm’s way until I get there.”
He took her back to shore, and after a last parting kiss, Lenore made her way to the upper veranda. She leaned against the balustrade as she watched him row out, then entered her room, heaving a forlorn sigh. She was already lonely.
Chapter Eleven
THE muffled weeping became a reality that intruded into Lenore’s slumber with the same rude gall as the morning light that pierced the panes of the east windows. Both were annoying and equally difficult to dismiss as she sought to retreat to the sweet solace of sleep. After returning from the River Witch, she had drifted immediately into a peaceful bliss of dreams. She dearly longed to spend the morning in that same languid slumber, letting the rest of the world pass by. It was not to be. One hazard of having a room with numerous windows and wide french doors that faced the sea and sat at an angle to the southern hemisphere was its vulnerability to the rising sun. The dawning rays spread across her bed in a radiating brightness, while the sorrowful sobs relentlessly pursued her beneath her pillow. There, the realization finally penetrated that someone on the porch was grieving.
Coming fully awake, Lenore flung herself from the bed and snatched on her dressing gown as she flew to the french doors. She ran out onto the veranda and, casting her gaze along the porch, saw Meghan standing near the balustrade. Heavy sobs shook the woman’s shoulders as she stared teary-eyed toward the beach. In much bemusement Lenore followed the woman’s gaze and saw Malcolm and Robert near the dinghy. Two other men were peering under a piece of canvas that was spread across the boat, something which had not been present when she and Ashton left the craft. She was puzzled by their apparent interest in the boat
and even more confused by the servant’s weeping.
“Meghan, what’s wrong?” Lenore went to the maid and laid a comforting arm about her trembling shoulders. “Whatever is the matter?”
The woman struggled to form the words to answer her mistress, but her efforts seemed in vain as tears continued to spill down her plump cheeks. “It’s Mary, mum,” the servant finally managed. “The chore boy was going out early this morning to see if he could catch some fish for tonight’s supper, and he found Mary dead and naked in the boat. The sheriff says she was murdered.”
“Murdered?” Lenore stared at the woman, too stunned to grasp the realization. Mary had seemed so sweet and eager to please; she could hardly believe that anyone would want to hurt her. She blinked at the moisture that welled in her own eyes and spoke in a tone of dismay: “But I took the dinghy myself and rowed out to the River Witch. Mr. Wingate brought me back about four this morning.”
“Oh, mum, ye’d better not tell the sheriff that. Mr. Sinclair is claimin’ that she was killed by someone on the River Witch, an’ if he finds out yer man was here on shore, he’s sure to accuse him.”
“But that’s nonsense! I saw Ashton row back to the steamer in his own boat. I had a better chance at murdering her than he did.”
Meghan shook her head dolefully. “She was raped, mum.”
“Raped?” Lenore repeated the word with a gasp. “But who would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, mum. I was fast asleep meself, an’ it weren’t until the lad come screamin’ through the house that I had any inklin’ o’ what had been done to that poor, dear chil’. What of ye, mum? Did ye see anyone on the beach after Mr. Wingate left?”
“No, no one at all,” Lenore answered. Nor had she heard any sound out of the ordinary, only the muffled snores coming from her father’s room. Once within the comfort of her bed, she had been lulled into a sweet, dreamy oblivion, thinking of Ashton, and nothing had disturbed that peace. “What is the sheriff going to do?”
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