Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  Malcolm dismissed her statement with a caustic comment: “He’s probably just like that pack of thieving murderers Wingate has for a crew. There’s no telling what crimes they’re apt to commit. Sheriff Coty ought to do something about them before it’s too late. To be sure, we’ll have to set out guards to watch over you while those men are out there”—his square chin jutted toward the River Witch and then in the direction of the tent—“and that fool, Wingate, is here so close.”

  Lenore could well imagine how closely she would be watched while Ashton was near. If the idea did not distress her so much, she might have found cause to laugh. “I hope you won’t trouble yourself too much, Malcolm.”

  “Whatever the cost, madam, it will be worth it,” he replied, choosing to ignore her sarcasm. “You’re too rare a gem for me to put at risk.” He considered how fresh and lovely she looked in her cream-colored gown trimmed with embroidered lace and took special note of the rosy glow in her cheeks. He might have blamed her carefully groomed state on the proximity of the other man, except that she had always dressed well and had remarkably good taste in clothes, seeming to know exactly what to wear to complement her beauty. The soft blush in her cheeks, however, had been all but absent until Ashton Wingate had ventured into the area.

  “You seem to be feeling better, madam,” he stated bluntly.

  Lenore was tempted to retort that she might have been feeling a lot worse if Ashton had not come to her defense that morning. Instead, she gave him a serene smile, blandly agreeing with his observation. “Better than I have for some time, thank you, Malcolm.”

  Hot anger shot through the dark eyes before his eyelids narrowed to mask it. Somerton gestured with his glass, directing the younger man’s attention to the working crew. “It looks like Wingate’s settling in for keeps.”

  Lenore went to lean against the porch railing and, from there, watched as Ashton instructed his men in the placement of potted shrubs and the planting of others near the tent. Oaken barrels had been sawed in half to accommodate the larger greenery, which included a wide variety that had been selected when the clearing had begun. Around the wooden planking that now served as an informal courtyard were smaller bushes which from a distance looked suspiciously like jasmine shrubs in bloom. In all, the landscaping provided a certain lushness around the porch, and it was not long before a wrought-iron table and chairs appeared to finish the setting.

  Toiling in the sweltering heat, the crew of men shed their shirts, threw off their shoes, and rolled up their trousers. Ashton seemed like a prince among paupers as he remained garbed in fawn-hued riding breeches, low-crowned hat, tall boots, and loose-sleeved shirt opened to the waist. He was continually on the move as he directed the project. Giving orders to some or turning to answer the inquiries of others, he was ever in demand, and by the time the sun lowered in the west, he had with the aid of his men created quite a fine sight for anyone to behold. With such elaborate lodging, it was clear he intended to stay as long as he deemed necessary.

  The stoical gloom of the evening was keyed to the somberness of Malcolm’s dour temper. Lenore took note of it as soon as she joined the two men in the parlor. Her husband sulked like a punished lad and went as often to the decanter as his father-in-law. He was forever strolling out onto the veranda and peering westward where a faint glow marked the location of Ashton’s tent. His mood lightened as the intoxicant began to take effect, until finally he broke the cautious, stilted silence with a derisive chortle.

  “At least that beggar will be supping alone tonight in that great gaudy tent of his.”

  Robert was sober enough to pick up on Malcolm’s comment and offered some observations of his own: “Aye, and if a little blow comes off the gulf, he just might find that damned boat of his sitting in his lap.”

  The two waxed almost gleeful in their contemplation of possible disasters that might befall their new neighbor. Lenore found the macabre bent of their humor annoying and did her best to ignore them. Even when they went out to lounge on the veranda, it proved a difficult task.

  “Behold!” Robert’s hushed tone of amazement came drifting through the open french doors. “What ventures out from yonder craft? Some sweet surcease to ease the varlet’s plight?”

  His mixed prose was less than pure Shakespearean and more than slightly slurred, but it was enough to stir Lenore’s curiosity. Lifting her sherry glass, she strolled out onto the porch where she could view the object of their attention. Pointedly keeping her distance from her companions, she chose a spot near the railing and leaned her back against a post as she turned her gaze out to sea.

  Beyond the tumbling surf a lighter nudged out of the dark shadow of the River Witch and skimmed through the moonlit waters, heading for the lantern that marked Ashton’s encampment. As the lighter neared the beach the rhythmic creak of oars came softly to her ears as the two men bent their backs to the rowing. Soon the boat scraped the sandy bottom of the shallows, and the two dragged it ashore. The pair of servants, complete with white-coated uniforms, lifted a huge, silver-domed tray from the prow and quickly bore it to the courtyard table. Setting to work, they lighted torches and staked them on poles around the deck, making every corner of the platform visible, much to Malcolm’s chagrin. A white cloth was spread and upon it the necessary accoutrements were placed for an elegant setting, complete with a silver candelabrum and two place settings for a full-course dinner. All were curious to see who the expected guest might be and waited in anticipation, Lenore no less than the others.

  The first mellow strains of the cello drifted on the wings of the night breezes, and everyone on the porch paused to listen. Lenore kept her face carefully blank as Malcolm’s eyes settled on her and hardened. The chords wandered through a brief medley, then settled into one they had shared as a favorite. Restlessly Malcolm paced along the veranda and paused at the far end to stare at the brightly lighted area. Lenore leaned forward to catch the soft, musical refrains and closed her eyes as she luxuriated in the memories she had of Belle Chêne and its master. The music filled her heart with a soft bliss until her pleasure was soured by Malcolm’s return.

  Chafing, he glanced around at her father as his lips curled in contempt. “Would you listen to that wailing? It sounds like a wounded swamp cat caught in a trap. And you can guess what part they caught.”

  Robert sniggered into his glass. “Nay, lad. ’Tis only the guts they string out on a fiddle.”

  “It’s not a fiddle,” Lenore corrected crisply, irked at their crudities.

  Her father peered at her dubiously. “A modicum of wit ye have tonight, lass. Have ye no laughter in ye?”

  “It’s that rutting tomcat yowling and prowling about out there, working her up into an itch,” Malcolm jeered. “She’d like to join him.”

  And why not? Though silent, the retort flared through her mind. She would gladly have traded the inanities of the men for the affectionate attention that she longed for and which she knew Ashton would freely bestow on her.

  A servant stepped to the door of the tent to speak to someone inside. The music halted, and Lenore held her breath as Ashton emerged, quite alone and quite handsomely groomed. He paused beside a jasmine shrub and, picking a blossom, laid it on one of the plates. He settled in a chair across from it, and a wine was poured into his silver goblet. Ashton sipped it, nodded his approval, and the full-course dinner progressed while the place across from him remained untouched. Finally Lenore understood the significance of the jasmine on the plate. It served as an invitation to her. Whether she was Lenore or Lierin, and when or if she ever chose to join him, she would be welcomed.

  Malcolm also caught the impact of Ashton’s boldness and turned upon her with a glare of seething outrage. She met it without flinching and smiled softly into his burning eyes. Still, when Meghan stepped to the french doors and announced their own dinner was to be served, she breathed a pray of thanksgiving that the diatribe would be forestalled. Throughout the meal she held the warm, tender feelings of l
ove close to her heart, giving no heed to either the heated stares of Malcolm or the disapproving frowns of Robert.

  The next morning Lenore sent her excuses to the dining room via Meghan and indulged in a light, peaceful repast in her own chamber. This seemed to vex Malcolm sorely, for a short time later she heard him storm out of the house in a high raging temper, leaving Robert to ensure that the two lovers were kept apart, Lenore to her house and Ashton to his tent. The distance was there, separating one from the other, but their minds seemed well in tune, for when Lenore strolled out onto the upper veranda to view the splendor of the morning, Ashton lifted the flap of his tent and stepped out, almost in unison with her. As he turned to glance toward the house, she appeared at the railing, and for a moment in time they stared across the space, totally aware of the other. Even with the stretch of land between them, she felt his eyes caress her, while her own gaze completed an admiring appraisal of him. A narrow breechcloth covered his loins and provided a minimum of modesty as it bulged over his manhood. The heat crept into her cheeks at the sight of him standing there like some bronze-skinned Apollo. From her memory she reconstructed details left obscure by the distance. The light furring of his muscular chest dwindled into a shadowed line as it trailed down his belly, which was flat and, as she knew, hard as oak. The legs were long and straight, lightly corded with muscles, and as finely toned as the rest of his body.

  The long-endured ache of suppressed passions began to spread through her, stirring a quickness in her blood, and she wondered if he also was consumed by a lusting hunger, for he lifted a large towel from a wrought-iron chair and flung the long cloth over his shoulder, letting it hang past his loins. Her eyes followed and lowered to the flexing buttocks as he strolled out to where the waves lapped lazily at the shore. Dropping the towel beside the water’s edge, he waded out toward the deep; then, arching his back, he plunged out further with a clean dive. His arms stroked the waters relentlessly, heedless of direction. She could almost sense his reasoning, his need to work out his frustrations. An ache was there in the pit of her own stomach, and she wished she might have been able to wear herself out in such a way, at least to an exhausted complacency. Instead, she had to endure the craving lusts and hope in time that she could come to accept Malcolm as easily as she had accepted Ashton.

  She rubbed her brow, hoping to find a breach in that restricting wall that encased her memory and open it for a thorough examination. If only she could find a place for Ashton, some cherished moment remembered, but even before her attempt she knew it was useless. He was of her present, not her past.

  The sun blazed down in shimmering heat waves, and slowly a mirage formed in her mind. She was on a sunny beach somewhere faraway. An auburn-haired girl played with a sand castle and a small doll. It was she. Or was it Lierin? Her vision was limited, as if she stared through a short tunnel, but she knew she ran and played with one who looked like her. The children, perhaps six or so of age, laughed and squealed as they chased each other to the water’s edge. Then from afar a woman’s voice called:

  “Lenore?”

  The young girl turned and shaded her eyes.

  “Lierin?”

  Her own vision widened, and she saw a woman she knew as Nanny standing on a grassy knoll. A mansion of generous proportions loomed behind her.

  “Come now, the two of ye,” the ruddy-faced woman bade. “’Tis nigh unto noonday. Time for a wee bite to eat an’ then a nap before yer father returns.”

  The illusion swirled and faded, and Lenore blinked as reality once again presented itself. She was almost afraid to bring the fantasy back, yet the question blazed. Was that moment really a part of her past? Or had she conjured it from the fabric of her fondest hopes? If the other girl had answered true…

  She paced the porch and tried to summon something more. Some hint. Some clue. Something to point out the truth to her.

  “Lenore!”

  A prickling shivered along her spine as the name tore through her concentration; then she glanced around, realizing reality was there and coming in the presence of a dapperly garbed man who was hurrying up the stairs. Robert Somerton’s cheeks were scarlet, and his agitated state was most apparent.

  “You shouldn’t be out here in your nightgown where everyone can see you, girl,” he admonished, drawing her attention to her light apparel. “Go in and get dressed before some harm comes to you.”

  Lenore started to comply, then noticed how his eyes kept nervously flitting toward the beach. Her curiosity aroused, she turned her gaze outward and saw the reason for his unrest. Ashton was wading from the water, and if he went in looking good, he came out looking marvelous. His hair was wet, and the beads of moisture that clung to him glistened beneath the sun, giving his dark skin a lustrous sheen. She could imagine what embarrassed and worried her father the most. It was the skimpy cloth covering which now was molded wetly to Ashton and came very close to indecent display as it sagged slightly with the weight of the water.

  “The man has lost his wits.” Robert’s sensibilities had been unduly shocked. “The very idea! Prancing about out there like that and flaunting himself before you! What does he think you are, anyway? Some hussy off the streets? It’s surely no sight for a lady!”

  Lenore hid a smile of amusement as she moved away, but from beneath her lashes she stole one last, admiring glance at that tall, muscular form before she entered her room and closed the french doors.

  Robert Somerton’s sense of propriety had been severely challenged, and he hurried down the stairs again, intending to confront this near-naked strutter. It was one thing to see the bare thighs and bulging flesh of a woman in places of ill repute, but quite another to have a man showing himself in such a manner before a lady…. And before such a fine one, too! It was too much!

  Somerton flicked the ends of his mustache up in an outraged gesture as he hastened to intercept the lewd rascal who casually sauntered toward his tent. “Here now! I want a word with you,” he called, commanding the younger man’s notice. That one raised a brow in wonder as he turned and waited for the other to reach him. Halting before him, Somerton shook a shaming finger beneath his nose. “You have your nerve coming out dressed like that, offending my daughter with your display. I’ll have you know, sir, that she is a lady.”

  “I know that,” Ashton agreed pleasantly, taking some of the wind out of the other’s sails.

  The white-haired man searched for another form of attack. “Well, sir, you are no gentleman, I can tell you that!” The elder man swept his hand to indicate the long length of Ashton’s form. “Look at you! All but naked, you are! Flaunting yourself in front of my daughter!”

  “She’s a married woman,” Ashton responded with a tolerant smile.

  “Not to you!” Robert shouted, catching the subtle drift of his meaning. “What more proof do you need to convince you?”

  “Nothing from you or Malcolm,” Ashton replied promptly and, toweling his hair dry, continued on his way. The stride of his long legs made it necessary for the shorter man to hurry to keep up with him. Although it was but a mere step or two to the courtyard, by the time Robert reached it, his face had taken on a deeper shade of red, and he was ready to accept the cool libation Ashton offered him. He slipped out of his coat, loosened his collar, and, after being offered a chair, sank into it with a sigh of gratitude as he sampled his drink. Ashton excused himself a moment, and in his absence, the elder gazed about him, realizing that the architect of the porch and dwelling had had enough foresight to place them both under the sprawling limbs of a huge tree, which offered a soothing, cooling shade. In his contemplation of the intelligence of the younger man, he managed to down more than half of the drink before Ashton returned in more modest attire.

  “You’ve done well by yourself here,” Somerton remarked, encompassing the encampment with a sweep of his hand. “’Twould appear you’ve thought of everything.”

  Surprised at the unexpected compliment, Ashton glanced at the man. The anger had ce
rtainly fled from his countenance, and he seemed almost amiable as he surveyed his surroundings. The credit for the change had to be given to the lulling affect of the mint julep, and Ashton was not of a mind to deny the man when he asked for a refill.

  “I used to be young once,” Robert reflected after some length. After a thoughtful pause, he chortled and, draining the glass, held it out for a second replenishment. “I’ve even turned a few lady’s heads in my time. Maybe not like you’ve managed to do with the girl over there.” He gestured casually toward the house. “She’s taken with you, all right, and Malcolm’s bent on making her love him again.”

  “Did she ever?” Ashton posed the question with a hint of sarcasm, but the white-haired man missed the thrust of the subtle gibe.

  “Malcolm believes she did…before she lost her memory.” Robert scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Sometimes I wonder how it’s all going to end. She’s a good girl, she is. A little hot-tempered at times. Came charging to my defense when Malcolm was lambasting me for getting drunk.”

  Ashton smiled as a memory came winging back. “That sounds like her.”

  “Well, there I was, deserving everything Malcolm said about me, and she fairly set him back on his heels.” Robert shifted the lower part of his jaw out to the side as he sat a long moment in pensive silence. “She deserves better than me for a father,” he said and nodded his head as if agreeing with his own logic. “And maybe, just maybe, she deserves better than Malcolm for a husband.”

  Ashton’s eyebrow rose sharply. “I’ll agree with that outright, but I’m not convinced she is his wife.”

  “You’re a stubborn man, Wingate,” Robert observed wryly. “The fact that you’re here proves it.”

  “I’m not denying it,” Ashton replied readily. “Malcolm stole something from me I cherished above all else. I still say he has yet to prove his claim.”

  “But he has!” Robert insisted. “Don’t you think I can tell the difference between my own daughters?”