Ashton shrugged as he watched the other drain another glass dry. “A father should be able to.”
“Of course, and I tell you I have done just that!” Robert hiccuped and leaned back in the chair as he contemplated the now empty crystal. The warmth of the day and the rapidly imbibed whiskey were beginning to show their effect. “I know what you’re thinking.” The slowly reddening eyes lifted and tried to focus on the crisp, handsome features. “You think I drink too much, don’t you, and that I’ve made a mistake. Well, I’ll tell you a secret, my friend. It takes a lot to make me lose my wits. That’s one thing Malcolm knows that you haven’t learned yet. I am a man who knows the part he plays in this life!” To emphasize his statement, he slammed the goblet down on the surface of the wrought-iron table, and then gasped in pain as it shattered, and the pieces jabbed cruelly into his palm. Turning his hand over, he stared down in horror as the blood gushed forth from the wounds. His face twisted and contorted as if he saw some evil there in his palm. “’Out, damned spot!’” he whimpered. “’Out, I say!…Hell is murky!…What need we fear who knows it, when none can call our power to account?’”
Ashton arched a dubious brow at the man and, reaching across the table, plucked the broken slivers of glass from the rent palm. Quickly assessing the damage, he fetched a linen napkin from inside the tent, then pressed it into the other’s palm. Attempting to reach through the other’s stupor, he directed in commanding tone, “Now make a tight fist and hold it, do you hear? Hold it!” The order penetrated, and with a hand beneath the other’s arm, Ashton lifted Robert to his feet. “Come on, I’ll take you home. Lierin can clean up those cuts for you.”
“She’s a good girl,” Somerton mumbled distantly and weaved unsteadily when Ashton let him go. “She deserves better…”
Ashton saw the hopelessness of the man’s condition and, supporting a good part of the man’s weight against him, escorted him back to the house. The short journey seemed too much for the besotted older man, and he sagged limply against the younger as Ashton took him across the porch. Stepping through the front door, Ashton glanced around and, seeing no one, called out. “Lierin? Lierin, where are you?”
“Ashton?” The gasp and the sound of running feet drew his gaze to the upper balustrade as Lenore came into view. He smiled a greeting while his eyes admired the vision she presented in a pale lilac gown. Her own eyes were wide with surprise, and her lips slightly parted, but the sight the red splotches on her father’s white coat sent tiny shards of fear shooting through her.
“What’s happened?” she demanded, but did not wait for an answer as she lifted her skirts and flew down the stairs. Her voice came in a tone of worry even as she descended. “Oh, Ashton, you haven’t hurt him, have you?”
“Upon my honor, madam, I have not,” he assured her with a lopsided smile as she left the last step and ran to them. She began searching for a wound under Somerton’s coat until Ashton took her wrist. “Your father only cut his hand, Lierin. Believe me, he’s all right.”
“His hand?” She straightened and, with some bemusement, took the mentioned extremity. She lifted the cloth and wrinkling her nose in a grimace she began to examine the cuts.
“I thought you should clean it,” Ashton suggested, leaning close. He would seize upon any excuse to be near her. He noticed the sweet smell of her as his eyes touched the soft nape, and he was reminded of his wont to kiss that delicate spot.
“Take him into the parlor,” she directed. “I’ll have Meghan fetch a pan of water and make some bandages and be right back.”
Ashton complied and helped the elder man to a chair. Somerton clasped the napkin tightly again and cradled his wounded hand against him. “She would tend me,” he whimpered like a child lost and confused. “Gentle angel though she be, and me the foulest wretch…” He brushed at the rush of tears that invaded his eyes and, sniffing loudly, drew himself up with a proud air, dropping his good hand on a knee. “A good child, she. Don’t you agree?”
“Definitely more than a child,” Ashton murmured as she came into the room. His eyes touched the soft womanly beauty of her and lingered when she knelt before the old man and gently began to tend him.
A thundering of hooves approached the house, and the three paused to listen, Lenore and Robert in some alarm. In his usual fashion Malcolm charged his mount head-on to the house; then coming to ground, he rushed up the steps.
“ ‘By the pricking of my thumbs, Something wicked this way comes,’ ” Robert moaned. “ ‘Open, locks, Whoever knocks!’ ”
Malcolm slammed the door wide and strode into the hall, stopping short when he saw the threesome. His narrowing eyes searched the worried countenances, then flew to the brazen, confident smile of Ashton Wingate.
“What the bloody hell are you doing here in my house!” he raged, sailing his hat down the hall in a fine display of temper. He would have charged the man and done battle with him, but the memory of his most recent defeat made him wary of such a foolish attack.
“Lierin’s father cut his hand and needed assistance,” Ashton explained. “I gave it.”
“You gave it, now get out!” Malcolm flung his arm to indicate the front portal. “Now, I say!”
Ashton strolled leisurely to the door and paused there to make a parting comment. “I wasn’t invited, so you needn’t take your anger out on Lierin or her father….”
“Lenore!” Malcolm shouted, rattling the panes of glass. “She’s my wife! Not yours!”
Giving the man a passive smile, Ashton turned and left. As he made his way across the porch he noticed a pair of men riding toward the house. The larger of the two looked distantly familiar, but Ashton could not quite place where he had seen him before. It seemed as if it had been aboard one of his steamers and that the fellow had been part of the crew. Ashton mentally shrugged. It was useless to try to keep account of all the faces that had come and gone. There had been too many.
“The minute I’m gone”—Malcolm began his ranting, and his voice did not dwindle in strength as he gave full vent to his fury—“the pair of you bring that scoundrel in here. Well, I won’t have it, do you hear? I’ve hired guards to protect this house and all that’s in it from him and his kind!”
Lenore decided that she had had enough of waiting in the carriage. It was hot and stuffy, and she could not be sure just when Malcolm would return. A light dappling of perspiration moistened her upper lip, and she felt the cloying wetness of her fine muslin gown against her back. The landau was parked alongside the boardwalk, precisely where Malcolm had told them to wait, but there was no shade, and the horses were as hot and restless as she was. They swished their tails at the annoying flies that buzzed about them and nervously stamped their feet, now and then nudging forward when one of the tiny demons alighted and bit.
Stepping down to the boardwalk in something approaching a heated huff and not caring that she had left her bonnet behind, Lenore asked Henry to convey her whereabouts to Mr. Sinclair when and if he should happen to return. Malcolm had seemed most adamant when he had asked her to wait, and she had done so, until she had not been able to bear the torture another moment. The driver was quick to make an affirmative reply to her directive, and Lenore stalked into the nearby general store, plying her lace kerchief in a jerky, fanning motion as her heels struck the wooden planks of the boardwalk. Once she passed through the door, she replaced her frown of annoyance with a smile.
“Why, good mornin’, Mrs. Sinclair,” the storekeeper greeted her as he turned from stocking the shelves. “How are you? My goodness, it’s been some time since I last saw you.”
Lenore tried to bring some recollection of the man to mind, but as always she could not place the face. Almost hesitantly she asked, “Do you know me?”
“Why, yes…I mean…” The shopkeeper displayed his uncertainty before he made further reply. “I thought you were Mrs. Sinclair. Am I mistaken?”
“No,” Lenore returned quietly. “I guess not.”
Confus
ed by her reply, he studied her closely. “Aren’t you feeling well, ma’am?”
She fanned herself with her handkerchief, this time with leisured strokes. “It must be the heat.”
The kindly man indicated several chairs that sat against the wall at the back of his shop. “Would you care to rest yourself for a moment?”
“No, I’ve sat too long as it is.” Her lips curved gently upward as she rejected his offer. “I was waiting in the carriage for my husband to return. I guess his business took a little longer than he expected.”
The man chuckled and nodded. “I know how that can go.”
She glanced around, wondering how she might dare ask him his name without having to explain her malady. He had seemed so befuddled by some of the questions she had already asked him. “I’ve thought of writing a journal to keep an account of everyone I know here in Biloxi.” She had seriously contemplated doing so, just to see if there were any names that pricked her memory. “And, of course, you would be a part of that list…. I was wondering how you spelled your name.”
“B-l-a-c-k-w-e-l-l.” He said the letters proudly. “J-o-s-e-p-h Blackwell.”
Blushing lightly, she waved her handkerchief before her warm face and laughed. She might have felt better had he a more difficult name, and she was half afraid she had given him the impression she was something of a dunce. “Just as I thought.”
“You must be planning on staying around these parts for a while if you’re thinking of writing a journal,” he observed.
“Oh, yes,” she replied. “At least, my husband hasn’t talked about going any other place. Besides, my father is staying with us.”
“Oh?” Joseph’s bushy brows raised in surprise before he chuckled. “How did you persuade your father to leave England? I thought you said he hated it here and refused to refer to the States as anything but the colonies.”
Her slender shoulders lifted in a small shrug. “I guess he just changed his mind.”
The shopkeeper nodded understandingly. “He probably couldn’t stand being away from his family. Sometimes it’s difficult for a father to admit that his daughter has desires contrary to his. It must have been a real blow for him when you decided to move here from England, coming all this way to live by yourself. By the way, how is your sister?”
A sad, wistful look replaced Lenore’s smile as that girl-child of her dreams flickered back through her memory. “She’s dead.”
“Oh, I really am sorry, Mrs. Sinclair.” The man spoke softly in sympathy. “I didn’t know.” He shook his head sadly. “First your husband, and then your sister. I’ve got to admire your spirit for being so brave after such losses.”
She glanced up at him in wide curiosity. “My husband?”
Joseph looked at her strangely. “Why, yes. You were a widow when you first came here.” He scratched his head in bemusement. “At least, that’s what I thought you said, but I could be wrong. We really never talked much, only to pass the time of day now and then. Why, it was hardly a month or so ago that I actually learned about your marriage to Mr. Sinclair.”
Her head swam with a flurry of confused images. From the vague, featureless forms, she knew instinctively that one was her father. Though he remained hardly more than a shadow, he stood with outstretched arms, bidding her to come and be comforted. A phantomlike form moved beside her, seeming to urge her toward the elder man, and this one she knew was Malcolm.
“There you are!” The familiar voice came from behind her.
Blinking, she turned as Malcolm hurried toward her, and for a brief moment, she had trouble sorting reality from illusion. In her mind she saw him being clapped on the back by a sturdy male hand.
“I didn’t know you were going to leave the carriage,” Malcolm chided a bit crisply. “You worried me, leaving like that.”
“I’m sorry, Malcolm,” she murmured. “I didn’t mean to upset you, but it was very hot out there.”
Malcolm realized Mr. Blackwell was watching them in a curious manner and reluctantly explained, “My wife has been sick. I hope she hasn’t bothered you too much.” He ignored the startled glance his wife shot him. “She’s been a bit confused lately and can’t seem to remember too well.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Blackwell responded kindly.
Malcolm smiled stiffly. “If you don’t mind, we must be on our way now.” He made the appropriate apologies. “I’m sorry. I had arranged to meet her father at a certain time, and we’re late now. Good day to you, sir.”
Holding Lenore’s arm in an almost painful vise, he escorted her out and across the boardwalk, then handed her into the carriage. He frowned at her when he took the place beside her. “I told you not to leave.”
“It was hot out here,” she complained with rising ire. “And you were taking your own good time. I think the only reason you wanted me to come is because you were afraid of what Ashton would do while you were gone.”
“I’m not afraid of that bastard,” Malcolm muttered.
“I can’t see why you were so persistent about me staying here. I had a nice chat with Mr. Blackwell.”
“Oh?” His eyes were cold as they came upon her. “What did the old man have to say?”
“Something interesting.” A light frown touched the creamy visage. “Why didn’t you tell me I was a widow when you married me?”
Malcolm’s brows lowered in pique. “I thought it would only confuse you more if you knew. That’s one of the reasons I’ve been trying to shield you from the gossip in town. I just didn’t know what kind of trauma it would cause.” He seemed most inquisitive as he asked, “What else did your friendly storekeeper have to relate?”
“Nothing, really. From what he said, I gathered he didn’t know me too well. We didn’t have too much time to talk before you came in.”
Relaxing back in the seat, Malcolm lifted his hat and wiped a handkerchief across his brow. “It is hot,” he stated in a more pleasant tone. “I’m sorry I wasn’t more considerate. I just got tied up and couldn’t get away.”
Lenore’s curiosity had not yet been appeased, and she ventured, “Do you know anything about my first husband?”
The heavy shoulders lifted casually. “I think some kind of fever took him shortly after the two of you were married. Beyond that, I don’t remember too much of what you told me about him, except that he lived on an island in the Caribbean.”
“His name…do you know his name?” Lenore pressed.
Malcolm ran the handkerchief along the inside of the hatband and glanced at her askance as he replied, “Cameron Livingston.”
“Livingston…Livingston…” She rolled the name over and over on her tongue, finding that it had a familiar ring. “Yes, I think I’ve heard the name before.” The delicate brows came together as she tested her given name with it. “Lenore Livingston? Lenore…Livingston. Lenore Livingston! Yes! I know I’ve heard it before.” She laughed, pleased at her accomplishment. “Perhaps I’m beginning to remember again. Oh, that would be so nice if I could.”
The dark eyes turned to her above a wan smile. “It’s been some time now since your accident. I’m beginning to wonder if your memory will ever come back and if you’ll remember what we once meant to each other.”
“I remember more than I did when I came here,” she admitted. “It’s coming back slowly, but at least I’m making progress.”
Malcolm reached for the thin valise that he had tossed on the far seat. “There are some papers here your father wants you to sign. We’re going now to meet him. Are you up to it?”
“Do you suppose we can make it another day?” she asked. The intolerable heat had drained her. “I don’t feel up to reading right now.”
“You really don’t have to read anything, my dear. Your father has taken care of that for you.”
“My father brought me up better than that. He’ll expect me to heed his advice.” She canted her head, wondering where that notion had come from.
Malcolm sighed impatiently. “Rea
lly, Lenore. The documents are not important enough that they must be read over in detail.”
“I’d rather not attend to the matter just now, Malcolm,” she stated, rather firmly. She resented being pressured by him. “If my father wishes to bring the papers home, I’ll read them there. That is the most I will promise.”
He responded with a derisive snort. “You’ve gotten very high-minded lately, especially since that nigger lover has roosted on our front lawn. Don’t forget, madam, that I am your husband…not Ashton Wingate. You’ll give me the respect that is due me.”
Lenore’s amazement was complete. She saw no reason for him to fly into a temper over her delay in signing papers that he had said himself were not important. “Malcolm, I only ask to be allowed to read the papers.”
“Well, it’s almost an insult the way you insist. It sounds as if you don’t trust me…or your father. We’re only seeking what is best for you.”
“My father taught me long ago to look after my own interests.”
“To hell with your father!”
“Malcolm!” She stared at him in astonishment. “I see no reason for this display of temper.”
“I can!” he snapped. “I ask you to do one simple thing, but you refuse. I bet if your precious Mr. Wingate were here, you’d fall all over yourself doing what he asked.”
“Your jealousy is showing,” she said soberly.
“Isn’t it the truth?” His dark eyes fairly snapped as he threw the accusation at her. “If you had the chance, you’d take that bastard into your bed.”
“Malcolm, you’re going too far,” she warned.
“By doing what? Calling him a bastard or you a bitch?”
Lenore gasped in outrage and, now in a high-flown temper herself, rapped the handle of her parasol crisply on the small door behind the driver. “Henry, you may let me off here, please,” she requested when the tiny portal came open. “I have some further shopping to do.”
“You’re not getting out!” Malcolm protested as the servant brought the conveyance to a halt. “I’m going to take you home.”
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