Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “It looks frightened,” Lenore commented as the tiny thing clamped his legs close to his body.

  “Aye, madam, that it is.” Ashton bent and brushed it from his hand, letting it go free on the sand again. Dusting his hands, he straightened and glanced up at her, then stilled as he found something in her eyes that he understood only too well: the same sort of longing he had experienced himself much too often of late. Half afraid to move, he lowered a hand to her thigh and waited while she searched his face. Slowly, very slowly she leaned down to him and touched her lips to his. It was sweet bliss in the afternoon, a heady nectar that stirred his senses…and his heart, a soft reawakening of all his love and fondness for her.

  “While the cat’s away…!” The caustic shout came from behind them, and they hastily drew apart. Looking around, they saw Malcolm sneering at them from the back of his stallion a short distance away. He prodded the animal forward and, reining up, pushed it between Lenore’s mount and Ashton, not caring how roughly the steed advanced upon the man. Ashton stumbled back, avoiding the heavy hooves of the nervously prancing horse. Coming to a halt, he faced the other, who had placed himself very protectively before Lenore. The broad face was full of venomous hatred as he stared down at Ashton.

  “I told you to forget about buying my wife a horse.” Malcolm’s eyes were sharply piercing as he bent a glare on Lenore, and his growl came through clenched teeth: “And I told you not to accept the gift.”

  “I haven’t…yet!” she retorted tartly. “I’m just using the mare for a time.”

  “Well, you may use her no more,” Malcolm snapped and flung out an arm toward the house. “Get home…now! I’ll deal with you later.”

  “I’ll go, but only because I was going in that direction anyway.” Lifting her chin loftily, Lenore complied with his wishes and left at a leisurely canter.

  Malcolm turned back upon Ashton with a raging glower. “I know you’d like to lay my wife down and have your pleasure with her, but if you ever do, I’ll rip out your heart and feed it to the fish.”

  “You’re welcome to try,” Ashton returned crisply.

  Malcolm sneered. “I’m sure my men will be anxious to help.”

  “Do they do everything you say?” Ashton probed.

  “Of course,” Malcolm boasted. “I’ve known them for some years now, and I have no question concerning their loyalty.”

  “Then I’d like to know what one of them was doing working on my steamer a couple or so years back.”

  Malcolm stared agape at the man on the ground. “When was that?”

  Ashton raised a brow sharply. “I’ve been trying to remember the precise time, but I know without a doubt he was there at one time, working for me.”

  Malcolm sneered. “Obviously he didn’t like you well enough to continue.”

  “Or else he had other motives in mind for quitting.”

  “Such as?”

  Ashton shrugged. “I’m not quite sure yet. When I am, I’ll let you know.”

  “Please do.” Malcolm’s smirk returned. “Until then, keep your damned horse and hands to yourself.”

  Ashton smiled lazily. “As I said, Malcolm, you can’t keep her prisoner forever.”

  The larger man thrust a hand inside his coat and, whipping out a pistol, promptly cocked the hammer. Ashton stumbled back a step, realizing he was completely defenseless against such an attack. At any moment he expected to feel the burning heat of a shot boring its way through his chest or head, and he could do naught but wait. Any attempt to assault the other would bring about the firing of the pistol that much sooner.

  Malcolm enjoyed his power and savored it long and to its fullest as he waved the sights threateningly in front of the other. The hazel eyes showed concern, but as yet had not lifted one pleading look to him, and that really would have made his day. To have the high and haughty Mister Wingate groveling for mercy was his fondest wish.

  “Well?” Ashton barked sharply. “Are you going to shoot me or not?”

  “I’d love to,” Malcolm replied with a smug smile. “I really would love to.” He chuckled, relishing the moment a bit longer, then heaved a heavy sigh and raised the sights of the weapon from his opponent. “But I must save the shot for the mare.”

  Chortling in glee, he spurred his horse forward and kicked him into a full-out run. Ashton ran to his stallion and, snatching up the dangling reins, leaped astride, then followed the other man in hot pursuit. It was a race, to be sure, and Malcolm knew how to get every last measure of speed from his horse. This was one thing he did well. Leaning forward, he slashed the crop against the stallion’s side. He chuckled deviously to himself, already savoring the idea of the bay mare lying dead in a pool of blood at Ashton’s feet. It would serve the man right for all that he had done.

  Lost in his musings, Malcolm suffered a start when the thunderous pounding of hooves became louder, and he twisted, throwing a glance over his shoulder. He had been almost certain that it was his imagination, but he gaped in shock when he saw the Wingate man gaining on him…rapidly. With a savage curse, he slashed the crop repeatedly against his steed’s flanks, flinging droplets of blood out wide as he whipped it into a frenzy. Still, the other stallion reached out with its long legs, eating up the distance between them until horse and man drew alongside. Malcolm turned his head briefly and saw the other animal stretching out, and it seemed as if the steed did so for the sheer pleasure of the race. No whip marred his side, but he raced on because the challenge was there, and his heart pushed him to win.

  Lenore glanced back as she heard the thunderous approach, and she saw Ashton raise his arm and motion for her to ride beyond the house.

  “Get to the tent!” he shouted. “Go! Get that horse out of sight!”

  “Stop her!” Malcolm bellowed the order to his men. “Stop her and that horse!”

  Lenore did not know what was happening, but she trusted Ashton enough to obey him without question. She set the bay mare to a swifter flight, weaving around one man, who ran in front of her waving his arms as he tried to halt her or spook the horse. Past him, she got a little angry and charged lickety-split toward the other, who ran out to block her path. Seeing the oncoming approach of the charging steed, the man staggered back in some fear of being trampled. His eyes widened even more as the horse continued on the same course, and he suddenly realized that the lady was not going to swerve aside to miss him. She was going to run him down if he did not remove himself posthaste!

  The man dove for safety, eating a lot of grass as he slid on the lawn, first on his face and then on his belly, and in the process scraping a lot of skin. Hickory was dancing up and down near the tent, gesturing for her to come quickly, and she came, pulling the mare to a skidding halt before the open door of the tent. The black man lifted her down and, grabbing the reins, led the mare inside. Lenore was wondering if she should follow when Ashton came charging toward her on his stallion. Malcolm was behind him, and as the first man slowed, Malcolm dove from his horse, across the other’s, and swept Ashton from the saddle. Lenore gasped and stumbled back as the pair fell to the ground at her feet. Malcolm landed on top and immediately used the advantage of his greater weight to pin Ashton down, clamping his thickly muscled legs over that one’s arms. Wedging a forearm beneath Ashton’s chin, Malcolm leaned hard on his throat as he slipped his other hand behind the dark head and began to apply a choking pressure, or one that would break his neck.

  “Malcolm, stop!” Lenore cried and grabbed at his arm, trying to drag him off. With an angry growl Malcolm shoved her aside, sending her reeling to the open door of the tent. The man’s movement was enough to allow Ashton to wiggle an arm free, and with it, he slammed a hard fist into the wide cheek, rolling the man off him and winning his release. Promptly he was on his feet and moving. Taking a step toward the one who was rising from his knees, Ashton brought his own knee up hard beneath the other’s chin. Malcolm’s head rocked back, but rage pushed him beyond pain. Not even waiting for his thoughts
to clear, he lunged forward and clasped his arms tightly about the lean waist of the other. He desired to hear the melodious sound of ribs cracking and began to squeeze, unmindful of the chopping blows that struck his neck and shoulders. Ashton rolled his head backward as the painful vise intensified, and changed his tactics. His fingers came up and probed for the other’s eyes, applying pressure that Malcolm could not bear. The younger man cried out and flung himself away, holding his hands tightly over his face. Ashton followed, raised a booted foot and kicked sideways, catching the man in the ribs. Malcolm sailed back and landed hard. As he blinked to clear his blurred vision, he saw his wife standing in the open door of the tent, looking distressed, and behind her, Hickory seemed equally disquieted. Beyond them both, he glimpsed the mare that had caused the confrontation, and the determination took hold of him to make sure the steed never caused another.

  Forgetting the pain in his eyes, he searched about for the pistol that he had dropped when he first launched his attack. He saw the gleam of the smoothbore, and his hand stretched out, grabbing hold of the butt. He brought his arm up and across, pulling back the hammer, but a shadow fell across him, and another blow from a booted foot struck his arm and sent the pistol sailing. The weapon flipped through the air and, striking the ground, discharged with explosive force. Malcolm screamed in pain as the searing heat of the shot sliced across his arm, and he rolled in agony, holding a hand clasped over his wound.

  “I’m shot!” he cried. “Someone help me!”

  Ashton stepped forward and, kneeling on one knee, yanked down the sleeves of the man’s coat and shirt, ripping them away from the armholes until he could see the blood welling from the deeply grooved flesh. He made a quick assessment of the injury as Lenore hurried to him.

  “A flesh wound,” he reported in sneering derision as she knelt beside him. “It’s nothing. Hardly more than a scratch. He’ll be all right in a day or two.”

  Malcolm reddened and pressed a handkerchief over the wound, preventing any further view of it. He tossed a glare at Ashton and accused, “I could be dying, and he’d say it was nothing.”

  “I was hoping it would be serious,” Ashton quipped. He rose to his feet and, with a hand beneath Lenore’s elbow, drew her up beside him. “Wash it, wrap it, and then let him sulk alone. I don’t think he’ll try killing the mare again, unless, of course”—he raised a brow sharply as he gave the man a meaningful stare—“he wants some trouble with the sheriff.”

  Malcolm struggled to his feet, ignoring Lenore’s attempt to help him, and stalked off toward the house. Ashton wandered over to the discarded pistol and, picking it up, smiled as he examined it. “What wisdom directs this weapon? With unerring skill it has found the fool in our midst.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ROBERT Somerton returned home with a houseguest, a man of like years and with a comparable penchant for drink. Samuel Evans was said to be an artist and indeed seemed talented with a quill, even the one Lenore had discarded as useless. It was his favor to doodle at the writing desk in the parlor, where he enjoyed the company of her father. From there, he expounded with rampant verbosity about the wide variety of adventures he had experienced in his life. Lenore raised a wondering brow at his penchant for raving on with boasts and embellishments, and it seemed the more he imbibed, the more he enlarged upon his exploits and the more fanciful the strokes of his quill became. He created extravagant flourishes and long sweeping lines that took on more of a look of an ornate or elongated script than any landscape or drawing. In the creation of the latter he appeared to be lacking, but he was capable of changing the scrivening to whatever fashion suited his whim. Lenore was fascinated with his abilities and watched from over his shoulder as he penned his name in several different styles.

  “Here now!” Robert chortled. “I can do as well.”

  Samuel hooted in laughing disbelief. “Not likely, my good man! Ye can’t even write yer own name so it’s legible. How do ye expect ye can wield a quill to yer likin’ when ye can’t even do that?”

  “I’ll show you!” Chuckling, Robert dabbed the quill in the inkwell and, with a great show, swept it across the parchment. When finished, he studied the results, then proudly displayed them to his guest and daughter. “There! ‘Robert Somerton!’ ’Tis clear as the nose on your face.”

  Lenore accepted the sheet with an amused smile and, at first, saw nothing more than a wild tangle of sweeps and rolls; then she frowned in bemusement as another signature came to mind. Strangely, it was the one in her father’s book of plays. Of course, that did not seem likely. To write another man’s name in one’s own book…Why would anyone want to?

  Her eyes lifted, and she stared at the elder man in puzzling question. Lately she had sensed a softening in his heart for her, and though she was not aware of the reason, it had pleased her to be treated more like a daughter of worth than one of no account. Still, there were times when she had trouble feeling anything more for him than pity.

  “Come, Lenore,” he urged, offering her the quill. “Show this good fellow here what a beautiful hand you have.” He chuckled, tossing a glance toward his guest, who eyed the pair of them. “Your name, girl. Write out your name for us.”

  Lenore accepted the stiff feather and bent forward to fulfill the request, but hesitated as a chilling draft wafted through her body. There was almost a gleam of anticipation in Samuel Evans’s eyes as he waited for her to perform the simple task. Though she could not say why she might have cause, his manner made her apprehensive. To compare one’s writing with another seemed a simple, inconsequential thing…almost nonsensical. At least, it should have been.

  She returned the quill to the well, noticing his surprise as she did so, and moved to the french doors in a rush as she heard a horse whinny outside on the lawn. It was Heart o’Mine, being exercised by Hickory. He led the mare at the end of a rope, and she trotted with precise, lighthearted cadence before her audience of one.

  “It’s that new mare of Ashton’s,” Lenore announced over her shoulder, thankful for the timely excuse. If she was being foolish, she had no wish to offend the men, but if there was something more to it than what they told her, she would just as soon avoid gratifying their whims…unless of course they first explained their reasons. “She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

  Robert mumbled a noncommittal answer and went to replenish his glass. “I’m not much of a horseman.”

  Lenore glanced around in some surprise, struck by his statement. What had made her think her father loved horses and was himself an exceptional rider…or at least used to be? Her brow puckered in a tiny, perplexed frown as her mind flitted back to the name in the volume of plays. “I was wondering…sir”—calling him Father still came hard—“who Edward Gaitling might be.”

  Robert choked and spewed out a mouthful of whiskey. Being the recipient of the gushing fount, Samuel Evans jumped up and hurriedly wiped at the side of his face and sleeve as he shot a sharp glance at her father. That one had some trouble getting his breath and, after so doing, took a long time clearing his throat. Mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, he sank into a chair and looked at her hesitantly. “Why do you ask, girl?”

  Lenore faced the porch again, and her eyes fondly followed the high-stepping mare as she flagged her tail and pranced past, barely seeming to touch the ground with her black hooves. Finally remembering that her father had made an inquiry, Lenore glanced back over her shoulder. “I just saw the name in your book of plays and was curious, that’s all.”

  “Oh, he’s just some actor I’ve known for some time. He…ah…signed the volume for me after performing in one of the plays.”

  “Oh.” His answer only left her more puzzled. “I see.” She frowned, haunted by what she had seen in her father’s handwriting. Was she making too much ado about something that was nothing?

  Robert stepped toward her with a brief chuckle. “Speaking of signing one’s name, Lenore, you were going to…”

  She stepped out onto
the veranda, leaving the men and that particular issue behind her. From the porch, she strolled out across the lawn where Hickory was stroking Heart o’Mine’s neck and praising her for the fine horse she was.

  “Ain’t she somepin, Miz Wingate?” the black asked with a large, white-toothed grin.

  Lenore’s eyebrows came up in surprise. “I’m Mrs. Sinclair now, Hickory.”

  “Oh, Ah knows what dey sayin’, missus, but Ah still has trouble believin’ a sweet lady like yose’f would marry a man like Mistah Sinclair.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Anybody’d try to kill a horse like dis gotta be mean clear through.”

  Lenore smiled wryly. “My father once said that one can always tell a man by the temperament of the horse he ke…” She paused in midword, clearly confused. Her father had just denied knowing anything about horses, so where had the thought come from?

  Hickory drew back his lips to display his broad, white teeth in a wider grin. “Mr. Wingate, he’s gots some mighty nice ones, missus.”

  She rubbed the steed’s silky nose as she glanced at the black. “You like the Natchez man, don’t you, Hickory?”

  “Yas’m.” The black gave a definite nod and patted the mare’s neck. “Ah sho’ do.”

  “I do, too,” she sighed. “And therein lies the problem.”

  Hickory chuckled. “Ah kinda reckoned yo liked him, missus.”

  His comment made her wonder if her feelings were a secret to anyone. Her voice turned wistful. “I do believe my sister made the better choice in husbands.”

  A soft chuckle shook the man’s shoulders. “Like Massa Ashton say, Miz Wingate, we jes’ have to wait an’ see ’bout dat.”

  The River Witch was pulled up close to the dock and bedecked with garlands and flowers, enough to cover the recent canvas and board additions along the rail and to fill the air with a fresh and fragrant essence as the guests came aboard. Men in formal attire and women in silk and satin gowns, with jewels twinkling at their throats and fingers, passed along the decks and entered the large gleaming halls, where in one an orchestra was playing or in another the cards were being shuffled and games of chance being waged.