Come Love a Stranger

  Somewhere in the swamp that lay behind him, the brassy call of a heron broke the quiet as Ashton turned his gaze toward the house. He searched the lighted windows, hoping to glimpse a shadow of the one he longed to see, but he saw nothing which gave him relief from the gnawing, aching loneliness in his breast. Lighting a cheroot, he strolled down to where the ebbing tide left a strip of wet sand along the water’s edge. The tidal creek lay like a dark barrier across the sand, setting a boundary between him and his love. The cheroot died in his fingers as his gaze again lifted to the house.

  Lenore! Lierin! Lenore? Lierin? Though the face remained the same, the names blurred in his mind….

  He ground his teeth and angrily tossed the cigar into the softly lapping waves. He felt an overwhelming urge to lash out at something…or someone. Malcolm preferably. But he had not yet returned. There was no one to receive his anger, only the calm, uncaring sea and the yielding sand that now bore the print of his boots and which on the morrow would be featureless again.

  A slight movement caught his eye, and he peered into the darkness until he could make out the vague glow of a white-clad figure. Like an illusive wraith it moved with soundless tread toward the narrow strip of sand along the shore and there paused to gaze out toward his ship, seemingly unmindful of the encroaching waves. He scarcely breathed while the longings of his heart yielded to the quickening surge of hope. Was it…?

  “Lierin!” The word was barely a whisper, taken from him by the rising wind, but in his mind it was a shout of acclamation as he recognized the pale, slender form. It was she!

  He leaped across the stream, and his loneliness was banished to the far ends of the earth as he ran toward her. He saw her turn with a start as he drew near and realized she wore a nightgown and nothing else. The bottom part of it was wet where the waves had splashed up against her legs, and that which was dry was being whipped about by the wind. Her hair was loose and flying out all around her, and with the moon adding a soft luminous nimbus around her, she seemed like a fairy queen caught in alarm.

  “Lierin.” The name came from his lips in a softly whispered caress and with all the pent-up longing of a man in love with a dream. It was the almost imperceptible crack in his voice that screamed with the agony of his frustration.

  “Lenore,” she whispered in a desperate plea.

  Though Ashton could not see her face clearly or discern the movement of her lips, he heard the choked sadness, and it wrenched his heart. “Whatever name you bear, you’re still my love.”

  She raised a hand to brush the errant tresses back from her face and gazed up at him with desires of her own. The moon shone down upon him, and where the shirt gapped open, she could see the firmly muscled expanse of his broad chest. The sight evoked memories of a time when she had nestled there in love’s sated bliss and felt the tickling of his breath against her brow. Oh, what torture is love, she thought. Was she ever to find peace with it?

  “I really didn’t think you were out here,” she murmured. “My father said he had seen you rowing out to your ship, and he invited the guards in for a drink.”

  “One of my boatmen brought me some supplies,” Ashton replied gently. “Your father probably saw him returning.”

  “Oh.” Her voice was tiny, dejected.

  “Is everything all right in the house?” he asked in concern.

  She took a deep breath and released it in slow degrees, trying to cool her brain and subdue the tormenting concupiscence that had made a torture rack of her bed. “I was just restless and couldn’t sleep, and I decided to take a walk.” She paused, knowing there was something else that had made her abandon her room, and she told him in a trembling voice: “I dreamed Malcolm took me and showed me your grave. I even saw a tombstone with your name chiseled into it. The wind was blowing, and it was raining. It all seemed so real, it frightened me.”

  “It was nothing more than a dream, my love,” he soothed. “I don’t intend to die and leave you to him.”

  The silence dragged on, and Ashton peered down at her, trying to see her face clearly. He sensed her unrest and, with a great deal of meaning in his words, rephrased his earlier question: “Is everything well with you?”

  Lenore opened her mouth to deny the possibility that there might be anything wrong, then slowly closed it again. Shaking her head as she felt a rush of tears, she turned from him and began to make her way along the narrow strip of sand. She sensed rather than heard him walking beside her. Indeed, it would have been difficult to ignore him when every nerve awoke to his presence.

  “You are pensive tonight, madam,” he stated with surety. “Can you tell me what’s wrong?”

  Lenore resisted the urge to brush at the tears streaming down her cheeks and, facing the sea, finally relented to his probing inquiry and spoke quietly into the wind: “I’m…I’m going to have a baby.”

  Ashton stepped toward her, joy snatching his heart and flinging it high, but he halted, suddenly unsure of how he stood with her. She seemed cold and distant, as if she hated telling him. He was close behind her, almost touching, and the turmoil that roiled within him made his hands shake. It was a long time before he could speak the single word: “Whose?”

  The question stung. Lenore could see no need for him to ask. Wiping at the now flooding tears, she spoke over her shoulder. “Malcolm and I have not been together since I’ve been back.”

  With infinite care Ashton slipped his arms about her, one to slip beneath her bosom and hug her close, while the other hand settled over her stomach. He could feel the firm flatness of it through the cotton fabric and marveled at the gift of life that in less than a year’s time would bring forth a babe. His head bent, and his lips brushed her ear as he asked, “Now will you go home with me?”

  Her breath slipped from her, and it was somewhere between a moan and a wistful sigh. “The baby solves nothing, Ashton. I can’t go back not knowing who I am. There are too many things I must remember. How can I accept you as my real husband when I am haunted by visions of my being toasted as Malcolm’s wife?”

  “Visions, my love, not necessarily reality. How can you be sure what you’re seeing is the truth?”

  She sighed shakily. “Because Malcolm confirmed what I saw without being aware of it. He could not have seen into my mind.”

  Ashton’s voice was hoarse and ragged. “You can’t expect me to stand aside and let another man claim you and my child.”

  “Give me a bit more time, Ashton,” she pleaded, stroking her fingers over the hand that held her close. “This house holds so many secrets. If I leave it, I may never know who I am!”

  “Then let me send Malcolm away,” Ashton suggested. “I fear for your safety being in the house with him. He shows no care for you when he loses his temper. And your father is no protection.”

  “I know that, and I intend to be careful, but Malcolm has been a part of my life, too.”

  “What of me?”

  Staring out into the dark horizon, Lenore rolled her head upon his chest. “I don’t know, Ashton. I hope…” Her mouth quivered, and the welling tears filled her eyes. “I hope for the child’s sake that you are something more than my present. I go to bed at night, and when the lamps are out, I remember how it was with you. I feel you beside me and the touch of your hand upon me and I ache….”

  “Aye, madam. I know the pain of unsated desires only too well.”

  “But I must be sure of myself.” She cast a worried glance toward the lane as she heard the distant rattle of a carriage and the thudding hoofbeats of an oncoming team. “Malcolm is returning. I must go.”

  Ashton caught an arm closer about her waist, delaying her. “Don’t leave me without a kiss.”

  Her breath wavered in a ragged sigh as she felt his manly form pressing close against her back. “You must think I’m far stronger of will than I am.”

  Reluctantly Ashton let her go, and watched until the darkness of the night consumed her. The night was lonely again, empty as if something meanin
gful had left it. The moon was only a pale, drab glow in the sky. The clouds hinted of rain to come, and the tide was beginning to flow, washing up on the beach and erasing all signs of their meeting.

  Chapter Fourteen

  IT was a quiet afternoon, and Lenore was restless. Although she knew Ashton was somewhere within calling distance, she felt very much alone. She wanted him near, and she was sure he would have come to her had she yielded to her desire and beckoned him. Thoughts of the baby nestling within her womb were coming more and more to mind, and she wanted to talk at length and to share the secrets of her musings with someone who cared and who would love them both, but to summon him would be disastrous with the two guards ever-watchful of his approach, although she was beginning to think Ashton could handle anything that came his way.

  Robert had journeyed to New Orleans on business and had planned to remain there for a couple of days. Malcolm had stayed in the Biloxi area, but was on another one of his trips to town and, as usual, had left no word as to when he would be back. Though of late he was inclined to leave and return without word of warning, his manner with her seemed almost careful, as if he had taken a deep interst in her well-being or, more likely, feared losing her to the other man.

  The invitation to the gaming night on the River Witch had been sent out, and to her amazement Malcolm had accepted it with enthusiasm. He even suggested that she have a new gown made for the affair, so he might show her off in style and impress the other guests, who purportedly were some of the most affluent in Mississippi and neighboring states. There was of course no need for her to venture into Biloxi; he would send out a dressmaker to perform the service. It was destined to be an unusual affair, and Malcolm did not want to be found wanting by the other guests, even if they were friends with that dreadful Ashton Wingate.

  Lenore roamed aimlessly through the lower rooms of the house, dearly longing for some activity that she could engage in, or at least occupy her mind. Malcolm had suggested that she find a needle and thread and then busy herself with woman’s work. The idea of stitching a sampler in the parlor did not fit her mood, yet it was in that room where she settled to read. She had found a book of plays her father had left in the dining room only that morning and, seeing the binding worn and well used, opened it with care. Puzzling at the illegible writing scrawled across the title page, she studied the scrolls and embellishes closely until she realized it was nothing more than a signature, but the name seemed of no importance to her. She had never heard of Edward Gaitling before. Still, there were many names that had been erased from her memory and perhaps this was one of them, or simply the name of an actor who had autographed the tome for the Shakespearean enthusiast.

  Reading made her drowsy, and she let the volume rest in her lap as she sipped the tea Meghan had brought her. As she did so, her eyes lifted above the rim of the cup and settled on the landscape painting above the fireplace. A tiny frown troubled her brow as she again puzzled at its presence. It still seemed out of place.

  Growing inquisitive, she rose and went to examine the oil more closely. Although large in size, it definitely would not have drawn a high price in an art salon.

  Lenore pressed her fingers against her temple for a moment, puzzling at her thoughts. How would she know that? And just how many art salons had she visited that she could be aware of the value of a painting?

  Her mind drifted back to the sketch her father had shown her at Belle Chêne. He had said she had created that bit of art. Therefore, she must know something about different works by other artists and had some knowledge of their worth.

  The possibility that she was an artist sent her flying to the parlor’s writing desk in search of pen and ink. The long, narrow drawer in the middle held a supply of parchment, and when she explored further, she found that a side compartment contained something that looked like a collection of unfinished sketches, which were neatly bound with a ribbon, as if someone had cherished them enough to keep them. Taking care, she untied the bow and began to peruse each one slowly, desperately hoping the drawings would reveal something about her and who she was. She found more sketches like the one her father had shown her of the manor house, and there were landscapes that meant nothing to her, but which were all quite good, she concluded, wondering if she complimented herself with that judgment.

  Her interest swiftly advanced when she came to an intricate drawing of a woman dressed in a riding habit. The pose was slightly rakish, with booted feet braced apart under a cocked hem. A plumed cap sat at a jaunty slant over a smooth coiffure, and a crop was clasped at a horizontal angle in front of the skirt, with the ends clasped in gloved hands. It was not the form that intrigued her so much as the face, for it appeared to be a likeness of herself…or Lierin. In hopes of determining which of them it might be, she examined the drawing with meticulous care and discovered, half hidden in the flowing lines of the skirt, the name that claimed the art: “Lenore”! It seemed unlikely that she would have created such a careful image of herself; therefore she had to conclude the sketch was of Lierin and several years old.

  She propped the piece against the oil lamp where she could view it as she worked and, dipping the quill in ink, began to follow the example set before her. Working diligently, she sought to re-create the fluid lines of the old drawing on the new parchment, then frowned in dissatisfaction when the quill refused to flow with her desires. It left splotches of ink to mar the strokes and, with its unwieldiness, seemed to thwart her attempts. In frustration she grabbed up the sheet and, wadding it into a ball, tossed it aside. Again she tried, and again the quill failed her. The difference between the old sketch and the new made her decide that she would have to find a better implement with which to apply the ink, for her talent was being badly hampered by what she had.

  Neatening up the desk, she rose and put all thoughts of art behind her as she made her way upstairs. In the hallway outside her door she paused, not really wanting to while away the afternoon with a volume of plays, nor was she interested in a nap. Ashton had appeased her woman’s curiosity and, in doing so, had made it hard for her to forget. In bed her mind was wont to bring back detailed memories of a broad chest, muscular ribs, and flat, hard belly. And that was only the beginning of her torment!

  She glanced up and down the hall in desperation, seeking some diversion; then a point of interest caught her questing eye. All the other doors in the corridor were set in pairs, but at the opposite end of the hall from her bedroom and across from an unused chamber, there were three in a row. Relieved to have a puzzle to occupy her for a time, she made her way to the center portal, curious to know where it led. She was disappointed to find it locked and without a key in evidence, but it was hardly a secret of houses that some of their keys could be used interchangeably. Fetching the one to her own bedroom door, she applied it to the lock and was rewarded when the latch clicked free. She laid a cautious hand upon the knob, and when she pushed it, the door moved inward with a ponderous grating of hinges. A long, narrow cubicle lay beyond the portal, and on one wall a steep stairway led to a trapdoor in the ceiling. A rope dangled beside the door by which she had entered, and when she tugged on it, the trap door lifted, opening a crack as a heavy counterweight slid down the wall beside the stairs. She had sudden visions of a dark, bat-infested attic, which would fill a foolhardy woman with many trepidations, but a thin silver of light shone from above, and the sight buttressed her courage. She began to tug at the rope again, this time twining it around the cleat that was secured into the wall, and the trapdoor slowly rose to welcome her advance.

  The stairs were steep and clumsy, but sturdy enough to bear her weight. As she gingerly climbed she listened for the telltale flutter of wings that would send her scurrying back down the flight again. None came, and when her head rose above the level of the upper flooring, she realized her fears were for naught. She found none of the leathery hided creatures flitting about. The square vents beneath the gabled peaks were closely louvered, and thin slats were spaced inside
to prevent the possibility of the detested denizens’ intrustion. Absent, too, were the thick layers of dust and cobwebs she had expected, and she could only surmise that the servants cleaned the attic at least on a yearly basis. Planks had been nailed above the ceiling joists to form a floor for the attic, and on this were the usual heaps of discarded treasures. Several trunks and old traveling bags were pushed to one side, and near them the parts of an old bed were braced against a post. A collection of cloth-covered paintings stood upright between supporting beams, and a couple of wooden boxes were filled with an odd assortment of knickknacks.

  The heat had been entrapped in this upper space and brought a glistening of perspiration to her skin as she climbed up to the flooring. She gently prodded the old trunks with her toe and received a hollow sound until she tested one that looked newer than the rest and which was strangely familiar. Wondering what might be inside, she loosened the straps and sought to lift the top, but again found a lock barring her way. A growing certainty that this chest belonged to her sent her searching through the wooden boxes for a makeshift tool with which to pry open the metal flap. The best she found was a broken letter opener, and the sweat of her labors plastered her gown to her back before she gave up the attempt. Whatever was in the trunk would remain a secret until she found a sturdier wedge.

  She moved on, this time examining the paintings. Several in front were average scenes, but toward the back a large one was covered with a cleaner cloth. She slid it out and, removing the covering, propped the portrait where the light would fall upon it. The painting was of an older man, perhaps around Robert’s age, and the face was rather squarish with clean, straight features and a mop of gray-streaked dark hair waving softly away from it. Though the expression was rather stern and forbidding, there was something in the green eyes that bespoke honesty and a fair sense of justice. She considered the portrait from every angle, but found nothing in the visage that stirred a recall. Returning the painting to the stack, she stepped away, then paused as she was suddenly struck with an image of the landscape downstairs. Mingled with it were brief flashes of the man’s portrait hanging in its stead above the fireplace.