Come Love a Stranger

  “Their plight seemed very distant to me…until today. I would like to do something more than donate a few baskets of clothing and food.”

  A sudden smile broke upon Peter’s countenance. “If ye be really serious about the offer, sir, then I’ll be more’n willin’ to accept. Whene’er ye tell us, we’ll be ready to move.”

  “I’ll make the arrangements and notify you when you’re to leave. It shouldn’t be too long, only a few days or so. The steamer has to unload and take on supplies.”

  Peter glanced about at the facilities that had been erected only that morning. “I managed to borrow these tents from the railroad, but the men there told me I’d be havin’ to bring everything back ’fore the month was out. I was wonderin’ how we were goin’ to manage after that. Now it seems me prayers have been answered. I canna thank ye enough, sir.”

  Ashton shook the man’s hand in farewell and returned to the carriage. As he leaned back in the seat, he released a long sigh. It would probably work out well for all concerned if Peter Logan took his band of misfits to Memphis. Then he could be assured that Lierin and Peter would never meet.

  The sun played out the day and had settled behind a billowing froth of vivid hues on the western horizon before Ashton concluded his business in Natchez and his carriage was seen coming up the drive. The house rang with Luella May’s strident announcement, prompting Marelda to check her appearance quickly in the silvered glass and apply a fresh touch of her favorite perfume to her temples and behind each earlobe. She was determined to dominate as much of Ashton’s attention as she could and planned to extend her visit to the plantation in order to fight for what she considered was hers. Once her adversary sank her hooks into Ashton and he became totally convinced that she was his wife, the game would be lost. Invitations to Belle Chêne would be limited. Ashton would become the doting husband again, and if the last time could be used as an example, no other woman would command his notice for more than a nominal length of time.

  Leaving her guest room, Marelda moved down the hall, but paused in the shadows beyond the upper balustrade as she heard the low murmur of exchanged greetings in the front foyer. Ashton came into the main hall, and was followed by Willis and Luella May, who bore several elaborately tied boxes. Marelda’s envy seethed anew as she took note of the fancy dressmaker’s boxes. Anyone could tell the contents had not been procured at the general store, but had been purchased from the most successful and expensive couturier’s shop in Natchez. It seemed that Ashton was eager to outfit his so-called wife in the finest apparel.

  “Miz Lierin’s asleep, Massa Ashton,” Luella May informed him. “She ain’t woke up hardly none at all since yo been gone. Doctah Page come, an’ he say she jes’ plum tuckered out.”

  “I won’t disturb her then,” Ashton replied and gestured for the pair to leave the boxes on the sideboard. “Willabelle can take these things up later.”

  Luella May set her parcels down and could not resist caressing the silken bows. “Yo musta bought somepin real pretty fo’ Miz Lierin.”

  “Only a few essentials to tide her over until Miss Gertrude can send out some of the rest. They should be delivered later this week.” He lifted the corner of a smaller box with a finger and grimaced ruefully. “At least, it seemed like only a few when I left the shop.”

  The servants left the hall, and Marelda smoothed her gown and hair in anticipation of meeting Ashton, preparing herself to flow into view when he reached the upper level. He had ascended only three steps when a booming bass voice sounded from the back of the house. Much to Marelda’s disappointment, Ashton turned and promptly descended the stairs again. A huge black strode into view, meeting Ashton in the middle of the lower hall where they clasped hands in a hearty greeting that bespoke of a close friendship.

  “Judd! It’s good to see you.”

  “Welcome home, suh.”

  Marelda’s lip curled in repugnance as she observed the two from her lofty niche. She could not understand their bond, and vowed if she ever became mistress of Belle Chêne, she would see the black displaced as overseer and his friendship with Ashton terminated. Such familiarity with a servant was most degrading.

  “I’m anxious about the spring planting,” Ashton said to the black, “and I have a few ideas I’d like to discuss.”

  “Yo wants to see Miz Lierin now, suh. Ah come back later,” Judd offered.

  “Luella May said she was sleeping, so I won’t disturb her. Come to my study, and we’ll talk about the planting now. I suppose you heard about the accident….”

  The two men turned away from the stairs, leaving Marelda to fume in outraged frustration. It was apparent she would have to wait if she wanted a private moment with the master of the house.

  Wait indeed! Ashton devoted himself to making arrangements for the steamboat’s journey to Memphis, sometimes coming home too late to take the evening meal with the family. While the cargo from the trip downriver was being unloaded, Ashton spread the word abroad that the stern-wheeler would be making the short jaunt upriver, and there would be room enough for some cargo if any of the planters or merchants had a need for shipment to or from the other city. Contracts were hurriedly drawn up, and merchandise and goods began to arrive even before the old was gone. From all indications the trip would not be one of loss.

  Lierin could hardly do more than sleep. It was her only escape from the unrelenting pain that savaged her waking moments. The slightest effort to accommodate necessities brought her back to the bed in blinding agony. The pain sapped her strength and plagued her every waking moment. Still, in the morning after a basin bath, she would don a fresh gown and allow her hair to be brushed by the black woman who gently tended her. Though it was not readily made use of, a green velvet robe was left within easy reach at the end of the bed, and satin slippers were placed nearby for her convenience. She was distantly aware that these articles were new and well fitting, but she had neither the will nor the strength to inquire as to their ownership. Slowly, almost imperceptively, her strength returned. With each new dawning of a day she could spend a few more minutes on her feet before the intolerable ache drove her back to bed. When the pain did relent and she found some ease from its intensity, she would sometimes prop herself up against the pillows and read or chat with Willabelle or Luella May as they cleaned the room.

  She saw little of Ashton. He came to her room after her morning toilettes to exchange a few inconsequential words with her, but he seemed almost stilted and unsure of himself as he watched her. He stood beside her bed, tall, lean, handsome, well dressed and well mannered, with almost a hungry look in those soft, hazel eyes which hinted of his restrained emotions. She could only surmise that her outburst of fear had caused his reticence, but she failed to find a way to intrude into their polite exchanges and ask him what he was really thinking.

  When she roused from slumber during the day, he would either be in Natchez or busy someplace else on the plantation. Sometimes she sensed his presence in the night, but could not break her bonds with slumber to rouse and speak. On one of her brief ventures from bed, she passed a window and glanced out to see him riding one of his stallions around on the lawn. The sight drew her admiration, for the dark, glistening steed pranced in high-stepping cadence while he arched his long neck and flagged his sweeping trail. The man on his back seemed in total control of the animal’s movements, yet he did it with such ease, the pair flowed together as one.

  The days of the week accumulated in number and were without success for Marelda. She despaired that she would ever have any time alone with Ashton. Her failure to seize the advantage made her increasingly anxious, for she realized the time wherein she could carry out her campaign without interference were quickly dwindling. At the onset of her maneuver she had been confident that Lierin would not jeopardize her injured demeanor to run after Ashton, thereby leaving the course open. But as the week aged, her panic increased, for it seemed that her plans went awry even before they were launched, giving them no chan
ce for fruition.

  The excuses were varied. On the second and third night after the mishap, houseguests from the Carolinas had to be entertained. Marelda breathed a sigh of relief when they left the next morning, but when the family gathered in the parlor that night to await the call for dinner, Latham came running in to inform his master that one of his blooded mares was showing signs of foaling. It was not enough that Ashton had been gone all day; he finished his brandy in a single gulp, excused himself, and hastily departed to change clothes, leaving Marelda in all her finery, with nothing more to look forward to than a chatty meal with the two older women. Her smile and temper were sorely tested even before Luella May announced the evening meal was ready for consumption.

  On the fifth night Ashton failed to come home for dinner, and though Marelda waited up and carefully listened for the sound of his footsteps in the upper hall, she fell asleep, not realizing he had already passed with silent tread and closeted himself in his own suite. She might have consoled herself with the fact that Lierin was seeing less of him than she, but it was a hard reality to face that the twit would have free run at him after she left.

  The house grew quite and subdued, and the last flickering flame was snuffed. Ashton went to his lonely bed and finally found the sleep he sought after much tossing and turning. It was later when he woke with a start. Staring into the darkness, he wondered what had snatched him so abruptly from a sound sleep. His naked body was clammy beneath the sheet, and he tossed away the covering to allow the cool air to dry the light mist of sweat. He rubbed his hand across his furred chest, feeling restless and uneasy, as if he had been plucked from a horrible nightmare. What had he found in his dreams that had been so distasteful to him?

  He followed the path that his mind had taken through his slumber, and dark green eyes came in a vision before him and taunted him with their seductive gleam. Soft lips parted in a wanton smile, and wildly tossed red hair swirled around a temptingly curvaceous form that knelt amid a bed of rumpled sheets. His imagination was free to roam over the silken body, and though he realized he was becoming aroused by his thoughts, he let them wander on unhindered. Slender arms swept heavy tresses from off her neck, while she gave him a coy look that invited him to draw near and caress the full, delicately hued bosom and the slender hips and lithe thighs. In his mind he reached out and pulled her close, but in the next instant sharp talons cruelly raked him, and in his imagination he jerked back to see a hissing witch glaring at him with hatred-filled eyes. This was not his Lierin! This was some madwoman of his dreams! A witch with red hair!

  Of a sudden he knew the reason for his abrupt awakening. His dreams of Lierin had turned to ones of tormenting doubt. A familiar sense of despair returned as fragmented memories flitted through his mind. He had seen Lierin taken from him by the strong, dark currents of the river, a river he had known for a good part of his life, one that refused to yield its prey even under the best of conditions. The question rose to haunt him. How could a slender young woman have found her way safely to shore in the dead of night when, even with the best of circumstances, it would have been impossible to discern the river’s edge?

  Deep within his reasoning there came a brief trembling of trepidation that there remained some remote chance that he was wrong. After all, many questions were as yet unanswered, and those answers might not be in tune with his desire.

  The uncertainties attacked him unmercifully, raking him over the glowing coals of logic. He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and braced his elbows against his knees as he hung his head in a moment of roweling fear.

  “What is the truth?” His mind would not let him rest on the matter. “Is she my Lierin or some wayward wench who wears only the outer shell?”

  He rose to light the lamp beside his bed, then drew on a pair of trousers. He touched the wick of a candle to the glowing flame, then left his chamber to move barefoot down the hall until he was at Lierin’s door. The nightmare left his mind half drowned in doubt. Would he find the beloved face he sought, or would it be only a cruel trick of his eye that awaited him?

  Carefully he turned the knob and, without a sound, pushed the portal open. The room was dark, lighted only by the dying flames in the fireplace. He moved with soundless tread to the bed and placed the candle on the nightstand where it would spread its glow over the one he had come to see. He stared down at the face thus portrayed, and relief flooded through him.

  A century or so ago he had also wandered in the dead of night and paused beside a bed in a hotel suite in New Orleans, where he had gazed down upon these same fine features. He had been amazed that her beauty could both burn his mind and, in the very same instant, freeze it with stunned awe. This was surely his Lierin, once lost, but now found by some unfathomable fall of chance.

  Lierin sighed softly in her sleep, and her arm moved slowly aside, taking the sheet and quilt with it and leaving only her gown to cover her. The thin garment pulled into a taut shroud over her body, drawing Ashton’s eyes downward to the full swell of her rising and falling bosom and the narrow curve of her waist. A flaming lust took hold of his body, starting the blood pounding in his veins and nearly overwhelming him with his hunger as his gaze wandered on across the flatness of her belly to where the garment had crept up to reveal her naked thighs and an arching hip.

  Suddenly Ashton caught himself, realizing he had stepped forward with a hand outstretched and ready to caress a long, sleek limb. As he struggled with his craving lusts, a horror congealed within him that if he pressed her, such an act might thrust her deeper into her plight and forever destroy the path to reconciliation.

  With some disgust for his own lack of self-control, Ashton kneaded his sweating palms together and moved several paces away from the bed. A trickle of sweat traced a cool path down his temple as he fought the raging desires that tore at him, leaving him trembling and tense. It was a laborious battle, and a short eternity passed before he managed to claim a small measure of victory. A long sigh slipped from him, and he shook his head, thinking of how close he had come to using force. He had always been repulsed by men who bragged of their forceful dominance or sniggered because of their lack of self-restraint. He had thought himself above that, but now he was catching a glimpse of a totally different profile.

  His head lifted slowly as he forced his mind to take control, and he found himself staring at an image reflected in the cheval glass which stood a short arm’s length from him. In the ebon mirror he saw his beloved floating behind the fragile barrier, haloed by the candlelight and surrounded by a sea of darkness while she nestled deeply in slumber, unaware of the battle that raged a few short paces from her. A pang of anguish stabbed him. He felt like smashing the mirror to destroy the barriers, but it was a foolish desire, for the obstacles were not really there, and he’d only lose the vision of her.

  Gradually a calm deliberation overtook him. He had a strong will, and he would not let himself be governed by his lusts, no matter how they tormented him. In quiet resolve he returned to the bed and, bending low, pressed a light kiss upon her softly parted lips. It may have been his imagination, but it seemed that she responded for a moment, yet when he drew back a vague frown troubled her brow and her lips moved briefly in an unintelligible murmur.

  A certain sadness tore at his spirit as he left the room. It was not a comforting thought to know that he would have to endure this aching, gnawing hunger. All too aware of the pain in the lower pit of his belly, he heaved a sigh. Time would have to be his ally. Time and patience. Or at least as much patience as he could muster.

  A new dawn came stealing through the half-closed drapes of Lierin’s room, touching her with its light and gently rousing her from the depths of morpheus. At first she felt exhilarated and greatly refreshed; then as she tried to stretch her arms above her head, everything came flooding back and she was reminded of her aching muscles and her lack of memory. Her enthusiasm for the new day dwindled, but only briefly. A light, airy spirit rose from somewhere deep with
in her, giving her a new vigor and a solid fortitude that her limited recall could not fathom. She knew not from where it came, but it had a familiar essence. She felt herself responding to its urging, growing stronger and more determined. Once again she stretched, this time deliberately seeking out each ache or pain and testing them as she moved this way and that. Whatever the source was of this newfound energy, it also gave her the sure knowledge that she had never avoided problems, and it was an inescapable fact that none of hers would depart until they were met and dealt with summarily. Sifting through the multitude that came to mind, she selected the first and most obvious. She could hardly spend the rest of her life in bed, and the sooner she dispensed with her immobility, the sooner she would regain some semblance of control of her life. A long soak in a hot tub would help loosen her stiff muscles, but making such a request might seem a trifle presumptuous in a strange household. Still, Ashton Wingate had insisted that she was his wife. Perhaps they would not deem it too much amiss if she asked for such a service.

  Pushing herself out of the bed, she stood to her feet and, seeing no sign of her robe, cautiously made her way to the hearth. The fire had burned low, and a definite chill had settled in the room. A small store of split logs had been laid up in the brass woodbox, and she tossed several on the glowing coals, then reached back to take up the poker. As her fingers closed over the handle of the piece, an image of an upraised poker flashed through her mind. The vision was brief, but it left her feeling strangely weak. Trembling, she sank into a nearby chair and rubbed her temple with fingers that were now as cold as ice. She could find no reason for her reaction and tried to force it from her mind, but in its stead came a cold, clammy, distasteful void.

  Lierin straightened, steeling herself against the disturbing sensation. The flames were cheerfully cavorting along the logs, and she knelt before the hearth, letting the radiating warmth drive away the frigid fingers of apprehension. A light knock came upon the door, and without pause, as if no answer were expected, the portal was pushed open. Willabelle entered and took a step or two toward the bed before noticing it was empty. She halted in consternation and searched about with her eyes until Lierin came to her feet with a polite clearing of her throat; then the housekeeper turned her massive bulk about.