Come Love a Stranger

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.

She turned back and, retrieving the portrait, made her way carefully down the narrow stairs and to the parlor. There she set the painting aside while she dragged a straight chair to the fireplace. Taking the landscape down, she replaced it with the oil of the man, then stood back to evaluate its importance to the room. The landscape had been like a large gall on a tree, out of place and totally unappealing, but now the parlor seemed complete, well in tune with its surroundings and the rest of the house. Not really knowing the history of the landscape, she did not want to upset Malcolm if perchance it had been a gift from him, and she resisted the urge to leave the portrait hanging there.

Returning the painting to the attic room, she made a mental note of just where she placed it, then descended the narrow stairs again. At the lower portal, she released the rope from the cleat, slowly closing the trapdoor. Stepping into the hall, she locked the door leading to the corridor and removed the key.

Boredom set in once again as she went to her bedchamber. A light, freshly scented breeze sweeping in from the gulf toyed with the draperies and cooled her with its soft touch. She picked up the book of plays and seated herself near the french doors where the soft zephyr wafted through. After a while the book sank to her lap again, and her gaze rose and reached out to the sea. As she stared, a face formed in her mind, but it was not the one she expected. It belonged to the man in the portrait, and in her mind the countenance became animated, changing with different moods. Laughing, frowning, thoughtful, tender…

Lenore’s brows came together sharply. Somewhere beyond the blank wall in her mind was a memory of him, and she thought she knew him well.

It was some time later when Malcolm returned on his black steed. The animal was in a heavy lather, having raced the whole distance from town, but the steed’s exhaustion did not seem to disturb the man who prodded him forward again, away from the house, and to Ashton’s tent. He made several passing circles in front of the courtyard before bringing the stallion to a halt there. Keeping the restless horse in check, he called out with a derisive chuckle, “Come on out of hiding, Mister Wingate. I want to talk with you.”

Wondering what mischief the man was up to, Ashton stepped to the open flap of his tent, and Lenore came out to stand at the end of the porch, prodded by the same curiosity. She shaded her eyes against the spreading rays of the lowering sun and bit her lip worriedly as she watched Ashton move to the edge of the decking.

“What are you about today, Malcolm?” Ashton asked, peering up at the man with a cocked brow as he casually trimmed the end of a cheroot.

Malcolm ignored the question for a moment as he patted his horse’s neck in a show of affection rarely displayed toward his animals. With no mind for how long they lasted, he rode and used them hard until they wore out; then, unconcerned, he found another steed to push through the same accelerated life span. “I’ve heard in town that you’ve been looking around for a horse to buy for a lady.”

“That’s right,” Ashton admitted, speaking out of the side of his mouth as he lighted the thin cigar.

“Might I ask what lady?”

Puffing the tightly rolled leaves alight, Ashton squinted up at the man, and only when he was assured that the cheroot was lighted did he deign to take it from his mouth. “Lierin was quite a horsewoman at one time.” He plucked a tiny piece of tobacco from his tongue and flicked it from his fingers. “I thought she might enjoy the gift.”

Malcolm’s eyes turned icy with the hostility he bore the other man; then he smirked. “Lenore is fairly talented herself, but if you think I’m going to let my wife accept a gift from another man, you’ve taken leave of your senses.”

Ashton shrugged leisurely. “Oh, I wasn’t going to let the horse be taken into your stable, Malcolm. I want better care given to it than that.” Placidly he pointed with the end of the cheroot to the nervously prancing steed. “Treated like that, it would never last.”

Malcolm made no excuses. “I get what I want from them.” His large mouth twisted in a jeer. “The same is true with women.”

The smokey eyes hardened as they met the man’s taunting grin; then Ashton slowly stroked a thumb along his jaw. “I’ve seen some of the women you use…in Ruby’s Tavern. They’re about as sorry as that horse.”

Malcolm stood in the saddle, tempted to launch himself from the mount, but common sense prevailed, and he relaxed again to lift his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “With some women at least we seem to share the same taste.”

“It’s not difficult to admire a woman like Lierin.” Ashton tucked the cheroot into his mouth and reflectively savored its quality for a moment before removing it again. He clicked his tongue before he made comment. “What I’m wondering is what Lenore saw in you.”

Malcolm’s dark face went livid, and again he had to fight to control the violent urges. With an unappreciative sneer, he returned the gibe: “I’ve been curious about you, too, and I’m beginning to believe you pressured Lierin into marrying you. You’ve certainly made a pest of yourself around here.”

A soft chuckle shook Ashton’s shoulder. “A pest to you, maybe.”

“It’s needless to rant on about our lack of regard for each other,” Malcolm stated coldly. “I don’t believe either one of us is suffering from any illusions concerning our feelings.”

“I don’t think so,” Ashton agreed. “The hatred seems mutual.”

Malcolm smiled tightly. “Then you can understand why I’m not going to let Lenore accept your gift, so you might as well save yourself some expense.”

“I wasn’t concerned with getting your approval when I started searching, Malcolm,” Ashton responded, unperturbed. “Expressing your feelings to me changes nothing. I’ve already found a mare for the lady. In fact, it should be delivered to me shortly.”

“I won’t let her accept it!” Malcolm shouted. “Can’t you understand?”

Ashton lifted his shoulders in a lazy shrug. “The mare will be kept here for Lierin’s pleasure. Hickory can see that the horse is made ready for her whenever she wants it.”

Rather slack-jawed at the man’s audacity, Malcolm slumped back into his saddle. “I don’t believe you. I really don’t believe a man can be as stubborn as you are. You make me wonder what you have for brains. If you think I’m going to let Lenore ride that horse, you have none! Absolutely none!”

“You’d like to keep her prisoner in that house, wouldn’t you?” Ashton challenged. “You haven’t let her go anywhere without you while I’ve been here….”

“For the obvious reasons!” Malcolm barked. “Because you’re here! I don’t want the same thing to happen to her that happened to Mary! And that took place right after you arrived! Tell me, Mister Wingate, why was that? It was peaceful and quiet before you came!”

“Of course, it was,” Ashton replied sardonically. “There was no one to challenge your little domain. And you know as well as I do that neither I nor any of my crew had anything to do with Mary’s murder.”

“I don’t know anything of the kind!” Malcolm objected.

“I thought you were smarter than that,” Ashton sneered. “Maybe I was wrong. But then, I understand why you’d want me to be accused of the murder. You’d like nothing better than to be free of me, so you can keep Lierin locked up in that damned house!” The anger came upon him at the idea, and he jabbed an arm out in the direction of the wooden structure as he delivered the accusation: “You’re afraid to let her go free, because you’re scared you’ll lose her or whatever she has that you want.”

“What are you suggesting?” Malcolm squawked.

The coldness came back in Ashton’s eyes as he stared boldly into the other’s face and made his reply: “Her father is getting on in years. He’s a drunk and therefore accident-prone. You could be a rich man one day if you just hang on and let nature take its course.”

“I have wealth of my own!” the other man insisted.

“Where? Show me where!” Ashton demanded. “As far as I can tell, you have no holdings. You’re not a planter. You have no land. You come and go like the sparrow, settling in to roost wherever you can find a warm, sheltered spot and leaving nothing behind but your droppings when you flit away.”

“I’ve had enough of this,” Malcolm said, savagely jerking the reins through his hand. The horse tossed his head as the bit tore into his mouth and sidled away from the wooden platform. Malcolm turned him around in a circle, delivering one last suggestion over his shoulder: “Forget the mare, Wingate, and save yourself some money. I’m not going to let Lenore ride her.”

He kicked the horse into a full-out run, then barely a moment later brought him to a sliding halt before the house. Leaping off the stallion’s back, he thrust the reins into the stable boy’s hands and mounted the steps to the porch. His footsteps fell like thunder against the planks, bearing testimony to his rage as he strode to the end of the veranda where Lenore stood. He did not notice how she trembled when she faced him or the hesitancy in the green eyes. He was too intent upon laying down his ultimatum and having her submit to his authority.

“That buffoon who lives in the tent over there has purchased you a mare….” He smirked in hateful derision as he detected her surprise. “You needn’t be overwhelmed by his generosity just yet, my dear. I forbid you to accept her.” His eyes hardened with a dark, glaring sheen as he added, “And you will obey me.”

He left her and pushed his way into the house, making Lenore flinch as he slammed open the door. It seemed almost peaceful after his passage upstairs, and after a lengthy moment of quietness she breathed a sigh of relief, deciding Malcolm’s temper tantrum was over for the present moment.

The news he had brought settled down upon Lenore and, glancing over her shoulder, she saw Ashton still on the decking. His feet were braced apart, and one arm was folded across his midsection, with the back of the hand supporting the elbow of the other arm as he held the cigar in front of his mouth. She could almost see him squinting through the smoke and rolling the cheroot between his thumb and fingers as he stared at her. Even with the space that separated them, she felt the weight of his steady regard. A light blush warmed her cheeks as she sensed what he was thinking, and it had naught to do with Malcolm.

The delivery of the mare came the next day, thankfully while Malcolm was gone. A man on horseback led her behind him at a leisurely walk, passing across the front lawn and bringing Lenore out of the house in breathless haste to watch the flashy mare parade past. The steed was a bay with long, flowing mane and tail that swept full and free. The tail flagged high as the mare arched her neck and progressed with small, mincing steps, seeming anxious to break into a showy jig. She was tall and incredibly fine-boned, and Lenore sensed with certainty that the delicate bones in her slender legs would break long before her spirit did.

Regardless of the two guards who strolled out onto the lawn to prevent closer passage, the horseman continued on his casual way until he neared the decking outside the tent. Ashton came out to greet him with a broad smile, and the stranger swung down, shook hands, and then nodded as Ashton spoke and motioned for him to take the mare to a spot closer to the house, threateningly close to the boundary that marked the division between his own claim and the one he had allowed Malcolm. As the fellow complied, the two guards exchanged worried comments and, gesturing to one another, hurried to where they might prevent any possible infraction. Lenore went to stand at the end of the porch as the stranger displayed the mare, but it was not nearly close enough. Lifting up her skirts, she ran back across the veranda, down the steps, and over to where the small group of men were gathered around the mare…the guards on one side of the line, Ashton, the stranger, and the horse on the other. One of the guards glanced over his shoulder and saw Lenore coming, then hastened to block her passage. Ready for a set-to, Ashton stepped around the steed, but Lenore looked up at the man with some determination of her own.

“You will kindly remove yourself from my path,” she commanded in a low, threatening tone, “or I shall be forced to make an advance, through you, over you, or however you would have it. If you persist, you will have to bind me physically, because I shall be tempted to rake the skin from whatever portion of your hide is available, starting with the face. Do I make myself clear?”

Ashton hid a chuckle as the fellow looked in wide bemusement at his companion, seeking some help there and finding none. It was one thing to get into a brawl with a man, but quite another to enter into a fray with a woman, especially one that displayed so much fire. Mumbling in worry, he stepped back, allowing her to proceed.

“Oh, Ashton, she’s beautiful!” Lenore declared as she made a slow tour around the horse, unmindful of the boundaries that kept the men apart. “What’s her name?”

“Heart o’Mine,” he replied with a grin of pleasure.

Lenore laughed and fondly stroked the mare’s withers. “An appropriate name.”

“I thought so,” he agreed, peering at her from under his brows as he smiled with boyish charm. “She’s something special, just like you. You’ll look good on her.”

Lenore sighed as Malcolm’s order came back to mind. “But I can’t accept her. It would cause too much trouble.”

Ashton had been expecting the reply. “I’ll keep her over here where she’ll be safe. Whenever you’d like to admire her…or ride her…she’ll be ready for you. At your convenience, madam.”

Lenore was sorely tempted. “Perhaps if I just borrowed her from time to time, Malcolm would let me ride.” She shook her head, rejecting the idea, then settled her hands on her hips with an exasperated sigh. “I’m getting so bored in the house, I need to get out, and what better way than to ride?” A sudden inquisitive smile replaced her frown. “Can you have her saddled for me…now?”

One of the guards stepped forward. “Mrs. Sinclair, I don’t think you should…”

“Bah!” Lenore promptly silenced his unfinished suggestion. “I’ll do what I want to, and if Malcolm doesn’t like it…then, that’s too bad.”

Grinning, Ashton took the mare’s reins and began to lead her to where Hickory stood waiting outside the smaller tent, while the lady went racing back to the house in a rather undignified manner, lifting her skirts well past her ankles.

“Meghan!” she called as she tore up the stairs. “Meghan, fetch me a habit. I’m going riding!”

In no time Lenore was back, dressed in a summer habit of pearl gray, with a white jabot tumbling in lace-trimmed layers from her throat. As she crossed the boundary line, she took note that Ashton’s stallion was also saddled and stood a short distance away where Hickory held him in check. Ashton waved the stranger farewell and stepped to Heart o’Mine, lifting Lenore onto her back while the cabin boy stood at the horse’s head.

“We’d better see how much you remember,” Ashton advised as he gave her the reins. “The last thing I want is to see you hurt.”

Lenore complied with his request and tested the mare’s performance through a walk, trot, and canter, all within a wide circle between the house and tent. To her pleasure, both she and the mare seemed in capable order, and Ashton swung up onto his stallion, adding his approval. Much to the fretting concern of the two guards, she rode away from the house, leading Ashton down along the shore and away from their prying eyes.

Her spirits lifted to immeasurable heights as she enjoyed the outing, the mare, and the company of her escort. There were so many things she wanted to talk with Ashton about, and he seemed as anxious as she to discuss the details of her childbearing state, wanting to know when the babe was due and where the pregnancy might have begun.

“Before we left for New Orleans, I think,” she murmured, casting a wistful gaze in his direction. “You and Meghan are the only ones who know.”

“For heaven’s sake, don’t tell Malcolm,” Ashton warned. “At least, not while he’s in the house with you.” He hated to think what the other man might do to her. “You’d make me feel better about everything if you’d let me send him and his two buffoons away. You could stay in the house with your father if you wanted to, and I wouldn’t even ask you to allow me to move in…or press you to go home with me where you belong.”

Lenore tossed him another glance and laughed. “You’re already pressing me to do that.”

In roweling frustration Ashton settled back in the saddle. “All right! I admit it! And I try because I care!”

“Thank you,” she murmured with a gentle smile.

A muted groan came from him as her soft, grateful look went through him and stroked the strings of his heart. Was she aware of what she did to him when such loving tenderness was displayed in her face? “You turn me inside out, woman,” he complained with a helpless chuckle. “I am putty in your hands.”

Lenore shook her head negatively. “I don’t think so.” She glanced back over her shoulder, realizing they were now some distance from the house. “We’d better get back.” She giggled, relenting to the humor that set in when she remembered the two guards chafing as they watched her ride away. “I’m afraid if Malcolm gets home first, he may shoot his men.”

“Good riddance,” Ashton replied promptly.

“Oh, Ashton, you don’t mean that.” As he raised his brow in sharp disagreement, she burst into laughter again. “Perhaps I’m wrong.”

They had turned their mounts and were heading back when Ashton halted his horse by the edge of the water and swung down. Lenore reined in her mare and watched him in wonder as he strolled back along the wet sand where he had just passed. He paused and kicked the sand with his toe, then stooped quickly, grabbing up a tiny crustacean, which he brought back to her and presented in the palm of his hand.

“A flea crab,” he informed her, gently nudging the coin-sized creature with a finger.

“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.”