The urgency of the moment pressed upon him, and his tone conveyed his growing anxiety as he commanded, “Hiram! Get up there, and lay the leather to those horses! Hurry!”

The startled man slammed the door and quickly climbed up to his place. Ashton braced his legs against the far seat as the brakes creaked loose and Hiram’s shout echoed through the still night. “Yeeeaah! G’yap dere!”

The well-matched team lunged forward, taking their duties to heart, and in the cool evening air the steam rolled from their backs as Hiram drove them at a breakneck pace around a bend, not even checking their stride when the wheels caught a rut and the closed landau lurched sharply sideways. Ashton swayed with the careening motion and cradled his precious charge as if it were his own heart he carried. As he bent over her, his spirits soared with unaccustomed joy, and he closed his eyes as a prayer filled his soul: “Oh, God, let it be Lierin…and let her live!”

The shifting light of the carriage lanterns lent her pale skin a golden hue that belied the chilling touch of it while it teased him with haunting views of the delicate features. His fingers trembled and his brow creased in a pained frown as he tenderly touched the discolored swelling on her forehead, that same which once he might have kissed with loving affection. His emotions were unmercifully churned. While his hopes climbed to lofty heights with the hope that this was his own beloved Lierin, his fears at the same time ran as deep as a bottomless cavern, for he could not guess the extent of her injuries. It would be cruel fate if, after finding his wife alive, she was again taken from him. Indeed, he might find himself icapable of coping with the tragedy all over again.

Letting out his breath slowly, Ashton attempted to gather his scattered thoughts into some semblance of logical order. Was he just being plagued by memories of his dead wife? Was he going mad? Did he see a dearly remembered visage on another because of some trick of his mind? Was it only the rising hope of an aborted dream that made him think that it was she? After all, he had known Lierin less than a month before exchanging vows with her. Several of his friends in New Orleans had teased him about marrying her in an anxious fever while barely knowing her name. Then the black hand of tragedy had struck, and he had seen his love swirled away from him in currents dark and foul. Since that time he had counted the days until they had aged into three years, a month, and a week short a day. Now here she was again…or some young woman incredibly like his memories of Lierin. He had to allow that there was room for error, and yet he resisted his doubts, though he knew he could be leaving himself open to more pain and grief.

Gently he traced his lean fingers along her cheek, pausing at her temple until he felt the faint throbbing of a pulse. A sigh of relief slipped from him, but he could not ease the pounding of his hart.

A shout from Hiram announced their approach to the plantation house, and Ashton peered through the darkness toward the distant glow of lanterns that marked the mansion’s presence among the huge towering oaks. Beyond sweeping grounds Belle Chêne stood with the magnificence of a French château, buttressed on either side by wide wings and tall trees. The thought flickered through his consciousness that he was at last bringing home his love.

As the landau neared the structure, Ashton became aware of the carriages crowding the lane and a number of horses tied to the hitching posts. He could only surmise that his grandmother had seized upon the excuse of his homecoming to have a party. His eyes passed gently over his companion. The elder lady would hardly be expecting this latest turn of events. His entrance with an unconscious and improperly garbed woman would likely give her a turn. After his brief courtship and marriage in New Orleans, Amanda Wingate had become leery of her grandson’s jaunts downriver, and here he was returning from another such trip. It mattered naught to him that the incident would add grist to the grinding mill of gossip, but he had to consider that his grandmother was getting on in years.

Hiram stood on the brake, and in the lane the tethered horses stamped their feet in sudden distrust of this apparition that careened wildly through their midst. The landau was brought to a skidding stop in front of the verandah. There, the black man scrambled down and hurried to snatch open the carriage door. Ashton bundled his cloak carefully about his treasured burden and pressed her head upon his shoulder to protect her face from the crisp air. As he did so, the illusive scent tore through his senses once again, unlocking all the yearnings he had held in check these past three years. Their time together mght have been brief, but he knew without a doubt that it had not been lacking in quality and worth.

“Send a fast rider for Dr. Page,” Ashton barked over his shoulder as he bore her up the steps.

“Yassuh!” Hiram was quick to respond. “Ah send Latham ridin’ out lickety-split.”

Ashton’s long, swift strides took him across the porch to the door. He fumbled with the knob until the catch clicked free; then he braced himself to kick the portal wide. The butler had almost accomplished the same duty, having heard the carriage arrive, and was there in the front foyer when the door burst open. As Ashton shouldered his way through with his burden, the usually imperturbable Willis stumbled back with sagging jaw. It was certainly not a moment for which his training in decorum had prepared him.

“Massa Ash-” His voice broke on a high note, and he had to clear his throat to start again. “Massa Ashton, it sho’ good to see yo, suh….” His speech fled completely as a snarled strand of red hair tumbled from the folds of the black woolen cloak. His prepared greeting somehow failed to fit the occasion, and he could only gape in stunned awe as the master of the house strode past.

Amanda Wingate shared the servant’s dismay when she led her sister and several guests from the parlor into the wide hall, halting Ashton’s progress to the stairs. Her attention was snared by the slimly curving bundle he carried and the telltale red tress, and her mind and heart gathered speed as she closed the space between them.

“Good heavens, Ashton!” She pressed a trembling hand to her bosom. “Have you stolen a march on us again and taken yourself another bride?”

Ashton felt the urgent need to take the girl upstairs, but he knew he should give his grandmother some sort of explanation for his entry. “It’s not often anyone steals a march on you, Grand-mere,” he murmured, using the form of address his own mother had affectionately reserved for the older woman. “However, in this case…”

“Amanda,” Aunt Jennifer cautiously whispered, laying her hand upon her sister’s arm, “perhaps we’d better not discuss what Ashton has done this time. At least, not while we have guests.”

Amanda suppressed the questions that burned in her, but she was still worried and confused. From the stillness of the one being borne, she inferred a state of oblivion, and she could think of no logical explanation for what she was seeing except what she had immediately assumed, that Ashton was carrying his sleeping bride to his chambers. She could sense his impatience to be on his way as he kept edging toward the stairs. She was about to remove herself from his path when the cloak slipped slightly, allowing a glimpse of the shadowed face beneath the satin-lined garment. “Quite lovely…” she mused, not at all surprised that he should choose such a beautiful wife. Then her eyes widened as the wrap continued its sliding descent, revealing thinly clad limbs, and she finished the initial thought in an unplanned gasp as she grabbed the wayward garment. “And quite unsuitably garbed!”

Amanda glanced around to see who else had viewed the display and was dismayed by the proximity of several elderly matrons whose mouths hung slack in shock. Whispers began as a small, murmuring ripple and quickly became waves of conjectures that surged rapidly through the guests, with the words nightgown and girl being tossed along the crest.

“Grand-mere, it’s not what it seems,” Ashton whispered urgently, seeking to allay her fears.

Amanda moaned softly. “I don’t know if I can bear the truth.”

Aunt Jennifer leaned near to bolster her sister’s courage. “Remember, Amanda. Papa always said to keep an even mind in the face of adversity.”

A man jostled his way near, and, having heard only part of the exchange, urged in a friendly manner, “Come on, Ashton. Let’s see what your new bride looks like. It’s about time you took yourself another wife.”

“Bride!” a strident feminine voice screeched from the adjoining room. “Wife!” There was a bustle in the crowd as the woman began to push her way through. “What is going on here? Let me by!”

Aunt Jennifer’s own composure crumpled a bit as she mumbled beneath her breath, “I do believe this is just the time Papa was talking about.”

A tall slender brunette stumbled forth and brought herself up with badly frayed dignity to view the newcomers. Marelda Rousse’s dark eyes followed the long fall of damply tangled red hair and widened as they dropped to Ashton’s wet trousers, then flew in questioning horror to his face. Breathless with worry, she struggled for composure. “Ashton, what is the meaning of this? You look as if you’ve been rolling in the swamp with this girl! Have you really gone and taken yourself another wife?”

Ashton chafed at this unexpected turn of questioning, but he had no intention of spilling his heart and his hopes before so many. His only concession would be to make them aware of the injured state of the one he carried. “There was an accident with the carriage, Marelda, and the girl was hurt when she was knocked from her horse.”

“She was out riding in her nightgown? At this hour?” Marelda cried. “Really, Ashton, how can you expect us to believe a story like that?”

Ashton’s jaw tensed with his growing irritation. Marelda Rousse had dared many things, but never had gone so far as to question his word, especially in his own home and before so many. “I don’t have time to explain now, Marelda,” he answered curtly. “The girl needs attention. Please, just let me by.”

Marelda opened her mouth to complain, but her words were squelched by his piqued frown, and she could only move aside as she sensed a growing current of anger in his manner. There were times when Ashton Wingate seemed almost cruel in his reticence, and she knew it would do her little good to insist.

Amanda was embarrassed that she had allowed her own suspicions to leap out of control and saw the need for urgency. “The pink room in the east wing is empty, Ashton. I’ll fetch Willabelle and send her up immediately.” As her grandson strode toward the stairs, she gestured to the young black girl who had been watching the proceedings from the upper balustrade. “Luella May, run ahead and make the room ready.”

“Yas’m, Miz Amanda!” the girl answered and promptly darted off.

Leaving behind a rising murmur of voices, Ashton swiftly climbed the winding staircase that swept upward against a curving wall to the second level. Three years ago he had dreamed of carrying his young bride up these same stairs and whisking her away to his own bedchamber. Now here he was, holding close to his heart a woman he believed was Lierin. Were she conscious, he might have settled the matter of bedrooms with a quick inquiry, and he would no more know the loneliness that had haunted him since that tragic night on the river.

He arrived at the guest room to find Luella May folding down the covers on the canopied bed. The girl quickly smoothed a narrow hand over the sun-whitened sheets, readying the place for the injured one before moving out of his way. “Dere ain’t no need to worry yose’f, Massa Ashton,” she assured him. “Mama be here directly, and she know what to do fo de lady. She knows all dere is to know ’bout doctahing….”

Ashton hardly heard the girl’s chatter as he lowered his charge to the bed. Reaching to the bedside table, he wet a cloth in the washbasin and began to gently wipe away the mud from the colorless cheeks. His task complete, he held the lamp close and carefully studied the oval face, seeking out whatever truth was to be found there. His eyes followed the slim, straight line of her nose downward to the soft, pale lips. The darkening bruise temporarily marred the perfection of her brow, but the creamy skin was otherwise unflawed. Soft brown brows swept upward in a delicate arc above thickly fringed black lashes, and he knew, if this was indeed his wife, the eyes were a deep emerald green and as lively as new leaves dancing before the wind. Her thick hair was matted with broken twigs, dried mud, and dead leaves, but the debris could not hide the bright hue. She was the very image of the one he had held so tenaciously in his memory. It had to be his wife!