The brisk clatter of heels came along the corridor and halted at the open door. They looked around to see a young maid pausing at the threshold. Her uncertainty was obvious. Beneath their combined stares she seemed to debate whether to make a tactful retreat or chance an advance.

“Come in,” Lenore invited, extremely grateful for the interruption.

The girl entered hesitantly, casting an anxious glance toward each of them. Her black hair, blue eyes, and soft fair skin delicately touched with a blush were a striking combination, but she seemed naively unaware of her comeliness as she nervously straightened her cap. Trailing strands of dark hair had escaped the starched headpiece and were hanging about her face. Though her apron was crisp and clean, it was slightly misaligned with her dark blue gown, lending her a rather untidy demeanor.

“Excuse me, mum,” she apologized, dipping her knees in a quick curtsey. “I be Mary, the housemaid. Meghan sent me up to ask if ye’d be wantin’ a bath.”

Lenore flashed a look toward Malcolm, who was thoughtfully rubbing a finger along his chin. He stared at the girl, but he seemed lost in his musings, as if he were still mulling over her comments. Perhaps she had given him reason to fear her sanity, but if it would keep him at bay, it was what she wanted. She also desired a bath, but she was leery of giving an affirmative answer while he was still in the room.

Malcolm finally became aware that he was being observed, and with a debonair smile he faced the green eyes that rested on him. “If you will excuse me, my love. There are some matters in town that need my attention.” Rising to his feet, he took her hand and dropped a kiss on the tips of her fingers. “Until this evening, then.”

Graciously Lenore nodded, immensely relieved that he was leaving. She only hoped that, while he was gone, he would reconsider and find another place to live.

Not since her first bath at Belle Chêne had Lenore felt such a need to soak away her stiffness and the ache in her muscles. The journey from Natchez had been a grueling ordeal, for she was sure the carriage wheels had found nearly every rut and crevice in the road. Slammed and jostled about the interior, she had been left both bruised and battered. As she sank with a long, grateful sigh into the steamy water, she closed her eyes, and let her mind wander at will. A definite path seemed laid out for her thoughts, however, for she was soon remembering when Ashton had attended her bath and the resulting play of passion that had led him to strip off his wet clothes and press his hard, naked body full against her own. Though she knew she was letting her mind travel a dangerous course, she savored the recollections. Otherwise, she would have sunk into the pit of despair and been overwhelmed by sorrows.

Memories of another toilette wandered with ghostlike grace through her mind as she continued her bath. It seemed that the hour was late, and she had just traveled a long distance and was preparing for bed….

Her mind took up the path in visual recall, and she found herself clothed in a nightgown with a cloak thrown over it. She was walking through darkness; then a burst of light intruded, and she recoiled in sudden fear as the too-familiar nightmare came upon her. The poker lifted, but now it was as if she were standing afar off watching the event from a distance. The silhouette of a darkly cloaked man flitted across a narrow space, and gloved hands brought the iron down on the shaggy head of another.

She almost screamed as she came upright in the bathtub. Slowly the fear waned, and as it did, her thoughts became crystal clear. Of a sudden she was struck by the realization of what she had just envisioned, and the full force of that revelation nearly snatched her breath.

“It wasn’t me!” she whispered in amazed relief. “I didn’t do it!” She glanced about the room as the peace of that knowledge drifted down upon her, while at the same time the condemnation of her fears was lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in many weeks she felt free, as if she had been saved forever from the gallows of death and hellish retribution. She wanted to cry in relief and at the same time shout with joy, and yet the tragedy of that moment still plagued her. She sensed more than ever that what her mind had given her was not a dream but the actual murder of a man. But whose?

She shook her head as she failed to find an answer for that question. If Malcolm’s tale was true, she had been kidnapped from this very same house and spirited away to Natchez. Her father’s wealth might have been a cause….

Below the surface of her memory she felt a twinge of another vague recall. Leaning back in the tub again, she closed her eyes and gave deliberate attention to that feeling. At first she was able to grasp only a faint flicker of a shadowy illusion, but then, images of a group of men began to form in the roiling, confused haze of her reflections. Their appearance was rough and their speech liberally spiced with profanities. She cringed in distaste as one of them sauntered near to leer into her face.

“Awh, ya’ll bring us a handsome purse, ya will, missy,” he boasted between chortles. “But what’s stickin’ in me craw is why in the bloody hell can’t we have some fun with ya first? Ya’re a right fine-lookin’ lady, ya are, an’ seein’s as Ah’ve never bedded a real lady before, I’m ’bout as curious as a stud sniffin’ after a filly. Ah ain’t alone, Ah tell ya. Me friends are of the same mind.”

A soft rap on the door put fantasy to flight, and Lenore sat up in alert attention. Rising from the tub, she wrapped a towel about herself and moved carefully to the door. Her questioning call was promptly answered by Meghan, and with a great deal of relief, Lenore twisted the key in the lock and stepped back, pulling the door open to admit the woman. The securing of the portal was a measure she had taken to ensure that her bath would remain private, just in case Malcolm turned curious or, worse, amorous. With her father continually praising him, she was not sure if she would have an ally in the house, and she felt a need to be cautious.

“I found this in yer trunk, mum. I hope it will do,” the maid said, carrying in a pale blue organdy gown over her arms. She spread the garment on the bed for Lenore’s inspection and stood back to give it her own critical appraisal. “What with yer clothes bein’ wadded up and left in the trunk these many months, it took a bit o’ ironin’ to get all the wrinkles out. Someone must’ve been in an awful hurry when they packed for ye.”

Lenore paused as the words of the innkeeper in Natchez came clearly to mind. She distinctly remembered him describing Malcolm’s departure: “…loaded up his wife’s trunks in her coach, hired a man to drive it, and left.”

Meghan heaved a sigh. “An’ such a nice new trunk, too. All fancy an’ fresh inside an’ large enough to hold yer gowns without nary a wrinkle. I can well understand why the mister let go the help, doin’ yer lovely gowns that way. They ought to been ashamed o’ themselves.”

“It doesn’t really matter now, Meghan. You’ve made the gown look new again.” Indeed, Lenore could find no flaw in the maid’s work or the creation itself. The rounded neckline was trimmed with appliqués of satin leaves, delicately worked with embroidered veins, and a spattering of seed pearls resting like dewdrops over the foliage. Though voluminous, the pale blue sleeves ended midarm with similarly adorned bands. A satin sash would cinch the elevated waist and, like the layered skirt, bore a sparse trailing of leaves down its length.

The woman beamed. “’Tis a lovely gown, it is, mum, an’ ye’re sure to look like a bride wearin’ it.”

Lenore tilted her head as something very fleeting flashed through her consciousness. Did she glimpse a wall of smiling faces surrounding her? And was Malcolm Sinclair standing beside her, looking very much like a groom while he accepted the congratulations of these others?

Suddenly atremble, Lenore sank to the seat of a nearby chair and tried desperately to discern what she had viewed in her mind. Was she the bride in that gathering? And was Malcolm truly the groom?

A multitude of questions formed in her mind, but she found for them no firm answers. And yet, it seemed, since she had arrived at this house, she had started hallucinating more or, hopefully, recalling actual events from her past, some of which came only in bits and snatches, while other parts seemed clearer. It truly saddened her that they were not in accord with the desires of her heart. She had found a memory of Malcolm in her life, but thus far she had not been successful in finding a place for Ashton.

Disconcerted, she lowered her head in her hand and closed her eyes, wanting to banish the recollections back to oblivion. Her failure to find any recall of Ashton swept away any hopes of a joyful conclusion to her malady and left her weak and listless. Although she knew she had to face the truth, her heart still cried out for him. Sweeter by far were the moments she had spent with him.

“Mum?” Meghan reached out a hand to lay it gently on her shoulder. “Are ye all right, mum?”

A long, weary sigh slipped from Lenore as she leaned back against the chair. “I don’t know. I haven’t been feeling at all well this afternoon.”

“Come lay down on the bed, mum,” the maid coaxed. “I’ll fetch a cool, wet rag so ye can bathe yer face whilst ye rest.”

“Shouldn’t I be getting dressed for dinner?” Lenore tightened the towel across her bosom, but could not find the energy to begin the actual dressing.

“There’s plenty o’ time, mum. Just ye slip on yer wrapper an’ lay down till ye’re feelin’ better. What with ye an’ yer father travelin’ all the way from Natchez, a little sleep might do ye good.”

Obeying the woman’s suggestion, Lenore donned a light cotton wrapper and stretched out on the bed. The sheets were cool and freshly scented, and the comfort of the down-filled tick soon swept her into the dark sea of slumber. For a time she drifted in a nirvanic limbo where reality was but a mere haze behind long, undulating veils. Dreams began to filter through, and in carefree abandon she floated from one to another, then slowly, almost imperceptibly, the fluttering draperies closed in around her and began to glow, as if suffused with sunlight. A broad-shouldered form came to her, at first indistinct and dark; then her heart tripped a beat as Ashton’s sun-bronzed features came into focus. He leaned his head down to press a lover’s kiss upon her naked breast, and before her eyes his visage slowly broadened and changed. A thin mustache appeared above leering lips, and she found herself staring into the warm regard of Malcolm Sinclair. The veils became flaming walls that surrounded her, and she writhed in agony as their fiery tongues flicked out to torment her. Then from the core of the flames human forms emerged and pressed in close around her, squeezing the breath from her lungs. Everywhere she turned she was met by a myriad of smirking faces. Goblets were lifted in tribute, as if to celebrate her descent into this roiling pit of hell…except for one man who stood apart from the proceedings. He was more like a frightened ferret scurrying about from one hiding place to another, moving stealthily but ever closer to her. Then suddenly his countenance filled her vision, and his soundless scream echoed through her brain.

Lenore came awake with a gasp and stared wildly about the room, unable to tear herself from the nightmare. Any second she expected to find that tormented visage hiding in one of the nooks and crannies of her room, and her heart quaked in fear as she braced herself for the discovery. A dark shadow seemed to hover close beside the bed, and when reality slowly returned, she realized it was Meghan who stood there. Gazing down at her with sympathic gaze, the maid smoothed the tumbled hair away from her brow and cheek.

“Ye’ve been tossin’ an’ mumblin’ like ye were havin’ a bad dream, mum, an’ I think ye’ve got a wee bit o’ fever.”

Still apprehensive, Lenore cast a wary glance about the room. “Is someone with you?”

Meghan frowned in bemusement. “’Tis only yerself an’ me here, mum. There’s no one else.”

A trembling sigh slipped from Lenore’s parched lips as she leaned back into the pillows. “Yes, I must have been dreaming.”

“Aye, mum. That ye were,” Meghan agreed, placing another moistened cloth across her forehead. “Ye rest yerself some more, an’ I’ll wake ye when it’s time to dress for dinner. If ye’re not better by then, I’ll tell yer father ye won’t be comin’ down.”

“I am tired,” Lenore admitted.

“O’ course ye are, an’ ye’ve a good reason to be.”

Lenore sighed and let sleep overtake her again. It was vague and restful, with only a fleeting moment of distress when her dreams wandered through a confused maze and she heard a cacophony of muted voices, the snarled curses of an angry man, the muffled weeping of a woman, and the slurred oration of a drunken poet.