“Lierin,” he breathed in a yearning whisper. How long had he kept that name from his lips? Was he wrong in letting it escape for a second time this evening?

A tall woman of generous proportions entered the room and made a brief analysis of the situation before she gave hurried instructions to the girl: “Go fetch dat nightgown Miz Amanda was lookin’ for, an’ bring some hot water so’s Ah can give dis lady a bath.”

Luella May took off like a shot, and her mother hastened to the bedside to examine the bruise on the cool brow. Ashton watched from the end of the bed, where he gripped a post with white-knuckled tension.

“What do you think, Willabelle?” he asked anxiously. “Is she going to be all right?”

The housekeeper heard the concern in his voice, but did not pause as she lifted the girl’s eyelid. “Now don’ go frettin’ like dat, massa. God willin’, dis li’l gal gonna be fine and dandy in a few days.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

Willabelle wagged her white kerchiefed head sorrowfully. “Massa, Ah ain’t no doctah. Yo jes’ gonna have to wait an’ see.”

“Damn!” Ashton growled and, turning from her, began to prowl about the room in restless agitation.

Surprised by his manner, the housekeeper considered him with increasing concern. There was more here than just what appeared on the surface. When the waters were troubled, one could bet that beneath the roiling turbulence there was a cause. She was even more certain of this when he returned to the foot of the bed.

“Isn’t there something we can do until Dr. Page arrives?” he pressed.

“Yassuh,” the black woman answered solemnly. “Ah can bathe her an’ make her fresh an’ comfor’ble, whilst yo go an’ do de same fo’ yo’se’f.” She met his piqued frown, knowing she had offered him what wisdom she could.

Reluctantly Ashton relented, finding no argument to put forth. Laying his coat over his shoulder, he strode to the door and from there gazed back at the one in the bed. She lay deathly still, and it filled him with a cold, expanding dread. “Take good care of her, Willabelle.”

“Ah aims to, massa,” she vowed. “Don’t yo worry ’bout dat.”

Ashton swung the portal closed behind him and slowly made his way down the corridor. Pausing a moment beside the upper balustrade, he rested his hand on the polished rail and bowed his head in thought, trying to find answers for the many questions that plagued him. He knew it would have taken a miracle for Lierin to reach the far shore after she fell into the river, but if she had accomplished such a feat, why had she not let them know she was there? The River Witch had remained on the sandbar until the repairs were made, giving his men enough time to search several miles up and down the river, but they had failed to find any trace. If she had not drowned, why in the three years following the incident had he not received some word from her?

Finding no plausible explanations to encourage his hopes, he rolled his head back along his shoulders in an attempt to ease the ache that had formed behind his neck. As he tried to push the troubling doubts to the back of his mind, he deliberately focused his attention on his surroundings. He had built the mansion after accumulating some wealth, and now he wondered how Lierin would accept his home, if she would find it a delight as so many had before her, or if it would compare unfavorably with her father’s estate in England.

His gaze wandered over the pale marble floor of the lower hall and the delicately hued mural that swept around the curving wall. He saw things he had taken for granted for many months, while he remembered facts he had let slip from his mind. High above the circling balustrade, a large crystal chandelier hung from an elaborately plastered ceiling where dancing prisms of light frolicked and played and chased each other across the raised scrolls and flowers that formed the intricate pattern. No evidence now remained of the damage suffered when a drunken, fun-loving river rat from Under-the-Hill broke into the house and, encouraged by Ashton’s absence, threatened the servants by using the fixture for target practice. It was Amanda who had set the miscreant to flight when she had leveled a loaded gun at him. Later Ashton had demanded that painstaking care be taken by the craftsmen he hired to restore the hall to its former beauty; then he had sought out the brutish fellow who had caused the destruction and presented the bill to him. Just to even the odds in that rat hole by the river, he had taken a man with him, and between the two of them, they had taught the foolish buffoon and a full half-dozen of his cohorts a good lesson: keep their penchant for mayhem confined to the river’s edge and pay their bills when due, especially when the one doing the asking was Ashton Wingate, ably assisted by his huge black overseer, Judd Barnum.

Ashton continued on to his suite, but he could find no relief from the fears that beset him. Moving automatically, he doffed his muddied clothes and went through the process of washing, shaving, and dressing before he returned to the door of the guest room. Willabelle gently shooed him away, saying she was still attending the girl, and reluctantly he made his way down the stairs. When he entered the parlor, he was met by a veritable wall of eager male faces.

“Tell us about her, Ashton,” they urged.

“Who is she?”

“Where did you find her?”

“Is she from around these parts?”

“What was she doing out at night and all alone?”

“Is it true she was only wearing a nightgown?”

The questions flew at him with ever-increasing fervor, like a flock of disturbed bats. He held up a hand to plead for mercy and gave them a wry smile. “Gentlemen, please. I’m not a soothsayer. I can put no name to her at the moment. She’s not from this area and, as far as I can tell, no one that any of you know. To explain why she was out there in a nightgown would be difficult, except that there’s been a fire of some sort in the area, and she might have escaped from a burning house. The only thing I can say with any certainty is that she caught us completely by surprise when she came charging out of Morton’s Woods.”

“I hear she’s a real beauty, Ashton. How do you manage to be so lucky?”

Lucky! His mind screamed the word. How could they even suggest such a thing when he had lost his love and then perhaps…in the very act of finding her again…had nearly killed her? “I won’t consider myself lucky until I know she’s all right.”

“Aye, that’s true,” an elderly gentleman agreed. “If she’s seriously hurt, I think all this caterwauling about Ashton bringing her home will bear heavily upon our conscience.”

Marelda eyed Ashton from across the room, pricked that he had not seen fit to join her immediately. She contemplated several courses of action to convey her displeasure with him. Remaining distant for a noticeable period of time was one option, but when he seemed oblivious to her now, she could guess that such a ruse would be wasted. Had it been some other man, she might have fetched her wrap and left, but Ashton was an exceptionally handsome man. Indeed, a most magnificent specimen. Even in something less than the carefully tailored garments he now wore, he cut a figure to be admired, and she certainly had no wish to jeopardize her tenuous relationship with him. Perhaps a more direct maneuver would be advantageous. After all, she had gained much already by her boldness.

Marelda approached her host with as much determination as a full brigade of charging horsemen. She had spent many an hour perfecting a pretty pout and gave Ashton what she considered a best effort as she slipped an arm through his.

“I should scold you, Ashton, for making such a startling entry tonight.”

Ashton accepted the hurried excuses of the other men and watched them scatter. They no doubt assumed Marelda’s confrontation would lead into a lover’s spat, and it was amazing to him how she had managed to establish herself as his chosen one. Still, he had to admit that as a widower he had been rather lax and blasé about her warming attentions and frequent visits. His indulgence had probably given encouragement to many unwarrented assumptions. “I apologize, Marelda. I didn’t plan ahead to create a scene.”

Marelda turned her head slightly to allow him an unhindered view of her profile. She knew she was pretty and was quite fond of her own silky black eyes and raven curls. “I suppose you couldn’t help the little dear throwing herself into your path, but you do seem to have that effect on women….” A sudden thought struck her, and she asked hopefully, “Or is she a child? She seemed so small….”

Ashton shook his head slowly. “Definitely more than a child!”

“And of course you would know that”-her pique was clearly audible-“having seen her in her gown. She certainly knew what to wear to catch your eye.”

For her comment she received a casual regard with a hint of bland humor hiding somewhere in it. She had the distinct impression that he was laughing at her in the back of his mind, but jealousy had already sunk its sharp claws into her and would not free her from its grasp. Finally he deigned to give her a lazy shrug. “Actually she was wearing a cloak over her nightgown.”

“She was still undressed underneath it!”

“Whatever your preference, Marelda,” Ashton rejoined with light sarcasm. “It doesn’t change the fact that it was an accident.”

“Of course it was,” Marelda scoffed. “She only waited to see if it was your carriage before driving her horse into it.”

“I’m sure Dr. Page will soon be here to disclaim any doubts about her condition.”

A high-pitched giggle came from behind them, and they turned, realizing they had gained an audience in the person of M. Horace Titch, a squat little man whose dark, liquid eyes seemed always on the brink of tears. Now he plainly relished his ability to deliver some news: “Doc Page can’t come.”

Ashton knew the fellow as a tiresome individual who made a point of minding everybody’s business but his own. Amanda only invited him out of friendship for his sister, a woman who had, by good common sense, saved a sizable inheritance and the family plantation from the bungling efforts of her brother. Horace apparently had not been gifted with the same talent for management or astuteness as the older sibling had inherited and was definitely the last person Ashton wanted to see tonight.

“The doc’s gone out to the Wilkins’ place,” Horace announced bluntly. “They’ve got another brat coming, and with the trouble the missus had the last time, Doc Page didn’t want to take any chances. Seems to me they’d be a sight better off if they were to lose it, considering the mouths they have to feed.”

Ashton smiled without humor. “Too bad there wasn’t someone as selective as you when you were born, Titch. They might have brightened the whole outlook of Natchez.”

Horace reddened profusely, and with his straight, dark hair standing out from his head, he gave a good impression of an enraged porcupine. “I…I’d advise you, Ashton, to keep a civil tongue in your h-head,” he stuttered. “Re-remember some of that cotton you haul on your boat belongs to me.”

Ashton laughed sharply. “I do business with your sister, Horace, and provide for her a larger profit than any vessel on the river. If she is ever of a mind to take her trade elsewhere, there’ll be another planter to fill the space.”

“Don’t even speak of it, Ashton,” Corissa Titch said as she joined the gathering. Somewhat brassy and unfeminine, she was not one to remain silent when there were matters to be set straight. “I know where I get the better value for our crops”-she stared hard into her brother’s reddening face-“even if Horace doesn’t.”

Horace met the hazel eyes of his host and recognized the mockery gleaming in their smoky depths. Unable to deliver the threats he wanted to, he stumped away, chafing and silently vowing revenge upon his host. Corissa shrugged a mute apology to Ashton and followed her brother, knowing how his moods were wont to wallow in self-pity. Sometimes she wondered what his fits of depression would lead to someday.

A servant paused beside Ashton to offer champagne, and he used the respite to cool his irritation. Taking two goblets from the tray, he handed one to Marelda. She lifted hers in silent toast, and her heart tripped a time or two as she looked into the handsome visage. His features were crisp and classic, lightly bronzed by the wind and sun. His lips were sometimes warmly expressive, other moments stern and forbidding. Discounting the heavily lashed appeal of those smoky green-brown eyes flecked with gray, she sometimes thought his cheeks were the most expressive and fascinating feature about him. Beneath well-sculptured cheekbones the flesh was taut over muscles that were wont to tense and flex when he became angry.