Although unobtrusively, Lenore regarded him in return, admiring the fine figure he presented in his coal-gray coat, coal-and-pale-gray-striped cravat, and muted striped trousers of a slightly lighter shade of gray. As always, his shirt was crisp and white, and the boots, showing beneath the long, narrow-fitting trousers, were polished to a glossy black sheen. The summer had darkened his skin until the hazel eyes seemed to sparkle with a light of their own behind their sooty lashes. They put a shine in her own when once again their gaze merged and held.

The small, somber group waited in solemn silence as the minister sprinkled a handful of dirt over the casket and droned the words “Ashes to ashes and dust to dust…”

Lenore reached up a hand to brush away the tears that streamed down her cheeks and swallowed against the sorrow welling up in her chest. A smothered sob came from Meghan before the maid turned to console the coachman, who dissolved into harsh weeping. Robert Somerton reached inside his coat and, pulling out a flask, tipped it to his mouth with quick, short jerks. Malcolm was inattentive to the proceedings, for his stoical regard was centered on Ashton and was only broken when the latter brushed past and moved behind them again. A quick glance over the shoulder assured Malcolm that the other was moving toward Mr. Titch, and if he showed any sign of relaxing, it was in the slight drooping of his heavy shoulders as his tension eased.

“’Morning, Mr. Titch.” Ashton greeted the man with a meager nod; then leaning his head back, he cast an eye toward the gloomy gray heavens as he casually remarked, “An appropriate day for a funeral, isn’t it?”

“I suppose,” Horace mumbled, directing a clandestine glance toward the taller man. “A bit hot for my taste, though. Maybe a rain would cool things off.”

“Either that or make it more humid,” Ashton replied pleasantly, noticing the sweat trickling down the other’s round face. He wondered if that was due entirely to the heat, or if something else was stirring up Mr. Titch’s lather. “I was quite surprised to see you here, Horace. Are you visiting relatives?”

“Yes…” Horace bit his lip as the lie slipped out. He would have told it gladly, but he was afraid that Ashton would carry the tale back to the sheriff, and it would start a whole avalanche of investigations. He dusted off his sleeve, striving to appear as nonchalant as his adversary, but for some reason he always missed reaching that goal when the other was around. “Actually, Marelda wanted to come to Biloxi…to see the ocean…or something.”

Ashton reflected on the man’s answer, remembering when he had told Marelda about Leirin owning property here. Knowing the woman as well as he did, he could not believe that it was only chance and coincidence that had brought the couple here. Marelda could be a woman of positive action sometimes, and he was most curious as to what had compelled her to come. Ashton watched the other closely as he asked, “Did you perhaps know the young woman who was murdered?”

Horace sniffed pompously. “Have you now taken on duties as sheriff, Ashton, that you think you can question me?”

“Not at all.” Ashton observed the stilted anger of the squat man. “Sheriff Coty showed me the girl’s body, and at the time I remarked that she looked familiar, but I couldn’t place just where I had seen her before. Then when I saw you here today, it began to come back to me.” He caught the nervous tick at the corner of the man’s eyelids and watched the stubby hands mop at the heavily sweating brow. “Am I wrong in thinking that Mary worked for your sister for a while?”

The eyelids lowered over those dark, liquid pools as Horace silently cursed himself for coming. That had been so long ago, he had thought no one would remember. Reining in his panic, he put on a show of bravado and glared up at the other. “What if she did? You’re not going to lay this murder on me.”

“Horace, I believe you protest too much. The thought never entered my mind. The girl was raped, if you haven’t heard, and I just couldn’t imagine you doing such a thing.”

Horace found cause to take offense at his statement. “Are you suggesting that I’m not a man?” His voice increased in volume: “I’ll have you know…”

Realizing he had gained the attention of the other mourners, Horace slowly closed his mouth. As the recipient of their stares, he stretched his short neck out of his collar, raised up on his toes, and then settled back to a flat-footed stance, just like a little rooster ready to crow…or burst, which might have better described his present disposition. If he bragged about his prowess, which might have been viewed as questionable by other men, he would have invited the sheriff’s suspicion. The other alternative of letting Ashton Wingate believe him incapable was just as bad. He could not tell them that Corissa had let Mary go for the girl’s own good after he had dragged her down to the woodshed. He vividly remembered the resulting squabble he had gotten into with his sister about treating the servants and slaves in a more worthy manner. After all, there were other planters who used their slaves for their own convenience, he had argued, and he felt he had a right to be like other men. To be considered a man was the thing he most desired. There was no need to prove his manhood with the very young, and until Marelda had deigned to bestow some attention upon him, it had always been the innocent child-girls he had gone after. And Mary had been very young once…and very inexperienced.

Ashton smiled blandly. “I’m sorry if I disturbed you, Horace.”

“You just don’t know how much you have disturbed me.” The short man flapped his arms as he worked himself up into an outraged fervor. “Of late, ’twould seem that I am being continually harassed either by you or by some of your friends. For instance, Harvey Dobbs came out to my place and asked me if I knew anything about the burning of your warehouse.”

Ashton’s expression did not change. “I’ve been wanting to question you about that myself, but lately I just haven’t had time to give the matter as much attention as it deserves.”

“Yes, I can see what’s kept you busy,” Horace sneered as he tossed his indefinable chin toward Lenore. “Not that I care, but you’re going to get yourself killed sniffing after another man’s wife. Or are you still trying to convince everyone that she’s your long-lost Lierin?” Horace felt the surging thrill of success as he saw the sarcastic gibe hit its mark. He could hardly believe he had found a weakness in the other’s steel-plated hide.

The muscles tensed in Ashton’s jaw as he stared down at the little man. He was tempted to take him up and shake him just to hear him squeal like a frightened piglet. It was all he could do to control the urge and to give the man nothing more than a curt reply: “We’ll see what the end brings, Horace, both for you…and me.”

Ashton set his back to the man and joined the rest of the mourners as they began making their departures. Malcolm remained near the graveside with the sheriff, no doubt attempting to persuade the lawman to take some positive action against him. A wry smile touched Ashton’s lips. The man would do more good explaining his own whereabouts during that time, since Lierin had chosen to tell the sheriff of her visit to the steamer. The watchman had helped him aboard when he returned to the steamer, and no other boat was sighted leaving the vessel after that.

Hickory glanced down from his lofty driver’s seat as Ashton paused beside the carriage. As instructed, the black had brought the smaller landau with a two-horse team to Biloxi and had led his master’s favorite stallion on a tether behind the procession. He had found lodging at the town’s livery stable, where he could attend them while he waited for the next move in this game. Mr. Wingate had casually compared his maneuvers to a game of chess, the object being to capture the queen, and should the occasion arise and the lady be willing, Hickory would serve as knight and whisk her to safety while Ashton stayed behind to challenge the adversary. On this day Hickory had been summoned to the shoreline by a signal from the steamer and, meeting his master, had conveyed him to the cemetery.

“De missus looks kinda peaked, massa,” the black observed.

“I was thinking the same thing myself,” Ashton mused aloud as he observed her careful progress to the Somerton carriage. Her father assisted her, and as they paused, she reached out a hand to steady herself against her father’s arm.

“Yo reckon dat Mr. Sinclair treatin’ her all right, massa?”

“He’d better be if he values his life,” Ashton muttered.

Lenore slowly raised her gaze to her father. “I’d better rest a moment,” she whispered as she tried to subdue the waves of nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. The hot, sultry day had become almost unbearable for her, and she felt stifled by the muggy heat. “I’m not feeling well at all.”

Robert patted her hand in a rare display of affection while the red, watery eyes hinted of a compassion she had not thought him capable of. “I’ll fetch Meghan, dear. Perhaps she can help you.”

As he hurried away, Lenore leaned her swimming head against the outside wall of the carriage and closed her eyes, wishing desperately that she were already home. She dabbed at her cheek with a lace handkerchief, but, small and dry, it did little to ease her plight.

“May I be of assistance?”

The thickly lashed eyelids opened wide as the familiar voice filled her brain. Ashton was there beside her, hardly more than a heartbeat away and, as always, ready to be gentle. The dark, chiseled face showed caring concern, and the eyes were soft and tender as they touched her.

“Are you ill?”

The deep pools of emerald moved beyond him to the man who was striding toward them. “Please go,” she pleaded in an anxious whisper. “Malcolm is coming.”

Ashton ignored the approaching man and the gawking bystanders as he opened the carriage door. Bracing it with a shoulder, he lifted her in his arms and swept her inside.

“What is the meaning of this?” Malcolm demanded, coming to a halt beside the carriage. He jerked at Ashton’s elbow to bring him around and was met with a sardonic smile.

“Excuse me, Malcolm. The lady appears to be ailing, and I didn’t see you rushing to her side.”

Malcolm’s hawkish face reddened to the line of his tawny hair, and the dark eyes became piercing, like those of an eagle which had just spotted prey, except that this quarry would not be frightened off by a mere display of outrage and was much too dangerous to attack outright. Were he to challenge the man, Malcolm knew he might find himself the victim.

Seeing nothing more threatening than an angry frown, Ashton stepped back and tipped his hat to the lady. “Good day, madam. I trust you will soon be feeling better.”

“Thank you,” she murmured in a small voice and cast a worried glance at Malcolm as he watched Ashton return to his own carriage. The hatred he bore Ashton was clearly visible in the cold, dark eyes.

Lenore flew down the stairs, giving no heed to the showing of her slender calves beneath the uplifted hem of her nightgown. The tails of the dressing gown spread out behind her like oddly fluttering wings as she raced with a pace that matched her heartbeat. She had just been about to start her morning toilette when she had heard Malcolm’s enraged bellow reverberate throughout the house. She had no need to be told that Ashton was at the core of her husband’s fury and could only wonder what he had done this time to set the younger man off.

The front door stood open, and as she drew near the entry, she saw Malcolm standing on the porch with the hunting gun in his hands. A towel had been flung across a naked shoulder, and it was evident that he had been in the process of shaving, for one cheek was still covered with thickly lathered soap. His hair was wildly tousled, and his feet were bare against the wooden flooring. Nearing the portal, she slowed and eyed her husband cautiously. Intent upon watching some activity that was taking place beyond her range of vision, he seemed oblivious to her approach. She frowned, unable to see what had roused his ire; then her heart jumped as he snarled a savage curse and took a flying leap from the porch.

With quaking heart Lenore ran out onto the porch, fearing that he was about to carry out his threat to shoot Ashton. A pair of small, supply-laden boats were skimming in to shore on the other side of a narrow inlet, and as they slid home, Ashton and a half dozen of his men jumped from the boats. A few grabbed bundles as their cohorts pulled the craft ashore. One man glanced around and sighted Malcolm racing toward them with the weapon. He shouted a warning to his mates, prompting the men to scatter in several different directions. Ashton stood his ground and stared at the oncoming man as if he dared him to fire. Lenore screamed, fearing Malcolm would do just that, and when the seething man lifted the weapon to look down the sights, Ashton dove to one side, just as the gun went off with a deafening roar. A small geyser of sand sprayed up as the blast of buckshot buried itself in the beach, just beyond the spot where Ashton had been.