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.”

Chapter Fifteen

ROBERT Somerton returned home with a houseguest, a man of like years and with a comparable penchant for drink. Samuel Evans was said to be an artist and indeed seemed talented with a quill, even the one Lenore had discarded as useless. It was his favor to doodle at the writing desk in the parlor, where he enjoyed the company of her father. From there, he expounded with rampant verbosity about the wide variety of adventures he had experienced in his life. Lenore raised a wondering brow at his penchant for raving on with boasts and embellishments, and it seemed the more he imbibed, the more he enlarged upon his exploits and the more fanciful the strokes of his quill became. He created extravagant flourishes and long sweeping lines that took on more of a look of an ornate or elongated script than any landscape or drawing. In the creation of the latter he appeared to be lacking, but he was capable of changing the scrivening to whatever fashion suited his whim. Lenore was fascinated with his abilities and watched from over his shoulder as he penned his name in several different styles.

“Here now!” Robert chortled. “I can do as well.”

Samuel hooted in laughing disbelief. “Not likely, my good man! Ye can’t even write yer own name so it’s legible. How do ye expect ye can wield a quill to yer likin’ when ye can’t even do that?”

“I’ll show you!” Chuckling, Robert dabbed the quill in the inkwell and, with a great show, swept it across the parchment. When finished, he studied the results, then proudly displayed them to his guest and daughter. “There! ‘Robert Somerton!’ ’Tis clear as the nose on your face.”

Lenore accepted the sheet with an amused smile and, at first, saw nothing more than a wild tangle of sweeps and rolls; then she frowned in bemusement as another signature came to mind. Strangely, it was the one in her father’s book of plays. Of course, that did not seem likely. To write another man’s name in one’s own book…Why would anyone want to?

Her eyes lifted, and she stared at the elder man in puzzling question. Lately she had sensed a softening in his heart for her, and though she was not aware of the reason, it had pleased her to be treated more like a daughter of worth than one of no account. Still, there were times when she had trouble feeling anything more for him than pity.

“Come, Lenore,” he urged, offering her the quill. “Show this good fellow here what a beautiful hand you have.” He chuckled, tossing a glance toward his guest, who eyed the pair of them. “Your name, girl. Write out your name for us.”

Lenore accepted the stiff feather and bent forward to fulfill the request, but hesitated as a chilling draft wafted through her body. There was almost a gleam of anticipation in Samuel Evans’s eyes as he waited for her to perform the simple task. Though she could not say why she might have cause, his manner made her apprehensive. To compare one’s writing with another seemed a simple, inconsequential thing…almost nonsensical. At least, it should have been.

She returned the quill to the well, noticing his surprise as she did so, and moved to the french doors in a rush as she heard a horse whinny outside on the lawn. It was Heart o’Mine, being exercised by Hickory. He led the mare at the end of a rope, and she trotted with precise, lighthearted cadence before her audience of one.

“It’s that new mare of Ashton’s,” Lenore announced over her shoulder, thankful for the timely excuse. If she was being foolish, she had no wish to offend the men, but if there was something more to it than what they told her, she would just as soon avoid gratifying their whims…unless of course they first explained their reasons. “She’s beautiful, don’t you think?”

Robert mumbled a noncommittal answer and went to replenish his glass. “I’m not much of a horseman.”

Lenore glanced around in some surprise, struck by his statement. What had made her think her father loved horses and was himself an exceptional rider…or at least used to be? Her brow puckered in a tiny, perplexed frown as her mind flitted back to the name in the volume of plays. “I was wondering…sir”-calling him Father still came hard-“who Edward Gaitling might be.”

Robert choked and spewed out a mouthful of whiskey. Being the recipient of the gushing fount, Samuel Evans jumped up and hurriedly wiped at the side of his face and sleeve as he shot a sharp glance at her father. That one had some trouble getting his breath and, after so doing, took a long time clearing his throat. Mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, he sank into a chair and looked at her hesitantly. “Why do you ask, girl?”

Lenore faced the porch again, and her eyes fondly followed the high-stepping mare as she flagged her tail and pranced past, barely seeming to touch the ground with her black hooves. Finally remembering that her father had made an inquiry, Lenore glanced back over her shoulder. “I just saw the name in your book of plays and was curious, that’s all.”

“Oh, he’s just some actor I’ve known for some time. He…ah…signed the volume for me after performing in one of the plays.”

“Oh.” His answer only left her more puzzled. “I see.” She frowned, haunted by what she had seen in her father’s handwriting. Was she making too much ado about something that was nothing?

Robert stepped toward her with a brief chuckle. “Speaking of signing one’s name, Lenore, you were going to…”

She stepped out onto the veranda, leaving the men and that particular issue behind her. From the porch, she strolled out across the lawn where Hickory was stroking Heart o’Mine’s neck and praising her for the fine horse she was.

“Ain’t she somepin, Miz Wingate?” the black asked with a large, white-toothed grin.

Lenore’s eyebrows came up in surprise. “I’m Mrs. Sinclair now, Hickory.”

“Oh, Ah knows what dey sayin’, missus, but Ah still has trouble believin’ a sweet lady like yose’f would marry a man like Mistah Sinclair.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “Anybody’d try to kill a horse like dis gotta be mean clear through.”

Lenore smiled wryly. “My father once said that one can always tell a man by the temperament of the horse he ke…” She paused in midword, clearly confused. Her father had just denied knowing anything about horses, so where had the thought come from?

Hickory drew back his lips to display his broad, white teeth in a wider grin. “Mr. Wingate, he’s gots some mighty nice ones, missus.”

She rubbed the steed’s silky nose as she glanced at the black. “You like the Natchez man, don’t you, Hickory?”

“Yas’m.” The black gave a definite nod and patted the mare’s neck. “Ah sho’ do.”

“I do, too,” she sighed. “And therein lies the problem.”

Hickory chuckled. “Ah kinda reckoned yo liked him, missus.”

His comment made her wonder if her feelings were a secret to anyone. Her voice turned wistful. “I do believe my sister made the better choice in husbands.”

A soft chuckle shook the man’s shoulders. “Like Massa Ashton say, Miz Wingate, we jes’ have to wait an’ see ’bout dat.”

The River Witch was pulled up close to the dock and bedecked with garlands and flowers, enough to cover the recent canvas and board additions along the rail and to fill the air with a fresh and fragrant essence as the guests came aboard. Men in formal attire and women in silk and satin gowns, with jewels twinkling at their throats and fingers, passed along the decks and entered the large gleaming halls, where in one an orchestra was playing or in another the cards were being shuffled and games of chance being waged.

Lenore entered the second on the arm of Malcolm, and heads turned to view the couple in wide curiosity. Those closely acquainted with the Natchez man had heard some of the rumors floating about and were anxious to see the lady who was causing such a stir. She was hardly a disappointment! Gowned in pearl pink satin with touches of ecru lace adorning the sleeves and narrow bodice, she looked as delectable as any confection that was available on the lavishly filled tables. Her auburn hair was swept up in a soft, elegant coiffure, and at each ear teardrops of pearl dangled prettily from clusters of diamond-wreathed rubies. Falling around the long, slender column at her throat were two carefully matched strands of the same opaque gems, brought together with a similar catch of ruby encircled with smaller diamonds. The jewels were a recent gift from Malcolm, who declared them a peace offering for the way he had lost his temper over Heart o’Mine. He was most anxious for her to know that he could be generous with her, too.

The décolletage bared her shoulders sublimely and dipped enticingly to reveal the higher curves of her creamy breasts. Malcolm seemed taken with the display of the jewels on such a beautiful setting, but eyed his gift far less than he did the tempting roundness that was pressed full and taut above her gown. There his gaze lingered with much admiration.

With her at his side, the tawny-haired man strutted like a proud peacock with his hen, except in this case the latter far outshone the male. His manner seemed tender and solicitous as he stroked his hand along her arm or squeezed her waist, bestowing his caresses most whenever others were around and she could not resist without drawing some notice. He seized upon this advantage when they stood at the gaming tables. There, under the guise of watching the fall of cards, he laid an arm about her shoulders and stroked her arm, now and then brushing his long fingers against her bosom. Lenore blushed beneath his careless caresses and cast a surreptitious glance about to see who might be watching. To her relief everyone seemed more interested in the game of cards and the high stakes that were being waged than in her; everyone, that is, but Marelda Rousse, who had come to stand beyond the players at the far side of the table. As always, Horace Titch was with her and seemed as nervous as ever as his eyes flitted about in search of the Natchez man, who had not yet made an appearance. Marelda was troubled by Malcolm’s display of affection, but she was amused by the distress it caused the younger woman. Any form of misery that came upon that one was bliss to her soul. She smirked as the green eyes clouded darkly beneath a disturbed frown, then raised a mocking brow when they found her and widened in surprise. Marelda offered a condescending smile and a meager nod of greeting. More than that might have indicated some slight forgiveness in her heart, and there was none.

Lenore’s evening took on a lighter, warmer sheen when Ashton stepped through the door. Unmindful of how Malcolm’s features tensed as he glowered at the other man, she filled her own gaze with the much-welcomed sight. Ashton was looking no less than magnificent in midnight-blue dress coat and trousers, gray silk vest, and blue-and-gray striped silk cravat. The usual crisp, white shirt struck a stark contrast to the bronze skin that had taken on a deeper, richer hue since his venturing to Biloxi. As he paused in the doorway, his gaze wandered searchingly through the guests, and when it touched her, his questing perusal ended. The green-brown eyes swept her with a slow, unhurried regard, then, lifting to meet hers, communicated a compliment with a warmth that was clearly unmistakable. If love was a substance to be seen and felt, then it was what she saw in his eyes and felt at that very moment. He wrapped her within its tender tendrils, and for a small space in time she reveled in her spiraling senses. She loved him; she could no more deny that fact than she could dismiss what he conveyed to her now.