Kathleen Woodiwiss - Come Love a Stranger

An open field ahead! Escape! Jump! A thunder of hooves beside her! A charging team! Coming at her! Oh, noooooo!!!

Once again blackness…deep, dark, impenetrable…

LENORE’S eyes fluttered open, and she stared into the worriedly frowning, soot-smeared face looming over her. A trace of a smile touched her lips as she lifted her hand, and Ashton seized it in an eager, but gentle, grasp before lowering a kiss upon the slender fingers. Her gaze moved slowly about the interior of her bedroom. She lay fully clothed upon the silken coverlet of her own tall four-poster. Meghan stood close to the head near Ashton and bathed her forehead with a cool, wet cloth. Robert Somerton had taken up a stance at the foot and appeared rather disconcerted as he clasped a hand about a bedpost. Some vague image seemed to obscure his countenance as she stared at her father, and she flicked her lashes to clear her vision, but when she fixed her attention once more on the white-haired man a diaphanous visage again blurred and distorted his features until his jaw became squarish, his hair dark, and his eyes green. A disturbed frown puckered her brow, and in deepening confusion she averted her face.

“What happened?” she asked in a hushed whisper.

Ashton’s frown relaxed slightly as he replied. “I believe you fainted, madam.”

“Aye, mum, that ye did,” Meghan readily agreed.

“But how did I get here?” Lenore indicated the room with a brief sweep of her hand.

“Mr. Wingate carried ye, mum,” the maid supplied the information.

Lenore tried to lift herself from the bed as a memory came back to her, but she closed her eyes again and quickly retreated to the pillows as the room swam dizzily around the bed. Ashton’s hand dropped upon her shoulder in a silent urging for her to rest. Feeling his touch, she lifted silken lashes and conveyed her distress in anxious questions. “Your wound? Is it serious?”

“A flesh wound, madam, nothing more,” he assured her. “Meghan has offered to bandage it for me.”

Lenore breathed a trembling sigh of relief. “You frightened me.”

“I’m sorry, my love,” he murmured. “’Twas not my intent.”

“Not yours…but obviously someone else’s! That man was out to kill you!”

“I do believe he was, madam,” Ashton admitted. “And so were the others.”

“Others?” She raked her brain and then recalled that she had seen another body sprawled on the decking. “There were two of them?”

“I believe I counted four,” he calmly supplied the information.

“Four!” she gasped and braced up on an elbow. “How did you ever manage to escape?”

“Talent, madam.” The hazel eyes gleamed at her. “I seem to have a certain aptitude for brawling.”

Lenore dropped back into the feathery softness and groaned at his humor. “Oh, Ashton, you’re making light of it all. Don’t you know those men could have killed you?”

“I believe that came to me at the time, madam.”

“What were the thieves after?”

“My heart, I gathered.”

She looked at him with a quizzical frown as she framed the briefly worded inquiry, “Not thieves?”

“Assassins,” he stated. “They were apparently sent here by a man.”

“But who?” The suspicion came quickly. “Malcolm?”

Robert Somerton promptly entered the conversation and shook his head in a quick gesture of denial. “Now, girl, don’t go blaming this mayhem on Malcolm. ’Twas that Titch fellow on the River Witch last night, that’s who did it. Malcolm told me what happened. ’Twas him. He had lots of reasons to see Wingate dead.”

“But Horace has been taken into custody by Sheriff Coty,” she argued.

Robert spread his hands and shrugged. “So? He hired the thieves last night. Why could he not have hired the assassins for today’s attempt?”

Ashton considered the man a lengthy moment. “Horace swears he’s innocent….”

“And you believe him?!” Robert laughed shortly. “Addlepated, that’s what I’d call you if you think that.”

“Just say that I haven’t closed my mind yet to the possibilities,” Ashton responded. He tilted his head thoughtfully. “What I’m wondering is why Marelda came rushing to Horace’s defense and what venom she bore Malcolm when she claimed the jewels he had given Lierin were stolen from a friend of hers about a year or so ago. She said when she first saw them she wasn’t sure they were the same, but after giving it more thought she became certain they were.”

“Stolen?!” Lenore laid a hand where the necklace had been and looked to Meghan. “Fetch them for me. They must be taken to the sheriff, so he can look into Marelda’s claims.”

Meghan hurried across the room to the highboy and, unlocking a secret compartment, drew it open, then turned with mouth hanging slack. “They’re not here, mum. They’re gone!”

Bewildered, Lenore frowned and shook her head. “But I put them in there last night….”

“Aye, mum, I saw ye,” the maid affirmed, equally perplexed.

“Did you see anyone come into my room while I was gone?” Lenore asked the woman.

“Mr. Sinclair was in here early this morning an’ found ye gone, but he took off again in a raging fit. He didn’t stay too long, mum.”

“And he didn’t return?”

“Well, I’m not sure ’bout that, mum. When he came back from the tent, he sent me…” She glanced toward Somerton, as if reluctant to continue in his presence and cautiously proceeded. “Ye were needin’ clothes, he told me, an’ he was gone when I come back from takin’ ’em ter ye.”

“And the two guards?” Lenore pressed. “What of them?”

“They were sleepin’ in the parlor when I come down at break o’ day, mum, an’ when Mr. Sinclair left, he took ’em with him. Besides the chore boy, the cook, an’ meself, that left yer father an’ Mr. Evans comin’ an’ goin’ in the house ’til ye come back ter yer room. I’d say just about anyone could’ve taken ’em, mum.”

“Heaven only knows who has them now. Malcolm has gone, but Mr. Evans will be back later tonight….”

“You’re not going to blame this thieving on my friend either,” Robert declared. “If you ask me, someone else had a hand in this…and had plenty enough time to do the deed while we were in town.” He bestowed a direct stare on Ashton for a short span of a moment, then under that one’s dubious regard he lifted his shoulders. “Then again, Horace might have sent his men to do the handiwork while a few of the miscreants entertained Wingate here. You wore the jewels last night, and so he knew you had them. Whatever the case, ’tis apparent they’re gone now, and not likely to be recovered.”

Lenore carefully raised herself and, with Ashton’s assistance, sat up on the edge of the bed, letting him smooth her skirts as she braced back on her hands and waited for the world to correct its orbit. She ignored the brow her father sharply elevated at this apparent intimacy, and braved a smile for Ashton.

“Are you feeling better now?” he asked in concern.

She gave a slow, cautious nod, thankful that her answer was for the most part true. “I’m much better…except…I’m terribly hungry.”

Meghan chortled and hurried to the door. “I’ll tell the cook ye be feelin’ better now, mum. Ye an’ the mister come down whenever ye like.”

The maid departed, and Robert followed reluctantly to the portal. “I…ah…guess I’ll be going down, too.” He turned a questioning eye toward Ashton, seeming opposed to leaving the pair alone together. “Coming, Mr. Wingate?”

“In a moment,” Ashton replied, pointedly waiting for the man to remove himself from the room and close the door behind him.

Robert vented a low, derisive snort. “Haven’t you caused enough woe to come to this house without makin’ a kept woman of my daughter?”

Ashton’s head came up, and he gave the man a mildly disdaining stare. “Perhaps one of us should leave, Mr. Somerton. We don’t seem to have much to say to each other.”

Robert shot a glance toward his daughter. “Well, I know which of us she’ll want to stay.”

The portal slammed behind the elder, and Lenore watched Ashton as the sound of her father’s angry stride drifted back to them. The twitching muscles in the lean cheeks clearly portrayed his ire, and with a tender smile she slid her arms about his neck and kissed his frowning brow.

“It doesn’t matter what he says,” she whispered. “Whether I am Lierin or Lenore, I still love you.”

His questing mouth found hers, and for a long, pleasurable time they savored the hotly flaring passion that catapulted through them. Clasping her knees, he pulled her toward the edge of the bed and bent to lightly nibble at her ear. “You have too many clothes on.”

A thought struck her, and she leaned back in his arms to probe the smoky eyes. “The tent…?”

Ashton moved his shoulders in a slight, upward motion. “Gone, I fear.”

“Oh.” Her voice was small with disappointment. “It seemed so…nice out there.”

A grin tugged at his mouth. “The tent is gone, madam…but we still have what made it nice.” He placed a lightly provocative kiss upon her parted lips as he answered the unspoken question in her eyes. “Each other, my love. We need nothing more than that.”

“I could use some nourishment,” she teased.

He started to laugh, then grimaced and clasped a hand to his side. Smilingly he admonished, “Don’t torture me with your humor, madam.”

Gingerly Lenore pulled aside his bloodied shirt and examined the long gash in the flesh along the side of his ribs. “You need to be tended.”

Ashton rubbed a hand through his hair and caught the whiff of smoke that drifted from it. “I need a bath!”

“That can be arranged, too. I’ll tell Meghan to have one prepared for you right away.” Brushing hard against him, she slid off the bed and, having no place else to put her feet, used the space on either side of his. Her downward movement left the bulk of her skirts wadded between them, and the ever-rutting rake grinned at the opportunities presented him. His hands slipped beneath her petticoats and roamed the delightfully rounded ending of her torso, bringing her warming gaze up to his. “Would you consider delaying that order a moment or two, madam?”

The softly glowing green eyes spoke her answer before she gave one in a barely breathed murmur. “I don’t see where a few moments will matter one way or another.”

Ashton lifted her back to the bed and leaned close against her loins as he plied his talent to unfastening the back of her gown. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Who needs food when there are better things to do?” she asked with a smile flirting at her lips.

It was much later when a properly garbed and freshly bathed Lenore unlocked the hall door leading to the attic and climbed the steep stairs to that lofty area. A small force of men had come from the Gray Eagle, but with assurances that no one had been injured in the fire they had returned to the ship and were instructed to be wary of any curious activity around the house. Ashton was resting in Lenore’s room, having been up most of the night, but she was feeling restless, as if something beyond the barrier wall that held her memory captive was beckoning to her. She now knew what had led to her collision with Ashton’s coach, but there was still the matter of the man’s murder to be dealt with…and the attempt on her own life. It was rather frightening to know that someone whose face she had once seen wanted her dead. If it was only because she had been a witness to a murder, the man was still out there somewhere, waiting for her…and she knew not who it was.

The contained heat in the attic immediately brought a fine dappling of moisture to her skin, but she did not plan to stay. She knew what she had come for. The portrait of the man who had haunted her when she looked at her father. Taking up the framed painting, she removed the cloth sheathing and stared at the square-jawed visage. It did not seem so stern now…for it had become an almost cherished sight in her dreams. She ran a trembling hand over the dried oil, stroking the area of his chin, and in flickering impressions she saw a tiny hand lovingly caress that strong jaw. The man lowered a kiss upon the small auburn head that nestled against his chest, and Lenore blinked back sudden tears as she experienced all the same warm feelings the girl had felt then.

“Robert Somerton?” she whispered the question and, with growing assurance, declared, “You are my father. You are Robert Somerton.”

Her heart leapt for joy, and blinded by a rush of happy tears, she clasped the painting to her and took a step toward the trap door, only to stumble over something large and heavy blocking her path. She moved the portrait aside to see, and stared down with growing perplexity at the huge trunk she had tried to open on her last visit to the attic. She had all but forgotten it was here. Her slender fingers lightly traced the straps that bound it, seeming to call forth an illusion of servants loading the piece in the boot of a carriage as she stood with Malcolm at the door of this very house and bade farewell to departing guests. She was gowned in the pale blue organdy, and it seemed they were being congratulated on their recent nuptials. When the last couple was waved off, Malcolm took her in his arms, and they exchanged a lengthy kiss before they entered the hall, laughing. He strode into the parlor, and in her mind she could see the steps of the stairway before her as she ascended, then the door of her bedroom was being pushed closed. Through a murky haze, she stared at her own image reflected in the mirror of her dressing table. The eyes were slightly wistful, not quite happy, as if yearning for something that could not be. The jaw firmed, and a gleam of determination came into the green eyes. Straightening, she began to tidy her coiffure, then her heart started racing as her vision lifted to a tall form standing just beyond the open french doors. The face was not handsome, but she knew it well from her tormenting nightmares, except now he was not screaming, nor was he being bludgeoned to death by a poker iron. She felt the same scream building in her lungs which had threatened to burst forth then, but the haze cleared, and she saw the man step quickly forward with an anxious, almost pleading gesture for her to be silent. His eyes were fearful as he glanced nervously about…like a little ferret…then he moved to her dressing table and picked up the folded piece of parchment he had earlier passed to her. He opened it and gave it over into her hands, urging her to read. Lenore sensed the dismay she had experienced then, but she was ignorant of the cause. The man pressed other articles in her hands, and with each her distress deepened until once again her attention was on the man. Raising a hand, he moved backward, bidding her to come…bidding her to come…to come…to come….