Come Love a Stranger

by Kathleen E. Woodiwiss

  “No need to apologize, Sarah,” Ashton murmured compassionately. “It sounds as if you need someone to talk to.”

  “Aye, that I do, Mr. Wingate.” She heaved a laborious sigh. “I watched my father ruined…possibly murdered, and then I found myself falsely…imprisoned.” Her gaze flicked up briefly, uncertainly. “It was not the sort of prison you’d normally imagine, Mr. Wingate. It was a hellish place…with chains…and whips…and roaches crawling over the food. A man was hired to tend me, to make sure I did not escape…and then he was killed…and I know not the reason…except that he had begun to show some pity for me. And now, I see things that seem familiar…and I fear what might happen to another…if I don’t speak out…and yet, I’m not sure about myself…or if I’m actually seeing what I think I’m seeing.” She stared up at him, and the pleading was there in her eyes, desperately yearning for him to comprehend what she was trying to tell him. “Don’t you understand, Mr. Wingate? I was in there too long. Much too long.”

  Ashton felt the hackles rise on his neck and could find no reply to make. Sarah made him anxious, but he could not quite pin down the reason. He watched her become flustered and embarrassed by her verbosity, and to ease her distress, he reached to pour her another cup of coffee. Lightening it with a meager dribble of cream and a lump of sugar, he handed it to her. Her gaze raised hesitantly, and his empathy for her welled up within him as he saw her gathering tears. As she reached out to receive the offering, he set aside the coffee and took her hand in both of his.

  “It’s all right, Sarah,” he soothed her. “I have listened to all you’ve said…and I think I am beginning to understand.”

  Her gaze searched the bronze visage anxiously. “Do you, Mr. Wingate?”

  “Aye, Sarah, I think I do.”

  The woman left, and a deepening anxiety set in. Ashton glanced often toward the clock, wishing Lierin would return, and nervously paced the floor. He spent several moments changing clothes, donning riding breeches, shirt, and tall boots. After all, he had promised Lierin to take her out riding that afternoon. He had even planned to take her beyond his camp in the late evening and introduce her to the delights of cavorting naked in the surf, perhaps even to end the interlude by making love to her there on the shore. The idea had tickled his imagination more than once since he had arrived, but right now, he would just be satisfied if she returned quickly…so he need not fear for her safety.

  Restlessly he smoothed his hair with a brush and peered in the small mirror that hung above his washstand. Though a draping of cloth formed a wall behind the piece, providing a modicum of privacy while he dressed, the mirror was attached to a post, which lent its support to the tent. Within easy reach were his silent valet, the bathtub, and his chest wherein his clothes were kept.

  He bent to retrieve his hat from the top of the trunk, and started as something large and gleaming flitted past his shoulder, missing him by no more than a hair’s breadth. The silvered glass shattered, sending fine shards spraying outward, and his head snapped around to stare for barely a second at the shiny blade that now protruded from the cloth-covered post. Hearing the rapid, thudding approach of his would-be assailants behind him, he snatched his pistol from the top of the chest and whirled, whisking the weapon around, but before he could bring it into play, a pair of hefty bodies slammed into him, bearing him backward over the trunk. The privacy panel was ripped from its moorings and dropped beside him in a heap. He glimpsed the evil glint of another knife being drawn back to strike a death blow and caught his arm in the fabric, bringing it in front to use as a shield and let it take the thrust of the dagger. No more than a short second later a hard fist drove a painful blow to the side of his ribs, and he lashed out with the butt of the pistol, striking the man smartly alongside the temple. The brigand fell beside him, and though his collapse left him engaged with only one foe, Ashton was aware of two others entering his tent. Jamming the muzzle of the pistol into the tangle of cloth and knife, he levered back the hammer and discharged the piece, charring the front of his shirt with the muffled blast. The assassin jerked away and gaped down in surprise at the swiftly spreading red stain on his chest, and then he rolled back to the floor, dead.

  Ashton dropped the now useless pistol and seized the blade from the cloth. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw one of his most recent visitors rushing at him with a thick-bladed knife. Coming two or three strides behind him was another assailant, and this one bore a short boarding pike. There appeared to be no question as to their intent. They were out of spill his blood before the sun reached its zenith.

  As the first neared, Ashton swung his elbow upward, smashing the fellow across the bridge of the nose and causing him to stumble back in sudden pain as blood flowed from his nostrils. Seizing the advantage, Ashton reached out a foot to hook behind the man’s heel and jerked, sending that one sprawling backward into his companion. The fellow gave vent to a single loud scream and stiffened, spreading his arms wide and dropping his weapon. Slowly he toppled forward, the pike blade firmly imbedded in his back while the weight of his falling body jerked the haft from his startled companion’s grasp.

  Now the odds appeared even, and Ashton faced the last man, who slipped a long, slim blade from the top of his boot and backed away. As he did so, his eyes flicked beyond Ashton and then gleamed with a new light. It was enough to warn the Natchez man and remind him that one of the first pair had only been knocked unconscious. He threw himself to one side just as the brigand launched himself at his back. Ashton swept the knife around, and the man squealed like a stuck pig as it caught him in the side. It delivered hardly more than a flesh wound, but the bleeding brigand did not pause as he stumbled toward the door and disappeared outside.

  The last man attacked before Ashton could recover, but again the cloth panel deflected the blade. The fierce glaring eyes of the miscreant displayed his determination to force it through, but Ashton slammed the butt of his blade against the side of the frizzy head and, as the man recoiled, flung his arm aside. They crashed to the floor, and the tip of the stiletto was driven firmly into the carpeted floor. Ashton landed another hard blow against the sturdy jaw of his opponent, rolling him away, but the thick-fingered hand stretched out and grabbed at the hilt of the thin blade as the man tumbled. Scrambling to his feet, he found Ashton already on his and braced to meet his attack. The two men circled each other warily with their weapons at the ready. The barrel-chested cutthroat lunged forward with a slashing blow, but Ashton parried the attack handily, and the other backed away with a growing red stain on his upper sleeve. From that point on, there was to be no rest for him. Ashton advanced with the heavier knife, thrusting, feinting, ever testing the defense as the other fell back. The miscreant began to sweat and realized his end was but a mere mistake away. He tried to fend off the relentless attack with his thin knife, but once again Ashton feinted, luring the defending stiletto aside, then struck with all his strength. The large man grunted, dropped his knife, and wrapping his arms about his middle, staggered out into the sunlight and fell face downward upon the deck planking.

  Ashton glanced around, for the first time aware that flames were beginning to creep up the side wall of his tent. The already thickening smoke choked off his breath, and the mounting crackle of the fire spurred him toward the door. Reaching it, he took a step through, then halted as he saw the threatening muzzle of a pistol directed toward him. Above it swam the leering face of the man he had flesh-wounded. Before he could draw back, the weapon exploded with an ear-deafening crack, and Ashton recoiled as the shot sliced a burning path along his ribs. The pain seared through him, and he clasped a hand to his side, feeling there the wet stickiness of his own blood. He choked as the smoke billowed toward him, and through stinging eyes he saw the chortling man brandishing a second pistol in his other hand.

  “Come out and die, ye devil!” He shook the weapon at Ashton, and roared with laughter. “Or stay an’ burn! One’s as good as the other, jest so’s ye die! ’At’s what the
man says!”

  Coughing, Ashton fell back from the doorway and squinted tearing eyes against the sting of smoke as he glanced about for his own pistol. In the thickening cloud of black it was not within immediate view, and he ran to his chest, holding an arm across his face to shield it from the smoke and the growing heat of the flames. He liked neither of the choices the man presented him and meant to provide another. Lifting the heavy lid of the trunk, he seized his derringer and stumbled back to the doorway. He blinked to clear away the tears and peered out, but the brigand was nowhere to be seen. Cautiously he crept out onto the deck and, through a teary haze, saw Lierin’s carriage pulling to a skidding halt in front of the house. In hardly a flash she was scrambling down and running toward him. He was relieved to see her, but knew the dangers of her coming close.

  “Go back! Go back!” he cried, and then whirled as the mad chortling sounded behind him.

  “So ye’ve come out,” the brigand observed leeringly as he stepped from behind a nearby shrub. He aimed his pistol at Ashton’s midsection and fondly stroked the barrel of it with his other hand. “The liedy’s returned jest in time to see ye laid to rest.” The pig eyes flicked down to the derringer, then returned a glare to Ashton’s wary regard. “I figgered ye were after somethin’ like at, but ye won’t have time to use it.”

  Ashton heard an explosive roar and expected to feel the shot boring its way through his belly, but strangely the pain did not come. He stared at the crumpling man for one brief, incomprehensible second, then turned a startled gaze beyond him toward a large dark shape coming at a run. It was Hickory hurrying forward with a musket clasped in his hands. Reaching the dead man, the black stared down a moment and then lifted wide eyes to Ashton.

  “He was gonna kill yo, massa,” he said in some astonishment.

  “Aye, that he was, Hickory,” Ashton sighed in relief. “But you have saved the day.”

  Lenore’s heart had stopped, but now it was beating again at a thunderous pace, and she was on the run, holding her skirts high as she raced across the lawn. She saw the bloodstained shirt of the one she loved, and fear burrowed down deep in her heart. Flickering images of a tall figure standing near the deck railing pierced her mind and mingled with countless other impressions, all of Ashton. Striding, sitting, standing, laughing, frowning, smiling, he was there with overwhelming intensity, filling every fiber of her brain. The illusions were vast in number and indistinguishable one from another. Then lastly came the intruding memory of her dream, when she had stood with Malcolm above his grave….

  “Oh, Ashton! Ashton!” she cried as she flew into his widespread and welcoming arms. He clasped her close as she sobbed out her fear, and she felt his lips brush her hair and his voice speaking to her in a soothing tone; then she gasped and stumbled away with him as the billowing tent burst into a roaring wealth of new flames.

  “Get the horses out of the other tent!” Ashton shouted to Hickory, and leaped across the low shrubs to follow the black who had turned and was sprinting toward the smaller tent.

  Lenore lifted her hand and stared down with fixed attention at the blood glistening on her palm, and her heart began thudding. Everything blurred and then went slowly dark around her. The impenetrable density of the black shroud closed in upon her until there was naught but utter darkness. In the dead vast and middle of the night…the very witching time of night, When churchyards yawn and hell itself breathes out Contagion to this world…

  A dim spot of light growing!

  A flame! A fire! A fireplace! A hearth with tools! A broad hand grasping a poker, lifting it, slashing it down on the head of a horrified man! Again and again, until the man slumps lifeless. The cloaked form of a man slowly whirling, raising the poker again, then a hot, sharp pain in her back.

  Running down a dark hall! Heavy footsteps behind her! The cold breath of fear panting down her neck! A door slamming behind her and a bolt jamming home! Scrambling from a window and running! Running! No! Riding!

  A narrow lane, trees flashing by…and then a fire! The asylum where the woman was kept a prisoner! No help here! A dark form looming behind her! The woods! Trees again! Faster! Faster! Jump! Swerve! Hang on! Don’t fall now! He’ll catch you!

  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…

  Chapter Seventeen

  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.”