As if his mind could not fully grasp her meaning, he stared at her, and slowly lowered his arms to his sides. “Are you saying that I must find another bedroom for myself?”
“Not only a bedroom, Malcolm, but another house,” she stated boldly. “I only came here because my father assured me that you would not be living with us. He said you were willing to move out until I’ve had some time to adapt.”
A troubled frown came to his brow. “That will be difficult to do, Lenore.”
Some intuitive suspicion that she was being duped made her wary of his answers. There was no question in her mind that she would have stayed with Ashton if she had known she would be pressed to abide with this man. Her gaze was cool and unswerving as she inquired, “Why would it be difficult?”
Malcolm shrugged his broad shoulders and casually sauntered about the room, halting beside the chair she stood behind. “There’s just not another place in Biloxi where I can stay.”
“Surely you can find a room at the inn,” she argued.
His pleasant demeanor was momentarily transformed into an irate frown as he looked at her sharply. “Did you also insist upon living apart from Ashton Wingate? The two of you seemed cozy enough, what with your kissing him in broad daylight.”
His jealousy and hatred of the other man were apparent, and knowing full well that he could still challenge Ashton to a duel, she carefully avoided giving him any insight as to what really had happened at Belle Chêne. “I was put in a guest room after the accident, and while I was there, Ashton comported himself as a perfect gentleman. He never at any time forced me to accept the idea that I was his wife.”
Malcolm digested this a moment, but whether he accepted her answer or not could not be determined as he turned his back to her. Dropping into the chair, he stretched his legs out before him. “You say, Lenore, that you don’t remember anything about me. I am trying to understand, but it’s difficult when I remember how close we once were.” Leaning across the space where she stood, he patted the cushioned seat of a nearby chaise. “Sit, my love, and let’s talk about this for a while. I’m sure we’ll both gain some insight into this problem of yours if we can discuss it together.”
Lenore lowered a cool stare to the back of his tousled head, feeling no desire to comply with his request, but finding no polite way to avoid doing so. Reluctantly she moved between the two chairs and felt his scrutiny as she settled with stiff-backed caution on the edge of the chaise.
“Relax, my dear,” he cajoled. “I’m not a monster who will tear you to shreds.” He raised himself from his chair to fluff the silk pillows against the back of her chaise. “Come, lean back,” he urged, dropping a hand upon her shoulder.
In abrupt reaction Lenore pushed away his arm and, feeling suddenly closed in, moved quickly in the opposite direction until she sat at the far end of the cushion. She stole a wary glance at him, unable to explain her sudden panic even to herself, and found him staring back at her in surprise. She forced a weak smile. “I’d rather sit here if you don’t mind, Malcolm. I get dizzy when I lie down.” She could probably lay the blame for this recent malady on her fatigue, but it seemed an appropriate excuse to use to avoid being confined to an area in close proximity to him.
Malcolm dropped into his chair again and regarded her for a long moment, seeming completely bewildered. “Are you afraid of me, Lenore?”
“Do I have reason to be?” she asked quietly.
He ran his fingers through his tousled hair. “I can’t think of one, but you seem so…so distant.”
Remaining aloof, she returned his gaze without giving him the benefit of a reply. Beneath her steadfast stare, Malcolm sighed and glanced around, feeling at a loss.
“You’ve always intrigued me, Lenore,” he murmured, searching for the appropriate words that would draw her from her shell. “I am indeed fortunate to have such a beautiful wife. I remember the first time I saw you, you were wearing green…the same color as your eyes. I stopped and stared, but you were with another man, and I couldn’t intrude….”
“Who was the man?”
“An older man.” His broad shoulders lifted casually. “A cousin, perhaps. I really can’t say. I was too involved with watching you to pay much attention to your escort.” He closed his eyes and smiled in dreamy reflection as he leaned his head back against the chair. “I can still remember how your skin gleamed beneath the lamplight and how tantalizing the curves of your breasts were beneath your gown….”
Lenore lifted a palmetto fan from a table near the chaise and leisurely applied its function toward the cooling of her cheeks, prompting Malcolm to open one eye and peer at her with a confident smile. She averted her face from his amused regard, irked that he should find any pleasure in her blush.
“If it was a cousin of mine, then we must have been in England. I don’t have any kin here in America anymore.” She issued the statements as if she were reading a humdrum report, and then glanced up at him with an inquiry, fervently hoping to find some gap in his story. “Can you describe the interior of the manor house in England?”
He placed the fingertips of both hands together as he delved into reflections. “I was there only briefly as a guest, so I didn’t see all the rooms, but there was a large central room…or, as your father called it, a great hall. Next to that was a long room with a huge hearth and stone stairs.”
“Do you remember if there was anything on the wall?”
He paused a long moment in deep thought. “Portraits of your ancestors, I think, and some shields and crests.” He canted his head as another memory came to mind. “There were also two other portraits hanging there, one of you and the other of your sister…larger replicas of the ones your father gave Judge Cassidy.”
Lenore shivered inside as his words struck a familiar chord within her. She could almost see the pair of paintings mounted side by side above the hearth. “Where did you say they were?”
“Above the fireplace, I think.” He nodded after a thoughtful search of his memory. “Yes, that’s where they were.”
Her hopes sank to a dismal level with his affirmation, and she felt drained and listless as she continued the interrogation: “You undoubtedly knew my portrait was at my grandfather’s house, but I’ve been wondering how you came by that information. Were you there before?”
“We went there together, my love. Don’t you remember?”
Lenore frowned as she failed to recall the event. “No, I don’t.”
He seemed amazed that she should forget. “Don’t you recall how upset you were when you learned of your grandfather’s death? The house was closed up by then, and you kept blaming yourself for having left him as you did.”
Lenore raised her head in alert attention. “How did we get there? I mean, did we walk…?”
“We took a barouche, and you were sobbing so much I wondered if I’d have to find a doctor to give you some laudanum.”
The piece fit neatly into the puzzle, but it gave her no pleasure to know that it was Malcolm who had comforted her in that faraway memory. She was earnestly trying to assimilate this latest bit of information when another question came to haunt her: “Where did you say we were married?”
“Here in Biloxi,” he replied easily. “I came to live here, and it was not very long after that that you decided to move from England and also take up residence here.” He gave her a slow grin. “I like to think you made that choice because of me.” He detected a small, puzzled quirk in her frown and let a long sigh slip from his lips as he lifted his gaze toward the ceiling. “We’ve known each other for some time now…three or so years, I guess. I keep thinking, all the years…forgotten. It seems like such a waste.”
“I’m sorry if my condition distresses you, Malcolm.” Her tone held no emotion. “It distresses me even more.”
“I’m sure it does, my love,” he murmured softly, lowering his head to stare at her. “But there’s no reason why we can’t renew some of those memories.”
Lenore took
a warning from his warming smile. His eyes had grown dark and now smoldered with a light that made her fearful of what the next moments would bring. Flicking downward in one bold caress, his gaze seemed to strip her bare, and there was almost a leer lifting the corner of his lips when he raised his eyes to meet hers again. “There are times when a man needs to be reassured, and it’s been some time since we’ve made love….”
By some inner strength Lenore subdued her quaking and attempted to appear casual as she deliberately misread his meaning. “What assurances do you need, Malcolm? If you still have any qualms about Ashton, I told you that he was very polite while I was there.” She lifted her shoulders in a shrug and for his consideration put forth several conjectures that would hopefully ease the impact of her rejection: “I don’t know, but it’s possible that Dr. Page said something to Ashton about the delicacy of my condition and persuaded him to treat me gently. It’s difficult to say how I might have reacted had I been forced. Surely the shock would have caused me to suffer serious trauma. Even now, whenever I’m upset, I start to have strange visions. I even imagine a man being beaten and murdered….”
Malcolm’s eyebrows came up in surprise. “Murdered?”
“Oh, I know how strange it sounds, Malcolm, but during moments of stress, I begin to hallucinate. I really can’t say whether I begin to recall, in visions, events I’ve actually experienced or if it’s just my imagination creating horrible illusions. Whatever the case, it’s very disturbing.” She hoped fervently that a small part of her father’s talent for acting had rubbed off on her and that she was being successful in convincing Malcolm of her frailty. It would ease her mind considerably if she could live in the house without fear of rape. “Can you understand how I might have been affected if I had been coerced?”
“Yes. Yes, of course.” He seemed almost eager to placate her fears. “I wouldn’t want you to be upset about anything, my dear. I want you to get well as quickly as possible.”
The brisk clatter of heels came along the corridor and halted at the open door. They looked around to see a young maid pausing at the threshold. Her uncertainty was obvious. Beneath their combined stares she seemed to debate whether to make a tactful retreat or chance an advance.
“Come in,” Lenore invited, extremely grateful for the interruption.
The girl entered hesitantly, casting an anxious glance toward each of them. Her black hair, blue eyes, and soft fair skin delicately touched with a blush were a striking combination, but she seemed naively unaware of her comeliness as she nervously straightened her cap. Trailing strands of dark hair had escaped the starched headpiece and were hanging about her face. Though her apron was crisp and clean, it was slightly misaligned with her dark blue gown, lending her a rather untidy demeanor.
“Excuse me, mum,” she apologized, dipping her knees in a quick curtsey. “I be Mary, the housemaid. Meghan sent me up to ask if ye’d be wantin’ a bath.”
Lenore flashed a look toward Malcolm, who was thoughtfully rubbing a finger along his chin. He stared at the girl, but he seemed lost in his musings, as if he were still mulling over her comments. Perhaps she had given him reason to fear her sanity, but if it would keep him at bay, it was what she wanted. She also desired a bath, but she was leery of giving an affirmative answer while he was still in the room.
Malcolm finally became aware that he was being observed, and with a debonair smile he faced the green eyes that rested on him. “If you will excuse me, my love. There are some matters in town that need my attention.” Rising to his feet, he took her hand and dropped a kiss on the tips of her fingers. “Until this evening, then.”
Graciously Lenore nodded, immensely relieved that he was leaving. She only hoped that, while he was gone, he would reconsider and find another place to live.
Not since her first bath at Belle Chêne had Lenore felt such a need to soak away her stiffness and the ache in her muscles. The journey from Natchez had been a grueling ordeal, for she was sure the carriage wheels had found nearly every rut and crevice in the road. Slammed and jostled about the interior, she had been left both bruised and battered. As she sank with a long, grateful sigh into the steamy water, she closed her eyes, and let her mind wander at will. A definite path seemed laid out for her thoughts, however, for she was soon remembering when Ashton had attended her bath and the resulting play of passion that had led him to strip off his wet clothes and press his hard, naked body full against her own. Though she knew she was letting her mind travel a dangerous course, she savored the recollections. Otherwise, she would have sunk into the pit of despair and been overwhelmed by sorrows.
Memories of another toilette wandered with ghostlike grace through her mind as she continued her bath. It seemed that the hour was late, and she had just traveled a long distance and was preparing for bed….
Her mind took up the path in visual recall, and she found herself clothed in a nightgown with a cloak thrown over it. She was walking through darkness; then a burst of light intruded, and she recoiled in sudden fear as the too-familiar nightmare came upon her. The poker lifted, but now it was as if she were standing afar off watching the event from a distance. The silhouette of a darkly cloaked man flitted across a narrow space, and gloved hands brought the iron down on the shaggy head of another.
She almost screamed as she came upright in the bathtub. Slowly the fear waned, and as it did, her thoughts became crystal clear. Of a sudden she was struck by the realization of what she had just envisioned, and the full force of that revelation nearly snatched her breath.
“It wasn’t me!” she whispered in amazed relief. “I didn’t do it!” She glanced about the room as the peace of that knowledge drifted down upon her, while at the same time the condemnation of her fears was lifted from her shoulders. For the first time in many weeks she felt free, as if she had been saved forever from the gallows of death and hellish retribution. She wanted to cry in relief and at the same time shout with joy, and yet the tragedy of that moment still plagued her. She sensed more than ever that what her mind had given her was not a dream but the actual murder of a man. But whose?
She shook her head as she failed to find an answer for that question. If Malcolm’s tale was true, she had been kidnapped from this very same house and spirited away to Natchez. Her father’s wealth might have been a cause….
Below the surface of her memory she felt a twinge of another vague recall. Leaning back in the tub again, she closed her eyes and gave deliberate attention to that feeling. At first she was able to grasp only a faint flicker of a shadowy illusion, but then, images of a group of men began to form in the roiling, confused haze of her reflections. Their appearance was rough and their speech liberally spiced with profanities. She cringed in distaste as one of them sauntered near to leer into her face.
“Awh, ya’ll bring us a handsome purse, ya will, missy,” he boasted between chortles. “But what’s stickin’ in me craw is why in the bloody hell can’t we have some fun with ya first? Ya’re a right fine-lookin’ lady, ya are, an’ seein’s as Ah’ve never bedded a real lady before, I’m ’bout as curious as a stud sniffin’ after a filly. Ah ain’t alone, Ah tell ya. Me friends are of the same mind.”
A soft rap on the door put fantasy to flight, and Lenore sat up in alert attention. Rising from the tub, she wrapped a towel about herself and moved carefully to the door. Her questioning call was promptly answered by Meghan, and with a great deal of relief, Lenore twisted the key in the lock and stepped back, pulling the door open to admit the woman. The securing of the portal was a measure she had taken to ensure that her bath would remain private, just in case Malcolm turned curious or, worse, amorous. With her father continually praising him, she was not sure if she would have an ally in the house, and she felt a need to be cautious.
“I found this in yer trunk, mum. I hope it will do,” the maid said, carrying in a pale blue organdy gown over her arms. She spread the garment on the bed for Lenore’s inspection and stood back to give it her own critical appraisal.
“What with yer clothes bein’ wadded up and left in the trunk these many months, it took a bit o’ ironin’ to get all the wrinkles out. Someone must’ve been in an awful hurry when they packed for ye.”
Lenore paused as the words of the innkeeper in Natchez came clearly to mind. She distinctly remembered him describing Malcolm’s departure: “…loaded up his wife’s trunks in her coach, hired a man to drive it, and left.”
Meghan heaved a sigh. “An’ such a nice new trunk, too. All fancy an’ fresh inside an’ large enough to hold yer gowns without nary a wrinkle. I can well understand why the mister let go the help, doin’ yer lovely gowns that way. They ought to been ashamed o’ themselves.”
“It doesn’t really matter now, Meghan. You’ve made the gown look new again.” Indeed, Lenore could find no flaw in the maid’s work or the creation itself. The rounded neckline was trimmed with appliqués of satin leaves, delicately worked with embroidered veins, and a spattering of seed pearls resting like dewdrops over the foliage. Though voluminous, the pale blue sleeves ended midarm with similarly adorned bands. A satin sash would cinch the elevated waist and, like the layered skirt, bore a sparse trailing of leaves down its length.
The woman beamed. “’Tis a lovely gown, it is, mum, an’ ye’re sure to look like a bride wearin’ it.”
Lenore tilted her head as something very fleeting flashed through her consciousness. Did she glimpse a wall of smiling faces surrounding her? And was Malcolm Sinclair standing beside her, looking very much like a groom while he accepted the congratulations of these others?
Suddenly atremble, Lenore sank to the seat of a nearby chair and tried desperately to discern what she had viewed in her mind. Was she the bride in that gathering? And was Malcolm truly the groom?