“Send a fast rider for Dr. Page,” Ashton barked over his shoulder as he bore her up the steps.

“Yassuh!” Hiram was quick to respond. “Ah send Latham ridin’ out lickety-split.”

Ashton’s long, swift strides took him across the porch to the door. He fumbled with the knob until the catch clicked free; then he braced himself to kick the portal wide. The butler had almost accomplished the same duty, having heard the carriage arrive, and was there in the front foyer when the door burst open. As Ashton shouldered his way through with his burden, the usually imperturbable Willis stumbled back with sagging jaw. It was certainly not a moment for which his training in decorum had prepared him.

“Massa Ash-” His voice broke on a high note, and he had to clear his throat to start again. “Massa Ashton, it sho’ good to see yo, suh….” His speech fled completely as a snarled strand of red hair tumbled from the folds of the black woolen cloak. His prepared greeting somehow failed to fit the occasion, and he could only gape in stunned awe as the master of the house strode past.

Amanda Wingate shared the servant’s dismay when she led her sister and several guests from the parlor into the wide hall, halting Ashton’s progress to the stairs. Her attention was snared by the slimly curving bundle he carried and the telltale red tress, and her mind and heart gathered speed as she closed the space between them.

“Good heavens, Ashton!” She pressed a trembling hand to her bosom. “Have you stolen a march on us again and taken yourself another bride?”

Ashton felt the urgent need to take the girl upstairs, but he knew he should give his grandmother some sort of explanation for his entry. “It’s not often anyone steals a march on you, Grand-mere,” he murmured, using the form of address his own mother had affectionately reserved for the older woman. “However, in this case…”

“Amanda,” Aunt Jennifer cautiously whispered, laying her hand upon her sister’s arm, “perhaps we’d better not discuss what Ashton has done this time. At least, not while we have guests.”

Amanda suppressed the questions that burned in her, but she was still worried and confused. From the stillness of the one being borne, she inferred a state of oblivion, and she could think of no logical explanation for what she was seeing except what she had immediately assumed, that Ashton was carrying his sleeping bride to his chambers. She could sense his impatience to be on his way as he kept edging toward the stairs. She was about to remove herself from his path when the cloak slipped slightly, allowing a glimpse of the shadowed face beneath the satin-lined garment. “Quite lovely…” she mused, not at all surprised that he should choose such a beautiful wife. Then her eyes widened as the wrap continued its sliding descent, revealing thinly clad limbs, and she finished the initial thought in an unplanned gasp as she grabbed the wayward garment. “And quite unsuitably garbed!”

Amanda glanced around to see who else had viewed the display and was dismayed by the proximity of several elderly matrons whose mouths hung slack in shock. Whispers began as a small, murmuring ripple and quickly became waves of conjectures that surged rapidly through the guests, with the words nightgown and girl being tossed along the crest.

“Grand-mere, it’s not what it seems,” Ashton whispered urgently, seeking to allay her fears.

Amanda moaned softly. “I don’t know if I can bear the truth.”

Aunt Jennifer leaned near to bolster her sister’s courage. “Remember, Amanda. Papa always said to keep an even mind in the face of adversity.”

A man jostled his way near, and, having heard only part of the exchange, urged in a friendly manner, “Come on, Ashton. Let’s see what your new bride looks like. It’s about time you took yourself another wife.”

“Bride!” a strident feminine voice screeched from the adjoining room. “Wife!” There was a bustle in the crowd as the woman began to push her way through. “What is going on here? Let me by!”

Aunt Jennifer’s own composure crumpled a bit as she mumbled beneath her breath, “I do believe this is just the time Papa was talking about.”

A tall slender brunette stumbled forth and brought herself up with badly frayed dignity to view the newcomers. Marelda Rousse’s dark eyes followed the long fall of damply tangled red hair and widened as they dropped to Ashton’s wet trousers, then flew in questioning horror to his face. Breathless with worry, she struggled for composure. “Ashton, what is the meaning of this? You look as if you’ve been rolling in the swamp with this girl! Have you really gone and taken yourself another wife?”

Ashton chafed at this unexpected turn of questioning, but he had no intention of spilling his heart and his hopes before so many. His only concession would be to make them aware of the injured state of the one he carried. “There was an accident with the carriage, Marelda, and the girl was hurt when she was knocked from her horse.”

“She was out riding in her nightgown? At this hour?” Marelda cried. “Really, Ashton, how can you expect us to believe a story like that?”

Ashton’s jaw tensed with his growing irritation. Marelda Rousse had dared many things, but never had gone so far as to question his word, especially in his own home and before so many. “I don’t have time to explain now, Marelda,” he answered curtly. “The girl needs attention. Please, just let me by.”

Marelda opened her mouth to complain, but her words were squelched by his piqued frown, and she could only move aside as she sensed a growing current of anger in his manner. There were times when Ashton Wingate seemed almost cruel in his reticence, and she knew it would do her little good to insist.

Amanda was embarrassed that she had allowed her own suspicions to leap out of control and saw the need for urgency. “The pink room in the east wing is empty, Ashton. I’ll fetch Willabelle and send her up immediately.” As her grandson strode toward the stairs, she gestured to the young black girl who had been watching the proceedings from the upper balustrade. “Luella May, run ahead and make the room ready.”

“Yas’m, Miz Amanda!” the girl answered and promptly darted off.

Leaving behind a rising murmur of voices, Ashton swiftly climbed the winding staircase that swept upward against a curving wall to the second level. Three years ago he had dreamed of carrying his young bride up these same stairs and whisking her away to his own bedchamber. Now here he was, holding close to his heart a woman he believed was Lierin. Were she conscious, he might have settled the matter of bedrooms with a quick inquiry, and he would no more know the loneliness that had haunted him since that tragic night on the river.

He arrived at the guest room to find Luella May folding down the covers on the canopied bed. The girl quickly smoothed a narrow hand over the sun-whitened sheets, readying the place for the injured one before moving out of his way. “Dere ain’t no need to worry yose’f, Massa Ashton,” she assured him. “Mama be here directly, and she know what to do fo de lady. She knows all dere is to know ’bout doctahing….”

Ashton hardly heard the girl’s chatter as he lowered his charge to the bed. Reaching to the bedside table, he wet a cloth in the washbasin and began to gently wipe away the mud from the colorless cheeks. His task complete, he held the lamp close and carefully studied the oval face, seeking out whatever truth was to be found there. His eyes followed the slim, straight line of her nose downward to the soft, pale lips. The darkening bruise temporarily marred the perfection of her brow, but the creamy skin was otherwise unflawed. Soft brown brows swept upward in a delicate arc above thickly fringed black lashes, and he knew, if this was indeed his wife, the eyes were a deep emerald green and as lively as new leaves dancing before the wind. Her thick hair was matted with broken twigs, dried mud, and dead leaves, but the debris could not hide the bright hue. She was the very image of the one he had held so tenaciously in his memory. It had to be his wife!

“Lierin,” he breathed in a yearning whisper. How long had he kept that name from his lips? Was he wrong in letting it escape for a second time this evening?

A tall woman of generous proportions entered the room and made a brief analysis of the situation before she gave hurried instructions to the girl: “Go fetch dat nightgown Miz Amanda was lookin’ for, an’ bring some hot water so’s Ah can give dis lady a bath.”

Luella May took off like a shot, and her mother hastened to the bedside to examine the bruise on the cool brow. Ashton watched from the end of the bed, where he gripped a post with white-knuckled tension.

“What do you think, Willabelle?” he asked anxiously. “Is she going to be all right?”

The housekeeper heard the concern in his voice, but did not pause as she lifted the girl’s eyelid. “Now don’ go frettin’ like dat, massa. God willin’, dis li’l gal gonna be fine and dandy in a few days.”

“Can you be sure of that?”

Willabelle wagged her white kerchiefed head sorrowfully. “Massa, Ah ain’t no doctah. Yo jes’ gonna have to wait an’ see.”

“Damn!” Ashton growled and, turning from her, began to prowl about the room in restless agitation.

Surprised by his manner, the housekeeper considered him with increasing concern. There was more here than just what appeared on the surface. When the waters were troubled, one could bet that beneath the roiling turbulence there was a cause. She was even more certain of this when he returned to the foot of the bed.

“Isn’t there something we can do until Dr. Page arrives?” he pressed.

“Yassuh,” the black woman answered solemnly. “Ah can bathe her an’ make her fresh an’ comfor’ble, whilst yo go an’ do de same fo’ yo’se’f.” She met his piqued frown, knowing she had offered him what wisdom she could.