Malcolm also caught the impact of Ashton’s boldness and turned upon her with a glare of seething outrage. She met it without flinching and smiled softly into his burning eyes. Still, when Meghan stepped to the french doors and announced their own dinner was to be served, she breathed a pray of thanksgiving that the diatribe would be forestalled. Throughout the meal she held the warm, tender feelings of love close to her heart, giving no heed to either the heated stares of Malcolm or the disapproving frowns of Robert.

The next morning Lenore sent her excuses to the dining room via Meghan and indulged in a light, peaceful repast in her own chamber. This seemed to vex Malcolm sorely, for a short time later she heard him storm out of the house in a high raging temper, leaving Robert to ensure that the two lovers were kept apart, Lenore to her house and Ashton to his tent. The distance was there, separating one from the other, but their minds seemed well in tune, for when Lenore strolled out onto the upper veranda to view the splendor of the morning, Ashton lifted the flap of his tent and stepped out, almost in unison with her. As he turned to glance toward the house, she appeared at the railing, and for a moment in time they stared across the space, totally aware of the other. Even with the stretch of land between them, she felt his eyes caress her, while her own gaze completed an admiring appraisal of him. A narrow breechcloth covered his loins and provided a minimum of modesty as it bulged over his manhood. The heat crept into her cheeks at the sight of him standing there like some bronze-skinned Apollo. From her memory she reconstructed details left obscure by the distance. The light furring of his muscular chest dwindled into a shadowed line as it trailed down his belly, which was flat and, as she knew, hard as oak. The legs were long and straight, lightly corded with muscles, and as finely toned as the rest of his body.

The long-endured ache of suppressed passions began to spread through her, stirring a quickness in her blood, and she wondered if he also was consumed by a lusting hunger, for he lifted a large towel from a wrought-iron chair and flung the long cloth over his shoulder, letting it hang past his loins. Her eyes followed and lowered to the flexing buttocks as he strolled out to where the waves lapped lazily at the shore. Dropping the towel beside the water’s edge, he waded out toward the deep; then, arching his back, he plunged out further with a clean dive. His arms stroked the waters relentlessly, heedless of direction. She could almost sense his reasoning, his need to work out his frustrations. An ache was there in the pit of her own stomach, and she wished she might have been able to wear herself out in such a way, at least to an exhausted complacency. Instead, she had to endure the craving lusts and hope in time that she could come to accept Malcolm as easily as she had accepted Ashton.

She rubbed her brow, hoping to find a breach in that restricting wall that encased her memory and open it for a thorough examination. If only she could find a place for Ashton, some cherished moment remembered, but even before her attempt she knew it was useless. He was of her present, not her past.

The sun blazed down in shimmering heat waves, and slowly a mirage formed in her mind. She was on a sunny beach somewhere faraway. An auburn-haired girl played with a sand castle and a small doll. It was she. Or was it Lierin? Her vision was limited, as if she stared through a short tunnel, but she knew she ran and played with one who looked like her. The children, perhaps six or so of age, laughed and squealed as they chased each other to the water’s edge. Then from afar a woman’s voice called:

“Lenore?”

The young girl turned and shaded her eyes.

“Lierin?”

Her own vision widened, and she saw a woman she knew as Nanny standing on a grassy knoll. A mansion of generous proportions loomed behind her.

“Come now, the two of ye,” the ruddy-faced woman bade. “’Tis nigh unto noonday. Time for a wee bite to eat an’ then a nap before yer father returns.”

The illusion swirled and faded, and Lenore blinked as reality once again presented itself. She was almost afraid to bring the fantasy back, yet the question blazed. Was that moment really a part of her past? Or had she conjured it from the fabric of her fondest hopes? If the other girl had answered true…

She paced the porch and tried to summon something more. Some hint. Some clue. Something to point out the truth to her.

“Lenore!”

A prickling shivered along her spine as the name tore through her concentration; then she glanced around, realizing reality was there and coming in the presence of a dapperly garbed man who was hurrying up the stairs. Robert Somerton’s cheeks were scarlet, and his agitated state was most apparent.

“You shouldn’t be out here in your nightgown where everyone can see you, girl,” he admonished, drawing her attention to her light apparel. “Go in and get dressed before some harm comes to you.”

Lenore started to comply, then noticed how his eyes kept nervously flitting toward the beach. Her curiosity aroused, she turned her gaze outward and saw the reason for his unrest. Ashton was wading from the water, and if he went in looking good, he came out looking marvelous. His hair was wet, and the beads of moisture that clung to him glistened beneath the sun, giving his dark skin a lustrous sheen. She could imagine what embarrassed and worried her father the most. It was the skimpy cloth covering which now was molded wetly to Ashton and came very close to indecent display as it sagged slightly with the weight of the water.

“The man has lost his wits.” Robert’s sensibilities had been unduly shocked. “The very idea! Prancing about out there like that and flaunting himself before you! What does he think you are, anyway? Some hussy off the streets? It’s surely no sight for a lady!”

Lenore hid a smile of amusement as she moved away, but from beneath her lashes she stole one last, admiring glance at that tall, muscular form before she entered her room and closed the french doors.

Robert Somerton’s sense of propriety had been severely challenged, and he hurried down the stairs again, intending to confront this near-naked strutter. It was one thing to see the bare thighs and bulging flesh of a woman in places of ill repute, but quite another to have a man showing himself in such a manner before a lady…. And before such a fine one, too! It was too much!

Somerton flicked the ends of his mustache up in an outraged gesture as he hastened to intercept the lewd rascal who casually sauntered toward his tent. “Here now! I want a word with you,” he called, commanding the younger man’s notice. That one raised a brow in wonder as he turned and waited for the other to reach him. Halting before him, Somerton shook a shaming finger beneath his nose. “You have your nerve coming out dressed like that, offending my daughter with your display. I’ll have you know, sir, that she is a lady.”

“I know that,” Ashton agreed pleasantly, taking some of the wind out of the other’s sails.

The white-haired man searched for another form of attack. “Well, sir, you are no gentleman, I can tell you that!” The elder man swept his hand to indicate the long length of Ashton’s form. “Look at you! All but naked, you are! Flaunting yourself in front of my daughter!”

“She’s a married woman,” Ashton responded with a tolerant smile.

“Not to you!” Robert shouted, catching the subtle drift of his meaning. “What more proof do you need to convince you?”

“Nothing from you or Malcolm,” Ashton replied promptly and, toweling his hair dry, continued on his way. The stride of his long legs made it necessary for the shorter man to hurry to keep up with him. Although it was but a mere step or two to the courtyard, by the time Robert reached it, his face had taken on a deeper shade of red, and he was ready to accept the cool libation Ashton offered him. He slipped out of his coat, loosened his collar, and, after being offered a chair, sank into it with a sigh of gratitude as he sampled his drink. Ashton excused himself a moment, and in his absence, the elder gazed about him, realizing that the architect of the porch and dwelling had had enough foresight to place them both under the sprawling limbs of a huge tree, which offered a soothing, cooling shade. In his contemplation of the intelligence of the younger man, he managed to down more than half of the drink before Ashton returned in more modest attire.

“You’ve done well by yourself here,” Somerton remarked, encompassing the encampment with a sweep of his hand. “’Twould appear you’ve thought of everything.”

Surprised at the unexpected compliment, Ashton glanced at the man. The anger had certainly fled from his countenance, and he seemed almost amiable as he surveyed his surroundings. The credit for the change had to be given to the lulling affect of the mint julep, and Ashton was not of a mind to deny the man when he asked for a refill.

“I used to be young once,” Robert reflected after some length. After a thoughtful pause, he chortled and, draining the glass, held it out for a second replenishment. “I’ve even turned a few lady’s heads in my time. Maybe not like you’ve managed to do with the girl over there.” He gestured casually toward the house. “She’s taken with you, all right, and Malcolm’s bent on making her love him again.”

“Did she ever?” Ashton posed the question with a hint of sarcasm, but the white-haired man missed the thrust of the subtle gibe.

“Malcolm believes she did…before she lost her memory.” Robert scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Sometimes I wonder how it’s all going to end. She’s a good girl, she is. A little hot-tempered at times. Came charging to my defense when Malcolm was lambasting me for getting drunk.”