“Come now, Lenore. You’ll feel better once we’re under way. The ride will do you good.” Malcolm held up a hand, halting any argument she might have made as she lowered her arm and, with it, the sheet. “I’ll hear no more of it, my sweet. I’ll send Meghan up with some tea, and she’ll help you get dressed. Please be quick about it. My appointment is important, and I’d like to be there on time.”

He stepped into the hall and closed the door behind him, giving her no opportunity to deny him. As his footsteps moved away, Lenore stared listlessly around the room. The breeze wafting through the open windows was warm and humid, giving no relief from the sweltering heat that consumed the days. Her gown clung to her clammy skin, while tiny beads of moisture trickled down between her breasts. Gingerly she pushed away the sheet and rose from the bed. She waited, hardly daring to breathe as her stomach rebelled against the motion; then she carefully crossed the room to the washstand. One glance in the small mirror, which hung above it, confirmed the fact that she was not feeling her best. She looked tired and pale, and the usual sparkle was gone from her eyes. She heaved a long sigh, resigning herself to a day of activity, and splashed tepid water on her face and arms, hoping it would revive her flagging energy. The effort proved of meager benefit, and it was not until Meghan brought tea and biscuits that she was able to make a somewhat firmer resolution to endure the outing. The toilette, however, was almost her undoing, and she had to fight against an overwhelming revulsion when Meghan offered an open vial of perfume for her to sample.

“Please,” Lenore murmured, turning her head aside and thrusting up a hand. Its sweet, flowery essence sent a shudder through her. “Something lighter today, Meghan, please.”

The maid studied her young mistress closely and watched her press a wet cloth to a wan cheek. “Mum, if ye don’t mind me askin’, do ye know what be ailin’ ye?”

Lenore shrugged the question away with a lame excuse. “This heat. I don’t know how you can bear it so well, Meghan.”

“I guess I do all right, mum, but then, I’ve nothin’ else botherin’ me.”

Lenore could not meet the woman’s gaze as she asked cautiously, “Do you think there’s something else bothering me?”

“Well, mum, I’ve had none o’ me own, but I have a sister what acted the same way as yerself whene’er she got with babe.”

The silky lashes fluttered downward as Lenore released a quavering sigh. Had she still been at Belle Chêne with Ashton, she would have gladly welcomed her childbearing state, but now the problems associated with her condition loomed monstrously large and foreboding before her. She could only foresee serious difficulties in store for her, and she was not quite sure how she was going to handle them all. It might have been better had she admitted her intimacy with Ashton from the beginning; then her condition at least would have been considered a possibility, and the two men would be braced for the news. She could only wonder how long it would take them to notice without an announcement. If she held silent for a while and gave herself a little time to prepare, perhaps she could figure out a way to avoid a violent scene. It seemed logical at least to make an attempt. “Meghan, I must ask a favor of you.”

“Yes, mum?”

“I beg of you to keep this matter a secret between us until a more appropriate time. I doubt if Mr. Sinclair will appreciate the idea of my being with child.”

“I understand, mum,” the maid responded kindly. “An’ ye can count on me keepin’ me tongue.”

Lifting her head, Lenore stared at the gently smiling woman. “Do you really understand, Meghan?”

The servant nodded slowly. “It’s that Mr. Wingate, isn’t it? You’re carrying his child.”

Lenore hid her worry, hoping the two men would not be as perceptive as the maid. The fear of what Malcolm might do or at least attempt to do to Ashton literally sickened her, and she flung out a shaking hand in mute appeal to Meghan as the nausea came in a sudden wave. The servant quickly interpreted the gesture and scurried to present a basin. A long moment passed before Lenore dared to raise her eyes, even to Meghan’s sympathetic gaze.

“I’ll never make it through the day if I have to go with Malcolm,” she declared weakly.

“Never ye mind ’bout that, mum,” Meghan soothed, removing the basin. “I’ll deliver the message to Mr. Sinclair that you won’t be able to go, and if he insists, then perhaps he needs to be shown proof.”

Lenore shook her head, aghast at the workings of the maid’s mind. “You wouldn’t…”

“Ye need yer rest, mum,” Meghan insisted. “An’ there may be no other way to convince him.” Having formed a dislike for her employer for the callous way he treated the mistress, she mumbled beneath her breath as she left the room, “’Twould serve him right if it raises his gorge a mite.”

The days were noticeably longer now with summer fully upon them. Dusk was short, and there were only shreds of the spectacular sunset left when Ashton stepped from his tent. He stretched his arms over his head and surveyed the darkening sky and the multitude of stars that were gathering in the heavens. The slim, sleek silhouette of the Gray Eagle lay against the deepening magenta hues on the western horizon, and the dim glow of the watchman’s lantern gave proof that his orders were being followed and they were keeping wary of any intruders. Beyond the ship the waters of the gulf stretched endlessly on into the horizon.

Somewhere in the swamp that lay behind him, the brassy call of a heron broke the quiet as Ashton turned his gaze toward the house. He searched the lighted windows, hoping to glimpse a shadow of the one he longed to see, but he saw nothing which gave him relief from the gnawing, aching loneliness in his breast. Lighting a cheroot, he strolled down to where the ebbing tide left a strip of wet sand along the water’s edge. The tidal creek lay like a dark barrier across the sand, setting a boundary between him and his love. The cheroot died in his fingers as his gaze again lifted to the house.

Lenore! Lierin! Lenore? Lierin? Though the face remained the same, the names blurred in his mind….

He ground his teeth and angrily tossed the cigar into the softly lapping waves. He felt an overwhelming urge to lash out at something…or someone. Malcolm preferably. But he had not yet returned. There was no one to receive his anger, only the calm, uncaring sea and the yielding sand that now bore the print of his boots and which on the morrow would be featureless again.

A slight movement caught his eye, and he peered into the darkness until he could make out the vague glow of a white-clad figure. Like an illusive wraith it moved with soundless tread toward the narrow strip of sand along the shore and there paused to gaze out toward his ship, seemingly unmindful of the encroaching waves. He scarcely breathed while the longings of his heart yielded to the quickening surge of hope. Was it…?

“Lierin!” The word was barely a whisper, taken from him by the rising wind, but in his mind it was a shout of acclamation as he recognized the pale, slender form. It was she!

He leaped across the stream, and his loneliness was banished to the far ends of the earth as he ran toward her. He saw her turn with a start as he drew near and realized she wore a nightgown and nothing else. The bottom part of it was wet where the waves had splashed up against her legs, and that which was dry was being whipped about by the wind. Her hair was loose and flying out all around her, and with the moon adding a soft luminous nimbus around her, she seemed like a fairy queen caught in alarm.

“Lierin.” The name came from his lips in a softly whispered caress and with all the pent-up longing of a man in love with a dream. It was the almost imperceptible crack in his voice that screamed with the agony of his frustration.

“Lenore,” she whispered in a desperate plea.

Though Ashton could not see her face clearly or discern the movement of her lips, he heard the choked sadness, and it wrenched his heart. “Whatever name you bear, you’re still my love.”

She raised a hand to brush the errant tresses back from her face and gazed up at him with desires of her own. The moon shone down upon him, and where the shirt gapped open, she could see the firmly muscled expanse of his broad chest. The sight evoked memories of a time when she had nestled there in love’s sated bliss and felt the tickling of his breath against her brow. Oh, what torture is love, she thought. Was she ever to find peace with it?

“I really didn’t think you were out here,” she murmured. “My father said he had seen you rowing out to your ship, and he invited the guards in for a drink.”

“One of my boatmen brought me some supplies,” Ashton replied gently. “Your father probably saw him returning.”

“Oh.” Her voice was tiny, dejected.

“Is everything all right in the house?” he asked in concern.

She took a deep breath and released it in slow degrees, trying to cool her brain and subdue the tormenting concupiscence that had made a torture rack of her bed. “I was just restless and couldn’t sleep, and I decided to take a walk.” She paused, knowing there was something else that had made her abandon her room, and she told him in a trembling voice: “I dreamed Malcolm took me and showed me your grave. I even saw a tombstone with your name chiseled into it. The wind was blowing, and it was raining. It all seemed so real, it frightened me.”

“It was nothing more than a dream, my love,” he soothed. “I don’t intend to die and leave you to him.”

The silence dragged on, and Ashton peered down at her, trying to see her face clearly. He sensed her unrest and, with a great deal of meaning in his words, rephrased his earlier question: “Is everything well with you?”