Gingerly Lenore pulled aside his bloodied shirt and examined the long gash in the flesh along the side of his ribs. “You need to be tended.”

Ashton rubbed a hand through his hair and caught the whiff of smoke that drifted from it. “I need a bath!”

“That can be arranged, too. I’ll tell Meghan to have one prepared for you right away.” Brushing hard against him, she slid off the bed and, having no place else to put her feet, used the space on either side of his. Her downward movement left the bulk of her skirts wadded between them, and the ever-rutting rake grinned at the opportunities presented him. His hands slipped beneath her petticoats and roamed the delightfully rounded ending of her torso, bringing her warming gaze up to his. “Would you consider delaying that order a moment or two, madam?”

The softly glowing green eyes spoke her answer before she gave one in a barely breathed murmur. “I don’t see where a few moments will matter one way or another.”

Ashton lifted her back to the bed and leaned close against her loins as he plied his talent to unfastening the back of her gown. “I thought you were hungry.”

“Who needs food when there are better things to do?” she asked with a smile flirting at her lips.

It was much later when a properly garbed and freshly bathed Lenore unlocked the hall door leading to the attic and climbed the steep stairs to that lofty area. A small force of men had come from the Gray Eagle, but with assurances that no one had been injured in the fire they had returned to the ship and were instructed to be wary of any curious activity around the house. Ashton was resting in Lenore’s room, having been up most of the night, but she was feeling restless, as if something beyond the barrier wall that held her memory captive was beckoning to her. She now knew what had led to her collision with Ashton’s coach, but there was still the matter of the man’s murder to be dealt with…and the attempt on her own life. It was rather frightening to know that someone whose face she had once seen wanted her dead. If it was only because she had been a witness to a murder, the man was still out there somewhere, waiting for her…and she knew not who it was.

The contained heat in the attic immediately brought a fine dappling of moisture to her skin, but she did not plan to stay. She knew what she had come for. The portrait of the man who had haunted her when she looked at her father. Taking up the framed painting, she removed the cloth sheathing and stared at the square-jawed visage. It did not seem so stern now…for it had become an almost cherished sight in her dreams. She ran a trembling hand over the dried oil, stroking the area of his chin, and in flickering impressions she saw a tiny hand lovingly caress that strong jaw. The man lowered a kiss upon the small auburn head that nestled against his chest, and Lenore blinked back sudden tears as she experienced all the same warm feelings the girl had felt then.

“Robert Somerton?” she whispered the question and, with growing assurance, declared, “You are my father. You are Robert Somerton.”

Her heart leapt for joy, and blinded by a rush of happy tears, she clasped the painting to her and took a step toward the trap door, only to stumble over something large and heavy blocking her path. She moved the portrait aside to see, and stared down with growing perplexity at the huge trunk she had tried to open on her last visit to the attic. She had all but forgotten it was here. Her slender fingers lightly traced the straps that bound it, seeming to call forth an illusion of servants loading the piece in the boot of a carriage as she stood with Malcolm at the door of this very house and bade farewell to departing guests. She was gowned in the pale blue organdy, and it seemed they were being congratulated on their recent nuptials. When the last couple was waved off, Malcolm took her in his arms, and they exchanged a lengthy kiss before they entered the hall, laughing. He strode into the parlor, and in her mind she could see the steps of the stairway before her as she ascended, then the door of her bedroom was being pushed closed. Through a murky haze, she stared at her own image reflected in the mirror of her dressing table. The eyes were slightly wistful, not quite happy, as if yearning for something that could not be. The jaw firmed, and a gleam of determination came into the green eyes. Straightening, she began to tidy her coiffure, then her heart started racing as her vision lifted to a tall form standing just beyond the open french doors. The face was not handsome, but she knew it well from her tormenting nightmares, except now he was not screaming, nor was he being bludgeoned to death by a poker iron. She felt the same scream building in her lungs which had threatened to burst forth then, but the haze cleared, and she saw the man step quickly forward with an anxious, almost pleading gesture for her to be silent. His eyes were fearful as he glanced nervously about…like a little ferret…then he moved to her dressing table and picked up the folded piece of parchment he had earlier passed to her. He opened it and gave it over into her hands, urging her to read. Lenore sensed the dismay she had experienced then, but she was ignorant of the cause. The man pressed other articles in her hands, and with each her distress deepened until once again her attention was on the man. Raising a hand, he moved backward, bidding her to come…bidding her to come…to come…to come….

Lenore’s eyelids fluttered as the impressions left her and her mind cleared. She glanced down at the trunk and knew with sudden certainty that she must see what was inside. A heavier tool had to be found to pry free the locked flap, and she determined to fetch one soon after removing the landscape from the parlor wall and placing her father’s portrait in its stead.

Taking the painting with her, she made her way carefully down the narrow stairs and entered the lower front room. Once again she dragged a straight chair to the fireplace, took down the wooded scene, and hung the painting of the square-jawed man. She tucked the landscape out of sight and sat down in a wing-backed chair to wait for the one who called himself her sire. It was barely half an hour later when he strolled in with his nose in a book.

“It’s a hot one today,” he observed, loosening his cravat and moping his brow. “Why, the fish are fairly jumping from that big boiling pot out there.”

He chortled at his own humor, but his laughter faded in swift degrees when he looked up and found himself beneath the weight of Lenore’s stoical stare. He cleared his throat as he moved away and, pouring himself a libation, settled on the settee. Raising an arm above his head, he leaned backward, stretching himself, and then froze. His mouth slowly descended to convey his surprise, leaving him gaping at the portrait.

“Good heavens!” he gasped. Sitting forward in a rush, he shot a glance toward her, finding her expression unchanged. His features clouded as a deeply troubled frown creased his brow, and hurriedly he gulped down another unhealthy portion of whiskey before wiping a hand across his mouth.

“Can you tell me one thing?” she asked in a quiet voice.

He took another quick swallow before he asked, “What is it that you want to know, girl?”

“Who are you?”

He bounced in agitation on the seat. “What do you mean, daughter?”

“I…don’t think I am…”

“Am what?” He appeared perplexed.

“Your daughter,” Lenore stated simply.

He stared at her agog. “Why, of course you are!”

She replied with a slow, negative shake of her head. “No, I really don’t think so.”

“What is this? Another lapse of memory?” he questioned almost angrily and gave a short, scornful laugh. “We’ve been through this before, I believe.”

“Yes,” she agreed, “but I am beginning to see things clearly now.” She lifted her hand, bringing his attention back to the portrait, but he quickly ducked his head, as if he felt some shame viewing it. “This is my father, isn’t it?”

“Good lord, girl! You’ve lost your mind,” he charged, blustering.

A lovely eyebrow arched queryingly. “Have I? Or am I just beginning to get it back?”

“I don’t know what you mean!” He sprang to his feet and paced the floor restlessly. “What has taken hold of you? That damned Wingate fellow comes into this house and suddenly you cast away all who love you….”

“The name in your book of plays…it’s your name, isn’t it? Edward Gaitling…Shakespearean actor.”

The white-haired man moaned and twisted his hands in deep distress. “Why are you tormenting me like this, girl? Don’t you know that I care for you?”

“Do you?” Her tone was doubting.

“Of course!” He flung a hand about in a wild, frenzied gesture. “I am your father! And I care for my daughter!”

Lenore sprang from the chair with an angry command. “Stop it! You are not my father! You are Edward Gaitling! There is no further reason for your pretense.” She raised a hand to indicate the portrait once again. “This is my father. This…is…Robert Somerton! And I want to know who I am! If I am Lenore Sinclair, why was there need for all this chicanery?”

Edward Gaitling opened his eyes wide in surprise. “Oh, but you are Lenore…and Malcolm is really your husband.”

She shook her head in painful confusion. She had desperately hoped that he would make a different announcement. “Then why all this pretense? Why have you played the part of my father?”

“Don’t you see, girl?” He came toward her holding out a hand in pleading supplication. “With you being in Wingate’s house and believing you were Lierin and his wife…and him strongly declaring it was so, you needed something more than Malcolm’s word to sway the balance.”

“But why couldn’t my real father do that?”