Lierin could hardly do more than sleep. It was her only escape from the unrelenting pain that savaged her waking moments. The slightest effort to accommodate necessities brought her back to the bed in blinding agony. The pain sapped her strength and plagued her every waking moment. Still, in the morning after a basin bath, she would don a fresh gown and allow her hair to be brushed by the black woman who gently tended her. Though it was not readily made use of, a green velvet robe was left within easy reach at the end of the bed, and satin slippers were placed nearby for her convenience. She was distantly aware that these articles were new and well fitting, but she had neither the will nor the strength to inquire as to their ownership. Slowly, almost imperceptively, her strength returned. With each new dawning of a day she could spend a few more minutes on her feet before the intolerable ache drove her back to bed. When the pain did relent and she found some ease from its intensity, she would sometimes prop herself up against the pillows and read or chat with Willabelle or Luella May as they cleaned the room.
She saw little of Ashton. He came to her room after her morning toilettes to exchange a few inconsequential words with her, but he seemed almost stilted and unsure of himself as he watched her. He stood beside her bed, tall, lean, handsome, well dressed and well mannered, with almost a hungry look in those soft, hazel eyes which hinted of his restrained emotions. She could only surmise that her outburst of fear had caused his reticence, but she failed to find a way to intrude into their polite exchanges and ask him what he was really thinking.
When she roused from slumber during the day, he would either be in Natchez or busy someplace else on the plantation. Sometimes she sensed his presence in the night, but could not break her bonds with slumber to rouse and speak. On one of her brief ventures from bed, she passed a window and glanced out to see him riding one of his stallions around on the lawn. The sight drew her admiration, for the dark, glistening steed pranced in high-stepping cadence while he arched his long neck and flagged his sweeping trail. The man on his back seemed in total control of the animal’s movements, yet he did it with such ease, the pair flowed together as one.
The days of the week accumulated in number and were without success for Marelda. She despaired that she would ever have any time alone with Ashton. Her failure to seize the advantage made her increasingly anxious, for she realized the time wherein she could carry out her campaign without interference were quickly dwindling. At the onset of her maneuver she had been confident that Lierin would not jeopardize her injured demeanor to run after Ashton, thereby leaving the course open. But as the week aged, her panic increased, for it seemed that her plans went awry even before they were launched, giving them no chance for fruition.
The excuses were varied. On the second and third night after the mishap, houseguests from the Carolinas had to be entertained. Marelda breathed a sigh of relief when they left the next morning, but when the family gathered in the parlor that night to await the call for dinner, Latham came running in to inform his master that one of his blooded mares was showing signs of foaling. It was not enough that Ashton had been gone all day; he finished his brandy in a single gulp, excused himself, and hastily departed to change clothes, leaving Marelda in all her finery, with nothing more to look forward to than a chatty meal with the two older women. Her smile and temper were sorely tested even before Luella May announced the evening meal was ready for consumption.
On the fifth night Ashton failed to come home for dinner, and though Marelda waited up and carefully listened for the sound of his footsteps in the upper hall, she fell asleep, not realizing he had already passed with silent tread and closeted himself in his own suite. She might have consoled herself with the fact that Lierin was seeing less of him than she, but it was a hard reality to face that the twit would have free run at him after she left.
The house grew quite and subdued, and the last flickering flame was snuffed. Ashton went to his lonely bed and finally found the sleep he sought after much tossing and turning. It was later when he woke with a start. Staring into the darkness, he wondered what had snatched him so abruptly from a sound sleep. His naked body was clammy beneath the sheet, and he tossed away the covering to allow the cool air to dry the light mist of sweat. He rubbed his hand across his furred chest, feeling restless and uneasy, as if he had been plucked from a horrible nightmare. What had he found in his dreams that had been so distasteful to him?
He followed the path that his mind had taken through his slumber, and dark green eyes came in a vision before him and taunted him with their seductive gleam. Soft lips parted in a wanton smile, and wildly tossed red hair swirled around a temptingly curvaceous form that knelt amid a bed of rumpled sheets. His imagination was free to roam over the silken body, and though he realized he was becoming aroused by his thoughts, he let them wander on unhindered. Slender arms swept heavy tresses from off her neck, while she gave him a coy look that invited him to draw near and caress the full, delicately hued bosom and the slender hips and lithe thighs. In his mind he reached out and pulled her close, but in the next instant sharp talons cruelly raked him, and in his imagination he jerked back to see a hissing witch glaring at him with hatred-filled eyes. This was not his Lierin! This was some madwoman of his dreams! A witch with red hair!
Of a sudden he knew the reason for his abrupt awakening. His dreams of Lierin had turned to ones of tormenting doubt. A familiar sense of despair returned as fragmented memories flitted through his mind. He had seen Lierin taken from him by the strong, dark currents of the river, a river he had known for a good part of his life, one that refused to yield its prey even under the best of conditions. The question rose to haunt him. How could a slender young woman have found her way safely to shore in the dead of night when, even with the best of circumstances, it would have been impossible to discern the river’s edge?
Deep within his reasoning there came a brief trembling of trepidation that there remained some remote chance that he was wrong. After all, many questions were as yet unanswered, and those answers might not be in tune with his desire.
The uncertainties attacked him unmercifully, raking him over the glowing coals of logic. He swung his long legs over the side of the bed and braced his elbows against his knees as he hung his head in a moment of roweling fear.
“What is the truth?” His mind would not let him rest on the matter. “Is she my Lierin or some wayward wench who wears only the outer shell?”
He rose to light the lamp beside his bed, then drew on a pair of trousers. He touched the wick of a candle to the glowing flame, then left his chamber to move barefoot down the hall until he was at Lierin’s door. The nightmare left his mind half drowned in doubt. Would he find the beloved face he sought, or would it be only a cruel trick of his eye that awaited him?
Carefully he turned the knob and, without a sound, pushed the portal open. The room was dark, lighted only by the dying flames in the fireplace. He moved with soundless tread to the bed and placed the candle on the nightstand where it would spread its glow over the one he had come to see. He stared down at the face thus portrayed, and relief flooded through him.