The stoical gloom of the evening was keyed to the somberness of Malcolm’s dour temper. Lenore took note of it as soon as she joined the two men in the parlor. Her husband sulked like a punished lad and went as often to the decanter as his father-in-law. He was forever strolling out onto the veranda and peering westward where a faint glow marked the location of Ashton’s tent. His mood lightened as the intoxicant began to take effect, until finally he broke the cautious, stilted silence with a derisive chortle.
“At least that beggar will be supping alone tonight in that great gaudy tent of his.”
Robert was sober enough to pick up on Malcolm’s comment and offered some observations of his own: “Aye, and if a little blow comes off the gulf, he just might find that damned boat of his sitting in his lap.”
The two waxed almost gleeful in their contemplation of possible disasters that might befall their new neighbor. Lenore found the macabre bent of their humor annoying and did her best to ignore them. Even when they went out to lounge on the veranda, it proved a difficult task.
“Behold!” Robert’s hushed tone of amazement came drifting through the open french doors. “What ventures out from yonder craft? Some sweet surcease to ease the varlet’s plight?”
His mixed prose was less than pure Shakespearean and more than slightly slurred, but it was enough to stir Lenore’s curiosity. Lifting her sherry glass, she strolled out onto the porch where she could view the object of their attention. Pointedly keeping her distance from her companions, she chose a spot near the railing and leaned her back against a post as she turned her gaze out to sea.
Beyond the tumbling surf a lighter nudged out of the dark shadow of the River Witch and skimmed through the moonlit waters, heading for the lantern that marked Ashton’s encampment. As the lighter neared the beach the rhythmic creak of oars came softly to her ears as the two men bent their backs to the rowing. Soon the boat scraped the sandy bottom of the shallows, and the two dragged it ashore. The pair of servants, complete with white-coated uniforms, lifted a huge, silver-domed tray from the prow and quickly bore it to the courtyard table. Setting to work, they lighted torches and staked them on poles around the deck, making every corner of the platform visible, much to Malcolm’s chagrin. A white cloth was spread and upon it the necessary accoutrements were placed for an elegant setting, complete with a silver candelabrum and two place settings for a full-course dinner. All were curious to see who the expected guest might be and waited in anticipation, Lenore no less than the others.
The first mellow strains of the cello drifted on the wings of the night breezes, and everyone on the porch paused to listen. Lenore kept her face carefully blank as Malcolm’s eyes settled on her and hardened. The chords wandered through a brief medley, then settled into one they had shared as a favorite. Restlessly Malcolm paced along the veranda and paused at the far end to stare at the brightly lighted area. Lenore leaned forward to catch the soft, musical refrains and closed her eyes as she luxuriated in the memories she had of Belle Chêne and its master. The music filled her heart with a soft bliss until her pleasure was soured by Malcolm’s return.
Chafing, he glanced around at her father as his lips curled in contempt. “Would you listen to that wailing? It sounds like a wounded swamp cat caught in a trap. And you can guess what part they caught.”
Robert sniggered into his glass. “Nay, lad. ’Tis only the guts they string out on a fiddle.”
“It’s not a fiddle,” Lenore corrected crisply, irked at their crudities.
Her father peered at her dubiously. “A modicum of wit ye have tonight, lass. Have ye no laughter in ye?”
“It’s that rutting tomcat yowling and prowling about out there, working her up into an itch,” Malcolm jeered. “She’d like to join him.”
And why not? Though silent, the retort flared through her mind. She would gladly have traded the inanities of the men for the affectionate attention that she longed for and which she knew Ashton would freely bestow on her.
A servant stepped to the door of the tent to speak to someone inside. The music halted, and Lenore held her breath as Ashton emerged, quite alone and quite handsomely groomed. He paused beside a jasmine shrub and, picking a blossom, laid it on one of the plates. He settled in a chair across from it, and a wine was poured into his silver goblet. Ashton sipped it, nodded his approval, and the full-course dinner progressed while the place across from him remained untouched. Finally Lenore understood the significance of the jasmine on the plate. It served as an invitation to her. Whether she was Lenore or Lierin, and when or if she ever chose to join him, she would be welcomed.
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.