The stairs were steep and clumsy, but sturdy enough to bear her weight. As she gingerly climbed she listened for the telltale flutter of wings that would send her scurrying back down the flight again. None came, and when her head rose above the level of the upper flooring, she realized her fears were for naught. She found none of the leathery hided creatures flitting about. The square vents beneath the gabled peaks were closely louvered, and thin slats were spaced inside to prevent the possibility of the detested denizens’ intrustion. Absent, too, were the thick layers of dust and cobwebs she had expected, and she could only surmise that the servants cleaned the attic at least on a yearly basis. Planks had been nailed above the ceiling joists to form a floor for the attic, and on this were the usual heaps of discarded treasures. Several trunks and old traveling bags were pushed to one side, and near them the parts of an old bed were braced against a post. A collection of cloth-covered paintings stood upright between supporting beams, and a couple of wooden boxes were filled with an odd assortment of knickknacks.
The heat had been entrapped in this upper space and brought a glistening of perspiration to her skin as she climbed up to the flooring. She gently prodded the old trunks with her toe and received a hollow sound until she tested one that looked newer than the rest and which was strangely familiar. Wondering what might be inside, she loosened the straps and sought to lift the top, but again found a lock barring her way. A growing certainty that this chest belonged to her sent her searching through the wooden boxes for a makeshift tool with which to pry open the metal flap. The best she found was a broken letter opener, and the sweat of her labors plastered her gown to her back before she gave up the attempt. Whatever was in the trunk would remain a secret until she found a sturdier wedge.
She moved on, this time examining the paintings. Several in front were average scenes, but toward the back a large one was covered with a cleaner cloth. She slid it out and, removing the covering, propped the portrait where the light would fall upon it. The painting was of an older man, perhaps around Robert’s age, and the face was rather squarish with clean, straight features and a mop of gray-streaked dark hair waving softly away from it. Though the expression was rather stern and forbidding, there was something in the green eyes that bespoke honesty and a fair sense of justice. She considered the portrait from every angle, but found nothing in the visage that stirred a recall. Returning the painting to the stack, she stepped away, then paused as she was suddenly struck with an image of the landscape downstairs. Mingled with it were brief flashes of the man’s portrait hanging in its stead above the fireplace.
She turned back and, retrieving the portrait, made her way carefully down the narrow stairs and to the parlor. There she set the painting aside while she dragged a straight chair to the fireplace. Taking the landscape down, she replaced it with the oil of the man, then stood back to evaluate its importance to the room. The landscape had been like a large gall on a tree, out of place and totally unappealing, but now the parlor seemed complete, well in tune with its surroundings and the rest of the house. Not really knowing the history of the landscape, she did not want to upset Malcolm if perchance it had been a gift from him, and she resisted the urge to leave the portrait hanging there.
Returning the painting to the attic room, she made a mental note of just where she placed it, then descended the narrow stairs again. At the lower portal, she released the rope from the cleat, slowly closing the trapdoor. Stepping into the hall, she locked the door leading to the corridor and removed the key.
Boredom set in once again as she went to her bedchamber. A light, freshly scented breeze sweeping in from the gulf toyed with the draperies and cooled her with its soft touch. She picked up the book of plays and seated herself near the french doors where the soft zephyr wafted through. After a while the book sank to her lap again, and her gaze rose and reached out to the sea. As she stared, a face formed in her mind, but it was not the one she expected. It belonged to the man in the portrait, and in her mind the countenance became animated, changing with different moods. Laughing, frowning, thoughtful, tender…
Lenore’s brows came together sharply. Somewhere beyond the blank wall in her mind was a memory of him, and she thought she knew him well.
It was some time later when Malcolm returned on his black steed. The animal was in a heavy lather, having raced the whole distance from town, but the steed’s exhaustion did not seem to disturb the man who prodded him forward again, away from the house, and to Ashton’s tent. He made several passing circles in front of the courtyard before bringing the stallion to a halt there. Keeping the restless horse in check, he called out with a derisive chuckle, “Come on out of hiding, Mister Wingate. I want to talk with you.”
Wondering what mischief the man was up to, Ashton stepped to the open flap of his tent, and Lenore came out to stand at the end of the porch, prodded by the same curiosity. She shaded her eyes against the spreading rays of the lowering sun and bit her lip worriedly as she watched Ashton move to the edge of the decking.
“What are you about today, Malcolm?” Ashton asked, peering up at the man with a cocked brow as he casually trimmed the end of a cheroot.
Malcolm ignored the question for a moment as he patted his horse’s neck in a show of affection rarely displayed toward his animals. With no mind for how long they lasted, he rode and used them hard until they wore out; then, unconcerned, he found another steed to push through the same accelerated life span. “I’ve heard in town that you’ve been looking around for a horse to buy for a lady.”
“That’s right,” Ashton admitted, speaking out of the side of his mouth as he lighted the thin cigar.
“Might I ask what lady?”
Puffing the tightly rolled leaves alight, Ashton squinted up at the man, and only when he was assured that the cheroot was lighted did he deign to take it from his mouth. “Lierin was quite a horsewoman at one time.” He plucked a tiny piece of tobacco from his tongue and flicked it from his fingers. “I thought she might enjoy the gift.”
Malcolm’s eyes turned icy with the hostility he bore the other man; then he smirked. “Lenore is fairly talented herself, but if you think I’m going to let my wife accept a gift from another man, you’ve taken leave of your senses.”
Ashton shrugged leisurely. “Oh, I wasn’t going to let the horse be taken into your stable, Malcolm. I want better care given to it than that.” Placidly he pointed with the end of the cheroot to the nervously prancing steed. “Treated like that, it would never last.”
Malcolm made no excuses. “I get what I want from them.” His large mouth twisted in a jeer. “The same is true with women.”
The smokey eyes hardened as they met the man’s taunting grin; then Ashton slowly stroked a thumb along his jaw. “I’ve seen some of the women you use…in Ruby’s Tavern. They’re about as sorry as that horse.”
Malcolm stood in the saddle, tempted to launch himself from the mount, but common sense prevailed, and he relaxed again to lift his heavy shoulders in a shrug. “With some women at least we seem to share the same taste.”
“It’s not difficult to admire a woman like Lierin.” Ashton tucked the cheroot into his mouth and reflectively savored its quality for a moment before removing it again. He clicked his tongue before he made comment. “What I’m wondering is what Lenore saw in you.”
Malcolm’s dark face went livid, and again he had to fight to control the violent urges. With an unappreciative sneer, he returned the gibe: “I’ve been curious about you, too, and I’m beginning to believe you pressured Lierin into marrying you. You’ve certainly made a pest of yourself around here.”
A soft chuckle shook Ashton’s shoulder. “A pest to you, maybe.”