Horace opened his mouth to deny the possibility that he would be the bearer of such a declaration. He thought he would just as soon avoid any frontal clash with Ashton, but when Marelda’s eyes hardened, Horace felt the sweat pop from his pores, and he groaned within himself. Hadn’t he done enough for her already?
“I’ve tried.” Malcolm put on an injured expression. “But the man is stubborn and refuses to listen, even to Lenore’s father.”
“I…ah…don’t think he listens too well,” Horace stated nervously.
“Then he should be shown,” Marelda suggested. “A man who is blind must be led about by the hand.”
“He doesn’t lead too well either,” Malcolm observed dryly.
“Come now,” Marelda cajoled and turned a taunting smile upon Lenore, noting how the color had drained from her cheeks. She could not believe the little twit cared enough for Ashton to become physically upset by their discussion. “There must be a way to deal with a man like that.”
“I…ah…think I’ll go out for a breath of fresh air,” Horace said and hurriedly excused himself. Wiping his heavily sweating brow, he hastened across the room. He would never object to Ashton Wingate getting his due. Indeed, he hoped it would fall upon him soon…but not from him personally.
As he stepped beyond a small grouping of people and came into a small open space, Horace raised his gaze and was startled to meet Ashton’s mildly amused and inquisitive stare.
“Good evening, Mr. Titch.” Ashton conveyed the greeting over the rim of his glass.
A chill coursed through Horace’s veins, and ducking his head, he stumbled away with a lame excuse: “I’ve got to talk to a man outside about some business.”
He charged out of the suddenly airless room and, gaining his escape, leaned against the outside wall to pant for breath. It seemed to be a growing fear of his that Ashton would one day take revenge for all he had done. A form moved in front of him, and not sure who it might be, he gasped in sudden fear.
“Mr. Titch?”
Horace sagged in relief. It was not the Natchez man, but the one he had consented to meet aboard the vessel.
Inside the hall Lenore fought her own discomfort as Malcolm’s hand settled on her bare shoulder and pulled her to him, but her growing nausea roiled up like an ugly serpent. Marelda had turned the topic to the weather, engaging the man in conversation, and observed the play of his fingers on the naked skin while she discussed the past history of violent storms along the coast. One of similar intensity raged up within her as she witnessed his casual caresses. It set her on edge that he displayed such an eager interest in his wife. Ashton had been equally enamored with the wench, and yet, when she, Marelda, had offered him the untainted gift of her body, he had coldly rejected her, as if she might be something worthless in his eyes. It galled her unmercifully that both men lusted after the little tart. Yet as she continued conversing with Malcolm, Marelda began to detect a subtle leer in his smile and eyes that hinted of an interest in her. The idea of extending an invitation to the man tickled her fancy. She could then show his haughty wife what it was like to lose a man to another woman.
“Tell me, Mr. Sinclair…”
“Oh, please, there’s no reason to be so formal,” he objected with a smile. “Malcolm is my given name, and I freely give you leave to use it.”
Marelda accepted the correction with a slight nod: “Malcolm, then.”
“That sounds better,” he replied. “Now, you were saying?”
“I was going to ask if you had ever toured the River Witch.” Her dark eyes glowed above a sultry smile. “There are a number of rooms to see, all rather quaint and cozy…very private. Would you care to see them? I’d be more than happy to show you around…and, of course, Mrs. Sinclair. I’m sure Ashton wouldn’t mind.”
Malcolm glanced aside at his wife, putting the question to her in the form of a raised eyebrow, but Lenore had been standing tense and very still throughout their conversation, hoping against hope that her nausea would go away. It seemed evident to her that Marelda Rousse quite literally sickened her. “I’m sorry, Malcolm, but I’m really not feeling too well at the moment.” She made the statement cautiously, hardly daring to breathe. The air in the room seemed stale and musty, and she had difficulty maintaining a calm demeanor while the heat pressed down upon her, and her stomach threatened to rebel against the strong wine. Even Malcolm could not mistake the pallor in her cheeks as she urged, “But please, go on without me.”
Malcolm inclined his head, readily accepting her direction. He could clearly see that she was ill, and he doubted that even Ashton Wingate could become amorous with a woman who was threatening to heave up her stomach. As for himself, he was going to indulge himself for a few moments and possibly initiate an intimate friendship.
When the two left, Lenore walked slowly and carefully through the press of people. Her goal was the nearest door, whatever direction that might be, and she dared not turn her head to see where Ashton was as she made her exit, for any slight movement might prove her undoing. As the night air settled its warm breath upon her, she heard Marelda’s distant laughter mingled with Malcolm’s deep chuckle and turned stiltedly in the opposite direction.
Ashton dabbed his handkerchief in a glass of water and leisurely strolled across the room. He left by the same door and then paused on the deck to listen. He thought he saw Horace Titch stumble back into the shadows farther down the passageway, no doubt to avoid meeting him, but he caught no glimpse of the one he wanted to see. He strode along the deck, his eyes probing the darkness between the lanterns until, on the far side of the steamer, he detected the pale glow of Lenore’s gown near the railing. He moved to where she leaned against a post and laid an arm about her shoulder, making her start and stare up at him in wide-eyed surprise.
“It’s all right,” he soothed in a whisper.
Lenore sagged against him in relief, feeling weak and completely drained. She marveled at his gentleness as he bathed her face, and beneath his tender ministering the waves of revulsion began to ebb.
“Feeling better?” he murmured after a moment.
She nodded lamely. “I think so.”
“Do you want to lie down in my cabin?”
“Oh, no. Malcolm would be angry.” She started to laugh, but gulped and waited until the twinge of sickness passed before she again attempted a smile. “I think Malcolm is afraid of the sights you’ll show me in your cabin.”
Ashton placed a gentle finger beneath her chin and lifted it until he could meet her gaze. The moon cast a multitude of starry lights in her eyes, and he lost himself in their tender warmth.
“You’ve been drinking,” she observed. The smell of brandy on his breath was strong enough to make her heady. “More than your usual glass or two, I’d wager.”
“Worry can drive a man to drink,” he replied wryly.
“Worry?” She searched his face with the inquiry. “What are you worried about?”
Ashton chafed as he confessed, “Malcolm…and his hands on you…and you being up there in the house with him all the time…while I have to stand and watch you from afar.”
Footsteps came along the deck toward them, and they looked around to see Malcolm approaching them with long, irate strides. His cravat was gone, and his shirt and vest were open down the front, showing his wide chest. Apparently he had been busy in the short time he had been gone.
“Something told me I’d find you making a pest of yourself!” Lunging forward, he caught Ashton’s shoulder and shoved him back against a post. “Damn you! I want you to leave my wife alone!”
“And I want you to leave mine alone!” The retort snapped back as Ashton tossed away the offending hand. He was not long on temper tonight.