Fire's Lady

Chapter One

Long Island, New York - April, 1892

For two weeks and three days Alexandra Glenn had tried to convince herself it wasn't really happening but now she could fool herself no longer.

The pastures rolling past her window as the train rushed eastward were emerald and lush but they weren't the pastures she loved. Pale streaks of white laced the vivid turquoise skies just as it did back home, and if she closed her eyes tight she might be able to hold reality at bay just a little bit longer, and pretend she were back in Provence laughing with Gabrielle and Luc and the baby, pretend that Esme and Paul were still alive and her world a place of kindness and love.

Opening her reticule, she unfolded the letter of instructions her mother had given her before she boarded the ship bound for New York. Her mother's scent, a powerful blend of jasmine and musk, rose up and mingled with tobacco smoke drifting through the train car. Alexandra's stomach lurched violently and she thrust the letter back into her bag and swallowed hard against her nausea.

Across the aisle a portly gentleman with absurdly small features puffed furiously on a Meerschaum, his pale face glistening like a peeled onion. From the moment the train left New York City her fellow traveler had alternated between smoking that hideous pipe and regaling everyone with stories about each and every town they rumbled through.

Jamaica with its huge homes and flower gardens and manicured lawns was where he'd been born.

Garden City with its acres of corn fields growing higher than a man could reach was where he'd met his wife.

The open farmlands bounded by the Long Island sound to the North and the Atlantic Ocean to the south were where his father and his father's father had tended their crops.

The town names grew more exotic as the train rushed along the south shore, names like Moriches and Speonk and Quogue that lay strange upon her tongue as she repeated them softly, calling to mind stories she'd heard about Indian tribes and beautiful maidens.

Small whitewashed houses with unruly patches of marsh grass dotted the landscape. A toddler in a checkered dress of apple red stood by a lopsided wooden fence and waved as the train rumbled past and Alexandra swallowed hard, remembering the sturdy feel of her godchild Mireille slumbering in her arms in the benevolent sunshine of Provence.

If she tried very hard she could conjure up Paul and Esme Charbonne, the couple who had sheltered her with their love each summer in the country and taught her to understand the true richness of life.

But they were gone, weren't they? Gone like her dreams of someday meeting a kind and handsome man, a man who would both love her and understand her desire to capture the beauty of life by touching oil paint to canvas. For so long her dreams had sustained her, warmed her through cold English winters at the boarding school only to be destroyed at the hand of the woman who had given her life but little else.

The metal door between the railroad cars creaked open and a conductor with a shiny black handlebar moustache swung his way up the aisle, bringing her back to unpleasant reality.

"Bridgehampton! Next stop!"

The conductor's flat American voice scratched against her ears like the sticks of emery she used to shape her nails. Her mother had made certain Alexandra was as fluent in English as she was in French but the English Alexandra had learned was sweet and musical, not the loud, angry tones she'd heard since landing in New York Harbor two days ago.

She leaned forward slightly, ignoring the scent of dust and hair tonic rising from the seat before her, hoping to glimpse the town soon as it came into view.

"Wonderful town, Bridgehampton," said the porcine man across the aisle. "Hull's Hotel is a fine establishment. Stayed there two summers running." He puffed on his Meerschaum then exhaled a pungent plume of smoke that burned her eyelids. "The missus and I are thinking of building a cottage here." His pale blue eyes regarded her with interest. "You from this neck of the woods?"

Fluency in English was obviously no help in understanding the language as spoken in New York.

"Neck of the woods?" she ventured politely.

"You ain't a foreigner, are you?" He leaned across the aisle, jowls trembling with curiosity.

She had to smile in the face of such unabashed nosiness. "My father was a British soldier but my mother is an American."

"Grow up around here, did you?"

Was that what he meant by that confusing phrase? "I grew up just outside Paris."

"Paris, Illinois?"

"Paris, France."

"Never know it to hear you talk," he said then caught himself. "I mean no disrespect, missy. It's just you ain't got much of an accent."

Alexandra could have told him about the dark years spent at Aynsley Hall with the stiff-upper lipped English girls, about the endless speech and elocution lessons Marisa had forced upon her, about the sharp rap of a wooden ruler on tender knuckles each time she lapsed into the rhythm of a lovelier language.

"Thank you," she said finally. "Is yours a typical New York accent?"

His puffy lips parted, exposing ludicrously tiny teeth, as he laughed aloud. "Missy, there ain't no such thing as a typical New York accent. You'll hear everything from Dutch to Irish to pure Yankee Doodle Brooklyn." His pale gaze moved over her face, across the snug bodice of her dark gold woolen traveling suit, all the way down to her worn leather boots with their endless laces pulled tight above the ankle bone. "You have family out this way?"

She shook her head. "No, sir."

He beamed approvingly. "Have lovely manners, you do, missy. So what brings you here?"

Alexandra sought a way to state the facts without the emotional overtones that had plagued her all the way across the Atlantic. "Employment," she said finally. "I have a position awaiting me in Easthampton."

How simple it sounded. How complicated it all had been.

"I have found you an excellent position," Marisa had said a fortnight ago when she unexpectedly appeared at the cottage in Provence. "You will assist the gentleman of the house with his work and in return you'll receive room and board." She had mentioned a small cash stipend to be paid in addition and Alexandra burst into tears. "For God's sake, child, stop wailing. This is the only way. I simply cannot afford to let you continue on as you are, living like a beggar here with Gabrielle and that wretched blacksmith she calls a husband. Think of your pride! It is time for you to find a life of your own."

"But I do have a life of my own, Mamma!" She tugged at her mother's lace sleeve in desperation. "I help with the baby and I go to the village for food and I earn money by modeling for the--"

Marisa raised her hand imperiously. "I'll not have my daughter playing nursemaid to a pair of country fools. I had hoped when the Charbonnes died you would have lost your taste for country living. I have made plans for you, Alexandra, plans that can secure your future, and I'll not be having your own lack of ambition stand in my way."

The sudden shift from French to the lilting English Marisa reverted to when agitated, startled Alexandra and in that moment she lost her chance to argue that she did, indeed, have ambition but her ambitions were tied up with happiness and love--concepts her beautiful, grasping mother would never understand.

Eight days later Alexandra kissed her old friends goodbye outside the tiny farmhouse and started up the road to await the carriage that would take her to the harbor and her new life.

With all her heart and soul she wanted to throw herself upon their mercy and beg them to let her stay. She would cook and clean and care for the baby. She would model for the artists who summered in Provence and willingly hand over every sou to Gabrielle and Luc if only she could stay where she felt safe and loved.

"I don't want to go," she said, choking back hot tears. "My life is here. Everyone I love is here..." Please ask me to stay, Gaby. Please...please...please...

But, as with all her dreams, this one vanished in the bright sunlight. Gabrielle loved Alexandra as a sister but she loved her husband more. Heavily pregnant with her second child, Gabrielle had not been blind to the looks of longing on her virile husband's face each time Alexandra entered the room and Alexandra listened, stunned, to her friend's fears.

"I'm sorry," Gabrielle had murmured as they made one last goodbye. "He's all I have...he's the father of my children. I cannot take the risk."

And so her fate had been decided.

Without money or position, without a husband or family to love her, Alexandra was caught in the web of her mother's design, helpless to pull free. Everything familiar and dear had been left behind and she knew that stopping the speeding train in which she sat would be easier than returning to the life she'd once loved.

And so there she was, alone in a strange country with only this cigar-smoking gentleman to know if she lived or died. The train rounded a bend then slowed as a weatherbeaten station came into view. Staring out the window, she saw a white-haired driver, thin as the whip resting beside him, keeping pace with the train as his spirited bay maneuvered the trap along the well-traveled road.

"Mrs. Halsey's trap," the man across the aisle informed her, gathering up his New York Times and pulling his massive body up from the red leather seat. "Mr. Halsey owns the bank in Southold. Think I'll stroll into the club car and pay my respects to her. Good luck to you, missy."

Alexandra breathed a huge sigh of relief as he maneuvered his bulk toward the door to the next compartment. "Thank you, sir," she said, calling upon her best Aynsley School manners once again. "I've enjoyed our conversation."

The truth was, their conversation couldn't have stopped at a more fortuitous moment for the pounding of her heart as the train eased into the Bridgehampton station made it nearly impossible to think clearly.

For the second time she reached into her reticule and brought out the letter of instructions. Marisa's childish scrawl seemed at odds with the ivory parchment paper, as disconcerting as her occasional lapses into brogue-accented English.

Ask the conductor to assist you, then wait with your bags near the station door. Someone from the Lowell house will fetch you shortly.

She crumpled the letter and wished she could open the window and toss it onto the tracks but the train had stopped and she found herself looking at the biggest stagecoach she had ever seen. The coach waited next to the station building; the four perfectly matched black horses pawed the ground restlessly. On the lacquered black surface of the door, the words "Rackett & FIthian" had been painted in blood red letters and she watched, mesmerized, as the driver of the coach rubbed a white cloth over the shimmering surface.

Certainly such a fine conveyance would never have been sent for a lowly assistant like Alexandra, especially one who, as yet, hadn't a notion as to what her duties would be.

She gathered her belongings and exited the train, ignored by the two burly Irishmen who were loading Saratoga trunks and canvas valises into the hold of the stagecoach.

The conductor with the handlebar moustache unceremoniously dumped her own valises and battered trunk near the depot. Hand outstretched, he stood before her until Alexandra finally took that hand and shook it, tendering her grateful thanks for his help.

Muttering the odd word "skinflint," he wheeled around and stormed back to the train, leaving Alexandra puzzled and feeling vaguely guilty although, for the life of her, she couldn't fathom why that should be the case.

"Missy?"

She turned around, hopes soaring again, only to see her traveling companion.

"Your carriage ain't here yet, missy?"

"Not yet," she said, smiling at the thin, sour-faced woman next to him. "I'm certain it shan't be much longer."

"This place gets mighty lonely once the train pulls out. Maybe Mrs. Halsey here would be kind enough to offer you a--"

It appeared the elegant Mrs. Halsey had ideas of her own, however, and those ideas did not include offering transportation to weary travelers.

"I have no doubt the young lady's coach will be here shortly."

A deep stain rose up Alexandra's throat and enflamed her cheeks and she prayed her portly protector would not pursue the matter. Besides, judging from the dimensions of the conveyence, she doubted if there would be room for him and the birdlike Mrs. Halsey, much less a third person.

"Come, Harold," the grande dame ordered. "Time is money. I must be on my way."

Tipping his hat, a regretful Harold scurried after the banker's wife, his bulk shivering with the exertion like a dish of blanc mange in a windstorm.

Alexandra could almost hear the Halsey trap moan in protest as the spindly driver cracked his whip and they left the station. A moment later, the huge coach followed in its tracks, disappearing around a curve in the road eastward and suddenly Alexandra realized she was completely alone.

Overhead, seagulls glided effortlessly, their raucous cries mingling with the smell of salt water, reminding her once again how far she'd traveled--and of just how alone she was. A line of scrub pines edged the station but the roar of the ocean told her the Atlantic wasn't far away.

For the hundredth time in less than three weeks, tears filled her eyes. What on earth was happening to her? She had spent the first nineteen years of her life priding herself on the fact that she never cried and now she found herself a veritable fountain. Tears certainly weren't going to change things, she chided herself. Tears weren't going to whisk her back to France, were they? And tears certainly weren't going to conjure up a coach and driver, no matter how fervently she might wish for one.

Alexandra pinched herself sharply on the tender skin of her left wrist to stem the tide of tears, and just in time, for moments later a large trap drawn by a sleek chestnut rounded the slope just beyond the station and headed straight for her.

The body of the trap was black lacquer, same as the venerable Mrs. Halsey's, but that was where all likeness ended. This trap was nearly double in size, with enormous spoked wheels, and a fine stripe of deep gold outlining the inward curve near the driver's seat and the angular shape of the carriage itself. A lamp of polished brass was attached to a narrow panel of carmine just forward of the passenger section, lending an elegant yet sporty air to the vehicle.

The driver, possessed of the same elegant yet sporty air, reined in the horses a few yards short of where she stood. This was no aging retainer like the one who had met the banker's wife. This man was no more than thirty, if she didn't miss her guess, with a full head of perfectly barbered blonde hair and a smile she couldn't help but answer with one of her own.

He leaped down from his seat and looped the reins carelessly around the post fence near her baggage. "I shouldn't blame you if you'd given up on me after such an unconscionable wait, but I was unforgivably detained at the house."

She looked at him, wide-eyed, taking in his suit of fine fawn-colored cloth, the stiff white collar of his shirt with the precisely tied Windsor knot, the tiny glass bottle attached to his left lapel by a length of ribbon. She found herself rivetted to the perfect yellow daisy that peeped from the top.

"It appears I've been dashed rude once again." His light blue eyes fixed on hers. "Let me begin where I should have from the start: you are Miss Alexandra Glenn, are you not?"

She nodded, overwhelmed by his friendly curiosity. "And you, sir--?"

He breathed an exaggerated sigh of relief then bowed low. "Stephen Lowell, at your service, here to whisk you off to Sea View."

"Sea View?" she repeated, for the name was new to her. "I had believed I was to go to Easthampton."

"And so you shall, Miss Glenn. Easthampton is a town."

"And Sea View?" she asked, finding herself fascinated by this young American man.

He threw his head back and his perfectly trimmed dark blonde moustache twitched with his laughter. "You have much to learn, Miss Glenn. Sea View is--how shall I put it? Sea View is an entity unto itself."

"I'm afraid you have lost me, sir," she said, as he hoisted her trunk and placed it in the back section of the trap, "for I do not know enough about Long Island to savor the joke."

"An innocent abroad?" He tossed her two valises atop the trunk, completely filling the passenger section. "How refreshing. Let me put your mind to rest, Miss Glenn: Sea View is your new home."

"Sea View," she said quietly, feeling foolish for not knowing something as basic as the name of the house where she'd be living. Did Marisa truly care so little about her that she'd neglect to mention such rudimentary information?

Alexandra had no chance to pursue that line of thought for, taking her arm, Stephen assisted her up into the driver's seat then climbed in next to her. She knew from the appreciative gleam in his eyes that he found her appealing but his touch was neither lingering nor overly-familiar and she found herself relaxing for the first time since she'd arrived in America.

"Such wonderful innocence," he said with a chuckle. "You realize, of course, that this means I must tell you of all the local scandals, Miss Glenn, so that by this time tomorrow you will be unable to walk down Main Street without bumping into a matron whose skeletons don't rattle loudly enough for you to hear."

He cracked his whip and the chestnuts leaped to powerful life.

"I can but pray the skeletons in my closet rattle more softly, Mr. Lowell."

Again that amused chuckle. "I cannot believe a young lady sheltered in the French countryside could have a single skeleton to rattle," he said as the trap jostled pleasantly down the sandy lane. "You must tell me of some of these dreadful incidents to persuade me you do indeed have skeletons after all."

A flock of geese took to the sky in noisy flight and Alexandra turned to watch them, grateful for the momentary diversion. She had been well-trained in classical language but not in the language of flirtatious conversation. Anything she could come up with would surely sound forced or foolish. There was the time she wandered into the woods and came upon the baker's wife and the blacksmith's apprentice in a feverish embrace or the time she'd tumbled into the pond on her way to Sunday mass, only to horrify Father Claude when she dripped her way into the rear pew.

Her schoolgirl escapades were certain to have this elegant American man with his fashionable side-parted hair and glittering stick-pin yawning in moments.

"I'd much rather hear about the local scandals," she said at last, still watching the geese. "I'm certain they're more interesting than my provincial remembrances."

"Why is it I have the feeling your remembrances are anything but provincial?" he asked as they bounced over a deep rut in the road. "But, no matter. We have six miles ahead of us and I can think of no better way to spend the time than to acquaint you with Easthampton."

She turned away from the geese flying overhead and met his eyes. The look he gave her was sharp and vaguely unsettling but she kept a pleasant smile on her face. "I am lucky to learn from a native."

He feigned dismay. "How much you have to learn, Miss Glenn. You'll soon find that the Easthampton natives are a sorely unfashionable lot--not a box coat or a fore-and-aft among them." He flashed her a quite remarkable smile. "I, of course, sport both."

He went on to explain the difference between the year round resident and the resident who appeared on the scene in May with a score of trunks, three maids and an insatiable appetite for barbecues and balls only to depart in September, sunburnt and tired and eager to return to New York City.

"Since it's but the fifteenth of April, am I to assume you are of the former variety?" Alexandra asked.

"A logical assumption," he replied, easing the trap across a narrow bridge that spanned a pond, "but inaccurate in this case. I am an art dealer both here and in Europe. Of course, at present my uncle Andrew is my prime concern. I came to visit him during Christmas and when his condition worsened I deemed it my responsibility to stay on and see he gets the proper care."

It took only a second for his words to sink in. "Then I shall be working for you?" she ventured, finding it difficult to believe that her new employer would meet her at the station--and be so charming and personable, in the bargain.

"Would that it were so. I'm afraid you'll be working for my uncle Andrew."

She tried to hide her disappointment. "But you said he is infirm."

"More often than not that is so," Stephen said, pulling back on the reins as the chestnut strained to gallop on the flat stretch of road, "but he still has the desire to work."

"What am I to do?" she persisted. "What are my duties to be?"

Stephen yanked back the reins abruptly and stopped the trap. "They should be obvious, Miss Glenn."

Her chin lifted as a frisson of apprehension shivered up her spine. "They're not, Mr. Lowell."

His light blue eyes widened in comprehension. "You are truly ignorant as to the identity of your new employer?"

She nodded. "Embarrassingly so, I'm afraid."

"My dear Miss Glenn, you are now the property of Andrew Lowell." She was silent and he reached down and patted her hand in a gesture both comforting and mildly annoying. "Come now, dear girl, don't tell me you don't recognize my uncle's illustrious name. That's not the proper way to begin a new position."

Alexandra's chin tilted a fraction higher. "Neither Andrew nor Lowell is an uncommon name," she pointed out. "There's even a quite famous artist whose work--" She stopped, dumbstruck, as comprehension dawned. "Surely you do not mean--"

The look on Stephen Lowell's face told her all.

"My father's brother," he said after a moment.

She slumped back in her seat filled with a strange mixture of apprehension and elation. Andrew Lowell was a legend among the artists she'd modeled for in Provence, one of the first to break free of old traditions, old restrictions, and explore the boundaries set only by nature's beauty and man's imagination.

And of course, there were the stories. Her cheeks reddened just at the thought of some of the tales she'd heard the younger artists tell about the master when they thought her out of ear-shot.

By reputation Andrew Lowell had bedded half the continent in his day, a bee flitting from flower to flower but never staying long enough to run out of nectar.

A lesser man with such a reputation would have been shunned by clever young women and their willing mothers but not Andrew Lowell. The fierce blaze of his talent melted normal motherly concerns and left two generations of women vulnerable to his charms.

Andrew Lowell had long since passed from genius into legend and his abrupt disappearance from the art world ten years ago had engendered much gossip.

He'd joined Gauguin in Tahiti, they whispered.

He'd gone mad like Vincent or blind like Monet.

He'd met his Maker at the hands of a cuckolded husband.

The possibilities were both fascinating and terrible to consider. To think he'd been living and working in a sleepy Long Island town all this time! Why, she could learn more about art by simply preparing the great man's pallette than she could ever learn under the tutelage of the finest teacher the Lycee had to offer.

So you do not hate me after all, Mamma, Alexandra thought as Stephen cracked the whip and the horse sprang to life once again. Although Marisa had found it necessary to place an ocean between them, miraculously her mother had seen to it that she would find a wonderful compensation awaiting her. The dark cloud of apprehension that had hovered over her since her mother had told her she was to leave France finally began to lift.

For the rest of the journey Stephen Lowell proved to be wonderful company. Somehow he seemed to understand her preoccupation and took on the burden of conversation, allowed her time to compose herself before reaching Sea View.

While managing the reins with assurance, he amused her with a running commentary on the sights and sounds of eastern Long Island. The town of Easthampton was picturesque with its towering elm trees and graceful willows and the crystalline ponds running parallel to Main Street. Stephen pointed out clapboard houses once owned by whaling merchants and huge white-washed Colonials that pre-dated the Revolutionary War. Every house, no matter its vintage, boasted a well-tended garden where azaleas blazed in crimson glory and lilacs trembled on the brink of full perfume.

He pointed out the Mulford House with its gambrel roof, the broad veranda of old lady Eldredge's home and the way the Chinese red front door on the Moran cottage tilted crazily to the left. Alexandra's mind tumbled with stories of Clinton Academy and Rowdy Hall and Pudding Hill which got its odd name from British soldiers who, during the War for Independence, found a bag of steaming Indian pudding and rolled it down the hill with a stick. Mansard roofs and bell-topped towers and piazzas worthy of a villa in Rome all vied for her attention until she thought her head would split with the effort of trying to take it all in.

A few yards past the dry goods store, Stephen tugged at the reins and the chestnut veered right onto a narrow road lined by tapering poplars and towering oaks. How magnificent they would be in full leaf, spreading shade across the sleepy village on a hot summer day. The sound of the ocean could be heard over the calls of birds she couldn't identify and she imagined the sea lapping at the backyards of the houses at the end of the road.

On Egypt Lane he slowed down in front of an unprepossessing two story building. The shingles were weatherbeaten and the windows lopsided yet it boasted meticulously painted shutters of snowy white and Federal blue.

"That's Rowdy Hall. It's quiet now, but wait until the season arrives." He pointed toward a pair of scruffily dressed men toting a wooden box and an easel. "This is an artist's colony," he said, explaining away the exquisitely wrought shutters. "They work all day then head for the Clinton Academy to have old man Stimson criticize their work."

"Stimson? Why not Andrew Lowell?" There was genuine surprise in her voice. Why would a young artist fortunate enough to breathe the same air as Andrew Lowell seek another mentor?

Stephen jingled the reins and the chestnut eased into a trot. "Uncle Andrew sees few visitors," he said, his voice surprisingly tight. "It is better if he is disturbed as little as possible."

Andrew Lowell must be an invalid, she thought. Perhaps the formless gossip making the rounds through the art communities of Europe been more accurate than anyone suspected. How tragic for a man so blessed to be reduced to a life of infirmity.

How lucky he was to have a nephew like Stephen.

"Are we nearly at Sea View?" she asked as Stephen guided the horses into a left turn.

"Do I detect a woman having second thoughts?" he teased gently.

"Not at all," she said, surprised that he had been perceptive enough to notice her momentary hesitation. "You detect a woman anxious to begin her duties."

"Just a moment longer," he said, with a sidelong glance at her. "We follow the drive around this bend and..."

Whether Stephen stopped talking or her mind had ceased comprehending, she did not know, for his words faded the moment Sea View appeared before them. Long ago she'd seen Andrew Lowell's paintings at the Louvre and she had never forgotten the raw power contained within his brushstrokes.

Such was his house.

She should have known nothing about Andrew Lowell would be commonplace. How had she imagined even for a moment that his genius could be confined by picket fences or hidden behind lace curtains. How could anyone believe that anything less than the magnificent could contain an artist of his caliber.

Set atop a gentle rise, Sea View soared with a grace and power born of destiny. The first of the three stories was brick and shingles laid in curving patterns that emphasized the symmetrical towers on either side of the broad front veranda. The second story was shingled in a subtle diamond pattern that drew the eye cunningly upward to the third floor where dormered windows and no fewer than five chimney stacks broke the sharp line of the roof. The house extended on either side into east and west wings of equal dimension. Neatly clipped hedges stopped just shy of the first floor windowsills.

"A simple summer cottage," Stephen said, a note of wry amusement in his voice. "Uncle Andrew was never one for understatement."

"It's overwhelming!" Alexandra breathed, hands clasped to her bosom. "In all my life I have never seen a structure so...so..." For the first time in recent memory, English failed her.

"Ostentatious?"

She shook her head so enthusiastically her round toque flew off. "So wonderful! It's everything it should be."

Stephen chuckled as he guided the trap up the curved drive of crushed shell then reined the chestnut to a stop near the front door. He leaped down from the conveyence and hurried around to the other side.

"Why don't you step inside the foyer where it's comfortable," he said, putting his elegant hands at her waist and lifting her down. "I'll bring the trap around back and join you there momentarily."

"My valises," she said as he deposited her on the driveway. "My trunk. We should--"

"Darling girl, you are a prodigious worrier. The servants will fetch your things to your room."

An immense wave of nervousness crashed in on Alexandra with the force of the ocean she heard slapping the shore beyond the house but she did her best to hide it.

"As you wish," she said, inclining her head in acquiescence as she turned and headed up the walk. Her heart thundered so wildly inside her chest that she could hear the violent pulsing of the blood in her ears, feel it throbbing against the base of her throat, hammering against her temples.

Climbing the stairs to the veranda, she hesitated a moment, staring at the brass lion's head door knocker that snarled back at her as if daring her to enter. Casting a glance over her shoulder she saw that Stephen and the trap had already disappeared around the side of the house.

Quickly blessing herself as the French nuns had taught her a lifetime ago, she opened the door and stepped inside to face her future.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Two

The foyer was cool and dim as a confessional and it took a few moments for Alexandra's eyes to grow accustomed to the shadowy light after the bright spring sunshine.

It was also silent as a confessional, she noted, the only sound being her rapid breathing as her eyes adjusted and she was able to take her first look at her surroundings.

The foyer was immense, easily running thirty feet back and another thirty feet across, with a ceiling that vaulted nearly as high. The floor was brightly polished, its alternating tiles of sleek black and stark white providing an elegant, almost dizzying, contrast. Directly opposite the front door, a staircase of shining wood led up toward the gallery on the second story where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the hallway. The walls were papered in what seemed to be a watered silk of the palest tea rose, and a marble sculpture of a bird in flight dominated the area, not only by size but by beauty.

A Lowell, she thought. It must be. No one else could have captured both the beast and the beauty inherent in a hawk.

Mesmerized, Alexandra started toward the sculpture, eager to run her fingers across its marble wings and back, when she caught sight of herself in a small mirror that hung by a gold tassel over the entrance table.

Her perky dark gold toque that had looked so stylish when she donned it that morning now dangled precariously from her lopsided chignon. Long strands of wavy black hair had worked their way out of the framework of pins and now drifted across her shoulders and back. Her cheeks were flushed with a combination of nervousness and anticipation and despite circles beneath her eyes, she looked slightly wild with excitement. Even her traveling costume of deep topaz barathea cloth that Madame Olga had promised would never wrinkle showed each and every mile of her journey to Sea View.

Thank the Good Lord no one had been lurking to witness her humiliation.

Quickly she opened her reticule and withdrew a tortoise shell comb then yanked off her hat and proceeded to pull each and every pin from her chignon until her hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back.

"Much better," she said aloud to her reflection. Much more the way she normally looked.

When her hair cascaded like this, Esme had often called Alexandra her little Gypsy girl for Romany blood had flowed through her foster mother's veins and it pleased them both to imagine their connection to be blood and bone as well as spirit.

Dangerous territory, that.

Thinking about Esme and Paul and all that was lost to her was not the way to begin her new life. If she was to succeed here in America, she must begin to think and act like an American and the first order of business was to pin her hair back up in a neat and tidy chignon before Stephen came to fetch her.

She raised the comb and began to draw it through her thick tresses when she saw him. A man, clad in a rough shirt of white cambric and tight-fitting black breeches, was leaning insolently against the priceless sculpture, watching her. He was tall, much taller than Stephen, and more powerfully built. His shirt was unbuttoned near to the waist and a fine sheen of sweat gleamed dangerously on his bronzed chest. For one crazy instant he called to mind that beautiful chestnut stallion, all rippling muscle and coiled strength, and she dropped her gaze as a flood of sweet fire raged over her.

Taking a deep cooling breath, she turned to face him.

"Mr. Lowell has taken the trap around back," she said, her voice surprisingly composed and pleasant. "My trunk and valises are there."

The man said nothing as he advanced toward her. Never in her life had she seen a man more glorious--or more frightening--than this intimidating stranger. The desire to step back was strong within her but she held her ground.

"I do not know as yet which room will be mine," she continued, meeting his eyes, "but I'm certain Mr. Lowell will be able to provide that information for you."

He continued toward her not stopping until his large booted feet brushed the hem of her skirt. "I have some advice for you, Miss Glenn," the man said at last, all menace and muscle as he towered over her.

Alexandra's legs trembled as she attempted to step back, only to feel the edge of the table jut against the base of her spine.

"How do you know my name?" she managed, wishing her voice hadn't suddenly taken such a vulnerable turn. She had heard that servants in upper-class houses knew everything but nothing in her past had prepared her for this.

His sensual mouth twisted in something more like a grimace than a smile. "I know everything that goes on in this house, Miss Glenn, and if you're as smart as you seem to think you are, you'll have Lowell put your bags back in the carriage and get the hell out of here."

Outrage erupted inside her breast. "And what, pray tell, gives you the right to speak to me in such a manner?" she exploded.

"Not one damned thing," he said, eyes glittering as he looked at her. "Just some friendly advice you should take in the manner given."

The sting of whiskey reached her nostrils and, behind her back, Alexandra's hand closed around a brass candlestick.

"I'd thank you to cease intruding upon my person," she said, praying her fear didn't show, "and move before Mr. Lowell returns."

"So he's been filling you up with pretty talk, has he?" "He has been a gentleman which is more than I can say for you."

"Go home," he said. "Break your arrangement and go home."

She tightened her grip on the candlestick. "If you don't move within the next three seconds, I shall--"

Her words died in her throat as he took that one final step that brought their bodies together. In a flash his arm snaked around her waist and she felt her wrist encircled by a grip of pure steel.

"Picking up a souvenir to take home with you?" The pressure on her wrist increased and her fingers flew open against her will. The candlestick clattered to the marble floor and the sound echoed in the cavernous foyer.

"No," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "I intended to hit you with it."

"Then you are damned lucky," he said, laughing at the look of outrage she was unable to mask. "Next time you try a stunt like that, don't stand before a mirror."

"Is this the way it is in America, then," she managed, trying to regain her composure. "Domestic help ordering visitors about? I daresay I do not think highly of your democracy if this is the case." She picked up her heavy skirts and turned. "When Mr. Lowell returns, please tell him I am waiting outside."

He grabbed her wrist as she made for the front door.

"One more thing." His voice was low and menacing.

"Another piece of friendly advice?"

He ignored the gibe. "Don't become too attached to anyone here, Miss Glenn. Your stay here at Sea View may not be an extended one."

"Thank you," she said, sweeping past him. "And now if you'll excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air."

Matthew McKenna watched, fascinated, as Alexandra glided across the hallway and out the front door. Even the heavy traveling costume she wore couldn't hide the sweet curves of a body made by a very generous god.

When he'd heard the words "art student," he'd conjured up a picture of a serious, bespectacled miss as studious as she was plain. Never had he imagined a creature so glorious.

And Alexandra Glenn was glorious.

The sound of her voice, laced with the flavor of both Britain and France lingered in his ears. The way her golden eyes flashed at him as she threw her slim shoulders back and gave him a look worthy of one of the crowned heads of Europe had done more to win his respect than any coy posturing by another woman.

But what the hell did any of this matter anyway?

She was here at the behest of that sniveling Stephen Lowell, part of his grand scheme to win control of Andrew's assets. What other possible reason could explain the sudden reappearance of Andrew Lowell's daughter after nearly twenty years of silence?

A gravely ill man, an avaricious nephew...a perfect opportunity for a clever young woman.

And Matthew McKenna knew all about clever young women. He knew enough to understand that a man needn't be a genius to recognize danger when he saw it.

But the flashing brilliance of her golden eyes, the frothy cloud of Gypsy-black curls, the delicate curve of her cheek....

Desire, hot and urgent, flared within him.

She was magnificent.

She was dangerous.

And nothing on earth excited Matthew McKenna more than danger.

Alexandra waited on the front porch for nearly a quarter hour, alternating between berating the man in the foyer for his unconscionable rudeness and berating herself for allowing it to affect her. A thousand cutting responses now flooded her brain as she waited for Stephen Lowell to return, and she wondered why she was always struck dumb when she most needed her wits about her.

But, no matter.

Surely what had happened in that foyer was an isolated experience. Not even in America, land of equality, could a servant so abuse a guest.

But then she wasn't a guest, was she? No, her mother had seen to that. Her laugh was low and bitter as she leaned against the porch railing and looked out at the rolling green lawn and the curving drive lined by tulips of poppy red and butter yellow.

She was a servant same as the man she'd just encountered, with no more rights or privileges than her position allowed, and no matter how charming he might be, she couldn't run to Stephen Lowell with her problems, both real and imagined.

"Miss Glenn?"

Alexandra spun around at the sound of the voice. A woman of some sixty years stood before her, clad in a black dress with an immaculate white apron tied around her waist.

"Yes," said Alexandra, smiling politely at the woman. "And you are--?"

The answering smile was perfunctory. "I am to escort you to your quarters." The woman turned and headed toward the front door leaving behind the scent of vanilla. "If you'll follow me..."

I have no choice, have I, thought Alexandra as she hurried across the shiny floor of the foyer. Choice was a luxury taken from Alexandra when her mother set forth to rearrange her life.

The older woman took the stairs with a stately measured pace and as Alexandra followed behind, she found herself with ample opportunity to gaze at the faces of long dead Lowells whose portraits angled up the staircase wall. A number of Andrew Lowell's ancestors had eyes of a deep topaz color much like her own, and Alexandra smiled to herself to think she had even that in common with such a great man.

At the second floor landing the woman murmured, "This way, please," and glided her way through the hallway to the eastern wing. Alexandra hurried after her, making a mental note to examine the objet d'arts scattered on various side tables once she was settled in.

"What an enormous house," she remarked, attempting to break the overwhelming silence. "How many rooms has it?"

The older woman came to an abrupt stop in front of an open door near the end of the hallway. "Only one you need worry about," she said briskly. "You will find your trunk and valises in here. Janine will bring up a tray of tea and cakes. Dinner will be at seven and Mr. Lowell said it is formal." With an incline of her head, she glided back down the endless hallway.

Alexandra stood frozen in the doorway until the woman disappeared, thankful that she was there in a working capacity and not as the lady of the house. The thought of coping with such arrogant, overbearing hired help was more than she could manage and turned to look at her room for the first time.

Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows with their diamond-shaped panes of glass, casting intricate shadows on the parquet floor. The battered Saratoga trunk and valises were neatly stacked on the floor near an enormous armoire of lustrous pine and the scent of lemon oil delicately teased her nostrils. Her breath caught as she took in the brass bed in the middle of the room, covered with a peach satin quilt and piled high with feather pillows that begged to be tested. She ran her fingers lightly across the delicate flowered wallpaper and marveled at the wash of apricot and pearl tints.

Outside the window lay a well-tended piece of property with narrow slate walkways that trailed through beds of budding impatiens and daisies. A large white gazebo stood between a bower of rose bushes and wooden steps that led down the dunes to the beach.

And, of course, there was the ocean. The ceaseless, crashing, Atlantic in all her savage beauty. Never in her life had Alexandra lived amidst such richness and splendor. Her senses were reeling from trying to take in so much loveliness at once.

There was a knock at the door and she started, her reverie abruptly ended. Of course it was too good to be true, she thought as she went to answer it. The maid had probably discovered that she wasn't meant to be in this beautiful room at all; there was a perfect little room for her in the attic, that would be much more suitable.

"I'm Janine," said a girl whose mass of red curls bobbed about a freckled face as she hurried into the room, bearing a silver tray. "Cook told me she had taken you to your room. This here is your tea and cakes but I have to warn you that Cook be makin' way too much food what with dinner not too far away from now and you needin' your rest. If you ask me, just have one cup and try the walnut and be done with it." The girl met Alexandra's eyes and her fair skin reddened until it matched her hair. "I be oversteppin' my bounds, wouldn't I? Mr. Lowell keeps warnin' me about my Irish tongue but my mother brought me up to speak my mind and I'm findin' it hard to keep my peace."

"One cup and the walnut cake?" Alexandra said, delighted by this outspoken bundle of energy who looked to be no more than fifteen years old.

Janine nodded, turning down the quilt. "And then to bed with you. Traveling can make a body tired."

Alexandra unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off. "May I ask you a question, Janine?"

Janine, her blue eyes alive with curiosity, nodded. "As you wish, miss."

"Does everyone in this house know everything about everybody?"

Janine reddened once again. "The servants do talk, if that's what you be meaning."

"That's definitely what I mean. I feel as if you know more about my future here than I."

"Is there something I could help you with, miss?"

So many things, thought Alexandra. "That man downstairs," she said carefully. "The stablemaster or groom or whatever he is. He--" she paused, uncertain how to continue.

"Stablemaster?" Janine's freckled brow wrinkled. "We don't have a stablemaster, miss. Cook's husband Harold takes care of the horses and carriages." A prickling sense of apprehension gathered at the base of Alexandra's neck. "Well, I just assumed he was a stablemaster."

"I cannot imagine who you would be thinking about, miss. Could it be Harold's young son Danny?"

"How old is Danny?"

"Fifteen."

Alexandra swallowed hard. "This man was twice that age."

"Holy Mary," Janine mumbled, crossing herself. "The poacher is back after the geese. Mr. Lowell will be--"

Alexandra placed a hand on the girl's forearm. "He wasn't a poacher."

"Oh, I know he doesn't look like one--he's a sly one, he is. Sneaking around the back, hiding behind the beach steps. Why, he--"

"Listen to me, Janine. This man wasn't outside."

Janine's eyes widened. "He wasn't?"

Alexandra shook her head. "He wasn't. He was in the downstairs hallway." The stranger's image rose up clear before her eyes. "He's a tall man, lean and muscular. He was wearing--"

"A white cambric shirt and black trousers."

"You know him?" Alexandra asked.

Janine nodded, looking exceptionally relieved. "That be Mr. McKenna."

"He works here?"

The girl's face reddened again, but this time a giggle accompanied the blush. "He lives here."

Oh, dear God... "As an employee?" she whispered, hoping against hope.

Janine's giggle turned into a girlish laugh. "Oh, no, miss. As a guest."

Somehow Alexandra managed to keep her composure while the girl showed her about the room, pointing out the bell pull and the hip bath and the fireplace on the wall opposite the brass bed.

"You eat now, miss," said Janine, as she bustled toward the door, "then take yourself a rest. I'll make certain you are up and about in plenty of time for dinner."

Alexandra murmured her thanks then closed the door behind the redhaired maid. Woodenly she crossed the room toward the tray set up on the table near the window; her hands shook as she poured herself a cup of tea.

What on earth had Marisa gotten her into? Stephen Lowell had been the essence of charm during the carriage ride from the station, regaling her with delightful stories about Easthampton and its residents. Yet, the moment he deposited her in front of Sea View, he'd disappeared, sending a maid to see her to her room. And the man in the white shirt--"Mr. McKenna," Janine called him--had gone out of his way to let her know her presence was most unwanted.

As for Andrew Lowell--only God in His heaven knew what his thoughts were.

She brought her tea cup to her lips but not even the bracing brew was enough to restore the happiness she'd felt but one hour ago.

Perhaps Janine was right, she thought as she sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced her boots. Perhaps things would look brighter after a nap.

And if not, she would think of something else, some way to escape this prison of her mother's design.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Three

"If I may say so, miss, you look beautiful," Janine said, fastening the clasp on Alexandra's pearls.

Alexandra, who was finding it hard to think much less speak, nodded her thanks. The nap had refreshed her but it had done little to alleviate the sense of foreboding that had settled across her shoulders just a few hours ago. Not even her best dress, a watered silk affair in a creamy beige with gold straw embroidery curving over the bodice and waist, was enough to spark the slightest excitement over her first formal dinner since she was a little girl.

She touched the pearls, her one legacy from her late father, and turned from the mirror. "I suppose I should be going downstairs now." She glanced at the clock atop her armoire. Dinner was being served at seven and that gave her only six minutes to make her way through the labyrinthine halls and head downstairs to the drawing room.

Janine had proved to be a godsend. She'd awakened Alexandra--who'd been utterly certain that sleep was impossible--and seen to it she had plenty of hot water for her hipbath and a stack of thick, luxuriant Turkish towels to wrap herself in afterward. If it hadn't been for the redhaired maid, Alexandra would still be struggling with her hair and fumbling with her stays instead of standing there, outwardly regal and composed, ready to meet the great Andrew Lowell.

She paused in the doorway and turned to Janine who was gathering up the damp bath towels to bring belowstairs to the laundry.

"Is Mr. McKenna in the habit of dining with the Lowells?" she asked, surprised at how cool and collected she sounded.

Janine shook her head. "No, miss. He comes and goes as he wishes. A formal dinner don't seem like his cup of tea."

Heartened, Alexandra made her way downstairs.

Down in the drawing room Stephen poured himself his second drink of the evening as he waited for Alexandra to make her appearance. This formal dinner had been a stroke of genius on his part. He would welcome Marisa's girl into the fold with all the charm and warmth he could muster.

Chuckling, he took a sip of the cognac. Mustering up warmth wasn't terribly difficult when the object was as beautiful and alluring as Alexandra Glenn. Beautiful as she was, however, he dared not allow himself to be diverted. The whole purpose of tonight's flirtation with candlelight and champagne was to lower Alexandra's defenses, to make her feel she had one true friend at Sea View and that true friend was none other than Stephen Lowell.

He had no doubt that McKenna, awash in whiskey and anger, would disgrace himself in the girl's eyes long before the night was over.

Stephen needed a new set of eyes and ears in the large house when he went to Europe on his art buying trips and who better than the innocent young girl who would be the catalyst of his beloved Uncle Andrew's downfall--and her own.

He had almost panicked when Lowell had announced he intended to find an assistant to help him restore his early paintings that had suffered dismally at the hands of incompetent caretakers. The remark had thrown Stephen into a panic--how could he manage to siphon off a sizable portion of Lowell treasures if they were all neatly catalogued by some eager art student? Stephen, anxious to put his plans into motion, seized control before Andrew had a chance to act upon it himself. He would choose the assistant and, with any luck at all, choose what paintings she saw as well. The fact that the assistant was Marisa's daughter by the great Andrew Lowell was too rich. Stephen, a lover of irony, took especial delight in the layers of shading inherent in this situation.

He'd known of Marisa Glenn for years. It had been easy, incredibly easy, to ease his way into her circle of friends and thus into her bed. The rumor of a daughter modeling in Provence had proven to be true--a gift from the gods, that--and it hadn't taken many champagne suppers to discover the truth of the girl's parentage.

Marisa's anger would fuel his own needs. Perfect, he thought. Absolutely perfect.

He knew he couldn't trust the servants to make certain Andrew received the medicine that kept him almost constantly floating in a semi-conscious state. Stephen had a great deal of foreign travel scheduled in the next few months and Alexandra could ensure--unknowingly, of course--that Andrew's condition stayed exactly the way it was. He needed Lowell malleable and helpless for awhile longer until he was ready to take the final step.

He didn't like the way McKenna poked his nose into everything that went on at the house and he damned sure didn't like that little South Seas whore who waited on Andrew by day and more than likely serviced McKenna by night. The dark-haired bitch had a way of seeing and hearing things that could make his dreams blow up in his face.

That was one thing Stephen wasn't going to let happen, no matter what the cost.

There were a few more key pieces of Lowell artwork that Stephen intended to amass before the last phase of his plan went into action and when it did, he would be sitting upon the largest collection of Andrew Lowell's artworks in the world.

The imaginary poacher had been a stroke of pure genius. The entire house buzzed with it and soon it would provide him with the perfect alibi. He didn't give a damn about Marisa's melodramatic scheme to exact revenge for an old debt. He only cared about the here and now, about the riches that could be his the day his uncle died.

And, if Stephen played his cards right, Alexandra Glenn might help make that day come about quicker than he'd ever dreamed.

To Alexandra's intense disappointment, Andrew Lowell did not make a showing at the formal dinner. He was suffering from "intense fatigue," Stephen told her, and she wondered how this would affect her working situation. Although she had had many qualms about her new position, not once during her journey across the Atlantic had she imagined that her job was anything less than secure and the thought was disturbing.

In Andrew's absence that evening, his nephew Stephen presided at the head of the table. Dressed in a fine dark brown serge suit and gold cravat, he looked handsome and quite at home amidst the lush surroundings.

Crystal glasses with stems fine as slivers of ice were set at every place and Arthur, the elderly butler, stood in attendance in the rear of the room making certain those glasses never emptied. Her palate was alternately teased by tangy salads, soothed by creamy sauces, then satisfied by tender cuts of beef and delicate chicken.

It was a scene of stately elegance, an elegance that spoke of generations of finely honed traditions and of unimpeachably fine pedigrees--America's royalty.

Somehow Mr. McKenna didn't quite fit in.

Seated on Stephen's right, Alexandra cast a surreptitious peek in McKenna's direction, trying to put her finger on exactly what was wrong. It certainly wasn't the way he was dressed. He wore trousers and a frock coat of dove grey wool, with a fine wine cravat and delicate gold stick pin. His large frame carried the clothes with a casual grace that she envied as she found herself devoting as much time to worrying about spilling something on her silk dress or losing one of her earrings in her consomme as she did to actually eating. His hair, a rich chestnut brown, was liberally streaked pale blonde by the sun and in the glow of candlelight, his eyes glittered a brilliant blue-green that reminded her of the Mediterranean.

Alexandra despised liars and she would be lying most abominably if she said McKenna was anything but a splendid specimen of a man from the tips of his polished black boots to the top of his sun-bleached head.

She would also be lying if she said he was anything but the most foul-tempered, rude individual she'd ever encountered.

Three times she had tried to engage him in conversation about Easthampton, and three times he had ignored her and refilled his whiskey glass. It seemed the only time he came to life was to skewer Stephen with a look or comment sharp enough to draw blood.

To his credit, Stephen merely shrugged his elegant shoulders and kept their conversation flowing as freely as the champagne.

As they were finishing the main course, Arthur came back into the dining room and whispered something in Stephen's ear.

"Excuse me a moment," Stephen said to Alexandra. "There's a problem with one of the carriages that needs my attention." With a courtly bow he left the room.

"Alone at last," McKenna said, raising his whiskey glass toward her in mock salute. "With a little luck, he won't return."

"Perhaps you would do well to emulate Mr. Lowell rather than denigrating him at every opportunity."

McKenna's thick chestnut eyebrows lifted as he considered her words. "Another convert to the legendary Lowell charm," he drawled as he drained his glass of whiskey. "Why is it I'm not surprised?"

"I should think the reason would be most apparent, Mr. McKenna. Mr. Lowell understands the art of conversation, a skill you apparently have yet to master."

"There are other skills," he said, his blue-green gaze fixed upon her until a blush rose up her throat, "most of which I've mastered quite well."

"How wonderful for you," she murmured, praying Stephen would reappear.

McKenna just laughed and she watched, fascinated, as he refilled his whiskey glass again, growing neither addled nor foolish but sharper with each drink he consumed.

The words leaped out before she could stop them. "You shouldn't drink so much," she said as he reached for the vodka on the sideboard.

He placed the bottle next to his empty whiskey decanter. "Spoken with true womanly concern."

"Drinking to excess can kill," she said, thinking about the wine-soaked farming accidents that had been part of life in Provence.

"I know," he said, polishing off his glass of whiskey and moving to open the vodka. "That's exactly what I'm banking on." He pushed back his chair and stood up, suddenly dwarfing the enormous dining room and everything in it.

"If you'll excuse me, Miss Glenn, I think I'll retire to work on my early demise." With a sardonic bow that was a parody of Stephen's, he scooped up his glass and the vodka and left the room.

Moments later Stephen returned, looking a bit windblown.

"I passed McKenna in the hallway," he said, as he took his seat once again. "I hope he didn't subject you to any of his untoward remarks. The man has all the social graces of a ranch hand."

Alexandra, aware of her odd position in the household, remained silent, occupying herself with the chocolate mousse the butler set down before her.

"You violate no law if you tell me, Miss Glenn," Stephen persisted. "McKenna is no friend of mine. I'd welcome an opportunity to give him a dressing down."

"He uttered but a few sentences to me, Mr. Lowell," she said carefully, "and those were limited to one topic alone." Instinct warned her not to reveal her own breach of etiquette where McKenna was concerned. Her cheeks flamed as she remembered the look of contemptuous amusement on the man's handsome face when she foolishly remarked on his consumption of whiskey.

"Miss Glenn?" Stephen's voice was filled with concern. "Are you unwell? Your face has suddenly gone pink."

Mortified, Alexandra took a long sip of water from the heavy Waterford goblet to her right and willed the blush to fade. "It was the champagne," she managed, dabbing at her mouth with a linen serviette. "I am unused to it."

"Raised in France and unused to champagne?" Stephen exclaimed with a laugh. "Most unusual."

"Not when you consider the fact that I grew up far from Paris," she responded. "I rarely was in the city." Marisa had always made certain of that. Their annual visits took place in London or Vienna or the Eternal City.

But not Paris.

Never Paris.

Stephen questioned her about her life in the country and she danced easily around the more unpleasant facts of her life, choosing amusing stories about Paul and Esme and the farm certain to make him laugh. He seemed amused but Alexandra sensed that his attention was somehow divided and soon she grew silent.

Finally he rose to his feet and extended his hand to her.

"Come, Miss Glenn. We'll have brandy in the library and discuss your working arrangements."

She took his hand and stood, her eyes on a level with his.

"I--umm--I had rather thought that would be the province of your uncle."

"And of course it shall be," he said easily, tucking her hand in his arm and leading her from the dining room. "But since he is under the weather, I thought it best to outline your duties so you can begin to acquaint yourself with things tomorrow morning."

What a decent man he is, she thought as they entered the library where he had made it abundantly clear they would not be disturbed. Beneath the charm and flattery, Stephen Lowell was deeply concerned about his uncle's welfare and eager that she begin to earn her keep.

Down on the beach, Matthew McKenna was becoming intimately acquainted with a bottle of fine Russian vodka that one of Andrew's disciples had brought all the way from St. Petersburg in tribute.

He'd shed his coat and tie the moment he left the dining room, ripping open the collar of his shirt and scattering pearl buttons across the marble floor. He thought he'd choke on a piece of tenderloin as he watched Stephen flatter and charm and amuse the girl with his stories of triumphs that were solely a product of his imagination.

Wiping sand off the mouth of the bottle with the back of his hand, Matthew took a long slug of vodka and waited as it slid down his throat and into his belly. Concentric circles of heat swept outward in his gut and he relaxed, knowing it wouldn't be long before the edges of his anger were temporarily softened.

The girl's face rose before him on the darkened beach, dominated by those huge cognac-colored eyes with the long dark lashes she used with the ease of the practiced flirt. Her nose was delicately chiseled; her mouth, lush and full and painfully ripe. Hers was a beauty of contrast: pale apricot skin framed by hair the color of a midnight sky; a fiery spirit coupled with the face of an angel.

Once during the meal their eyes had met and held and it was all he could do to keep from sweeping the food off the mahogany table and having her right there and then, propriety be damned. He had been hypnotized by the way she looked in that gown the color of moonlight. The neckline plunged low at the bodice, exposing her golden shoulders and breasts to full advantage. His palms burned with the need to touch that silky skin. He wanted to pull the pins from her hair and let the long Gypsy-black waves fall down over him as he brought his mouth to her breasts, searing her nipples with the heat of his tongue.

She was a feast and, God only knew, he had been starving for so long. "Get hold of yourself, man," he muttered as the waves crashed against the shore some ten yards away from where he sat. The girl was Stephen Lowell's private property. She was part and parcel of whatever grand scheme he had concocted and only a damned fool would get involved with a woman who was in cahoots with a bastard like Lowell.

Matthew took another slug of vodka and held back a shudder as its slow fire spread through him.

She hid her deception well, though. Her laughter had been uncertain and painfully sweet to his ears; the soft blush that rose over her throat and cheeks, painfully lovely.

He was a fool, that's what it was. A goddamned fool with no more brains than a rutting bull. He'd been led down this same path by Madolyn ten years ago and see what that folly had brought him.

A wife who bedded half of California, who gambled away his money and opened his house to foreign trash.

A wife who blamed him for the death of their son and was determined to see Matthew in his grave for it.

Son-of-a-bitch.

He tilted the bottle back and poured the rest of the vodka down his throat.

Let his whore of a wife spread her legs for every man capable of climbing into her bed.

Let Stephen take the beautiful Miss Glenn, whose feigned innocence was as dangerous as Madolyn's feigned outrage.

Matthew owed allegiance to one person living and that person was Andrew Lowell. He'd stay and see to it that no harm befell the person who'd snatched him from a back alley fifteen years ago and helped him grow into a man.

But once he'd paid his debt to Andrew, it was anyone's guess.

Stephen Lowell had chosen well for, indeed, Matthew McKenna was not in the library when they entered and she dared not examine the small tug of disappointment that settled over her as she took her seat in the leather wing chair while Stephen instructed Arthur to bring them coffee.

A salty ocean breeze shook the French doors and she was grateful for the small fire crackling cheerfully in the grate. She had little to choose from in the way of formal dress. Both this gown and her russet silk bared a considerable amount of bosom and during dinner she wished she had a fichu to drape across her shoulders against the chilly air.

What a lovely man Stephen was, so thoughtful and polite. He had resolutely kept his eyes from straying to her breasts and she appreciated the way his gaze stayed north of her shoulders.

It had not been that way with Matthew McKenna.

Time and again she had looked up from her dinner to find his mysterious blue-green eyes raking insolently over her as if he knew each curve of her body beneath her ivory dress.

As if he knew my innermost thoughts.

His gaze had made her uncomfortable, as if her stays had somehow tightened their hold around her ribcage. Odd rippling sensations had sprung to life inside her belly, sensations she'd never known before.

She shook her head in an attempt to dislodge the disturbing images gnawing at the edges of her mind. She was nothing to him. Hadn't he made that clear from the first moment he came upon her in the foyer? From that very first second, he'd done his best to make certain she understood the inexplicable hatred he felt for her--and the fact that she was unwelcome at Sea View.

She had done nothing to engender such hatred; God only knew, she hadn't even been in Easthampton twenty-four hours. Had he planned on becoming Andrew's assistant and she had somehow done him out of the job? But, no--hadn't Janine told her just a few hours ago that Matthew McKenna was here as a guest.

It doesn't matter, she told herself as Arthur toddled in with a tray of coffee and sweets. She would simply see to her duties and steer as clear of the terrifying Mr. McKenna as she could and hope that, in time, the situation would somehow right itself. Stephen smiled at her and pulled a matching wing chair opposite her at the round game table.

Thank God for you, Mr. Lowell, she thought as Arthur poured the coffee.

Without Stephen as a champion, Sea View, for all its magnificence, could prove a most uncomfortable place to be.

After finishing the vodka and tossing the empty bottle into the sea, Matthew climbed the long, rickety wooden steps up from the beach.

The lamps were blazing in the library and, moving quietly in the darkness, Matthew rounded the house and stood in the cover of a pair of huge rose bushes, and listened to Stephen as he outlined the girl's duties. The ocean breeze rattled the open French doors and he was of a mind to barge into the room, half-drunk and certainly mad, and confront the beauteous Miss Glenn and the obsequious Mr. Lowell with all his suspicions.

But, to his surprise, a light also burned in Andrew's second floor suite and, with a glimmer of regret, Matthew entered the house through the kitchen door and took the back steps upstairs. Stephen and his money-grubbing schemes were nothing as compared to the greater danger at hand: Andrew's rapidly failing health.

Rapidly he moved down the hallway, his boots grinding beach sand into the Persian carpet that Andrew, in a long-ago fit of excess, had mercilessly cut down into runners.

Andrew's woman, Dayla was coming from Andrew's room as Matthew approached. Her luminous dark eyes were shadowed with fatigue and she looked more fragile than usual.

"A problem?" he asked, his voice a rough whisper.

She shook her head, her shimmering black hair moving like a sheet of satin. "He sleeps now. The dreams...the fever..." Her slender shoulders rose and fell with her sigh. "There is no change."

She moved down the hallway to fetch cold water and Matthew stood in the doorway of the dimly-lit bedroom and watched the man sleep.

Even in sleep Andrew's distress was obvious: the labored breathing, the rapid fluttering of his eyes behind the lids, the way his long aristocratic hands plucked at the bedclothes with staccato movements. For eighteen years, Andrew Lowell had been the foundation of Matthew's existence--the father he'd never known--and now he could but stand there, helpless as a child, and watch a great man sink closer to death.

The once powerful body was now frail as a babe's; the flesh stretched taut over large bones grown brittle with time. The wild black leonine hair was no more than a memory; his gaunt face was framed now by thinning strands of snowy white. Only his eyes, those eyes that blazed with intelligence and genius, were as Matthew remembered: a dark rich gold unlike anything he had ever seen, tempered now by illness and dulled by pain.

For years Andrew had battled the recurring malaria that had caught him long ago in the South Seas but he had worsened drastically the over previous summer. For a time it had seemed as if Andrew would win the battle once again but during Stephen Lowell's annual holiday visit, Andrew had taken a sudden, violent turn for the worse and his condition since had been day-to-day.

Was time ever kind? Matthew wondered as he stood there, wishing he could breathe for Andrew, be his eyes and ears and heart. It was small payment for all the man had done for him...

Matthew McKenna was born the seventh and last child of Kathleen McKenna, the twenty-five year old kitchen maid of the Fifth Avenue Lowells, the most powerful and influential family in New York City. Her husband Joseph had died in a Pennsylvania mining accident just weeks before his fourth son's birth. He had been searching for a better future; instead, he left Kathleen with seven hungry mouths to feed and a future darker than the tunnel that snuffed out his life.

Kathleen did what she had been trained to do: she coped with adversity. Gathering her children around her, she taught them about hard work and she taught them well. From grade school age on, the McKennas worked when they weren't at school--they delivered newspapers, they wrapped fish, they cared for the grounds in Central Park during the summer and helped care for the ice on the skating pond during the winter.

From Micky right down to little Patty, they understood that this was life as they would know it and they knew better than to waste Ma's time with foolish questions that any beggar on the street knew had no answers at all.

They all understood--all except Matthew.

Oh, he worked alongside the best of his siblings but he never believed the notion that what there was, was all there could ever be for him.

How could he?

Standing in the empty foyer of the Lowells' mighty brownstone with its parquet floor and marble arches and crystal drinking glasses that cost more than Ma made in ten years on her knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, Matt found himself gripped by a hunger for more.

"God determines how we spend our lives," Father O'Byrne said at Mass each Sunday. "We are but puppets in His hands, here on earth to do His Will and His Will alone."

But Matthew refused to believe it was God's will that he spend his life standing on a windy streetcorner hawking papers or rotting in a market cleaning fish for the carriage trade and on the morning of his fifteenth birthday, he told Andrew Lowell exactly that.

"I ain't like the rest of them," he said, hands jammed in the pockets of his mended trousers. "I got plans. I'm gonna be important."

Andrew Lowell, who had just returned from two years in Russia studying Eastern influences in painting, hadn't laughed as one might have expected. "Speak your mind, boy," he'd said, motioning for Matthew to sit opposite him. "I want to hear these plans of yours."

How Matthew had struggled to find the words to express all that he wanted from life to a man who stayed in palaces with Czars and princes, and danced with women in jeweled ballgowns who smelled of French perfume, not lye soap and kerosene. But whatever it was he'd said to Andrew that day, the man had somehow heard and, miraculously, understood, encouraging the dreams of a boy whose accident of birth did not encourage dreaming.

From that moment on, Andrew opened the door to education and refinement just wide enough for Matthew to push through. With the artist's help, Matthew left New York just after his seventeenth birthday and headed West to seek his fortune.

Before his twenty-fifth birthday, he was a millionaire.

Then came marriage to the wild and beautiful Madolyn Porter, whose riches equalled his own. The only good thing to result from their unfortunate union was a son with a face like a cherub whose death had shattered the last of Matthew's dreams for the future.

It was in a bar on the lower East Side eighteen months ago that Andrew found him. Lowell opened his home once again and by the time Matthew emerged from his whiskey-fog, Andrew had already begun his pitiful final decline.

Andrew moaned low in his sleep and Matthew found himself awash in feelings he had little experience in handling. Loyalty and love, respect and compassion were tangled up somehow inside him and he didn't know what to do to relieve the pain.

The only thing he understood was that he owed Andrew Lowell his life.

And he would do his damnedest to make certain that Andrew didn't die one second earlier than God had planned.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Four

Alexandra and Stephen were saying goodnight on the second floor landing as the grandfather clock tolled eleven.

"Sleep well," Stephen said, kissing her hand in the Continental fashion. "We breakfast at eight and after I attend to some business matters, I'll give you a tour of the studio wing."

She smiled at him and somehow stifled a yawn. "I shall look forward to it. Perhaps I might begin cataloguing the works."

Stephen chuckled. "Perhaps you should first worry about acquainting yourself with your new home. Uncle Andrew's paintings shan't disappear."

"I must earn my keep, Mr. Lowell," she answered lightly. This position was important to her. Without it she had nothing to call her own.

"Fear not, darling girl," he said as they turned to head to their rooms at opposite ends of the hall. "Soon you will long for the days when you had time on your hands."

When she walked into her room, she noticed the gas lamp on the night stand had been lighted and her room looked most inviting. Janine had re-made the bed, which had been rumpled from Alexandra's nap, and Alexandra's day clothes were neatly hung inside the armoire.

How wonderful it was going to be to sleep in a bed that didn't roll with the waves, to rest her head on a pillow that smelled of fresh air and sunshine, not mildew and salt.

She was about to begin the laborious process of unhooking the back of her dress when her hand touched her throat.

Her pearls! The clasp had become entangled in a runaway lock of hair while she and Stephen were playing chess and she'd unfastened the necklace and placed it on the game table near the captured chessmen. Certainly no harm would come to it were she to wait until morning, but the necklace was the most valuable thing she owned, a gift from her late father to her mother in the days before her birth. "These pearls are not the finest but at least they aren't dipped," Marisa had said when she handed them to Alexandra upon her sixteenth birthday, but to Alexandra they were more precious than a string of diamonds.

If it weren't for that necklace, she would have absolutely nothing to prove that Richard Glenn, an English officer, had ever lived and walked the earth--and fathered a child. Should anything happen to the pearls, she would lose her only connection with her father.

Draping a light shawl around her shoulders, she kicked off her high heeled slippers and hurried through the hall to the staircase. The foyer was silent as a tomb and she shivered as she made her way in the darkness toward the library.

The French doors were still opened wide and the ocean breeze ruffled some papers on the desk in the corner of the room. Arthur had yet to put away the chess pieces or collect the dessert tray and to her intense relief, the pearl necklace was still coiled exactly where she'd left it.

Swiftly she snatched it up, cupping it in her palm. How cool they felt, how silky. How much she--

Her heart thudded wildly against her ribcage as she became aware of two figures standing on the terrace just beyond the doors.

The man's back was to the door, his broad shoulders silhouetted in the moonlight, head bent toward the woman in his arms. Even in the dim silver light, Alexandra recognized the sensuous beauty of the doll-sized woman. The artist in her was fascinated by the cafe au lait skintones, by the large dark eyes focused so intently upon the man, by the glossy dark brown hair spilling over her sholders.

What a beautiful pair they made, standing there in a circle of starshine. Had Stephen a wife or a lover he'd failed to mention? The man dipped his head lower to hear the soft musical sounds of the woman's voice and in that instant Alexandra knew it wasn't Stephen at all.

The man was Matthew McKenna.

McKenna with his knowing eyes.

McKenna with his sardonic smile.

She looked away, pushing deeper into the darkness as the woman in her felt a hot stab of something deep inside her chest, something that forced her to look back toward the French doors, no matter how sharp the pain.

The young woman's slender body was pressed near to his and the sight of his large, tanned hand resting on her silky head caused Alexandra's breath to suddenly catch in her throat, as if it were she who felt his heat.

"It's late," he said, his deep voice carried on the ocean breeze. "You need rest."

To Alexandra's horror, the lovers--for that was what they must be--entered the library and closed the French doors after them. She crouched behind the leather wing chair in the corner, praying the violent thudding of her heart wouldn't give her away. How humiliating it would be to be discovered spying on their private moments.

"A moment," said the girl and Alexandra held her breath as the gentle sound of rustling skirts moved closer to where she hid.

"Let Arthur see to it, Dayla." Matthew's voice was a rough caress. Who would have imagined so much tenderness could be conveyed by so few words. "You're asleep on your feet, woman."

His boots scraped against the Turkish carpet as he approached the girl he called Dayla and the sound echoed inside her head.

"To bed with you," he said, drawing the girl toward the door. The girl's low murmur of assent was the last thing Alexandra heard.

Suddenly the fragile challis shawl lay with the weight of a hundred blankets across her shoulders and she yanked it off, wishing the French doors were still open and she could give herself over to the cooling night wind. The library had seemed large and imposing when she sat here with Stephen not more than an hour before, but now the walls pushed inward, the towering stacks of books threatening to engulf her.

She waited, scarcely breathing for what seemed like an eternity. Surely enough time had elapsed since Matthew and the girl left the room. Quietly Alexandra rose from her uncomfortable position behind the wing chair and moved toward the door to listen. The foyer was silent and she eased the large walnut door open. One lone gas globe against the far wall was still lit and the pale yellow glow cast eerie shadows against the shimmering marble floor.

Satisfied that all was clear, she crept into the foyer and hurried toward the staircase, her skirts lifted high above her ankles. She had made it almost to the second floor landing, hoping the steps wouldn't creak the way they used to in Gabrielle's cottage, when she heard them at the foot of the stairs. Alexandra stopped one step before the landing, torn between her desire to flee to her room and the urge to stay quietly where she was and pray they wouldn't notice her. The girl's back was to the staircase as she said something to Matthew. He answered her but his eyes--those devastating blue-green eyes--were fastened on Alexandra.

Don't look at him, her mind screamed. Turn and walk away.

But she was powerless to move so long as he watched her and the heat she'd felt rise within her in the library took possession of her once again, flooding her face and making her wish she could blink her eyes and become invisible.

Finally he rested his hand on the dark-haired woman's shoulder and with a wry smile for Alexandra, he and the woman disappeared toward the back of the house.

Alexandra found her room then stumbled through her bedtime ritual as if in a trance. She had no recollection of unfastening her gown or undoing the countless hooks on her lace-covered corset. Her skin was clean and her mouth felt fresh, so she must have attended to all that was necessary but as she climbed into the big bed she felt certain someone else must have performed those tasks for her.

She closed her eyes and the vision of Matthew McKenna flooded over her like the April moonlight as her unruly mind conjured up vivid images of the woman Dayla in his arms.

Somewhere in that big house, Dayla and McKenna lay together, limbs entwined. Somewhere in that big house, love words were being whispered in the heart of the night, words Alexandra had never known, words she could only guess at.

How many nights had she lain awake until dawn, hearing the soft cries and sounds of passion from the room overhead in Gabrielle's cottage. In the morning Gabrielle would look flushed and pretty while Luc strutted around with the satisfied confidence of a prize stallion and it was all Alexandra could do to meet their eyes without blushing a violent shade of red.

What was it that happened between a man and a woman when they were alone? She understood the physical act but found it terribly hard to imagine what could possibly be so transforming about such ungainly behavior. What magic transpired that could turn an undignified act into something that inspired all that was wonderful in art and music and poetry? Luc was a broad-faced, stocky farmer but on those mornings Gabrielle looked at him as if he'd gathered the moon and the stars in his wide-palmed hands and laid them at her feet.

A vivid image of Matthew McKenna sprang to life in the darkness and she punched her pillow in despair. Why was it McKenna's face she saw when Stephen Lowell was obviously the better man. Stephen was handsome; he was uncomplicated and easy. It was he who made her introduction to life in the United States much less frightening than she had feared it would be, while Matthew McKenna had done nothing but make her understand--in no uncertain terms--that he wished she'd never come.

"Too bad, Mr. McKenna," she whispered as she rested her head on the feather pillow. She was there and, for the time being, there she would stay.

The next morning Andrew Lowell held court from the huge cherrywood bed positioned before the French doors leading out onto his balcony. Morning was his best time if, indeed, any time could be considered better than another. He awoke with pain; he fell asleep with pain; pain followed him through his day and was his constant companion at night.

Pain had been part of his life for many years now. Indeed, he was hard pressed to remember a time when his body had moved easily and without the outrage of enflamed joints and muscles that refused to respond at command.

He was strong enough to accomodate his life to pain and get on with it but this strange malaise of the mind was proving to be his downfall.

Beyond these brief golden moments at the beginning of each day, Andrew found concentrated thinking--the type of thinking that had been part and parcel of his artist's psyche--to be beyond his grasp.

He would awaken with his mind filled with images of cerulean blue and titian and cadmium yellow, ablaze with the curve and angle of a long-forgotten chateau in the Loire valley. His hand would move instinctively to hold the camel hair brush as the smell of turpentine and oils and perfectly stretched canvas filled his head with dreams only to find himself growing weary and disoriented before he could capture a fraction of the splendor he'd glimpsed.

This morning was like all the others.

He awakened with the coming of dawn to the sweet vision of Dayla moving quietly about his room, the hushed rustle of her cotton skirts a benediction to his ears. He couldn't remember a time when she hadn't been beside him, a touch of gentleness acting as a balm to his violent nature.

"The day is beautiful," she said, the musical sound of her South Sea Island home still in her voice. "Perfect for work."

He smiled and slowly pulled himself upright, pleased that his hands ached less than usual. "Where is Matthew?"

"Right here." Matthew stepped into the room, bristling with the same raw power that once was Andrew's to command. "We need to talk, Andrew."

Andrew put his fingers through exercises a concert pianist once taught him. "Later," he said as the hum of color and form began to build inside. "It can wait." He caught the sudden exchange of looks between Matthew and Dayla. "Keeping secrets?"

"Your new assistant arrived yesterday afternoon."

"Put him in the cellar with the wine bottles." Andrew winced as a sharp pain shot through his wrist and up his forearm.

Stephen and his damned fool ideas. God knows, he hadn't meant it when he mentioned needing an assistant. An assistant was useless to him. He needed a new pair of hands. He needed a mind that didn't grow weary before the noon hour and legs that could carry him down to the beach at sunset.

What he didn't need was a callow art student with a peach fuzz face and bad breath who rhapsodized about "technique" and "inspiration."

Matthew's face was impassive. "Stephen gave her the guest room overlooking the beach."

"My assistant is a female?"

A slight twitch at the left corner of Matthew's mouth. "A female."

Andrew's eyes closed for a moment in disbelief. "Stupid and shallow, I daresay." He ignored Dayla's cluck of disapproval. "What in hell was he thinking of?"

"Himself," said Matthew, his voice sharp.

"Then let Stephen think of a way to tell her she is not needed. He should be taking care of my European business, nothing more."

Again a look flashed between Dayla and Matthew.

"There is much else to be done," Dayla said, her voice soft. "So many paintings hiding away."

"Let them hide," Andrew said, frustrated and angry that his life should come to this. "The only painting that matters is the one on your easel."

"I think she should stay."

Andrew looked up at Matthew in amazement. "Do I hear you right, my boy? Are you agreeing with Stephen?"

Matthew shrugged, feigning diffidence, but Andrew had known him too long to fall prey to his charade. "It occurred to me last night that we should play into Stephen's hand for the moment." He hesitated, jamming his large hands into the pockets of his black trousers. "Perhaps this is the best way to learn once and for all what he is up to."

"I know damned well what he's up to," Andrew snapped. "He's trying to ingratiate himself with his feeble old uncle Andrew, that's what. Only a fool would question his motives."

"All the more reason we should give him more rope," Matthew shot back. "Sooner or later your beloved nephew will misstep and we'll have him dead to rights."

"And you mean to use the girl to hang him with?"

Matthew's gaze never wavered. "I mean to watch what happens. Stephen will trip himself. You can be certain of that." He turned his head toward Dayla. "I'll get the carriage. We leave for town in ten minutes."

Matthew closed the door behind him and for a long moment Andrew was quiet, letting a strange mix of sensations wash over him.

"She is beautiful, is she?" he asked, taking Dayla's hand.

Her dark brown eyes were wide and luminous. "He believes so," she said, voice soft. "I have seen her not."

Andrew nodded as the pieces came together.

For weeks Matthew had raged about the coming of the art assistant, vowing to toss him out on his hind quarters the moment he crossed the threshhold of Sea View. Stephen needed no accomplices, he'd fumed, no help to disrupt Andrew's life further.

Andrew closed his eyes and sank back against the pillow. Let it go, he warned himself. Turmoil sapped his energies and he had little to spare. He could ill afford to expend what strength he had in worrying about his money-hungry nephew or his addle-brained assistant. After breakfast he intended to sit at his easel in his studio and try to work before the bonecrushing fatigue set in, pushing him into that twilight world he was powerless to escape.

But the images--dangerous and compelling and old as time--lingered.

A fortune-hunting man looking for the easy way out.

A beautiful young woman of uncertain allegiance.

And Matthew, whose anger and rage hid a vulnerable heart.

When the blood ran hot, the risks were great.

Sooner or later, someone would be hurt and he prayed that someone would not be Matthew McKenna.

Dayla took his hand in hers and pressed a kiss against his cheek and he wondered about a God who would give an angel to a sinner such as he.

"Good mornin', miss."

Alexandra looked up from her breakfast as Janine bustled into the dining room and began collecting the silver candlesticks on the sideboard.

"Good morning, Janine. You're up and about early."

"You don't know the half of it, miss. That gypsy poacher was on our land again last night. Cook's husband swears he saw the beggar at first light--right on the back porch he was, bold as brass." Janine brushed a red curl from her forehead with the back of her hand. "Saw him stealing daisies, he did."

Alexandra finished the last of her coddled eggs and shook her head. "Then he's not a gypsy, Janine. Cut flowers are the symbol of early death to them."

Janine's face crinkled into a look of almost-comical skepticism. "Meanin' no disprespect, miss, but how would you be knowin' that?"

"My mother was born into the Rom," she said, remembering Esme's colorful stories about caravans and carnivals and the merry jingle of the tinker's bell.

Janine blushed berry red. "If I talked out of turn, miss, I hope you won't be holdin' it against me."

The girl was so obviously embarrassed that Alexandra sought to change the subject. "I am surprised to see you working down here this morning. I thought the upstairs rooms were your province."

Janine's relief was painful to behold. "There ain't too many of us here at Sea View, miss, and those of us young enough do more than our share. Year-round jobs are hard to come by out here in the country and I thank St. Joseph every night that I have this one."

How odd, Alexandra thought as she polished off the last scrap of sausage and glanced longingly at the fat corn muffins and pot of beach plum preserves near the teapot.

Andrew Lowell was obviously a man of wealth. Every corner of his house boasted magnificent artwork and treasured antiques; why the sale of just one of the marble sculptures in the library alone could support Gabrielle's family for a year. One would hardly think he would find it necessary to cut back on help. Yet, if she had learned anything in the English boarding school, she had learned that the rich behaved in ways that often made no sense at all to those not to-the-manor-born. Girls spent their last farthing on silk camisoles, enduring rooms cold as ice rather than purchase coal to warm a December night.

Janine whistled as she filled her snowy white apron with candlesticks. "I hope you had a good rest last night, miss, what with a new bed and all."

"I had a fine rest," Alexandra hedged. Sleep, unfortunately, had eluded her. Each time she closed her eyes she'd seen Matthew McKenna at the foot of the stairs, his arms about the dark-haired girl. "The room is beautiful."

"It is that." Janine plucked the silver salt cellar from the table and tossed it in her apron. "I would be workin' here five years this All Saints Day and you be the first visitor ever to use it."

The grandfather clock in the library tolled the half-hour and Alexandra reached for her tea to calm her nerves. "I thought breakfast was at eight," she said. "It would seem I am the proverbial early bird this morning."

Janine gave her a saucy look then chuckled. "Oh, no, miss, hardly that. The missus and Mr. McKenna took the carriage out near two hours ago."

Alexandra's shoulders drooped and she made an effort to keep her confused emotions under control. Janine was delightful but servants talked and being the object of belowstairs conjecture was hardly the way to begin her new position.

"I didn't realize Mr. McKenna was married."

Janine's eyes widened comically. "Mr. McKenna married? If that be true, he would be doin' his best to keep it a secret." Her red curls bobbed as she shook her head. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. "I call her the missus because I would be wonderin' how else to call her, what with their bein' together not blessed by the Holy Mother Church."

How beautiful the dark haired girl had looked in his arms last night.

How strange it made her feel to think about it.

"I understand," she managed finally, "and I appreciate your telling me."

"Well, I wouldn't be wantin' you to wonder what was what. This ain't the normal household, miss. My ma thinks I put one foot in hell the day I started workin' here but me, I wouldn't be seein' it that way."

Supremely uncomfortable with the turn of the conversation, Alexandra strove to change the subject. "No matter," she said brusquely. "It's Mr. Lowell I will be working with. Perhaps he is awaiting me in the library."

"He ain't in the library, miss."

Alexandra placed her linen serviette on the table and stood up. "The drawing room, then." She started for the door but Janine's high clear voice stopped her.

"He ain't there neither, miss."

She bit down hard on the inside of her cheek to keep from biting off the young maid's head. "Would you know where he is then, Janine?"

"I know where he ain't," the girl said with an eloquent shrug, "and he ain't in the house. Cook's husband said Mr. Stephen called for the pony cart and went out right after Mr. Matthew and the missus." The look she gave Alexandra was both challenging and cautious. "And it's happy I was to see him leave."

So Janine had felt the sharp edge of Matthew McKenna's tongue as well. "You don't like Mr. McKenna?"

Janine's snort of derision astonished Alexandra. "It wouldn't be Mr. Matthew I'm talkin' about, miss. It's--"

"Darling girl!"

Alexandra spun around as Stephen Lowell swept into the room smelling of leather and salt air. Before she could say a word, he grabbed her hands in his and focused his large blue eyes directly on her.

"Can you forgive me for being so terribly late." It was more a statement than a question. "Some little problem reared its ugly head and it was either attend to it now or have it flare up into a major conflagration." He glanced at the table where the remnants of her breakfast remained. "I'd rather hoped you would sleep late so we could have a leisurely breakfast alone."

Janine quietly disappeared back into the kitchen. Alexandra disengaged her hands from his and smoothed down the front of her violet dress.

"I could hardly sleep late when you said we were to begin working at eight," she reminded gently.

"So I did," mused Stephen, scratching the underside of his chin with a thumbnail. "My memory hasn't been worth a tinker's damn lately, Miss Glenn." His smile was wide and guileless. "Am I forgiven?"

She inclined her head politely, once again the Aynsley girl. "Of course," she said, still somewhat shocked by his language. "A wise employee always sees fit to accept heartfelt apologies from her employer."

He looked at her for a moment then threw his head back and laughed. "Why is it I feel I'm being elegantly skewered?"

She merely smiled brightly. "I am certain I have not the slightest idea, Mr. Lowell."

"I must correct you on one point, however, and remind you I am not your employer. My uncle Andrew is that."

"I have not as yet met your uncle Andrew," she said, following him into the foyer. "At this moment, you are the only authority I have come in contact with."

He stopped near the foot of the stairs and leaned against the banister. "That oversight can be corrected."

Her pulse beat so strongly in her throat that she couldn't speak.

"Don't look at me that way, darling girl," Stephen said with a low laugh. "His reputation notwithstanding, Andrew Lowell is just like any other man."

If every other man happened to be a genius...

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Five

"That's blasphemous!" Alexandra exclaimed once shock allowed her to speak. "Saying Andrew Lowell is like everyone else is like saying Napoleon Bonaparte was just another soldier." She drew herself up to full height. "Your uncle is a legend in Paris. A legend."

Andrew Lowell's name had single-handedly kept the Impressionist art movement alive when most critics--and the public, as well--were clamoring for the artists' heads on a huge silver platter.

Stephen regarded her seriously. "Alexandra, this legend, as you call him, may not be all you expect."

"He is Andrew Lowell, is he not? What more can I ask." The thought of breathing the same air as the famous artist made her legs tremble.

"This is the perfect time," he said, shepherding her up the winding staircase. "Both Matthew and Dayla are in town this morning."

"I am afraid I do not quite understand. Surely he can have visitors--"

"Clumsy wording, Miss Glenn," Stephen broke in smoothly. "Of course my uncle can have visitors. You have been hired to work with him, have you not? It is only that our inebriated friend Mr. McKenna tends to be a bit overprotective, shall we say." He looked at her puzzled face and chuckled low. "No matter, darling girl. It will all make sense, I promise you."

She started to say something but he wouldn't allow it. "No need to fear," he continued, "for you're looking pretty as a painted boat today and God knows, my uncle has an eye for beauty."

That fact was patently obvious by the choice of extravagant furnishing in the mansion. If she'd believed the rooms on the first floor were splendid, they were nothing when compared to the riches of the mansion's master wing. A marble sculpture of Zeus, powerful and alive, dominated an alcove window at the top of the stairs, flanked by a tiny Vermeer oil, a Raphael drawing, and an illuminated manuscript on a gilt stand. Persian carpets in lustrous shades of pearl and dove grey fired with bursts of crimson covered the floors while massive portraits of long-dead Lowells watched her progress through the winding hallway toward the artist's suite of rooms.

She stopped for a moment before one of those venerable Lowell ancestors. A woman, captured in the full flower of her beauty, smiled sweetly from the canvas, her golden eyes sparkling with banked emotion and for a moment Alexandra felt an inexplicable pull. There was something strangely familiar about the woman's face, something that just managed to dance beyond her grasp, a proud regal strength that had not come to fruition in Stephen Lowell's handsome countenance.

Once, years ago, Alexandra had seen a portrait of Andrew Lowell by Sargent hanging in a London museum and then, too, she had felt the same pull. She had stood there in front of the portrait--fascinated by the leonine head of jet black hair and the cool glitter of golden eyes--until Marisa swooped down upon her and dragged her away by her ear.

How amazing to realize that her life had brought her to this place--and that Marisa was responsible.

She hurried to catch up with Stephen then followed him down the hallway until he stopped before the closed door to Andrew's room and tapped on it with his huge onyx and diamond signet ring.

"Ready?" he asked as she heard soft footsteps approaching.

She swallowed. "No, I do not believe I am ready at all."

"Just remember how much he needs you," Stephen said. "Just remember that--"

The door swung open and Alexandra found herself looking down into the liquid dark eyes of the woman she'd seen in Matthew McKenna's arms the previous evening.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Stephen barked. "I saw you with McKenna this morning."

"Yes," she said quietly. "And now I am here."

"Where's McKenna?"

"My business is not to know where Matthew is." Her voice was soft and melodious. "Nor is it yours."

"We're here to see Uncle Andrew," Stephen said, his voice now clipped and businesslike. "Please tell him."

The woman--whom Alexandra instantly realized wasn't the young girl she had believed her to be--nodded but remained standing where she was, her dark eyes intent upon Alexandra. Her intense scrutiny unnerved Alexandra and she thrust her hands behind her back to hide the sudden trembling that threatened to work its way through her entire body.

Next to her, Stephen was rigid with anger. "Either tell him now or we shall see him unannounced. It's your choice."

The woman's eyes finally left Alexandra. The look she gave Stephen was long and deep; the nuances, too subtle for Alexandra to comprehend.

"Perhaps we should try again later," Alexandra offered after the girl disappeared back inside.

"We'll see him now." He gave her gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. "Have no fear."

What a foolish thing to say! She was one roiling mass of fear as the woman swung the door open wide and ushered them inside.

"He is in the rear studio," the darkhaired woman said as they followed her through a long hallway panelled in lustrous mahogany and into a huge, sunny sitting room. "You are to wait one minute, yes?"

Stephen, arms folded across his chest, nodded brusquely. Alexandra could not manage even so simple an action for she was busy memorizing every detail about the room in case she should never see it again.

At first glance, the room seemed almost Japanese in style with eggshell walls that reflected the light streaming in through the enormous windows. A cluster of chairs, spare and angular, faced a sleek black marble hearth in the corner and an odd display of bare branches fanned out from a crystal cylinder that rested in the center of the room.

The woman returned. "He will see you."

Stephen turned and met Alexandra's eyes. "He's only a man," he said. "Not a god. Remember that."

Alexandra gulped and managed to nod her assent but in her heart she knew she was lying. If he wasn't a god, Andrew Lowell came closer than any other artist the Impressionist movement had managed to produce.

His back was to her as she stood in the doorway of his bedroom cum studio. An easel was set up before him with a small table to his left upon which rested some rags, tins of turpentine and linseed oil, and a pallette of magnificent oils whose colors held the secrets of great art. A basket of daisies balanced on the windowsill, next to two red apples and a pale blue china cup.

A fierce longing rose up inside Alexandra's artist's soul, and she wished it were possible to absorb all the knowledge in that room simply by running her hands over the textures of the paint itself.

"Have you gone mute then, Stephen?" Andrew Lowell's voice rasped like a pallette knife scraping over dry canvas. "Come over here and bring the girl with you."

Stephen's hand slipped beneath her elbow and she found herself propelled across the vast expanse of polished wood floor.

"You're sounding well this morning, Uncle Andrew," Stephen boomed, his voice sounding falsely hearty to Alexandra's ears. "The medicine must be helping."

"The medicine addles my brains," Lowell retorted. "Had I strength, I would toss it out the window. I may do so yet."

Alexandra noticed that Stephen's face paled at his uncle's words. "Then it is a good thing I keep it under lock and key, is it not? That medicine is of paramount importance, Uncle Andrew." He lowered his voice until his words were almost inaudible. "I shall make certain you continue to take it."

Andrew obviously did not hear that last statement for he continued to stare blatantly at Alexandra, taking her measure with his eyes. "I am waiting, Stephen."

Stephen recovered his poise. "I am pleased you are eager to meet your new assistant." Placing his palm against the small of her back, he gave her a push and Alexandra found herself face to face with the great artist. The sight of his ravaged body took her breath away and she prayed her shock wasn't visible. The proud lion of Sargent's portrait was gone, replaced by a man dying by degrees. His gaunt frame was dwarfed by a pale silk robe the colour of weak tea. Instead of the thick mane of black hair, thinning strands of winter white crisscrossed his head. The savage yellow-gold eyes had dimmed and smudges of charcoal fanned out beneath them, dipping almost onto the slashes of cheekbone that delineated his face.

Next to her Stephen cleared his throat. "Uncle Andrew," he said, "this is Alexandra Glenn."

No response from Andrew Lowell.

Stephen shifted position. "Alexandra has come here to help you. Don't you remember saying you needed an assistant?"

"I am physically ill, Stephen, not feeble-minded. I remember precisely what was said." The look he gave Stephen was one of sheer contempt and Alexandra had to steel herself against the urge to flee when he turned his faded glance on her. Suspicion was in his eyes and she pitied the genius who was indeed mortal after all.

"Hello," she said, inclining her head. "It is an honor to meet you, sir."

"I hate flattery," he snapped.

"As do I," she returned, holding her ground. "I speak the truth. Your reputation precedes you."

"Hah!" Lowell cackled. "If that is true, you would be wise to run, young lady." "Perhaps, I would but I have no intention of doing so."

He leaned closer. "I need no assistant." Stephen moved to speak but Andrew Lowell flashed him a quelling look. "I work alone."

"Naturally. I was under the impression that I am here to begin cataloguing your works."

"Ah, yes," he said dryly. "The inevitable gravestone summary of a man's achievements."

"I beg to differ with you, sir. The cataloguing of one's works is an artist's duty. How else can the scope of your achievement be appreciated by art collectors?"

Andrew motioned toward his nephew. "Did he tell you to say that?"

Her chin lifted in defiance. "I say what is on my mind, Mr. Lowell."

"Are you an art student?" he asked, watching her with the intensity of a hawk eyeing its prey.

"No, I am not." Her lessons had been catch-as-catch-can affairs that Esme had wangled for her, bartering away suppers of cassoulet and red wine in return for a bite of knowledge for Alexandra. "Someday I hope to be."

He snorted. "Mark me well, girl: I am no teacher. I create art; I do not explain it."

"Great art is its own explanation. I will learn whether or not you wish me to. Of that I have no doubt."

Her answer seemed to please him.

"You have an accent," he said, still watching her intently.

"As do you."

"I hear both French and British in your vowel sounds."

"You're quite perceptive, sir."

His attention shifted suddenly to Stephen. "It would be wise to remember that fact."

Instead of responding, Stephen made a show of gazing out the window at the ocean and Alexandra wondered if his action was one of wisdom or cowardice. It was impossible, however, to pursue that line of thought for Andrew's attention returned to her.

"I hate impertinent women," he said.

A smile pulled at the corners of her mouth. "I shall endeavor to remember that, sir, although a change at this late date seems terribly unlikely."

He motioned toward the beautiful dark-haired woman who waited silently in the corner of the room. "Take the chit to the attic," he said imperiously. "We shall see how much she learns fighting spiders for her work space."

Andrew Lowell waited for a reaction but Alexandra merely nodded and held her tongue. "As you wish, sir."

"Wait in the drawing room," said Stephen. "I shall be with you shortly."

She turned to leave the room and, as she did, she thought she saw Andrew Lowell smile.

The first time Matthew had seen Easthampton, he'd been flat on his back in a buckboard, cross-eyed stinking drunk. Andrew had found him in a New York City tavern and decided to rescue him one more time. It was the middle of January, a dank miserable month at best, and that day the eastern end of Long Island had been under siege by a storm. A vicious wind, tempered only by its nearness to the ocean, made him shiver uncontrollably while fat heavy flakes of snow covered his eyes and cheeks and drifted into his nostrils and mouth.

Andrew had taken pity on him and flung a light wool scarf over his head, laughing that until that moment he'd believed the turkey to be the only animal stupid enough to drown in a rainfall. Obviously Andrew Lowell had been wrong that day because Matthew knew he had been drowning for years and he intended to continue drowning until the supply of rum and bourbon and rye ran out.

And why not? The pain he felt when sober was as slicing and intense today as it had been the morning of the accident and only the sweet oblivion found in the bottle offered him any respite.

Enough, he thought, forcing his mind back to the present. Looking back was never a profitable venture.

He turned the trap onto Main Street and headed west past the wooden frame houses and the up-to-date brick cottages set within the framework of towering oaks and graceful poplars that it had taken him months to even notice. Crystal clear ponds and streams with names like Georgica and Lily and Seabury Creek cut through lawns greener than the emeralds his bitch-wife held so dear.

He reined in the chestnut near the center of town and looped the reins over the post in front of Van Scoy and Dayton's and headed toward the post office. The late morning April splendor of the day was lost to Matthew today, but this time it had nothing to do with the blessings to be found in a bottle of rum. He had taken Dayla into Sag Harbor earlier that morning to purchase some supplies for Andrew. They both had been surprised to see Stephen Lowell in deep conversation with Doctor Dwyer's young wife in front of the newspaper office. Lowell had looked sleek and sly as a prowling tomcat and Matthew's fists had clenched instinctively as he guided the trap past them and Stephen called out a cheery, utterly false, hello.

The moment Dayla realized Andrew had been left entirely alone at Sea View she had implored Matthew to turn the trap around and he had been only too happy to oblige her. The last thing he wanted was to watch Stephen snaking through another man's garden. Watching him with Alexandra Glenn last night at dinner had been gutfull enough.

Hell, he thought as he pushed open the door to the post office. He'd had gutfull enough of cheating from the moment he married Madolyn Porter.

He remembered too well each slanted look, each secret smirk behind a manicured hand had ripped out a chunk of his heart until he was certain nothing but hard strangling ropes of scar tissue were left behind.

"You are looking well today, Mr. McKenna." Evangeline Ames said as he entered the post office. Evangeline, a plump grandmotherly matron, handed over a stack of mail bound for Sea View and offered him a coquettish smile. "I hope Mr. Lowell is in equally fine fettle."

"Andrew is in excellent spirits," Matthew replied, sidestepping the issue. He had become expert at evasion these last months.

"I was just saying to Mrs. Huntting at the town meeting on Wednesday that we sorely miss Mr. Lowell's presence at our functions. Having so famous a personage in our midst is quite delightful, I must say."

He forced a smile. "I'll be certain to tell him, Mrs. Ames. I know if he weren't so busy with his work, he would be most happy to play a larger part in your community functions." Andrew's illness was not common knowledge and, in deference to his mentor's wishes, Matthew was making certain it did not become fodder for the gossip mill.

Mrs. Ames's smile widened. "The Ladies' Aid Auxiliary is selling tickets for the Silver Lake Quartette's appearance. I know I speak for everyone when I say we would be most gratified if you would join us for the evening show."

"If at all possible," he said, scanning the letters in his hand as he backed toward the door. "Good day, Mrs. Ames."

"Must you leave so soon, Mr. McKenna? Henrietta Nugent's daughter Frances sails home from her grand tour on Sunday. Perhaps--"

The door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the good woman's words but Matthew didn't notice. There, on the bottom of the bundle of mail was the familiar ivory vellum belonging to Edward Whittington, his banker.

For months now Edward had been sending him urgent messages about Madolyn's wild gambling sprees, begging Matthew to return to San Francisco and try to stop her insanity before it destroyed everything Matthew had labored so long to build. He tore open the letter, scarcely noticing as the ruby red wax seal cracked then fell to the sidewalk by his feet.

...my advice to you, dear friend, is to take this untenable situation in hand and move to sever the last of the ties that bind you to Madolyn in name alone...I cannot stress enough how serious matters are and can only hope you understand the gravity of my distress and will contact me with the time of your arrival so I can...

He crumpled the letter and stuffed it into the pocket of his coat. "Son of a bitch," he muttered to the horror of a pair of young girls hurrying toward school, prim and proper in their navy wool uniforms and plaited hair. He didn't need to be reminded that everything he owned was slipping through his wife's elegant and greedy fingers. He didn't need to be reminded that what faced him was Hobson's choice: if he took the next train to San Francisco, he might as well sign Andrew's death warrant.

And if he didn't go, he might as well consign himself to spending the rest of his life in hell.

All things considered, it was probably no better than he deserved.

After her odd interview with the artist, Alexandra had waited patiently in the anteroom while Stephen had given Dayla a stern lecture on the importance of administering Andrew's medicine according to a strict timetable. He sounded genuinely distressed and she wondered why Matthew McKenna had any objection to Stephen's concern over his own uncle's well-being.

Stephen seemed distracted as they crossed the yard toward the carriage house; he said nothing as they entered the building and walked past the shiny coach that had whisked her away from the train station less than twenty-four hours ago.

How her life had changed.

She hoisted her skirts and followed him up the wide wooden steps to the attic.

Alexandra knew that Andrew Lowell's paintings commanded a handsome price and at first glance it seemed as if he had a king's ransom stored in the dusty room. Stephen had told her that most of Andrew's output these last ten years had been kept out of the market place and in her mind's eye she had imagined glorious paintings hanging from gilt frames in a private gallery.

To her horror, canvases were stacked one atop the other in huge teetering piles. Fragile watercolors were laid out on splintered wooden tables, vulnerable to the sunlight streaming through the dusty windows. One wall bore an amorphous stain the color of tobacco that snaked its way from the ceiling to the floor, threatening a pile of framed pastel portraits of ballerinas Degas would have envied.

A score of enormous landscapes, heavily framed in mahogany and oak and pine, were covered with a thick layer a dust and she saw at a glance that the ultramarine blue pigment was already bleaching out. Coupled with the darkening of the varnish overlay, the results were devastating.

"You regret taking the position," Stephen said, brushing a layer of dust from the windowsill then leaning against it. "You are overcome by the enormity of it and would now like to race back home to France and be done with it."

She looked at a once-beautiful engraving and sighed. "I am overcome by the waste of such bounty." She fingered a distorted watercolor then held it up to Stephen. "No museum in the world would be interested in such a piece."

"It cannot be repaired?"

Her gaze flickered over oils and charcoals, gouaches and wood cuts. "Perhaps some can be salvaged but I'm afraid many of these treasures will be lost."

"You're quite certain of that?"

"Quite. I apprenticed one summer at the London Museum where I spent an inordinate length of time buried in the attic learning how to recognize the different degrees of damage."

Stephen stroked his chin thoughtfully. "How am I going to tell Uncle Andrew about this? He has so little to occupy his mind--this will take on terrible proportions. Perhaps it is better to keep this our own secret."

"A secret? I do not understand."

"He's a very sick man, Miss Glenn. How do we know how he would cope with such news?"

"Do you not owe him the truth?"

"Not if the truth could trigger a further decline into illness."

"As you wish," she said, remembering the man's already fragile health. "I will catalogue these items just as he hired me to do and, with your permission, repair the items I can."

"You would do that to help my uncle?"

"No," she said, meeting his eyes. "I would do that to help preserve brilliance for the future."

"Ah, darling girl!" He grabbed her hands and held them fast. "The moment I saw you get off the train I knew you were here to make my life wonderful!"

She started to remind him that he had not actually seen her get off the train but stopped herself. That was a small unimportant detail and she had already learned that Stephen Lowell was a man of verbal excess. His words were outrageously flattering but not to be examined too closely.

The only thing that mattered was the canvases: those watercolors and sketches and engravings. A man's life had been stretched before the world same as the canvas pulled taut between the frames and it was up to Alexandra to make certain that what he had to share didn't wither and die in some wretched attic.

"You cannot know how much it means to me to have you at Sea View," Stephen continued, his boyish face delightful in his earnestness. "The thought of leaving Uncle Andrew alone has been most distressing.

"Leaving your uncle alone? I'm afraid I do not understand." Please don't say you're leaving! You're my only ally, Stephen.

"My gallery tour of Europe is long overdue, darling girl. Uncle Andrew has granted me the honor of representing him internationally and I have been most derelict in my duties, having chosen to stay here at Sea View and attend to his health."

"Wh--when do you plan to depart?"

She believed she saw compassion--and a tinge of regret--in his eyes. "Two weeks from today."

She must have done a dreadful job of masking her feelings for he held her hands ever tighter. "There is one quite delicate topic I must broach, Alexandra, and I hope you will hear me out."

"Of course," she said woodenly. "Anything at all."

He looked dreadfully uncomfortable but she refused to make it easy for him. How was she to manage in this godforsaken place with only Janine to smile at her each morning?

"As I said, I shall be in Europe next month on a gallery tour and I--dash it, there does not seem to be a delicate way of saying this. I would rest easier if I knew you were seeing that my Uncle Andrew receives his medicine daily." He hesitated, looking out the dusty window toward the scrub pines ringing the property. "One cannot be too careful in a situation like this."

His words were unsettling and she gathered her thoughts together. "You could ask Mr. McKenna or the...the dark-haired woman," she finished lamely. "I'm certain they would be happy to oblige."

The look on his face spoke volumes. "Yes," he said dryly, "I'm certain they would be most happy to oblige, however I would vastly prefer your help."

"I don't understand," she persisted. "Are you implying they might--"

"I have said all I dare on the subject, Miss Glenn. May I count on your help?"

"Yes," she said finally. What harm could come of seeing to it that Andrew Lowell received his medications? "You may count on my help."

Stephen's handsome face broke into a wide smile of relief and he raised her hands toward his mouth and pressed a kiss into each palm. She gasped as if scalded and pulled away from him, her face flaming with embarrassment.

"Come now, darling girl. I shall never believe I am the first man to kiss your hand. You are far too beautiful for that."

She said nothing she knew enough about human nature to understand that the more she protested, the weaker her protestations grew. Instead she busied herself by unrolling a pen and ink sketch that had been left to ruin on a windowsill, clucking over the deterioration of what had once been an intriguing study of a duck-filled pond.

Next to her, Stephen made a show of unbuttoning his coat and the sun sparkled against his pocket watch as he checked the time.

"I must be off," he announced just as if nothing untoward had happened. "I have an appointment in Riverhead and it wouldn't do to be late. I trust you will find enough to occupy you while I'm gone. You still have a great deal to acquaint yourself with around Sea View."

"I shall be fine," she said, meeting his eyes. "Do not concern yourself with my well-being."

He arched one elegant brow, his pale blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Dinner is at seven," he said. "I trust I'll see you then."

With a bow, he turned and disappeared down the wooden steps and within moments she heard the sound of a coach being readied for his trip.

The attic was still as a mausoleum, she thought and frowned for the analogy was more apt than she cared admit. She stood still, surrounded by the dying remnants of a once brilliant man, the fruits of whose talent had been grossly mishandled. These paintings and prints and sketches had no business growing yellow and dry in the attic of a carriage house. She brushed a layer of dust off a table top and smoothed the pen and ink sketch out flat. These pictures should be lovingly framed, displayed on the walls of a great museum somewhere for the world to enjoy.

A brittle corner of the drawing paper broke off between her fingers and tears of rage sprang to her eyes. It would be a miracle if she managed to catalogue this immense inventory before the forces of neglect and nature destroyed much of Lowell's artistic legacy.

The scuttle of wheels against a straw-covered floor floated up toward her and she heard the low nicker of a horse, followed by the steady clop-clop of hooves as Stephen departed for Riverhead.

She surveyed the room and sighed deeply. There was enough work to keep her busy for many months--longer if Andrew Lowell found other duties to occupy her as well. The thing to do was separate the works according to medium then further separate them according to condition. She would need a tablet of paper, a fountain pen and ink.

"Enough dilly-dallying," she said aloud into the emptiness. It was high time she earned her keep.

Perhaps Janine could supply her with a bucket of soapy water and clean sheets so she could rescue the attic back from the encroaching filth. She turned to head for the stairs then stifled a scream as she found herself looking up into the stormy eyes of Matthew McKenna.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Six

He stood in the doorway much the same as Stephen had just moments ago but there all resemblance ended.

Stephen was handsome in a lighthearted way while Matthew McKenna had the brooding looks that Alexandra instinctively recognized as being dangerous. He filled the doorway with an almost palpable menace that would terrify any sane woman but Alexandra was horrified to find an answering thrill curled deep inside her stomach at the sight of him.

She must get out of there as quickly as possible.

"If you'll pardon me," she said, looking him in the eye, "I was on my way back to the house for supplies."

He didn't move. His large, powerfully made body blocked her exit.

"Quite a tender scene between you and Master Stephen."

The pulsepoint at the base of her throat sprang to violent life. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. McKenna. Now if you'll excuse me..." She allowed her words to trail off meaningfully. A gentleman would immediately recognize the question implicit in her silence.

However, a gentleman McKenna was not.

"'Darling girl,'" he drawled, the words like acid from his tongue. "What else does he call you, Alexandra? What does he call you at night when he climbs between your sheets?"

She raised her hand to strike him but he grabbed her wrist and held it fast, his large fingers overlapping by several inches. The sudden fierce sound of bones cracking echoed in her brain and it took her a moment to realize it was her imagination and not her wrist snapping apart like a dry wishbone.

"Let me go," she said, her voice low and controlled.

He laughed and tightened his grip. "So you can try to break my nose? Not bloody likely."

"Let me go or I'll push you down the stairs." She tried not to think of the fact that she would go tumbling down the stairs with him if she did.

A certain grudging admiration flared in his eyes but was quickly masked. "I want to know what in hell is going on between you and Lowell."

"Nothing is going on. I met him for the first time yesterday at the railroad depot and I think he's a very kind man."

His grip on her wrist loosened a fraction. "I don't believe a damned thing you're saying."

"And I don't very much care, Mr. McKenna, what you believe. I know what is true and that is all that's important to me."

Abruptly he released her wrist and she suppressed the urge to rub the spot where her skin blazed red. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.

"He's going to Europe?" McKenna asked.

"You were listening," she countered. "You should know the answer to that question."

"I want to hear you say it."

"Ask Stephen. He would know better than I what his plans are."

"I don't talk to Stephen Lowell."

"Perhaps you should," she said, growing increasingly aware of how quiet the attic room was--and of how very alone they were. "You might learn something about proper behavior."

"I don't give a good goddamn about proper behavior. I want to know what that bastard is up to."

"Sir, I am not accustomed to hearing such language in polite conversation. I'll thank you to hold your tongue."

He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time and she took a step backward.

"I'm sorry," he said as the faintest of smiles flickered across his face. "It's been a long time since I've had a polite conversation. It won't happen again, Miss Glenn."

He swept low in a mocking bow but the twinkle in his blue-green eyes caused her to soften toward him for the first time.

"Yes, Stephen is going to Europe," she offered.

"Do you know why?"

"To tour the galleries."

"Nothing more?"

She drew herself up to her full height which was still some inches shorter than he. "If there is more, I am not aware of it but then I am not Mr. Lowell's confidante."

Those startling eyes of his narrowed as he took her full measure. "You're telling the truth, aren't you?"

She didn't look away. "I have no reason to lie, Mr. McKenna."

"Women rarely need reasons for deception, Miss Glenn. It is part of their nature."

"Then I pity you, sir, for your choice of women leaves much to be desired."

"You will never know just how right you are, Miss Glenn. My taste in women is abominable." Then, without warning, he stepped clear of the staircase. "After you," he said.

"Thank you. I have a great deal of work ahead of me." Lifting her chin, Alexandra swept past him and down the stairs.

She hurried through the carriage house then, hiking her skirts up over her anklebones, she started to race toward the house with him in pursuit. She had gone no more than twenty feet when she was grabbed from behind by a pair of strong male hands upon her waist.

"A word of advice," McKenna breathed into her ear. "I'll be watching every step you make. There'll be no secrets in this house."

"Do as you will," she snapped, stepping down on his foot with the heel of her boot and cringing at his muttered oath. "But here is a word of advice for you: If you lay your hands upon me one more time, I will find the longest butcher knife I can and plunge it into your black heart."

She picked up her skirts once again and his mocking laugh followed her as she marched back toward the house.

Matthew's experience with women had been limited to those who could be bought with his hard-earned money and those who could be rented and his wife Madolyn was no exception. She didn't walk the streets in a tight-fitting satin gown but she had sold herself to the highest bidder same as one of Madame Olga's girls.

And now, seven years later, he was still paying the price.

So was it any wonder he found it difficult to believe that Alexandra was telling the truth about her connection with Stephen Lowell? Alexandra Glenn was a magnificent woman. Standing there in her dress of royal purple she had the manner of one born to nobility, a grace born of the blood even though he'd been told she was the child of farmers. Her fury had been sharp and pure and not once had she struck a false note in her short, angry answers to his heated and clumsy questions.

Where another woman would have pouted prettily then resorted to adorable tears to sway him, Alexandra Glenn stared him straight in the eye and threatened to push him down the staircase then impale him with a butcher knife. Hardly the actions of the practiced flirt accustomed to the ways of men.

He laughed out loud. Hardly the actions of a woman intent upon seduction.

But then she hadn't treated Stephen Lowell that way, had she? The sight of Lowell's blonde head bent low over her hands, his mouth pressed against the flesh of her palms, tore at him. Her beautiful face had registered an intoxicating blend of astonishment and wonder and fear and in the blink of an eye, it was he who was bent over her, breathing in the perfume that followed her like a cloud of wildflowers.

He imagined himself taking her fast and savagely, spending himself inside the richness of her body and being done with it. He knew all too well the tricks women used to control a man and he was immune to them all now.

Yet still he wanted her. Mindlessly. Senselessly.

Dangerously.

In less than twenty-four hours she had somehow gotten beneath his armor and ignited a spark that had long laid dormant. He wasn't fool enough to think this was love for he knew love was an illusion. What he felt was lust; what he wanted to do about it was elemental.

He watched as she hurried toward the house. The attic was a stinking mess. He couldn't imagine a woman like Alexandra Glenn soiling her hands cleaning it. He'd bet a ten dollar gold piece that before this day was over she'd run crying to Stephen Lowell and one of the maids would be on her knees scrubbing the attic floor.

But, by God, this golden-eyed woman was beautiful. Watching her, he could almost forget the perfidy such beauty could mask.

She stopped in the doorway and looked back, her eyes searching the grounds until she found him. She made no motion nor did he. They merely looked at one another for what seemed a very long time then she disappeared inside.

What did it matter that he wanted her?

Maybe in another time or place it would have been possible to play out the delightful scenario his imagination had been conjuring up, but not now. Now he must watch and wait.

And, when the nights of wanting grew dark and long, he would do what he did best: he would drink until he didn't hurt any more.

It was good to feel useful again.

Alexandra wiped her hands on the cotton apron Janine had given her, then stood back to survey her handiwork. There was no denying the attic was still in need of attention but soap and water had wrought wonders. Cobwebs no longer dangled from the rafters nor dustballs skitter along the floor planks. Late afternoon sun filtered through windows that sparkled for the first time in years.

Of course, that same sunshine had one distinct drawback: it enabled Alexandra to clearly see the appalling condition of the art work stored in the attic. How on earth had Andrew Lowell ever held his own work in such flagrant disregard? Alexandra had modeled for enough artists to know that most of them believed their creations to be second only to the creation of the world by the Almighty. Indeed, each time she herself had turned out a particularly fine watercolor, she felt a thrill of pride unequalled by anything in her experience.

It simply didn't make sense that a man like Lowell would turn out masterpiece after masterpiece only to let them turn to dust in the attic of a carriage house. There were a thousand things she longed to ask him but if their first meeting was a portent of things to come, she doubted she would ever have the opportunity. The extent of his illness had been painfully obvious both by his appearance and by the way Stephen and Matthew and the darkhaired woman Dayla revolved around him like planets around a dying sun.

Stephen, of course, had every right to be solicitous of Andrew. Andrew was blood; the Lowell heritage flowed through both of them. She dared not wonder what kept Matthew and Dayla by his side.

"Miss?"

Alexandra jumped and turned toward the door. "Janine! I didn't hear you climbing the stairs."

"Didn't mean to be scarin' you, miss, but I thought you might be needin' some help bringing the buckets back to the big house. 'Tis nearin' dinnertime."

"Is it that late already?"

"Half past five," Janine said, running a finger over the spanking-clean tabletops and nodding appreciatively, "and with your dinner being served at seven, I thought you might be needin' time to freshen up."

"Freshen up?" Alexandra laughed out loud. "Had I any sense at all, Janine, I would race down to the beach and toss myself into the ocean with a bar of lye soap. I am covered with grit from head to foot."

Janine grabbed one of the buckets and a handful of wet rags as Alexandra gathered up the rest. "You'll find a bath drawn for you in your room."

Alexandra stared at the girl in surprise. "You shouldn't have done that, Janine. I am employed by Mr. Lowell same as you. Surely you have enough work without this added burden."

"'Tisn't an extra burden to me." An odd little smile played at the corners of the girl's mouth. "'Tis a burden for the one who did it."

Tingling ripples of sensation fluttered through her belly and she clutched the handle of the bucket to keep her hands from shaking. "Another maid?" she ventured.

Janine's red curls bobbed merrily as she shook her head.

"Surely not Arthur!" Arthur was so old and frail that carrying a soup tureen to table from the kitchen seemed to tax him to the limits of his endurance.

Janine giggled as they headed for the staircase. "It wouldn't be Arthur," she said, "or Cook or Johnny."

That rippling sensation in her belly intensified, teetering on the boundary between pleasure and pain. Her voice was soft, almost inaudible: "Dayla?" Janine shook her head. "Then it must be Stephen. He returned from his appointment and--"

Janine stopped on the staircase. "I oughtn't to tell you," she whispered. "He didn't want you to know."

"It is Stephen, isn't it?" Alexandra persisted. "He's such a kind man--"

Janine muttered something beneath her breath. "I shouldn't be talkin' out of turn, miss, but I can't be standin' here listenin' to the wrong man gettin' your thanks."

"Who then?" Alexandra managed. "I can't imagine--"

"'Twas Mr. Matthew," Janine said, looking up at Alexandra. "He did it."

Fire began in Alexandra's feet and burned its way swiftly to the very top of her head. "That's absurd!" she sputtered. "He despises me."

"Mr. Matthew?" Janine sounded incredulous. "Oh, sure and he likes his whiskey but he's a good man."

"Hah! He told me to take my suitcases and go back to the depot," Alexandra said, reckless in her surprise. "He said terrible things to me. He was unspeakably rude and unpleasant."

"Excuse me for sayin' so, miss, but you must be mistaken. Mr. Matthew drinks but he isn't ever hateful. I'm speakin' out of turn but the only one he don't like is Mr. Stephen and, God forgive me, I wouldn't be blamin' him for that."

Alexandra sank down onto the top step. "I don't understand, Janine. Why would he...I mean, we argued not five hours ago." My God! I threatened to plunge a butcher knife into his heart! "He must have been drunk to do such a thing."

"Not yet," Janine said bluntly. "He will be but he weren't yet. He came to me in the kitchen and told me to fetch you."

The full magnitude of McKenna's gesture didn't reveal itself to Alexandra until she returned to her room on the second floor of the main house.

A small fire crackled in the hearth providing just enough warmth to counterbalance the cool early evening breeze that ruffled the curtains at the window; a stack of Turkish towels rested on the foot of her bed. Unlike her mother, Alexandra had spent her entire life seeing to her own needs. The luxury of being cared for astonished her.

But the most astonishing thing of all was the tub. It was a huge copper affair, making up in depth what it lacked in length. Faint wisps of steam rose from the smooth surface of the water and she thought she caught the faint scent of flowers in the air.

"Don't dawdle," Janine had warned for the water wouldn't stay warm indefinitely and the dinner hour was approaching.

Alexandra unlaced her boots then placed them at the side of the bed. Quickly she stripped off her white cotton stockings and skimmed off her worn petticoats. She was wearing her favorite everyday dress, a flower-sprigged pink faded from the sun, whose front hooks and buttons made it easy to slip out of and she folded it and placed it on the dresser to be taken down to the laundry later on.

Her hands fumbled with the hooks on her corset and she became aware of a deep flush washing over her breasts and moving upward. A cheval mirror rested in the corner of the room and her eyes were drawn to the sight of her semi-clad body as she struggled with the remainder of her clothes.

"How foolish!" she said out loud. She had seen her own body thousands upon thousands of times and it had never held any magic or shame for her. Why now was she fascinated by the inward curve of her waist? Why did the flare of her hips and the slender line of her thighs draw her gaze back to the mirror again and again? Why had she never noticed the ripe fullness of her breasts or the way the nipples tilted upward, dark apricot against the pale peach of her skin?

The answer was as plain as the look of wonder on her face as she unpinned her hair and watched it fall across her shoulders like a mantle of black silk.

For the first time in her life she was seeing herself as a woman.

She was seeing herself through the eyes of Matthew McKenna.

"Absurd," she whispered, stepping over to the bath. "So absurd!"

Laying a hand atop the dresser for balance, she climbed carefully into the deep copper tub, sighing with pleasure as the water wrapped itself around her calves and knees and thighs like a warm caress. She hadn't imagined the scent of flowers for the water was pleasantly slippery from the wildflower-scented bath oil that rested on the lip of the tub. The thought of Matthew McKenna with his powerful body and his rough hands taking the tiny vial from her dressing table and pouring the contents into her bath was shockingly intimate. She was certain that Gabrielle's Luc had never performed such a task for his wife.

Slowly she lowered herself into the tub. A moan caught deep in her throat as the gentle bath water rose up her legs then flooded the secret spot at the top of her thighs. Pinpoints of exquisite sensation sprang to violent life along her spine and she barely suppressed a long and voluptuous shiver. Lying back, arms braced along the top edges of the tub, she let the water slide over her belly and breasts, until she was submerged up to her chin.

For a long while she lay there, her mind fuzzy, her will weak. How was it she had never known what hedonistic pleasure there was to be found in a simple copper tub?

But, no. There was nothing simple at all about that bath, for it was Matthew McKenna who had carried it into her bedroom and McKenna who had filled it with warm water and McKenna who had opened the vial of jasmine that made the very air throb with splendor.

He vibrated with anger, McKenna did. Rage emanated from his pores and flashed from his eyes. She had little experience with men like him. Her English father died before her birth and Paul Charbonne had been a softspoken kindly farmer who quietly accepted whatever obstacle life chose to place in his path. No bellowing at the moon or cursing his fate or decrying the perfidy of women, all of which Matthew McKenna seemed quite capable of doing. Gabrielle's Luc was sharper of temper but Gabrielle had tamed him by keeping his appetites well-satisfied.

In the carriage house attic this morning, he had let his guard drop. Her heart had constricted strangely when a smile drifted lazily across his face and for a moment she would have done anything to keep that smile last just a little longer.

But that odd tenderness had passed as quickly as it had come and the next second he was saying vile, horrible things to her and she found herself threatening to push him backward down the attic stairs.

The sweetness of her temperament, something even the critical Marisa had complimented her upon, had vanished like a forgotten dream as a darker force took hold within her and her entire being sprang wildly, blazingly, to life.

"Miss?" Janine tapped at the door to her room. "Do you need help dressing? Dinner is in one half hour."

Alexandra started as if awakened from a deep slumber. "Thank you, Janine," she called out, surprised she could find her voice. "I can manage."

Janine's footsteps retreated down the hall and, sighing, Alexandra reached for the washcloth and a bar of castile soap.

Matthew stared out at the ocean and wondered what in hell had gotten into him.

Taking that copper bath tub up to Alexandra's room was the most goddamned idiotic thing he'd ever done. Janine was probably telling all and sundry about the way he'd carried pot after pot of hot water up the stairs to the girl's room, looking like the worst kind of heartsick fool in the bargain. The last time he'd behaved like that was when he was in the throes of love for Madolyn and look where in hell that had gotten him.

How he wished he could storm back up those stairs, lift up that damned tub and dump the water out the second story window before Alexandra returned. But it was too late for that. She was probably in her room right this moment, taking off that faded cotton dress, unpinning that thick mass of black curls--

He groaned and buried his head in his hands.

Filling the tub was bad enough--why in hell had he ever taken that vial of bath oil from her dressing table and poured it into the water? His mind still reeled from the violent pleasure he'd experienced as the fragrance--her fragrance--rose up from the bath.

His fingers still held a trace of wildflowers; the scent made him ache with desire for her.

What a pathetic excuse for a man he was, sitting on a deserted beach, thinking about a woman whose reasons for coming to Sea View were probably tied in with Stephen and his greed. She had surprised him this afternoon, Alexandra Glenn had. Surprised the hell out of him. He'd been expecting a petulant display of temper over the work she was required to do and when he climbed the stairs to the attic in the late afternoon it was to inform whichever maid had been pressed into service that her duties did not extend beyond the main house.

He hadn't expected to see that magnificent dark-haired girl on her hands and knees scrubbing the attic floor as if her life depended upon it. The graceful curve of her back as she worked awoke a feeling of tenderness that forced him back into the shadows on the staircase where he stood and watched for a long while.

Quietly he slipped away and, before he could change his mind, he carried the copper tub to her room. At another time, in another place, he might have made certain he climbed the stairs to her room after her, pushed open the door, then taken her damp and warm from her bath. There was room enough for two in her huge featherbed, room enough for all he wanted to do.

He wanted to see her face flushed with desire. He wanted to draw his tongue across her breasts and belly, taste her skin, breathe in her musk, feel her body grow hot beneath his hands.

Picking up a stone, he flung it into the ocean in disgust. He refused to believe it was anything but lust that was causing him to behave so irrationally and allowing his body taking control of his mind. He needed a woman and if he had any brains at all, he would go out and find one and drive himself into her until he pushed Alexandra Glenn out of his mind.

Alexandra dressed with extra care that night, taking pains to make certain her long black hair was combed into an elegant upsweep and that the short train on her apricot-colored gown fell into the most graceful line possible. She tried to tell herself the purpose of this was to make a good impression upon Andrew Lowell should he choose to join them at dinner, but in her heart she knew that was but a partial truth. It wasn't Andrew Lowell she sought to enchant with her profile or amuse with her conversation.

It was Matthew McKenna.

But she had to be cautious. She was simply an employee in this very odd household; she had no right whatsoever to let the foolish whisperings of her untried heart lead her astray. No. She would be gracious; she would be polite; she would be as subservient as her independent nature would allow.

And Matthew McKenna would never know that he had the power to make her tremble. She found her way downstairs with little trouble and once again she the first one down for dinner.

The gas globes in the first floor hallway had been lighted although it was not yet dark outside, and the yellow glow was oddly reassuring to Alexandra. She had expected to find all of America powered by electricity and the old-fashioned familiarity of the flickering gas lamps reminded her of Provence and home. The table was beautifully set, just as the night before, with a delicate ivory lace cloth, fragile china and sparkling silver. Wine glasses, empty and waiting, rested proudly beside each plate.

She sat down in her chair and gazed at the two empty plates to either side of her. Matthew had been given the place at the head of the table last night, which had puzzled her for Stephen was blood relative to the master of the house.

Hearing rapid footsteps she turned around in her seat only to see Janine hurry into the room.

"Am I first this time, Janine, or have I missed the dinner hour entirely?"

"You are first, miss," the redhaired girl said with a laugh. "You may also be the last."

Swiftly Janine stacked the dinner plates and silver from theplace setting across from Alexandra.

"Mr.--Mr. Lowell won't be joining us?"

"No, miss. He sent a message through Cook's brother who works for the attorney in Riverhead that he would not be back for dinner."

Alexandra's hands started to tremble and she thrust them quickly under the lace tablecloth. "Perhaps he shall return in time for dessert," she ventured.

Janine's red curls bobbed vigorously as she shook her head. "I wouldn't be thinkin' so." She lowered her voice to the conspiratorial whisper Alexandra was beginning to know all-too-well. "You see, miss, he would be seein' a married lady up in Southold and if her husband be away for the night..." Janine's words trailed off meaningfully and Alexandra looked down at her plate, hating the blush that always betrayed her feelings.

It was difficult to imagine the buoyant friendly Stephen cuckolding another man behind his back but Janine seemed certain of her facts.

During her semesters at the Aynsley School she'd heard the whispers about her mother; she'd heard the famous names of very married men linked with Marisa's, the word "whore" that sent her running to her room in a rush of confusion and shame. "Liars!" she had cried into her pillow. "Liars!" Her mother wasn't a whore. Just because she posed for famous artists didn't mean she was a bad woman. Her mother was young and beautiful and more full of life than anyone Alexandra had ever known. The other girls were simply jealous because their mothers were old and shriveled and unhappy with their husbands while Marisa had been married to a handsome and dashing English soldier whose tragic death had broken her heart. Janine put the last of the silverware atop the stack of plates then made to return the stack to the kitchen.

Alexandra's eyes were drawn suddenly to the place setting at the head of the table. "Janine," she said, her heart thudding violently. "Is he--is Mr. McKenna...will he be dining in tonight?"

"'Tis anybody's guess, miss."

"Is he at home?"

Janine nodded, looking supremely uncomfortable.

"But he dined already?" Alexandra prompted.

Janine started to say something when her eyes suddenly darted toward the doorway to the dining room and, ducking her head, the young maid slipped away.

Before Alexandra could react, Matthew McKenna, carrying a shot glass and a bottle of whiskey, strode into the room and took his place at the head of the table.

"Good evening," he drawled, fixing her with his magnificent blue-green eyes. "It looks like we're alone tonight."

"Yes," she said softly. "It does."

His mouth--hard and strong with its sensuous lower lip--lifted in a half-smile.

And in the space of a heartbeat, Alexandra was back in that copper tub with the warm water lapping gently against her bare breasts and the fragrant oils kissing her thighs and the potent and terrifying knowledge that Matthew McKenna with his gruff voice and his violent angers was the man she had to thank for it.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Seven

"I'm not drunk," Matthew said, reaching for his glass. "I will be later, but I'm not now."

Alexandra forced air into her lungs in an attempt to calm herself. "I didn't think you were drunk, Mr. McKenna."

"Then why do you look at me like that?"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

He took a drink of whiskey. "I think you do."

Dear God, how was she going to get through this evening without Stephen to divert McKenna's attention?

"Mr. McKenna, I've been here but twenty-four hours. I barely know my own name, much less what your riddles mean."

He put the glass back down and leaned across the table. "Your hands are shaking."

"My hands are on my lap. Whether or not they are shaking is my business alone." How on earth could a man seem to drink so much yet remain clear-headed and persistent?

"I'm not going to hurt you, Alexandra."

She swallowed. "That is a tremendous relief."

"I don't know what your friend Lowell has told you, but I'm not a bastard."

"Good Lord, Mr. McKenna! Is your opinion of yourself so inflated that you believe you are the topic of every conversation in this house?"

"He hasn't told you my darkest secrets?"

"I am sorry to disappoint you, but no."

Arthur came into the room and deposited a bowl of clear consomme before both of them, then withdrew. More than anything Alexandra wanted to leave with the elderly servant. McKenna wasn't drunk--far from it. Instead, it seemed that with each sip of whiskey, his wits grew sharper, his tongue more barbed.

McKenna waited until the maid was out of earshot before he struck again. "He's not what you think."

She looked up from her consomme. "I beg your pardon?"

"Stephen," he said. "Don't be fooled by that charm. He's a snake."

"How interesting," she replied sweetly. "He has only the kindest of things to say about you."

McKenna loosed a sharp bark of laughter. "Now I know you are a liar, Miss Glenn. The best thing Lowell has ever called me was a bastard. In deference to your sensibilities, I'll spare you the worst."

She dabbed at her mouth with the corner of her linen napkin. "I am forever in your debt."

Janine spirited away their empty soup bowls and seconds later Arthur the butler served up a beautiful green salad. She turned her attention to the crisp leaf lettuce; McKenna kept his attentions on her.

"The salad is delicious," she said pleasantly. "You must try it."

He raised his whiskey glass toward her. "I believe in liquid nourishment."

Her mouth opened but she firmly closed her lips before the words escaped. She wasn't about to give him another lecture on temperance--not after what happened last night.

"You were going to say something," he observed. "Go ahead."

She took a bite of salad. "You're mistaken."

He drained his glass. "You were going to tell me about the evils of drinking."

"Believe as you wish," she said, piercing a tiny shrimp with her fork.

"I've heard it all before," he said. "It hasn't stopped me."

"How wonderful for you--doing exactly as you wish with your life." He was watching her intently and she felt the fool chewing on her salad beneath his watchful eyes. "You're being rude, Mr. McKenna." She put her fork down. "Would you please attend to your own dinner and leave me to mine?"

"I am trying to figure out exactly what brings you here."

"Employment."

"I doubt if the answer is that simple."

"Oh, but it is," she retorted. "I needed employment and it was offered to me."

"You came one hell of a long way for a job," he observed, pouring himself some more whiskey. "Wasn't there anything back there in France where you came from?"

"I don't know," she said honestly. "I was told to take this job."

"Told? What do you mean told?"

She placed her napkin on the table next to her salad plate. "I don't wish to discuss it any further, Mr. McKenna."

"I don't give a damn what you wish, Miss Glenn. I want some answers from you."

"Don't think you can intimidate me because you are sitting at the head of the table, sir, for I shan't be turned away quite so easily."

"You're stubborn."

"No," she said, "I'm determined." She would rather anything than the pain of admitting she had nowhere else to go.

"Same thing."

"A subtle but important difference."

"I'm afraid that difference escapes me."

"And that is your loss, Mr. McKenna."

Her stomach was clenched tighter than a fist and her heart pounded so wildly she could scarcely breathe. What a fool she was to think a decent man hid beneath Matthew McKenna's surly and brooding exterior! She was lucky he hadn't poisoned the bathwater. Why couldn't he just keep silent and allow them to eat their meal in peace?

"You haven't answered my question," he persisted.

"Nor will I. You're not my superior, Mr. McKenna. I owe you nothing."

His hand darted out quicker than a serpent's tongue and encircled her wrist. "Playing Stephen's game isn't going to get you anywhere," he growled. "I'll do my damnedest to make certain no harm befalls Andrew." He released her wrist as abruptly as he had snatched it. "And you can tell your little friend exactly that."

She tossed her napkin down on the table and pushed her chair back. "This has been a wonderful evening," she said, rising, "but I shall be taking my leave."

"Where are you going?"

"Out."

"Don't go down to the beach," he warned. "Arthur saw the poacher's footprints down there again this afternoon."

"I would much rather dine with the poacher than finish this conversation with you."

Mustering up every last lesson in deportment the Aynsley School had ever taught her, Alexandra glided toward the dining room door. Pausing for a moment, she turned and looked back at McKenna who still sat at the head of the table, whiskey bottle in his hand, watching her.

"Oh, yes, Mr. McKenna, there's but one more thing before I retire for the evening." He looked up, his blue-green eyes hooded with suspicion. "From now on I will be taking care of my own bath. If you should dare come near my bedroom again, I will shoot you on sight." He needn't know she had no pistol and wouldn't know how to fire one if she came upon it. "Good night."

With that she turned and swept out of the room.

She would go to the kitchen where she belonged and finish her meal with the servants.

Unfortunately the gap between her position and that of the household staff was as wide as the gap between herself and Matthew McKenna. Conversation ceased the moment she sat down at the round maple table. Cook and her husband Johnny watched their plates with the rapt attention Alexandra would give to the first act of the latest Gilbert & Sullivan extravaganza. Arthur took his bowl of red broth clam chowder and stood by the window watching the sun setting over the ocean beyond.

Sadly Alexandra pushed her plate of baked ham and wide flat noodles away and stood up. "I'm sorry, but I am not as hungry as I'd believed myself to be. Would you excuse me?"

Janine caught her before she reached the door. "And what would you be doin', miss, leavin' without a full stomach? Finish up or you'll be awake tonight wishin' for a slice of Cook's ham."

"Look at them! I ruined their meal. If I stay in here, they'll be the ones awake tonight wishing for the ham. I must go."

"And where would you be goin' then? To sit in your room until you fall asleep?"

Alexandra's chin tilted up. "Don't be absurd, Janine. I have yet to see the beach. Perhaps I'll fetch my cloak and take a stroll."

"Without a bite of food in your stomach?"

Alexandra plucked an apple from a bowl near the counter. "Satisfied?"

Janine hesitated. "Don't be wanderin' off too far, miss. Johnny saw tracks near the carriage house not an hour ago."

"The infamous Gypsy poacher. I shall take care. I promise."

She knew Janine was far from mollified but no matter. The walls of the mansion seemed to be closing in around her and, although the beach of Easthampton was a far cry from the lush meadows of Provence, it was all she had.

Damn Alexandra Glenn and her mercurial disposition!

When she rose from the table and glided toward the door like a queen dismissing her serfs, Matthew had wanted to jump up, fling her over his shoulder, and drag her up to his room and make love to her as he'd been dreaming of since he first saw her in the hallway yesterday afternoon.

What the hell kind of woman threatened a man not once but three times within twenty-four hours? Everytime he looked at her or dared to speak with her, she threatened to call upon all manner of weapons in an attempt to consign him to an early grave. Her golden eyes fairly flashed with rage when she stood there in that doorway; it wouldn't have surprised him had she called upon the Almighty to show him his place by sending down flood and fire and a twenty year assault of locusts. She treated him no better than she'd treat a scurvy mutt lurking around the back door begging for a bone from last night's mutton.

"You got what you deserved," he said to the empty dining room. How many times need he feel a woman's wrath before he understood the nature of the beast?

He'd let the sight of her, beautiful even in a faded cotton gown, move him in a way he'd believed lost to him. Memories of his mother and the years she'd spent crippling herself on her knees so her children wouldn't run barefoot or go to sleep hungry rushed at him like the oncoming tide, erasing his caution as if it were letters scrawled in the sand.

The bath had been a terrible idea and he, a fool for ever thinking of it. What in hell had possessed him to carry the copper tub into her room, to fill it with water hot from the fire, to take that vial of scent from her dressing table and pour it into the bath? He closed his eyes as the smell of wildflowers filled his head again, causing a disturbing rush of blood downward to the part of him straining for release.

How long could this go on? An endless chain of days and nights snaked before him. Seeing her every morning at breakfast. Watching her with Andrew. Knowing she labored in the hot and airless attic on a thankless job. Wondering if she spent the dark hours of the night wrapped in the arms of a man he hated.

She claimed she had met Stephen Lowell for the first time just yesterday at the depot in Bridgehampton and perhaps she was telling the truth. He'd grant her that--for the moment. But Lowell was a crafty sort and who better to seduce and control than the girl who would have access to Andrew Lowell's treasures?

Abruptly he rose from the table, knocking his chair backward onto the polished parquet floor as he stormed from the room in search of her. They were going to have a long talk--and he was going to get at the truth--even if he had to tie her to a chair in order to do it.

She'd walked out on him for the last time.

Sea View was perched atop the highest dune in Easthampton, a fact Alexandra hadn't fully appreciated until she made her way down the rickety wooden stairs that led to the beach below. An alarming creak accompanied each step she took and she didn't draw an easy breath until her feet sank into the damp hard sand.

A huge orange sun was sinking beyond the horizon, spreading waves of fire across the deceptively smooth surface of the ocean. On the other side of that ocean was the home she'd left. How she wished she could blink her eyes and wake up back in her attic cot at Gabrielle's house, among people she understood and loved. If only Marisa had given her a chance to determine her own fate. But, no--her mother had made up her mind that the best thing for her daughter was to travel across the Atlantic to a strange little town in the middle of the wilderness. Pulling the shawl more tightly around her slender body, she made her way across the gentle swells of sand to the shoreline and began to follow it away from the house.

One year ago if she had been given the opportunity to work with Andrew Lowell, she would have thanked God and Blessed Mary and all the saints above. At least then it would have been her choice, her life.

Marisa hadn't even allowed her the privilege of deciding her own future. Now not even the fact that she would be working with a great artist was compensation enough for the deep loneliness she felt. She supposed one day the pain would lessen but right now it seemed as if her heart would be cut in two with it.

As it was, Janine was the only person she could talk to at Sea View, the only person who cared if she lived or died. Stephen had seemed delightful company but the revelation that he was seeing a married woman in Southold would make it difficult for Alexandra to allow herself that feeling of ease and closeness she longed for with a friend. She had known men like Stephen before, men filled with charm and laughter who made wonderful escorts but nothing more.

Not that she was looking for anything more than friendship, mind you, but how wonderful it would be to have someone's ear, to be able to open her heart and spill her loneliness and her anger and the terrible fear that she would never, not ever, find her way back to where she belonged.

This won't be forever, she told herself as she walked along. This can't be. She had been sent here to Sea View to stand on her own two feet and that was exactly what she planned to do. Her mother had washed her hands of Alexandra and so be it. She would earn her keep and save her money diligently and one day she would be able to make her own decisions, chart her own course, live her own life without depending on the whims of others.

On the whims of men.

She would make her own security.

She would create her own happiness.

Matthew McKenna, with his sunbleached hair and glittering blue-green eyes, pushed his way into her thoughts. He could be your friend,, a small voice whispered. Despite the arguments and accusations, despite the obvious distrust, McKenna had somehow been aware of her needs and had a steaming tub awaiting her in her room.

Like a ferocious guardian angel, he had been there when she needed him and in a most unexpected way.

Well, it wouldn't happen again, would it? She had fairly singed his curly eyelashes with the heat of her anger at dinner tonight. Despite Janine's protests, she had planned to wait for an opportunity then thank him profusely for the bath he had prepared for her and say she hoped they would be able to start over again without the misunderstandings that had plagued their first meeting.

But then he had stalked into the dining room with the whiskey bottle in his hand, all rippling rage and fury, and in an instant her back was up like an angry cat's and she fairly hissed her threats at him. What on earth was happening to her--she, who said nary a cross word in all her nineteen years?

Back in Provence she was the one who wouldn't eat lamb because she grew to love each new baby every spring. Instead of squashing spiders beneath the toe of her boot, she guided them outside with the straw broom even though her hands shook at the thought of them. She wouldn't hunt or fish or let a stray cat go hungry but, with increasing regularity, she found herself threatening another's life.

She was certain she couldn't exist this way indefinitely but was hard pressed to come up with an alternative. Perhaps tomorrow she would go into town and begin to learn her way around. How could she possibly know what America was like if all she saw of it was the inside of Andrew Lowell's quite unorthodox house?

How could she possibly understand the demons that drove Matthew McKenna to lose himself in a bottle of whiskey when she couldn't even understand why her mother had sent her away. Tiny waves encroached upon her ankles and she scampered away from the incoming tide. Overhead a small crescent moon had appeared and, with it, a lone star. She squeezed her eyes shut and made a silent wish, praying that God was listening tonight.

Suddenly a sharp sound echoed off the water, a loud pop that made her start with surprise. She quickly glanced around her and noted that the water was still and as deserted as the beach. Sea View stood sentinel atop the majestic dune, its leaded windows with their countless panes looking down upon her. A campfire burned far down the beach and she wondered if it were the gypsies Janine spoke about with such suspicion.

Lowering her head against the night sea breeze, she continued heading toward the campfire. Another report split the air and she flinched as a knifeblade of wind sliced past her cheek. What on earth was going on? Were there nightflying birds in the area or, perhaps, children standing atop the dunes playing with firecrackers?

Suddenly walking the beach no longer seemed a very good idea and she turned to head back. Janine's warning about the poacher echoed in her mind and she quickened her step, anxious to reach the wooden stairs at the foot of the dune, when a crack of thunder exploded by her ear as a flash of heat erupted on her shoulder and before she could piece the sensations together she found herself grabbed from behind and thrown to the sand.

She tried to scream but a large male hand covered her mouth and nose and with the other, he neatly trapped her arms overhead. Her lungs ached from the effort to draw air into them. Another shot rang out and the man's body pressed her more deeply into the cool wet sand of the beach. Never in her life had she felt more helpless, more vulnerable. Not only were her hands rendered useless, but he had her legs wedged between his own. His terrifying strength was evident in the way the muscles of his thighs held her an easy captive.

"Stop struggling, you fool," he growled into her ear. "Do you want to get yourself killed?" She tried to cry out, to scream that if he intended to kill her he should just get on with it and not torture her but she couldn't draw in air enough to form the sounds. The pressure of his legs against her thighs intensified and her mind exploded with the knowledge that it might be something worse than murder that he had in mind.

Dear God, no! she screamed inside. Please don't let this happen! What about her dreams of falling in love with a wonderful man, of giving herself to him on their marriage bed, of--

Renewed strength flooded her body and she bucked against him like a wild horse in an attempt to throw him off. He grunted as her knee managed to find its target and his hand moved away from her mouth just long enough for her to manage to sink her teeth into the rough and salty flesh at the base of his thumb.

"Son of a bitch!" he bellowed like a wounded bull. "Have you lost your mind, woman?"

My God! It was McKenna!

She sank her teeth into him a second time and used the distraction that provided to push him off her. Scrambling to her feet she made to flee but he grabbed her ankle and unceremoniously knocked her back to the ground.

"If you touch me, I'll--"

"Shut up, woman!"

He pulled her to him and before she could react, dragged her across the sand to the shelter of some tall dune grass.

"You'll never get away with it," she managed as her heart threatened to burst through the bodice of her gown. "Janine knows exactly where I am and when I do not return, she'll come for me. If you hurt me, you'll pay, Matthew McKenna!"

"Hurt you? You're damned lucky I don't kill you." His laugh was harsh against her ear. "Though it seems as if someone else is hellbent on doing that for me, doesn't it?"

"Don't add lying to your transgressions, McKenna!" she snapped. "You have made your hatred of me most plain."

"Take a look around you, Miss Glenn. I'm not the one trying to shoot you."

"No one is shooting at me now," she pointed out, growing increasingly aware of the fact that his large body was pressed against hers in a quite shocking way. "But for all I know, you may be about to strangle me." She could never let him know that the danger she sensed from him at that moment was danger of a very different sort.

"There's a poacher loose," he said, his breath hot against her cheek. "You shouldn't--"

"I know," she interrupted. "Janine warned me there were gypsies about." As if that were something terrible!

"You had no business coming down to the beach by yourself."

"Should I fear the gypsies?" she asked, baiting him.

"They're not like us," he said. "Their rules--"

"I understand their rules," she interrupted. "My mother was a gypsy." No need to tell him Esme was her foster mother; in every way that mattered, that kind woman had been everything good a mother could be. He said nothing and for endless moments they lay together unmoving. From ankle to shoulder their bodies were melded together and Alexandra knew he could feel her heart racing against his chest. The powerful swell of his arm muscles beneath her head made her nearly weak with an emotion she dared not pursue.

What on earth was the matter with her? Someone had fired a shot that whizzed past her head and here she was, cradled in a stranger's arms, able to think of little beyond the smell and heat and hardness of him.

"Let me go," she said, forcing herself away from him. "Whoever it was has obviously given up."

"Wait awhile longer," he said, pulling her closer as the darkness wrapped itself around them. "I'd rather make sure it's safe."

But it wasn't safe, not safe at all, and she suspected McKenna knew that as well as she.

"Please," she whispered. "Let me go."

The touch of his hand on her back changed subtly, moving from angry protection to something else.

"I didn't do it," he said. "I want you to believe me."

"I cannot," she said, wishing she could see the expression in his eyes. "From the first moment, you have done all in your power to drive me from the house."

"Because I have to," he said. "You have no business being there."

"I have every business being there," she retorted. "I have a position."

"Fine. You're fired."

"Fired?" What on earth did that mean?

"Dismissed."

"It is not your right to hire or fire me." She struggled to break free of him but his grip remained firm. "That right belongs to Andrew Lowell."

"You've seen him, Miss Glenn. You've seen how it is with him. By the noon hour each day he drifts into illness. How can you expect him to command the situation?" His voice softened. "Give it up," he urged.

"No."

"If it's Stephen you're worried about, he'll find himself another accomplice."

"I'm not an accomplice, Mr. McKenna. I'm an assistant."

"I know how it is with you two. Stephen can be very persuasive."

"I shall tell you just once more: I have known Stephen Lowell but one hour longer than I have known you. There is no dark alliance between us."

"I'd like to believe you."

She placed her hands on his chest and pushed herself away from him. "I do not care whether or not you do. You have a suspicious and evil mind, Mr. McKenna, and I would rather risk a bullet than stay here with you a moment longer."

Struggling to her feet, she stumbled across the sand toward the wooden stairs to the house. In an instant he covered the distance between them.

"Move," she said as he blocked the staircase. "I wish to return to the house."

"Pack your bags," he said, towering over her. "I shall take you to the depot in Bridgehampton. You could be back in New York City by this time tomorrow night."

"Go to hell, Mr. McKenna," she said, panic snaking its way through her belly. Could he force her to leave? If he did, where on earth would she go?

"Why stay where you're not wanted?" he persisted, thwarting her attempt to slip past him.

"I am wanted here. Andrew Lowell wants me."

"Andrew Lowell doesn't know what he wants. All he can think about is pain."

"His paintings," she said, grasping for something--anything--to throw back in this man's face. "The works in the attic...there's so much that needs to be done."

"We'll get someone else."

"No!" She wanted to throw herself at his feet and beg but she still had a shred of pride left. "Please! This is my position. Don't take it away from me."

His blue-green eyes narrowed as he looked down at her. "If it's money, I'll see to it that you're compensated handsomely."

Cold sweat trickled down her back and she shivered.

"Name your price," he prodded her. "I'll see to it you get it."

"You're a bastard, Mr. McKenna." Her entire body started to tremble. He was a powerful man, in both strength and purpose, and she feared she was losing the fight.

"Go back where you came from. This isn't the place for you."

"You don't understand." That couldn't be her voice, not that cracking sad sound.

"Marry a rich man."

"McKenna, I am pleading with you to allow me to return to the main house."

"This isn't where you belong, Miss Glenn. Go home."

"I can't."

"You can," he said, suddenly triumphant. "I can have the coach ready within the hour. A ship leaves for Europe every day of the week."

"It's impossible."

"Nothing is impossible. Andrew has connections."

She thought about Gabrielle and the look on her face when she told Alexandra she was no longer welcome in her cottage. She thought about the townspeople who had moved away from her after the Charbonnes died and about Marisa, her blood mother, who had stripped her of all that was familiar and dear and shipped her across the ocean as if she were a piece of furniture bound for another house.

"I can't," she whispered brokenly. "I can't go home."

Sensing victory he stepped closer to her. "Of course you can. I just told you what I can do for you." She shook her head, eyes blinded with hot salty tears. "Tell me what it is," he urged, his voice so seductively sweet. "I can take care of it, Alexandra. Tell me."

"I have no home, McKenna," she snapped. "No one."

"You must have someone--cousins, aunts, friends. Somewhere you can go."

Her voice grew shrill and loud. "Why can you not believe me when I tell you this? There is no one in this world for me." Her words came from the darkest part of her soul, the one place she'd dared not look since Marisa sent her away. "Don't you understand, McKenna? I have nowhere to go."

And then, to her horror, she began to cry.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Eight

Three weeks of despair and fear and loneliness erupted and Alexandra could do nothing save stand there with her face buried in her hands and weep for everything she'd lost--and everything that would never be.

He probably thought her a spineless fool, falling apart with so little provocation, shaking with huge gulping sobs that were neither pretty nor polite. She felt the heat as he stepped closer and she knew she should move away, should do anything but stand there and let him see her like this, but she was helpless to move. Huge fingers covered hers and gently pried her hands away from her face, until she found herself staring into those beautiful blue-green eyes of his.

"Cry," he said, his voice low and oddly tender. "Cry it all out, Alexandra."

He rested his hand on the top of her hair and that simple action tore down the last of her boundaries and she allowed herself the exquisite luxury of being held in his strong arms while she cried her heart out.

It was gone, all of it. Gabrielle and the baby and the golden meadows of Provence and that feeling of joy that came over her each time she took her sketchbook out into the field and captured the beauty of the land.

"She never asked me...she didn't care how I felt or what I wanted...everything was taken from me...everything."

"I understand," he whispered. "I know how it feels."

Strangely, she believed he did. How wonderful it felt to rest her head against his chest and feel the beating of his heart, strong and sure against her cheek. Was that how it was with a man then? Protection and comfort and words whispered in the darkness?

He stroked her hair while she cried and listened quietly as she railed against Marisa and the unfairness of life and with each tear shed came acceptance.

"I never wanted anything more than my sketching and the countryside," she managed, accepting a square of white cambric from him to blot her eyes. "I never asked to come here."

"I'm sorry."

She looked up at him, expecting to see that angry cynicism she'd come to know, but it wasn't there. Was it a trick of the moonlight or had they reached an understanding? Feeling awkward, she folded the handkerchief and slipped it into her pocket. "I'll see that it is laundered for you."

"Come," he said gruffly, pushing a lock of hair off her cheek. "I'll take you back to the house. The poacher may still be around."

"I'm fine." She straightened the shawl draped across her shoulders. "Please tend to your own business."

"My business is to see you safely inside."

She glanced toward the campfire gleaming red and orange down the beach. "I am too restless to retire for the evening. I thought I might--"

He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around to face him. "Isn't one attempt on your life diversion enough for an evening, woman? You were lucky this time--you may not be the next."

"I'm not afraid."

"Maybe you should be."

She felt his anger in the way he gripped her. "Do not threaten me, Mr. McKenna, for I shall not stand for it."

"Threaten you?" he roared. "I save your pretty neck from taking target practice and you accuse me of threatening you?" He pulled her up against his body and held her tight. "The candlestick was a threat, Miss Glenn. Saying you would push me down the stairs was a threat. Plunging a knife in my chest was a threat."

"You frightened me," she said, praying she could maintain her composure in the face of such rage. "I took it upon myself to protect my person."

His hands spanned her back, burning through the shawl and the satin dress until her skin sizzled from his touch.

"And now?" he asked, dipping his head toward her. "Are you frightened now?"

"Yes," she said as he moved his mouth near. "Yes."

He was going to kiss her--she knew it in every fibre of her body. Her knees trembled helplessly and her hands grasped his waist for support. Dear God, what on earth was happening to her? He could be her enemy as easily as he could be her friend. How did she know he hadn't taken the initial shot at her?

If she had any sense whatsoever she would turn away from him or struggle or scream if she must, anything to prevent the kiss that she knew would be her undoing. Instead she stood there, paralyzed, and waited.

But to her surprise, he stopped just a breath away from her lips and said, "Go back to the house."

She blinked as if awakening from a dream. "What?"

"Go back to the house."

"But I don't--"

He turned her toward the wooden stairs and gave her a push. "Now!"

Lifting her skirts over her ankles, she flew up the creaking wooden stairs then hurried across the lawn to the main house and she didn't look back.

Matthew watched until he saw her disappear safely into the house and then he swore.

What kind of man was he to send a beautiful woman away without so much as sampling the sweetness of her lips? She had been his for the taking. Only a fool could have misinterpreted the pliant way she acquiesced to his embrace, the look of soft surrender on her lovely face, the low rush of anticipation in her voice.

Right then, right there, he could have tumbled back to the ground and pressed her into the sand with the weight of his body and found the release he needed so desperately--but, no. Honor and compassion and a thousand other worthless emotions he'd believed himself long rid of decided to resurface, making it impossible for him to do anything but what he'd done.

When he'd covered her body with his to shield her from the bullets whizzing overhead, he'd been unbearably aware of her as a woman. The feel of her soft breasts pressed against his chest, the curve of her hips and thighs between his, the way she smelled of the rain combined to bring him quickly to the breaking point.

That had all changed the moment he saw her tears. How defenseless she'd looked without her veneer of worldliness. How vulnerable she had seemed with her proud neck bent and her beautiful face hidden in her hands. How incredibly sweet she had felt in his arms as her tears wet the front of his shirt and tore into his heart.

She'd said things to him that he knew were important, things that would demand his attention later on, but none of it mattered right now. All he could think of was that for a moment, with her in his arms, he had felt alive.

"Good mornin', miss," Janine piped up as Alexandra came downstairs the next morning. "You be up early."

"There's much to be done today," she said as the maid polished the last curve of the bannister. "I thought I would get an early start." She wanted to see Matthew first thing and hopefully put to rest some of the jumbled thoughts that had kept her awake all night. Perhaps the same things that seemed so upsetting in the darkness would seem trifling in the light.

"It would be seemin' today's the day for early starts," Janine said, following Alexandra into the dining room. "Mister Matthew gobbled breakfast and left more than an hour ago."

Disappointment captured her breath for a second, then: "And Stephen?"

"Oh, we wouldn't be expectin' Mister Lowell before evening," she said, eyes dancing with mischief. "He's quite a busy man--or so I hear."

Alexandra refused to speculate on Stephen's illicit rendezvous; her thoughts were too filled with Matthew McKenna and their encounter of the night before. She sat down at her place and helped herself to a steaming cup of tea while Janine bustled into the kitchen for her breakfast.

"Janine," she said as the young maid returned with a tray piled high with coddled eggs and sausage and huge flaky corn muffins dripping with butter, "may I ask you a question?"

Janine looked quite pleased with the idea. "Anything at all, miss. I been here most of my life. If I wouldn't have the answer I should be knowin' someone who do."

"Why do McKenna and Stephen hate one another so much?"

Janine thought for a moment then shrugged. "I never thought much about it, miss. Mister Lowell has been here less than a year and hatin' him seems natural to me. Even his Uncle Andrew ain't partial to him."

"Then I don't understand what he is doing here."

"Blood," said Janine succinctly. "Ain't much reason beyond that so far as I can see. He come 'round one day to visit with his uncle and next thing I know we'd be settin' a place for him each mornin' for breakfast."

"And Mr. McKenna," she ventured, praying her face did not betray her keen interest in the maid's answer. "What is his connection?"

Janine considered her question for a few moments, opening her mouth to speak then closing it quickly. "I don't exactly know," the redhaired maid answered finally, her eyes not quite meeting Alexandra's. "All I can say is he and Mr. Andrew be like a son and his father." She glanced quickly over her shoulder then leaned down toward Alexandra. "Cook told me that his mother worked belowstairs for Mr. Andrew's family back in the city and that Mr. Andrew took her boy under his wing."

"So McKenna works for him then?" she prompted.

Janine shrugged. "He would be takin' care of Mr. Lowell's business, yes, but he wouldn't be one of us."

The maid hurried back into the kitchen as pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. So she and McKenna were more alike than he had first allowed: neither servant nor family, they both occupied an uncertain position in the hierarchy of Sea View although his position certainly ranked higher.

How odd it was to imagine Matthew McKenna as a little boy taken under a man's wing. He seemed as if he had sprung from the earth, with both his strengths and his angers already part of who and what he was. She sipped her tea then shook her head. Impossible to imagine such a powerful man living belowstairs, the son of a woman who made her living on her knees scrubbing floors.

Her teacup clattered back into the saucer as the full meaning of the copper bath tub came clear for her.

He'd watched her--there could be no other explanation.

While she was on her knees scrubbing the wooden floor of the attic, she'd heard a sound near the stairs. Brushing her hair away from her eyes, she'd looked up to see nothing at all yet the sensation of being watched persisted.

Now she knew he'd been there. McKenna had watched her work and somehow her actions had triggered in him an answering memory. The copper tub had been a gesture of respect to those memories; she had only happened to be the recipient.

Those long and languid daydreams she had entertained while soaking in the fragrant water had been the product of her own loneliness, her own needs. They hadn't come close to the real reason behind Matthew McKenna's actions.

The way he'd pushed her from him and ordered her back to the house last night returned in vivid detail making her face flood with color as she attacked her eggs with a fork.

All night long she had wondered why he hadn't kissed her there in the moonlight.

Now the answer was crystal clear.

Why should he? She was nothing to him, just another worker in the Lowell household, and one he associated with his nemesis Stephen in the bargain.

And he had Dayla. Beautiful exotic Dayla with her soft voice and even softer hands to keep him company in the heart of the night.

What use had he for a backward and innocent country girl whose only hope for the future was her ability to paint and the fact that she didn't fear hard work.

Forget him, she ordered herself. Put him from your mind here and now. No good could come of nursing daydreams about Matthew McKenna. No good at all.

And the sooner she could convince herself of that the better off she would be.

Switzerland was magnificent in the spring.

Below the window of Marisa's suite, Lake Geneva glittered in the late afternoon sunshine, the Alps reflected in its turquoise depths.

The last time she visited she had been with Jean-Paul--or was it Henri who had shared her bed. Ah well. No matter. Her fortieth birthday loomed on the horizon and passion was relegated to memory.

How pathetically unfair.

If she felt well enough, she would weep for what had become of her life but she had barely the energy to keep her eyes open although it was but early afternoon.

"Madame Glenn." Her doctor, debonair in a dark brown frock coat and striped trousers, tapped on the door then entered the room. "Your beauty surpasses even our glorious scenery."

"You flatter me, Doctor." You lie, as well.

He availed himself of the chair opposite her chaise longue. "You are well today?" She laughed but the sound was devoid of mirth. "I would rather you tell me."

His festive mood vanished and a sense of dread draped across her like a shroud. So there it was: once again the Almighty had taken her life into His Hands and nothing she or the doctor could do would change the direction in which He was propelling her.

"We have done all we can, Madame. I am sorry." The doctor began to speak rapidly in French and, despite her years in Paris, she found herself losing much of what he said.

"I assume you would advise I get my affairs in order, would you not?"

"That is wise for any of us, Madame Glenn."

"Yes," she persisted, "but wiser for some of us than for others."

He looked up, his brown eyes solemn. "You are correct, Madame. I would recommend you speak with your family. There is, I believe, a daughter...?"

"She is in America," Marisa said. "I will write to her this afternoon."

There was, of course, nothing more to be said and the doctor soon excused himself to see to his next patient.

Alexandra. Marisa leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. The last four nights she had dreamed of her daughter, dark threatening dreams in which the girl held a knife to Marisa's throat and Andrew Lowell, still beautiful, laughed in the background.

Ridiculous, she thought, shaking off the disturbing images.

Andrew Lowell was an old man now and a sick one, if Stephen Lowell were to be believed, and deserving of every ill that befell him. She had waited twenty years for this opportunity, twenty long years to take her revenge upon the man who had changed her life.

Oh, Mary Margaret had done well enough for herself. No one could deny that fact. Anger had fueled her ambitions and she had quickly mastered the intricacies of Parisian society, using her beauty and wit as entree into their world.

But, the girl...dear God, the girl. Marisa had done what she felt was necessary, what she felt was right--even when she agreed to Stephen's grand scheme and sent her daughter off to America to make a future for herself she had managed to believe Alexandra would be the better for the opportunity.

Stephen had approached her when she was at her lowest point, when the knowledge of her impending mortality lay over her like a shroud. She could not, would not, go to her grave without seeking her revenge upon the mighty Andrew Lowell and it Stephen's plans had dovetailed so nicely with her own desire for revenge that she had said yes before she gave her daughter's needs a second thought.

At times it made her uncomfortable that it was Alexandra who would ultimately become the instrument of Andrew Lowell's destruction but the irony of that was unavoidable. Alexandra was the key to their success, the seed Andrew sowed in Marisa's belly coming into full flower before his very eyes. Stephen's plan was foolproof--she knew it was.

What did Alexandra know of the darker side of life, sheltered as she had been in the golden meadows of Provence? Let the girl take what she could from the experience, then build a life for herself afterward.

Let Stephen have Andrew's fortune, for whatever good it may do him.

All Mary Margaret McBride wanted was for Andrew Lowell to understand that his sins would follow him to the grave.

And she would be there waiting for him at the gates of hell.

Alexandra finished breakfast and was passing through the kitchen on her way to the carriage house when Janine called out. "Miss! Miss, it's glad I am I found you. Mr. Matthew been lookin' for you everywhere."

Just the mention of his name made Alexandra's hands start to shake. "He mustn't have looked everywhere, Janine, for I was sitting quite plainly in the dining room this past hour."

"You are wanted upstairs. Mr. Lowell wishes to see you."

"Stephen has returned?"

Janine shook her head. Her eyes were wide as soup bowls. "Mr. Andrew Lowell," she said. "If I were you, miss, I would hurry--Mr. Lowell don't always feel well enough for visitors."

Alexandra knew from her one visit how true that statement was. Racing through the center hallway she paused in front of the mirror and smoothed down her hair and ran a finger across her brows. Thank God she had chosen to pin her hair up in a French twist this morning and that only a few curls had thus far tumbled free. Despite his age and illness, Andrew Lowell had the sharp eyes of an artist and she instinctively knew he would be critical of imperfection.

The exotic Dayla greeted her at the entrance to his suite of rooms. "Good morning, Miss Alexandra," she said in a voice soft as a rushing stream. "He awaits you most anxiously."

The woman's greeting was warm and cordial and Alexandra had to battle down a nip of jealousy at the thought of Dayla in the arms of Matthew McKenna.

McKenna himself stood by the window in Andrew's studio, his profile etched sharply against the leaded glass. He didn't glance her way when she entered and silently she vowed to ignore his presence.

This morning Andrew Lowell sat in a straight-backed chair, draped in a satin-bound blanket. An easel was set up to his right; to his left was a gateleg table with his palette and tins of turpentine and linseed oil arranged upon it.

"Over here, girl," he said, motioning toward a hassock in front of him. "I want to see you when I talk."

McKenna glanced toward her as she crossed the sun-filled studio but she refused to meet his eyes. The memory of the way his arms had felt around her last night was still too fresh in her mind.

Smoothing the back of her skirt she settled herself on the low stool and wished the great artist had seen her last night in her elegant russet gown instead of this flower-sprigged dress.

Andrew Lowell fixed her with his fierce topaz eyes. "I am waiting," he said, his voice stronger than the previous day.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I am waiting," he repeated.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm afraid I do not understand."

"Details, girl, details! Stephen sent you into the attic to begin cataloguing, didn't he?"

She nodded.

"Well, then, how bad is it?"

Matthew's attention was riveted to her and he flashed her a "be careful" sign and beside him, Dayla's huge dark eyes urged caution.

"There's a great deal of work," she began, choosing her words judiciously. "I have barely begun to--"

He raised a gnarled hand to stop her. "The truth," he commanded. "I will not accept less."

Both Matthew and the darkhaired woman looked at her anxiously, warning her to cushion her words but when Alexandra looked into the great Andrew Lowell's eyes, she knew she could not deceive him. She folded her hands on her lap and leaned toward him. "It is a disaster," she said meeting his gaze. "Your works have been sadly neglected and the resulting damage was inevitable."

"Is everything lost?" His eyes were keen upon her, glowing brilliantly within his ravaged face.

"No, but it will take great effort to salvage much of it." She listed the few paintings that needed little more than a thorough cleaning and minor repairs then eased into a list of the more seriously damaged items.

He listened quietly, nodding at intervals, fingers tapping out some inner rhythm on the edge of the gateleg table. "Do you withhold anything, girl?"

"Nothing, sir."

He pointed in the direction of Matthew and Dayla. "They would have had you soften the blow, wouldn't they?"

Alexandra took a deep breath before answering. "They care a great deal for you, sir, and wish you to be happy."

"Come here," he said, motioning her closer. "Bend down beside me and let me see your face."

She cast a questioning look toward Matthew but his face was impassive. He merely watched her, arms folded across his chest. Dayla fluttered like a bird seeking its nest, obviously worried about whether Andrew was tiring himself.

Alexandra rose and moved closer to Andrew, then bent down until her eyes were level with his. He smelled vaguely of lavendar soap and peppermints and, up close, his eyes were even more startling. Age showed more clearly from this range but so did intelligence and fire.

"Look toward the door," he ordered, cupping her face between his bony fingers. "Lift your chin...there it is..." He turned her face so that their eyes were level. "You do some modeling, girl?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. A little." She named a few of the artists she'd posed for and he nodded distractedly.

"Your skin takes the light...a rare thing, that...and your features are familiar somehow..."

Dayla stepped forward, breaking the moment. "She is uncomfortable, Andrew. Please let Alexandra sit down again."

Andrew dismissed the darkhaired woman with a wave of his hand. "Don't disturb me," he barked, then turned back to Alexandra. "You would tell me if you were uncomfortable, wouldn't you, girl?"

"Yes, sir," she managed. "I am in the habit of speaking my mind."

With his fingertips he probed her cheekbones, the angle of her nose, the gentle curve of her forehead and jaw and his inspection caused her to relax as she understood the artist's mind was at work.

"I don't know," he mused quietly. "Something so familiar here...that jawline...have we met before?"

"No, sir," she said with a smile. "I know I would remember such an occasion."

"You were born to be painted, girl. That face is meant to be treasured."

Alexandra knew he was not an idle flatterer and his words caused a thrill to run through her but she could not keep still. "I was born to paint," she corrected softly.

A bushy white eyebrow arched skeptically. "Audacious chit. How dare you assume you can wield a palette knife. It takes years of study." He glared at her. "Artistic talent is a gift from the gods."

She didn't blink beneath his scrutiny. "I have talent," she retorted, "and I hope one day to have time to study."

Closing his eyes, he waved her away impatiently. "Off with you, girl. You're dismissed."

Dear God! Why had she spoken so boldly? Embarrassed, she stumbled to her feet, hands clutching the sides of her cotton gown. "Does that mean I am to leave Sea View?" Her voice was a whisper as she felt a blinding rush of fear sweep down over her.

One golden eye flickered open. "That means you are to go about your business then return here after luncheon to pose for me."

Dayla stepped forward and put a restraining hand on Andrew's shoulder. "Tomorrow morning would be better for you," she murmured softly. "Afternoons are your time to rest."

"I'll rest when I'm dead," he barked. "I am going to paint this afternoon. Now I intend to eat my breakfast in peace. Out with you all!"

Alexandra didn't need to be told twice and her feet carried her swiftly out of the studio. Only when she reached the relative safety of the drawing room, did she dare lean against the wall and wait for her heart to stop pounding wildly inside her chest.

A few moments later Matthew entered the drawing room, closing the door to the studio behind him. "Dayla will help him with breakfast," he said.

Alexandra nodded, finding it difficult to stop her heart's furious pace.

"You handled him very well," he observed, watching her closely. "Good work."

"I did nothing but answer his questions truthfully. If that is cause for thanks..." Her voice trailed off meaningfully.

"How extensive is the damage to the paintings?" he asked as they left Andrew's suite and moved down the hall toward the staircase.

"Very," she said bluntly. "I told him no lie when I said it will take hard work and even then the results cannot be guaranteed."

"Can you handle the job?"

"Some of it, yes. Once the items are properly cleaned and catalogued, the more severe cases should be sent to a museum for examination."

"No." Matthew's voice was adamant. "Under no circumstances do his paintings leave Sea View."

She stopped at the head of the staircase. "I do not understand, Mr. McKenna. I thought the purpose of all this was to save as many works from destruction as possible."

"Not at the risk of Andrew's pride."

"His pride? Those paintings are his legacy. Restoring them should be a tremendous source of pride."

"You don't understand." He started down the stairs and Alexandra hurried behind him.

"Explain it to me then, please," she said, touching his arm as she caught up to him on the landing. "How can sending his paintings to a museum for repair damage his pride?"

McKenna dragged his hand through his hair and muttered an oath that sent Alexandra's color rising but she kept silent. McKenna was obviously struggling to keep his temper under control but still his anger was something to behold. "We have made every effort to prevent Andrew's condition from becoming common knowledge. He's a proud man--pity could do more to hurt him than his illness ever could."

"But the work must be done," she cried. "It would be unconscionable to allow such treasures to turn to dust."

"Then you do it, Miss Glenn. Not a museum."

"But I'm not capable."

"You said you could handle some of it."

"A portion," she explained, "not half of what an expert could accomplish."

"It's the only way," he said, continuing down the stairs. "Either that or the paintings decay before your eyes. It's your choice, Miss Glenn."

Picking up her skirts, she followed him down the steps and into the library in time to see him reach for the decanter of whiskey on the side table and take a long swallow.

"McKenna." Her voice was a whisper. "Don't do it."

His look was dark and unfathomable. "You made your choice," he said, wiping his mouth, "and I made mine."

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Nine

Choices of another sort were being made that morning in a bedroom in Southold as well.

"I don't know, Stephen," the woman said, staring at the painting propped up against her lacquered wall. "It doesn't look so awfully wonderful to me."

Behind his back, Stephen Lowell's hands clenched into fists.

Ignorant cow. He was offering her one of Andrew's best paintings and she was pursing her painted lips as if she knew what in hell she was about.

"Cynthia, darling girl, trust me." He took her plump white hands in his and kissed her palms. "Bernard will be beside himself if you present him with an original Lowell."

Cynthia's upturned nose crinkled in dismay. "But it's so dirty, Stephen. Look at all that dust."

He bit back a sharp reply and somehow managed to retain his winning smile. Next time he would remember that morning sun revealed every flaw in paintings as well as in women. "A good cleaning will take care of that. For a moderate fee, Connor Templeton in Manhattan can restore this to its original splendor."

"I'd rather fancied buying a stickpin for Bernard," she pouted. "Then I should have enough money left to buy matching earbobs for myself."

He looked at his naked greedy mistress and pitied her fool of a husband. Spare him from such undying love. A fat bank account would do more to warm him in his old age than the charms of any woman, no matter how willing. Maybe one day he would tell Bernard but this morning he had other business to attend to.

Reaching into the pocket of his coat, which was draped across the foot of the bed, he withdrew a small flat box and handed it to her with a flourish. "I trust this will suffice, darling girl."

Cynthia squealed in delight as she opened the jewelry case and saw the diamond necklace glittering on a bed of black velvet. "Put it on," she commanded, turning away from him and lifting her hair off her neck. "I must see how wonderful it looks."

He did as she requested, then ducking his head, began a series of lovebites across her shoulder blades and down the curve of her back toward her delightfully rounded buttocks.

"Naughty boy," she said with a girlish giggle. "I should be getting home soon."

"You will." Grasping her hips he turned her around and nipped at the tops of her thighs. "I haven't shown you how much I care, Cynthia." His tongue danced across her moist, throbbing nub and she cried out and moved closer. He cupped her with his hand. The silky red curls were soft against his skin yet her flesh burned with a heat of its own. Breathing deeply of her musky odor, he buried his face against her and caught her honey on his tongue.

"Oh, Stephen...my God, what you do to me...."

Her legs trembled and he pulled her down on the Persian carpet by the fireplace and rolled on top of her. Her green eyes were dilated and wild; her breathing, shallow. Spreading her thighs for him eagerly, she arched to receive him and he pulled back then plunged his shaft deep inside her warmth until she cried out that she could take no more...she would die from pleasure...he was the best...the most wonderful...

And that was when he leaned up on his elbows and withdrew until just the tip of his manhood teased her tender flesh.

"The painting," he said, noting with satisfaction the flush on her shoulders and breasts, the way her mouth seemed swollen with desire. "You should buy the painting, Cynthia."

Her hands clutched his buttocks, her long fingernails digging into his flesh. "Stephen, please," she whimpered, trying desperately to draw him back.

He entered her a fraction then withdrew once again. "The perfect gift, Cynthia," he coaxed, running a finger wet with her juices across her rosy lips. "Trust me."

"Yes," she cried, drawing his finger into her mouth and sucking. "Yes, yes, yes."

Stephen Lowell plunged back into her tight and willing body as she found a quick and violent release.

His own would take much longer, he feared, and had precious little to do with sex.

Power was what he wanted and sex was just one of the many ways he'd discovered to attain it. Cynthia, avaricious and insatiable, was but a means to reach her husband.

Bernard Worthington, respected businessman, ran a tidy trade in stolen artwork. He was discreet, however, and Stephen had learned one never approached him through the front door. No, with Worthington one had to have finesse and how better to finesse one's way into his good graces than through his beloved wife? The moment Worthington saw the painting he would understand what was being offered--and for what price.

Time was of the essence. With Alexandra working in the attic storeroom, the number of paintings already missing from the home collection would soon become apparent. And, worse luck, he overheard Dayla and McKenna talking about his uncle taking up a paint brush again. The last thing he needed was a flood of new paintings to drive down the value of the old. Fortunately, the medications he'd procured from the discreet doctor in Sag Harbor should queel his uncle's artistic yearnings.

Cynthia's moan barely registered upon his mind as his thoughts leaped forward.

The shots he'd fired at Alexandra Glenn last night were part of his grand scheme. A few attempts on her life and everyone would be talking about the poacher. He laughed as he thought about the daisies he'd filched one morning right under Cook's watchful eye. They were so caught up in their fear of the gypsies camping in town that real danger passed them right by. Marisa's daughter would help him get more of Lowell's paintings out of that attic and into the right hands and then he would kill her and his bastard uncle, as well.

And, if he had planned things right, no one would look beyond the gypsy encampment for the murderer.

A perfect scheme.

As flawless as the woman moaning beneath him.

Rearing back he plunged into her as deeply as he could and laughed when he climaxed inside her.

Perfect, he thought. All of it, perfect.

Promptly at one o'clock, Alexandra presented herself at Andrew's suite. Dayla, in her usual white dress, greeted Alexandra at the door with a warmm smile and led her into the studio where Andrew awaited. Alexandra had a terrible time maintaining her composure as vivid images of the beautiful dark-haired woman entwined in the arms of Matthew McKenna danced before her eyes.

It was all too confusing and she was glad when Dayla opened the door to Andrew's studio and said, "He is ready. I shall return in an hour," then disappeared.

"Don't just stand there, chit," came Andrew's voice from where he sat in the center of the room. "We're wasting valuable daylight."

Her boots made a terrible clacking noise on the shiny wood floor of the studio and she steeled herself against the artist's critical inspection.

"That dress does not flatter you ," he said in his blunt fashion. "Throw it out."

Her temper flared despite her best intentions. "I will not! I have few enough gowns as it is, Mr. Lowell, and I shan't throw them away as your whim dictates." A smile began to crack through her apprehension. "You are an artist," she said boldly. "Paint me another dress."

She heard an answering smile in his voice although his stern countenance did not soften. "And while I'm about it, shall I paint you a quieter pair of boots then, girl?"

"I wondered if you would notice."

"How could I not?" he countered, adjusting his easel with trembling hands. "The sound could wake the dead." He motioned toward the window. "Sit over there," he commanded, "and I shall do the best I can considering that dress."

Alexandra positioned herself at the window, striking one of the poses she had learned from artists in Provence. To an artist, light was a blessing from God and she understood just how it must strike her features to display her to best advantage.

"Excellent," said Andrew. "You have modeled before, have you not?"

"Yes, I have." Sadness tugged at her heart that he could not remember their last conversation.

"Turn a little...yes...that's it...damnation!" A fine camel's hair brush rolled under his chair and he made an involuntary move toward it then stopped, his lean face wracked with misery as she realized he had not the agility to retrieve it.

His mask had slipped and she saw the vulnerable man behind it and her fear vanished. Without a word she handed the brush to him then resumed her pose at the window. A long silence filled the room as he looked at her with those remarkable lion's eyes.

"Thank you," he said gruffly.

"You're welcome," she said.

He began to paint.

"I will give him an hour," said Dayla as Matthew walked with her through the garden of wild daisies and lilies of the valley. "No more."

Matthew, who was carrying a glass of whiskey, took her arm to guide her around a rabbit hole. "I am surprised you would leave them alone for that long."

Dayla turned her dark eyes upon him. "She is a good woman," she said softly. "Do you think so?"

The memory of Alexandra crying in his arms the night before was still strong within him. "I don't know. I believe she is, but I just don't know."

"Her eyes," said Dayla. "It is all in her eyes...sadness...aloneness. Do you not see it?"

Oh, he saw it. He saw all of that and so much more when he looked at Alexandra Glenn that it terrified him. Doors he'd believed forever locked behind him were suddenly forced open and a part of him longed to slam them shut and keep the darkness inside his heart.

"There is still Stephen," he managed after a moment. "He is still involved in this."

Dayla shot him a sidelong glance. "They are not lovers."

"How in hell would you know that?"

"I watch," she said, "and I listen. The man-woman magic is not there for them."

So Alexandra had been telling the truth, after all. He took another sip of whiskey to hide the smile on his face.

"She is for you."

He nearly choked on his whiskey. "You've lost your mind."

"No," she said, stopping near the azalea bushes and taking his hand, "but you are losing your heart."

"I can't," he said quietly. "That's the one thing I cannot do."

"Too late," said Dayla, giving him a hug. "It is already a long time too late."

From the window in Andrew's studio, Alexandra saw the whole exchange. Her breath caught when the woman took McKenna's hand and her heart ached when he drew Dayla close to him in a hug. Alexandra knew that hug; she had felt it just last night. She had known the solid warmth of his chest and the strength of his arms as they wrapped themselves around her. The faint scent of whiskey and soap lingered in her senses.

God help her, how she had wanted to feel his lips upon hers.

In the garden below, the two lovers drew apart then went their separate ways. Could Stephen be right, she wondered. Was there a collaboration of some sort going on beneath the roof at Sea View? Were Dayla and Matthew somehow conspiring against the Lowells?

"Straighten up, girl," snapped Andrew. "I can't sketch you if you slouch like a scullery maid."

"No more," she said, breaking the pose. "Dayla is on her way upstairs."

"The hour is over?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "The hour is over."

As Dayla glided into the room, all diaphanous white dress and sweet smile, Alexandra excused herself and fled from the studio. Never again, she swore as she ran across the yard toward the carriage house. Never again would she let Matthew McKenna get the better of her.

Whatever she felt for him, it would stay her secret.

"Poor little chit," said Andrew as he and Dayla watched Alexandra disappear into the carriage house. "She saw you and Matthew in the garden."

Dayla's head tilted to the left as it always did when she was interested in something. "We were talking," she said, "nothing more. He speaks of her."

Andrew smiled and patted her cheek. "I know, Dayla. I saw you. But to her young eyes it was a betrayal."

"It is the same for him," she said, stroking his hair with her gentle, miraculous fingers. "The guilt he carries destroys him each day."

"Would it help if I had you and Janine pour all the whiskey and vodka and rum in the house into the ocean?"

Dayla sadly shook her head. "He would buy more and hide it better. The solution must come from Matthew or there is no solution at all."

Suddenly exhaustion found Andrew and took him captive. "I am tired," he managed. "Can you--"

"I'll see you back into bed," said his woman. "Lean on me."

He did.

Just as he had done every day of his life since he found her.

Stephen returned home in the late afternoon, acting spry and cocky, and Alexandra couldn't help laughing at his outrageous stories about Riverhead's country lawyers and their bumbling ways.

Janine must be wrong, she thought after he left her in the attic and headed toward the main house. Stephen seemed as upright and moral as the day was long. She simply couldn't imagine him cuckolding another man.

An image of Matthew came to mind and she struggled to push it aside. With McKenna anything was possible.

She'd spent her time following the modeling session separating the different art works into groups according to medium. Legend had it Andrew Lowell was as prolific a painter as he was profligate a man, and looking at the hundreds of paintings arranged before her, she shuddered at the implication.

What must it be like for him now, a man who prided himself on fleshly delights, to be houseridden, struggling to garner enough energy to do a simple sketch?

From the garden below came the roar of male voices; McKenna's furious bass overwhelmed Stephen's angry tenor. She stood near the window, shielded by a yellowed lace curtain, trying to understand their words yet almost afraid of what she might hear.

Andrew's name floated up to her quite clearly as did talk of medicine and paintings. Once she thought she heard Stephen mention her own name but McKenna's bellow drowned out everything else.

Dayla floated out from the main house, a dark vision in white, and soon after Alexandra saw the woman return inside with McKenna in tow.

She turned from the window and it was a long while before she continued with her work.

"Hush," said Dayla, pushing open the door to Andrew's studio cum bedroom. "He sleeps."

"We'll talk out here," said Matthew, hesitating at the doorway. "I don't want to awaken him."

"With the medication he sleeps soundly," the woman said, ushering him inside. "I feel better when I am with him."

Andrew Lowell, who was feigning a deep sleep, smiled inwardly.

"With the medication, he usually sleeps at the noon hour," Matthew observed. "Why not today?"

"The girl," said Dayla. "She challenges him and he feels the urge to paint."

Yes, she challenged him, Andrew thought, and the urge to paint was strong within him. But sleep would have been inescapable had he not hidden the powders in a small ivory box in his nightstand. Evading Dayla's scrutiny had not been easy; it had taken him many days to accomplish it.

But his discovery proved him right. He was ill, yes, but the deep sleep was drug-induced. It could be avoided. He had the feeling both Stephen and the Sag Harbor doctor knew that all too well.

He didn't need sleep--he didn't want it. The girl had come into his life for a purpose and he wouldn't rest until he discovered what that purpose was. Not even Stephen's apparent treachery was more important. There was something so familiar about her, something that tugged way back at a hidden corner of memory. The delicate tilt of her luminous eyes, that clear apricot-tinted skin, the way she carried herself as if the world were her very oyster...

"Stephen will use her if he can," Dayla warned softly. "She will be yours to protect."

Matthew was silent and Andrew could feel his pain. The boy carried around with him enough guilt to bring Atlas to his knees. How could he take on the protection of a beautiful young woman who had caught Stephen's eye when his own heart was scarred and broken?

But the girl was good, Andrew knew that deep in his soul, and since Dayla came into his life, he understood what a gift the love of a good woman truly was. Not money nor title nor position could equal it. He could wish no greater joy for Matthew. He opened his eyes and saw Matthew, head bowed, standing near the window overlooking the ocean.

At the moment, joy seemed very far away.

Stephen was ebullient and entertaining at dinner that night, but there was an almost indefinable edge to his stories that made Alexandra uncomfortable. As for Matthew, he had started the meal with them but soon spent most of his time pacing between the dining room and the library in search of the perfect glass of whiskey.

Only when talk turned to the shots fired the previous night on the beach did the two men actually engage in conversation and then it seemed to Alexandra that gunfire was infinitely preferable to the verbal poison darts they hurled at one another.

"Are you insane, man?" Stephen said over after-dinner coffee. "How could you let Alexandra walk the beach with that damn gypsy camp so close by?"

Matthew glared at Stephen, his blue-green eyes glittering dangerously. "Miss Glenn is a grown woman. It's not up to me to tell her where she can and can't walk."

Alexandra looked down at her dessert pastry recalling the violent way McKenna had railed at her about safety.

"Common courtesy, McKenna." Stephen shot him a look. "Or is that something you have yet to learn?"

Sit down, Matthew, she thought as he sprang to his feet. Don't let Stephen provoke you this way.

"We can settle this outside," he said, his words clipped and deadly. "Or aren't you man enough to fight, Lowell?"

Involuntarily Alexandra reached out and touched McKenna's sleeve. His head swiveled in her direction and she forced herself to meet his eyes.

"Don't," she said quietly, withdrawing her hand and placing it on her lap. "You've been drinking. You're exaggerating its importance."

"Listen to your new advocate," Stephen said, his voice mocking, "for it will not be long before she, too, knows you for what you are."

Matthew leaned across the huge dining room table and grabbed Stephen by his perfectly tailored lapels. "Shut up," he growled, "before I shove your teeth down your throat."

"Matthew!" Alexandra leaped to her feet and grabbed his arm. "This is insane! Stop this instant."

"I can fight my own battles, Alexandra," said Stephen, looking for all the world as if he were losing one. "This Neanderthal will tire of his games soon enough."

Matthew dropped Stephen into his seat as if he were a sack of rags. "I tired of you months ago," he said through gritted teeth. "The wonder is that you're still around."

"The wonder, my dear boy, is that you're still around," Stephen countered. "Perhaps it is a sign of the extent of my uncle's infirmity that he tolerates the presence of a drunken murderer in his house."

Murderer? Alexandra's blood chilled and she began to tremble. Neither man noticed as she stood up and made for the door.

"You'll die by those words," Matthew swore. "By God, I'll see to it myself."

"Such a temper," taunted Stephen. "One can only imagine how easy it was for you to lose control."

Alexandra fled from the room and hurried through the hallway to the front door. Quickly she let herself out and, cursing her slim-fitting skirts, headed around the house toward the stairs that led down to the beach.

Sunset was still some time away; the sky was bathed in shades of orange and red and yellow. The smooth surface of the normally turbulent Atlantic picked up those colors and threw them back at the heavens, multiplied ten fold. At any other time she would long to capture this beauty with her paints but not now. Now she burned with anger and trembled with fear and churned with a thousand emotions in between. Murderer! What on earth had Stephen meant by that? She'd seen McKenna's temper firsthand but never had she imagined that that he could be capable of that ultimate crime.

In her mind's eyes she saw him moving silently from dining room to library, downing whiskey after whiskey yet growing sharper still. The lines of his long, lean torso, the way the lamplight gleamed off his sunbleached hair, the simplicity of the black trousers and white cambric shirt he wore most often--it was all burned into her memory indeliby as a tattoo.

You don't know anything about him, her mind cautioned. All you know is what you see. How many times growing up had she waded into a clear and placid lake only to discover the bottom dropping away beneath her feet?

That was how it seemed with Matthew McKenna. In just a few days he had revealed himself as alternately being gruff then kind, rude then considerate, violent yet capable of tenderness that made her heart melt when she looked at him.

Would Andrew Lowell suffer a fool? She thoought not. Stephen must be exaggerating for she could not imagine a man as brilliant and demanding as the great artist allowing a murderer domicile under his own roof. Servants knew eveything and Janine had made it clear that Matthew McKenna was the salt of the earth and it was Stephen Lowell who was something decidedly less.

It was all so terribly confusing. Alexandra continued to walk along the shore, picking up shells here and there, then tossing them back into the surf. Sand crabs scattered to avoid her bootheels as she passed and she carefully eluded an unpleasant looking creature she assumed was a Portuguese man-of-war.

As she continued walking the beach narrowed and the houses on the dunes grew further apart. Once she stopped and turned around to find Sea View fading in the distance. Good, she thought. The last thing she wanted was to be embroiled in the internecine war going on back at the house.

It was difficult enough to be so far from home. To become ensnared in an ugly conflict would make it unbearable.

How complicated her life had become since leaving Provence. Even the primal pleasure she had once received from her drawing was tangled up in new expectations, new goals. Her sketches now seemed amateurish and clumsy compared to the examples of Andrew's earlier works. One of his simple pencil sketches contained more power and passion than her finest oil painting.

Back at Sea View Stephen showered her with attention and flattery and yet she found it impossible to summon up even the slightest spark of romantic interest.

Yet, Matthew, whose very presence caused her blood to run quick and hot, treated her as if she were the enemy in a very private conflict.

The sun began its descent into the sea. The gathering darkness was streaked with magenta and indigo and a deep rose-pink. A few hundred feet ahead, flickering atop a dune, orange flames from a campfire caught her attention and drew her across the beach toward its fiery glow.

A rush of nostalgia flooded over her as she recognized the distinctive tents of a gypsy caravan and the smell of chicken roasting over the fire. From her vantage point she saw candles burning on a low bench and she remembered how her foster mother Esme had taught her that candles were not made of wax but were all flame.

Back in France Esme had taught her many things: how to use herbs and flowers, roots and berries to cure all manner of ills or keep an unwanted babe from being conceived. Even a concept as basic as privacy took on a different aspect when seen through the eyes of one born to the Rom as Esme had been. The gypsies she'd known believed privacy to be a gift one person gave to another and it extended from the boundaries of one's tent to the way one lived one's life.

Watching these gypsies from her hiding spot behind an outgrowth of dune grass was a violation of all her foster mother had taught her. Two dark-haired gypsy children played in front of the brightly painted wagon and Alexandra was about to walk over and introduce herself when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She wasn't surprised to see it was Matthew McKenna.

"They don't welcome outsiders, Alexandra," he said, "no matter how beautiful the outsider might be."

"I'm not an outsider," she said, trying to mask the rush of pleasure his compliment--no matter how indirect--gave her. "My mother was a gypsy."

"You don't belong here," he persisted. "Come back to the house."

"You're wrong," she said, moving away from here toward the gypsy camp. "I belong here more than I belong back at Sea View. This, at least, I understand."

The faint sound of violins mingled with the crackling of the camp fire brought quick tears to her eyes.

"Is this all I do for you?" Matthew asked, touching her cheek. "Make you cry?"

"You flatter yourself, sir. It's the music and nothing more."

But that wasn't true, not entirely. The music was but a catalyst calling forth a homesickness so deep she found it difficult to draw breath.

"Tell me what you're thinking, Alex. It may help to speak of it."

She thought of the fleet footed girls who could dance on moonbeams and the men who leaped like unbroken colts. McKenna was of this earth, with both his feet planted firmly in the soil. How could she explain to him how it felt to sway with the fire and never get burned?

"The countryside was magic," she said, thinking back to those golden meadows and those golden days safe and secure in the care of Esme and Paul Charbonne. "Each summer the gypsies returned to Provence and Esme would take me with her to live with her family."

McKenna looked shocked. "You lived with gypsies?"

"You needn't seem so surprised," Alexandra said. "I found greater love and acceptance there than I have found any place else." She could still remember the warm and fragrant chunks of fresh bread each morning and the aroma of coffee brewed in a bright red enamel pot. More than anything else, however, she remembered the joy she'd felt in a world that throbbed with the rhythm of life, unfettered by walls and boundaries created by man to keep other men away.

McKenna watched her intently, his expression betraying nothing at all. "I was taught that gypsies were thieves and witches," he said. "Mothers kept their children close to the breast when a caravan came into town."

"Fools!" spat Alexandra. "Their ways are different, not evil. A more God-fearing people you will never find."

She told him about dipping the statues of Tres Saintes Maries in the Mediterranean in a timeless search for health and good fortune. She told him about the goddess Sara-la-Kali, with her beautiful dress and golden crown and the country fairs with the traveling merry-go-rounds and the troupe of wrestlers in their loose-fitting pants with their shiny medallions swinging from round their necks.

"Their code is simple," she said: "Help your brothers; never bring harm to them; pay what you owe and, above all, never be afraid." She turned her hands palms up. "Perhaps others would benefit from such beliefs."

Matthew's blue-green gaze was still focused upon her. "You long for home," he observed.

"Yes," she said. "I do."

He took her hand in his and traced an outline in her palm. "What do you see, gypsy girl?" he murmured softly. "Will you go home one day?"

Alexandra pulled away for his touch burned hotter than the gypsy campfire. "I do not know," she answered after a moment. "My fortune seems to not be my own."

He extended his right hand toward her. "Tell me mine then."

She shook her head. "I have not the gift."

"You do," he said. "You can see what is happening, can you not?" He stepped forward, looming large and threatening in the half-light of dusk.

She took a step backward but bumped into a tall blade of dune grass. "Perhaps we should go back to the house after all."

"I don't think so." He advanced closer.

"Mr. McKenna--"

"Matthew."

"Mr. McKenna, please don't do this."

He was so close she could feel the warmth of his breath against her cheek. "I haven't done anything yet, Alexandra, but I am sure you need not be a fortune teller to predict the inevitable."

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment as she tried to gather her wits about her. "You've been drinking. You don't know what you're doing."

"I've been drinking," he admitted, "but I damn well know what I'm doing."

She gasped as he plunged his hands into her black mass of curls and tilted her head back until her eyes met his.

"I'm going to kiss you, Alexandra," he said, moving his mouth closer to hers. "Do you understand that?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Yes, I do."

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Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by

Fire's Lady

Chapter Ten

Matthew's mouth found hers and in that instant her arms wound around his neck as he pulled her into an embrace. His lips were insistent, moving against hers in a deliberate rocking motion that sent waves of sensation careening through her body.

He held her by the waist, his large hands nearly spanning the circumference, and she couldn't remember a time when she felt more delicate, more feminine.

How had such pleasure escaped her all these years, she wondered as his tongue lightly traced the outline of her mouth. How could feelings so magnificent have slipped by unnoticed? She felt as if she'd been but half-alive, awakened as in a fairy tale by the kiss of the handsome prince.

Only this wasn't a fairy tale and Matthew McKenna was far more dangerous than a storybook hero would dare to be.

"Open your mouth for me." His breath was hot and moist against her skin and she shivered with voluptuous pleasure at his words. "Do it for me, Alexandra."

Timidly she parted her lips, gasping as his silken tongue plunged into the cavern of her mouth. The invasion was startling. She had never imagined the sweetness of a man's mouth nor the power inherent in a kiss.

She waited, scarcely breathing, while his tongue slid across her teeth, tasting and savoring all the moist recesses of her mouth. It seemed as if her body were a series of electric impulses, all connected, as violent currents of sensation moved from her mouth to her breasts then down into her belly where they grew more intense.

Cautiously her tongue touched his and his hold on her tightened. Like a fencing match they dueled in sensual combat until she thought she would go mad from the tension building inside her.

His hands slid down her waist until he grasped her by the hips, fingers pressing into the softness of her belly, then pulled her so close she could feel the hardness and the heat of his loins. She understood his fire for it was hers also, incinerating her inhibitions.

He urged her on with his hands and mouth, setting off random brushfires impossible to control. Her hands explored the muscles of his shoulders and back, glorying in the very maleness of him.

"...so sweet..." he murmured low, "...so lovely..."

He kissed his way down her throat as his hands began to undo her bodice. Reason returned in that instant.

"No," she said, her voice husky with a desire she'd never before known, "you cannot, Matthew."

One button, then two, then three. A quick undoing of satin laces and the cool night air whispered over her bare skin drawing her nipples into tight rosebuds. He cupped her breasts and she moaned as he drew his calloused palms across those aroused peaks.

But it was when he brought his mouth low and his lips touched her breast that reality crashed in upon her and she gathered her strength to push him away.

"This is wrong," she managed, not really understanding why. "This can't happen."

"It is right," he said, drawing a finger down into her deep cleavage, "and it is happening."

"No!" Her hands shook as she started to rebutton her bodice. "It cannot happen. I won't allow it."

His large warm hand brushed her hair from her face then forced her eyes to meet his.

"It will happen." His beautiful eyes went dark with passion. "Make no mistake about it, Alexandra. It will happen."

To her amazement, he brushed away her fumbling hands and redid her buttons and laces.

They walked back to Sea View in silence but his words--and his touch--stayed with her the rest of the night.

A damned fool, that's what he was.

Matthew paced the length of the darkened library, his restlessness fueled by both whiskey and frustration.

Hell, twice a fool said it better.

He had no business kissing Alexandra Glenn--and he had no business letting it end.

He dragged his hand through his hair and stared gloomily out the French doors into the black night. The crash of the ocean mingled with the faint sound of gypsy violins in the distance, and he found the combination strangely compelling.

What in hell had possessed him to pull her into his arms like that? He was moving too fast, thinking too little. Alexandra Glenn had crept inside his heart in the blink of an eye and he was helpless in her presence.

Helpless to do anything but pull her into his arms and savor the sweetness of her body.

He swore out loud as he remembered the way her breasts had swelled to meet his hands, the way her taut nipples had teased his palm. He closed his eyes as he remembered how she looked, tousled and flushed with desire, when he opened the bodice of her gown and exposed her beauty to his greedy eyes.

She wasn't anything like the women he'd taken his pleasure with since leaving San Francisco. Her heart was soft as a green young tree facing its first spring, not gnarled and hardened with the years.

Alexandra was everything his wife Madolyn had seemed to be in the beginning, everything he'd hoped for in a wife.

Yet see how that turned out.

Another letter from his attorney Edward Whittington burned in his pocket, reminding him that Madolyn's life continued at its frenzied pace without him. A Russian count had moved into the mansion and into her bed. Not only was Madolyn lavishing money upon her latest paramour, she had opened the mansion to her European friends for gambling fetes that were quickly diminishing Matthew's funds.

Put a stop to it, I beg of you, my friend, Whittington wrote. Your name, your wealth, your future are being destroyed while you languish back there in New York. If you place any value at all upon my friendship and loyalty, you will heed my words and return to San Francisco post haste.

"You don't understand," Matthew said out loud to the empty library. It was no longer just loyalty to Andrew that kept him at Sea View.

It was a girl with golden eyes and gypsy black hair who held him captive as surely as if she'd put him in chains.

His name had been destroyed years ago with the accident and he'd learned he could live without one. He'd made one fortune and had little doubt he could make another one should the first disappear.

But the future...

For the first he believed he might have one.

Return to San Francisco?

With apologies to his friend Edward Whittington, there wasn't a chance in hell.

Andrew Lowell couldn't sleep. Once again he had managed to palm the medication and stash it in the drawer of his nightstand and, although the pain was still present, his mind was miraculously sharp and clear.

Perhaps too clear.

For hours now he had lain there next to the gently sleeping Dayla, while the vision of Alexandra haunted him. Those arrogant, aristocratic cheekbones. That sculpted jaw. The slanted eyes the color of molten gold. Why did she seem as familiar to him as the back of his hand?

When he sketched her this afternoon, why did he feel a trembling sense of deja vu wash over him? How familiar it had felt as he captured the angles of her face, the luxurious flow of her hair, as if he had done this all before, back in the days of his youth.

But that was impossible. He knew that. The time he remembered would have been long before Miss Glenn was born, but the feeling he had was so intense--so unnerving--that it was nearly dawn before he finally drifted off into sleep and dreamed of a parlormaid he hadn't thought about in years.

Sea View was alive with tensions.

Andrew was querulous and inquisitive. He frequently questioned Alexandra about paintings that weren't in the attic, demanding that she go back and search for them. Invariably she came up empty-handed. The simple explanation that he must have sold them long ago did not sit well with the artist and Alexandra's nerves were badly frayed at the end of each morning's modeling session.

To make matters worse, Andrew's attention span was sorely limited and he frequently fell into a deep sleep during their time together and the ever-vigilant Dayla would bring things to a graceful close. Dayla was always warm and comforting, intensely female in the most positive way imaginable. If it hadn't been for the cutting edge of her jealousy, Alexandra might have liked the woman tremendously.

As it was, the thought of the dusky beauty entangled in McKenna's arms each night as she imagined they were kept Alexandra sullen and uncommunicative in the woman's presence. The solitude of the carriage house attic after each session was a welcome relief.

At the dinner table every evening McKenna and Stephen circled each other like male dogs around a bitch, each looking to stake his claim and Alexandra was left with the horrible notion that he was the claim in question.

Not that Matthew had so much as spoken a civil word to her since that night on the beach eight days ago. Oh, no, not the arrogant Mr. McKenna, although she knew he watched her from every corner of the huge house, those beautiful blue-green eyes of his taking in every move she made, every thing she did.

He brooded.

He drank.

He managed to fill every corner of the sprawling mansion with his dark presence.

But never once did he allude by either word or deed that the glorious passion they'd shared on the beach was anything but a product of her feverish virgin's imagination.

Stephen, on the other hand, always managed to maintain his sunny good cheer, providing sparkling conversation at meal times despite the glowering Mr. McKenna who watched them both with hooded eyes.

The poacher struck again, stealing a dog-cart from the carriage house and some chickens from a farm a half-mile down the road. The gypsies, of course, were blamed for the occurrence and the camp up the beach closed in upon itself. Year-round residents took to carrying weapons and Alexandra decided that venturing forth for long walks on the abandoned beach might be unwise even though she longed for a chance to be with people she understood.

And so she stayed close to Sea View, growing more bored, more agitated and more confused with each day that passed.

All that remained of her old life was her sketching and she often sought refuge after dinner in a far corner of the yard with a tablet and charcoal pencils. Andrew's artistic brilliance both intimidated and inspired her and these stolen hours away were a balm to her troubled soul.

One evening in the middle of her second week, Alexandra stole away before the after-dinner coffee had been served. Matthew and Stephen had been particularly unpleasant to one another and the need to escape into a world of her own creation was strong within her. Grabbing her pencils and sketchbook, she slipped out through the kitchen door, trusting Janine to keep her secret.

The three oak trees at the far end of the backyard beckoned to her as she hurried across the lawn. The sun was lowering, streaking the sky with vivid shades of orange and red. Dusk would soon settle over the eastern end of Long Island and if she were to finish her sketch of the gazebo she must settle down to work soon.

Alexandra drew switftly; her hand inscribed the angles of the gazebo, the curve of the azalea bushes with both precision and passion. Her eye calculated the sweep of the sky, the slight tilt of the gazebo's roof and by some miracle of artistic osmosis, her vision of both sky and roof appeared on her sketchpad.

She finished the first drawing and quickly flipped to a fresh page to capture the remarkable shadows falling across the house and lawn. Joy, deep and exhilarating, erased the pain and uncertainty of the past month and she felt hopeful in a way she'd believed lost. How could she have forgotten? This was why she'd been put on the earth; she could imagine no wonder more magnificent than the wonder of creating beauty where none had existed before.

"It's almost dark. You should come back to the house soon."

She started at the sound of a male voice behind her. "Matthew?" she asked, turning.

It was, indeed. He stood leaning against a weeping willow tree, shrouded in the deep blue light of dusk. Only the pure white of his shirt stood out, throwing the muscular lines of his torso into bold relief.

"It wasn't my intention to frighten you," he said from the shadows.

"You didn't frighten me." She closed her sketchbook. "I simply did not hear you approach."

"I had believed Andrew to be the only one with such intense powers of concentration." His teeth gleamed white in the darkness as he smiled. "I see now I was wrong."

Despite her better judgment, Alexandra was deeply pleased by his words. "Any comparison between myself and Andrew Lowell is something to be treasured, even if it is but a comparison of our powers of concentration."

"Are you any good?" McKenna asked.

She had to laugh at his blunt question. "And what am I to say to that?" she countered. "If I modestly protest, I do myself a disservice; if I praise myself to the heavens, I am rude and pompous."

"Just tell me the truth," McKenna said, stepping out of the shadows.

She tossed her hair back over her shoulder. "The truth it is: yes, I am very good."

His laughter was a rumble of low, masculine thunder. "Show me."

"Are you an art critic?"

"No, but I know what I like."

She considered him for a moment then shook her head. "I think not."

"I didn't take you for a coward, Alex."

His words worked as he'd intended them to: she handed over her sketchbook, thankful she'd hidden the pencil portraits of him in the bottom of her armoire. McKenna was silent as he flipped through the collection of drawings and she shifted uncomfortably on her bench.

"If you do not say something within the next ten seconds, Mr. McKenna, I shall not be held accountable for my actions."

He closed the sketchbook and handed it back to her. "You're right." Once again he favored her with a smile. "You are good."

"Really?"

"Really."

How foolish she was to let an idle compliment cause a rush of pleasure to surge wildly through her body. He wasn't Andrew Lowell or an art critic or even a lover of paintings. He was simply a man whose banked fires tempted her more than was wise.

He reached deep into the pocket of his black trousers and withdrew a tiny round object. "Here," he said, handing it to her. "I would like to know what you think of this."

It was a miniature in a pewter frame; despite the gathering darkness, Alexandra could make out the handsome features of a man and the lovely face of a woman holding a bouquet of roses.

"It's magnificent," she said, running her index finger along the intricate carving on the frame. It had never occurred to her he was a collector. "I apologize for assuming you knew nothing about art. You chose well. This will probably be of value someday."

"Only to me," he said, his voice oddly tender. "Those are my parents."

"Your parents?"

"Don't sound so surprised, Alex. I wasn't raised by wolves."

"I never said you were."

"No," he said, "I suppose you didn't. But you thought so, didn't you?"

Certainly so dangerous a question deserved to remain unanswered. "Where do they live?" she asked.

"They don't. They died over ten years ago."

"I'm sorry."

"I am at least happy they lived long enough to savor the benefits of my success."

Benefits of his success? She had assumed McKenna to be some manner of poor relation living with Andrew Lowell until he could get back on his feet. What other facets remained hidden by his angers?

"My foster parents are gone also," she said quietly, gazing down at the faces of McKenna's mother and father. "Two years this August and still the pain is fresh and new."

"It grows easier with time, Alex. I can promise you that."

The silence between them was a living thing, filled with an understanding she wouldn't have believed possible just one hour before. McKenna knew what she had been feeling for he had suffered the same loss himself.

"There is some deterioration in the center of the portrait," she said when the silence grew too powerful. She ran her thumb along the spot where Mr. McKenna's hand rested atop his wife's right shoulder. "It follows the curve of your mother's torso."

He bent down to take a closer look and she caught the scent of soap and sea air. "It's all I have of them," he said. "This and their wedding rings."

Impulsively, she laid her hand atop his in a gesture of comfort. "I believe it can be repaired, Matthew."

"With difficulty?"

"No," she said, her voice catching inexplicably on the word. "I think I can do it quite easily."

He nodded and in his eyes she saw an emotion she dared not put a name to.

"Come." He reached for her hand. "It grows dark. I will see you back to the house."

"That isn't necessary," she whispered, wishing the moment could go on and on.

"Yes, it is," he said gruffly and this one time she gave herself up to his will.

On Monday of her third week in Easthampton, Stephen announced that he was sailing for France on Friday and thus would be leaving for Manhattan and the docks on the Thursday afternoon train.

Even though he knew Stephen would soon be gone, McKenna seemed to take a savage pleasure in plunging one verbal dagger after another into his rival and she had to hand it to the younger man for not lashing back at McKenna in kind.

"He speaks from the bottle," Stephen told her over breakfast one morning when Matthew was nursing a particularly nasty whiskey headache. "I cannot find it within me to debate a man who is not in full control of his mental faculties."

Alexandra nodded, fussing with her eggs and sausage. She did not want to be Stephen's confidante in this matter.

"How long will you be gone?" she asked, steering the conversation away from McKenna. She had restored the miniature for him and he'd thanked her graciously but that feeling of kinship had vanished although the memory, sharp and bittersweet, still lingered within her.

"At least a month, darling girl," Stephen said, leaning back in his chair and adjusting the daisy in his lapel flower bottle. "One week over, one week back, and at least two weeks visiting the galleries in Paris and London. I have been staying close to uncle Andrew these past months and have sorely neglected my overseeing duties."

"Have you informed your uncle of your plans?"

Stephen poured himself some more coffee from the silver pot on the table. "This afternoon," he said. "He has been feeling so under the weather lately that I hesitated to broach the topic."

That piece of information puzzled Alexandra for Stephen had not seemed necessary to Andrew's day-to-day survival at Sea View. Certainly not necessary in the way Dayla was--or even Matthew McKenna, for that matter.

But that was neither here nor there. In just two days Stephen would be leaving for New York City and she would find herself alone in this huge house with only the overworked Janine for companionship.

And Matthew McKenna...

She dared not think of McKenna, for her awareness of him as a man was so heightened that she doubted that now she'd be able to sustain a prolonged conversation with him without imagining the taste and the feel of him once again. Perhaps a friendship had never been possible; perhaps that brief moment of true understanding between them that night near the gazebo had been the illusion of a homesick and lonely girl who had been disappointed when he did not try to kiss her again.

Across the table Stephen extracted a gold toothpick from its black velvet sheath and delicately probed a molar. "We must talk later," he said after finishing his dental exploration. "There is the matter of my uncle's medication to go over."

Alexandra had hoped he'd forgotten. "I am uncertain about that," she ventured. "Both Dayla and Mr. McKenna seem quite competent to--"

Stephen leaned forward and took her hands in his. "But they are not you."

She tried to devise a polite way to remove her hands from his but failed. "I'm certain they have only Mr. Lowell's best interest at heart."

His pale blue eyes were wide and guileless. "I hesitate to say this, Alexandra, but I fear I do not trust them as I ought."

"You scarcely know me," she protested. "How can you know with certainty that I am trustworthy?"

"I know," he said, giving a tender squeeze. "I know."

There was a theatrical cough from the dining room entrance and Alexandra knew without turning around that Matthew McKenna had overheard their conversation.

And seen her hands in Stephen's.

"Don't let me interrupt this charming tableau," he said, his words clear and distinct. "I'm just in for a cup of coffee then I'll leave you two to your schemes."

Alexandra's face flamed with discomfort yet still Stephen held her hands in his. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. Stephen looked up at McKenna and the challenge was in his eyes.

"How much did you hear?" he asked.

McKenna poured himself some coffee and shrugged. His massive hands dwarfed the fragile china cup and saucer and an unaccountable heat spread through Alexandra's limbs.

"Enough to know you're leaving town," he said, lifting his cup in salute. "Bon voyage."

Stephen finally loosened his hold on Alexandra and she withdrew her hands and placed them on her lap.

"You'll know all soon enough," he said to McKenna. "I sail for Europe on Friday." He flashed Alexandra a quick smile. "I am leaving Alexandra in charge of Andrew's medication."

McKenna brushed his words aside. "Dayla and I will see to his needs."

"You weren't paying attention, McKenna. Alexandra will take care of his medication."

McKenna's blue-green eyes narrowed dangerously. "And you were paying attention to me, Lowell. We will take care of him."

Stephen turned to Alexandra who, once again, wished she she were anywhere else. "I shall leave the key to the medicine chest with you along with instructions for dispensing the powders and pills."

She lifted her eyes to McKenna who was leaning in the doorway. This isn't my idea, Matthew. Can't you see that?

"You'll have no trouble from me," he said as if reading her mind. "Do your job, Miss Glenn."

With that he turned and left the room and the level of tension in the great house went up yet another degree.

She thanked God Stephen would be leaving in just forty-eight hours for she doubted her battered nerves could stand another confrontation between the two men with herself as pawn.

After a few moments Stephen pushed his chair away from the table and stood up. "If you'll excuse me, Alexandra, I think I'd best get upstairs to speak with Uncle Andrew before your portrait session. I would rather he hear about my European trip from me than our friend McKenna."

With a courtly bow he left, consigning her to yet another solitary breakfast.

She rose from the table and headed toward the kitchen at the back of the house. Janine was her only true friend at Sea View. She'd rather share coffee and a sweet roll with the redhaired maid on the back porch than sit alone in this velvet and gilt prison.

Unfortunately Janine was nowhere to be seen and for that matter neither was Cook.

Alexandra hurried through the kitchen and into the pantry where Arthur was busy polishing the silver service.

"Good morning, Arthur. Is Janine available?"

He made to tip his hat then, remembering he wasn't wearing one, nodded respectfully. "Janine and Cook have gone into town to do the marketing, Miss Glenn. If there is anything I can do for you, please do not hesitate."

She smiled at the elderly man. "Thank you, Arthur. I will."

Even though Janine wasn't there, it felt wonderful to settle in the kitchen by the big window and sip the rest of her tea. Sitting around the round maple table with Gabrielle and Luc and the baby had been one of her greatest joys back in Provence. How she missed the luxury of someone to talk to.

A breeze stirred the kitchen curtains and she breathed in the scent of the ocean. Gulls cried mournfully as they circled the beach, occasionally swooping down to pluck a fish from the waves.

"How peaceful it is."

Alexandra started at the sound of the gentle voice and turned toward the door. She put her cup down on the windowsill. "Oh, dear! Am I late for my session with Mr. Lowell?"

"He sleeps yet." Dayla glided into the room, her simple white gown rustling with the movement. "I came to tell you we wait until afternoon."

Alexandra stood up, smoothing her Nile green skirt of bengaline cloth. "Thank you for informing me," she said politely. "I'll work in the carriage house this morning."

She moved toward the back door but Dayla laid a gentle hand upon her arm. "A moment, please?"

Alexandra stopped and looked down at the petite woman. "Is there something I can do for you?"

Dayla shook her head, a shy smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "I wish to thank you," she said, her eyes warm with friendship--a friendship Alexandra didn't know if she wanted. "Your presence has done much for him. He has a reason to awaken each morning."

For a brief and ridiculous moment, Alexandra entertained the notion that Dayla meant Matthew but then reason took hold and she realized it was Andrew Lowell the woman spoke about and not the volatile Mr. McKenna.

"I have done little save sit before a window while he paints," she said, oddly touched by Dayla's words. "That isn't so very much."

"To him it is," Dayla said simply. She squeezed Alexandra's forearm affectionately. "And to me."

Was there to be no end to the confusion in her heart? Alexandra headed off across the yard toward the carriage house, her mind ablaze with questions for which no answers were forthcoming.

She wanted to hate Dayla for being the one to take comfort in Matthew's arms but the goodness of the woman made it difficult for Alexandra to sustain hostile feelings. Dayla showered Andrew with care and concern, with no obvious thought toward her own reward.

Alexandra had often watched Andrew's face when the tiny and exotic woman entered his studio and the look of affection and admiration in his eyes made her wonder if she could ever be capable of engendering such depth of feeling in another living person.

Even Matthew, who evidently found Dayla quite pleasing in a romantic sense, treated the woman with a tenderness and respect that Alexandra at times found difficult to behold.

How easy her life would be if she could dismiss Dayla as a woman of loose morals, a woman to be looked down upon. Perhaps then she could get on with her work and not lie awake each night wondering if Matthew held the tiny woman in his muscular arms and whispered the same words he had whispered to her that night on the beach.

"Enough!" she cried as she entered the carriage house. No more of this dangerous conjecture or she would surely lose her mind before Stephen had a chance to leave for France.

Climbing the stairs to the attic and her work, she vowed to leave everything else behind.

"I daresay you don't look very surprised, Uncle," said Stephen as he sat on the windowledge in Andrew's bedroom a few hours later.

Andrew stared impassively at his handsome nephew. "I daresay it is about time. The European market has gone neglected this last few months."

"What would you have me do," Stephen asked, "trot around the Paris galleries or be here to help you?"

"The galleries," said Andrew. "I am in need of no help here."

Stephen's snort of derision was out-of-character for the smooth, Ivy League-educated man. "Tell that to that drunk McKenna," he spat. "He shows no signs of packing his bags and leaving."

"You overstep your boundaries, Stephen. Matthew is here at my invitation."

Stephen stood up and faced him, hands jammed deep into the pockets of his trousers. "Meaning what?"

Andrew kept his gaze leveled on his nephew. "Meaning you are to mind your own business, Stephen, or answer to me."

Stephen bowed low and had he the strength Andrew would have relished knocking that arrogant smirk off the young pup's countenance. As it was, he could but wield what power he had: the power of the Almighty dollar. That should be enough to keep his nephew in line.

"Have a pleasant morning, Uncle," said Stephen. "I will see you tomorrow before I leave."

No sooner had the door closed behind his nephew than Andrew's gaunt face was split by a smile of gargantuan proportions. It couldn't be more perfect. Matthew had told him about Evangeline Ames and her request that he buy tickets for the Silver Lake Quartette's appearance tomorrow. Dayla had heard that the town was so excited about the upcoming musicale that Friday had been declared a holiday, affording the school children an opportunity to attend the early show.

There was his social standing to consider--something he'd not paid heed to in a very long timme. He had been toying with the idea of at least buying tickets for the show and perhaps begging off at the last moment and sending two of the servants instead, simply to keep peace.

Now, however, a much more interesting plan was taking shape inside his brain. Stephen would be on his way to Europe but Matthew would be right here in Easthampton and so would the lovely Alexandra.

Andrew had never been shy about seeing to it that his commands were obeyed and he wouldn't be shy now.

Matthew and Alexandra would go to the musicale together tomorrow night or he would know the reason why.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Eleven

Alexandra awoke early the next morning, eager to work and even more eager for one of the big country breakfasts that had made Cook famous from one end of Easthampton to another. She dressed quickly then hurried downstairs where to her surprise, Matthew intercepted her the at the entrance to the dining room.

He looked a trifle rumpled and he had yet to shave, but it was instantly obvious he was sober and she found his disarray strangely appealing. He'd barely spoken to her since their interlude near the gazebo two nights ago and if it weren't for the miniature locked safely away in her armoire, the whole thing might have been a dream.

"I'm going into town after breakfast," he said without preamble. "Dayla usually picks up the art supplies for Andrew but this time, we thought that..." His voice trailed off and she found herself staring up at him.

"Are you asking me to come into town with you?" she asked, unable to mask her amazement.

He met her eyes briefly then looked away. "Dayla thought you would better understand Andrew's needs than any of us."

An art store, she thought, her mind racing. Shelf after shelf of pastels and charcoals, oils and canvas and beautiful sable brushes with tips softer than a baby's kiss.

"I would love to," she said. "When shall I be ready?"

Was she going mad or was there a decided glimmer of pleasure in his blue-green eyes? "Half past the hour," he said. "If you're not there, I go without you."

He wheeled and headed down the hallway, all male bluster and beauty, and suddenly breakfast no longer had the power to entice her.

"Matthew!" she called out. "I believe I am ready now."

"Mr. McKenna!" Evangline Ames beamed up at Matthew as he entered the post office Thursday morning. "How wonderful to see you." "Good morning, Mrs. Ames." It was impossible not to smile at the cherubic woman with the rosy apple cheeks who always greeted him with such enthusiasm that he could almost convince himself he deserved it. "Beautiful day, is it not?"

"Ah, yes, indeed it is. The lilacs are near to blooming all around town. In another two weeks it will be a veritable paradise."

Lucky Evangline Ames to have a life that allowed time to enjoy such simple pleasures. When had he last noticed anything as simple as a lilac bush in bloom?

"Any mail for Sea View today?"

Evangeline nodded and bustled into the back room of the tiny country post office, emerging with a stack of envelopes.

"Afternoon mail isn't in yet," she said, handing the mail to him across the oak counter. "It's arriving on the Sag Harbor train again. I do wish they'd throw it off at Bridgehampton the way they used to." A pale blue envelope slid from the stack and fluttered to the floor near her feet. "Well, will you look at this!" she exclaimed as she retrieved it. "I declare, I've never seen such a pretty stamp in all my days. France!" Her big brown eyes widened comically. "You have visitors out there at the house, do you?"

"Andrew Lowell has a new assistant," Matthew said, taking the perfume-scented letter from the woman. "I believe she grew up in France."

"Well, well. I would certainly love to meet her one day. My sister Hester taught me a little French when I was a girl."

Matthew was at a loss as to how to respond to that. Alexandra had ridden into town with him and was currently across the street in Osborne & Hand, purchasing the local newspaper and sundry items. Somehow he didn't think it prudent to whisk her over to meet Evangeline Ames, the town crier.

Evangeline, however, had another topic to pursue. "You cannot know how pleased we are that Mr. Andrew Lowell will be attending the musicale tonight. The Ladies' Auxiliary is in an absolute tizzy of excitement over it."

Matthew's jaw dropped open. "Andrew is coming into town tonight?"

"Of course he is," Evangeline said, looking at him as if he were a backward boy. "He sent Emmy Dwyer in to purchase two tickets for him the day before yesterday."

Andrew sent Cook into town to buy tickets to see the Silver Lake Quartette? It didn't sound credible. More than likely Cook and Johnny were going to take advantage of their evening off and enjoy the musicale themselves but rather than get into a discussion with the garrulous older woman, Matthew wished her a good day then strode off back to the trap to read his mail and await Alexandra.

Another letter from Edward Whittington glared up at him from the pile and he tossed it on the seat next to him with letters and bills for Andrew. He didn't need reminding that his life was going all to hell back there in San Francisco; Edward's last missive had done a damn good job of telling him exactly how bad things with Madolyn were.

Besides, Stephen was taking the afternoon train out and that alone was enough to make him feel better than he had in a very long time. He'd seen Alexandra's face each time he and Lowell sniped at one another; God knew he didn't want to bring that frightened look to her eyes but--damn it! Each time he was around that dandified excuse for a man, he couldn't help himself.

It was nothing less than a miracle that his fist had yet to connect with Stephen's jaw and he had the feeling that if the younger Lowell were to remain in Easthampton much longer, it would take much more than a miracle to prevent that from happening.

Whittington's letter stared up at him until he could almost hear Edward's voice berating him.

Muttering low, he ripped open the envelope and began to read.

Osborne & Hand was the most fascinating emporium Alexandra had ever seen and time quickly slipped away from her. The sign painted on the window in cheery red letters said, "Purveyors of Pure Drugs and Medicines," but she had found a great deal more on their shelves than Ayer's Sarsparilla and Marshmallow Lotion for the Hands. Eager to learn more about her new home, she purchased the Easthampton Star, a weekly newspaper, and placed down the unconscionable sum of twenty-five cents for a glossy magazine called Cosmopolitan that promised to tell her what the elegant ladies in New York were wearing that season.

How wonderful it felt to be away from Sea View for a little while, revelling in the art supplies store, mingling with the townspeople, strolling along the wide tree-lined street and peering into the shop windows as she passed. Gentlemen in white flannel trousers and dark jackets with shiny brass buttons tipped their hats as they walked by and she couldn't contain her answering smile. Ladies in walking dresses that barely touched the ground in the front, exposing soft kid boots with tiny heels, laughed and chatted their way up Main Street as if they had not a care in the world.

What would it be like to be one of those ladies, Alexandra wondered as she made her way back to the trap. How would it feel to have nothing more pressing on her mind than purchasing a new settee at Van Scoy & Dayton's or lunching on watercress sandwiches and strawberry ice cream at Lawrence's.

She doubted if these fine ladies with their ostrich-feathered hats had ever burned with the need to capture an autumn sunset with their hands or make the sound of the ocean visible on canvas, and she wondered if her ambition could ever be compatible with their fancy lives. But, no matter. A fancy life was not in the cards for her, was it?

She had her place at Sea View and she accepted it. Finally--finally!--she had made her peace with the fact that Provence and her old life were lost to her as surely as if it had never been. She had posted a letter to Gabrielle her first week in America but truly did not expect an answer. Gabrielle had a husband and a daughter and another baby on the way. What time would she have for writing letters to a childhood friend who had somehow become a threat?

Let it go, she whispered silently as she approached the trap where McKenna sat waiting for her. Let it all go and build a new life.

"I am sorry," she said as he jumped down to help her climb into the vehicle. "I hope I haven't inconvenienced you in any way."

She held out her hand, expecting him to provide leverage as she mounted the step and took her seat. To her surprise, he ignored her hand and, placing a hand on either side of her waist, swept her up into the air and placed her down squarely on the bench. Her heart lifted in response to his quick smile.

How handsome he was! The late morning sun caught the light blonde strands that mingled so appealingly with the deeper chestnut tones of his thick and shaggy hair. For the first time she noticed how long and lush his eyelashes were with their tips bleached the color of pale wheat. Fine lines crisscrossed the outer corners of his eyes and she wondered if some of the sun-bleached strands were not prematurely silver.

Stephen possessed the ideal of male beauty portrayed on the cover of Cosmopolitan as drawn by Mr. Gibson: the short hair parted on the side with the neatly-trimmed moustache and look of wide-eyed boyish charm. But there was nothing boyish about Matthew McKenna as he easily jumped back into the cart and took his seat next to her on the narrow red leather bench. He needed no moustache to proclaim his masculinity, no tailored suit and tie to proclaim his position in life. Dressed in his black trousers and sparkling white cambric shirt, he seemed to Alexandra to be all a man could be.

Dangerous thoughts for a spring day and she pushed them from her mind.

"Have you been waiting long?" she repeated as Matthew took the reins and they headed back toward Sea View.

"Not terribly," he said, eyes straight forward.

She sighed. She searched for the glimmer of good humor that had been present in him on the drive into town but it had vanished. Certainly nothing about his demeanor suggested that this trip into town had been anything but a burden to him.

How could she have been so foolish as to think otherwise?

She tried again: "The apothecary store was a marvel! I have never seen so many items in one place before in my life." Her trips to London and Vienna with Marisa had been restricted to modiste shops and museums. "Did you fare well on your errands?"

Ignore me all you wish, Mr. McKenna. I shall continue to speak regardless!

He motioned toward a stack of letters on the bench between them. "There is one for you."

"Gabrielle!" she exclaimed, sifting through the pile. "Who would have imagined the post worked so swiftly?"

But it wasn't from Gabrielle at all. She knew that the moment the scent of jasmine and musk reached her nostrils and felt the expensive vellum notepaper in her hands.

"Aren't you going to read it?" Matthew asked as she placed it atop her bag of treasures from the apothecary shop.

"Later," she said, swiveling in her seat to catch a better glimpse of Hook Pond as they rode by.

He glanced at her. "It isn't everyday a letter from France comes through the post office. Mrs. Ames was beside herself with curiosity."

She pointed toward two men who were wading in the pond. They were wearing cotton shirts, much like Matthew's, with the sleeves rolled up over heavily muscled forearms and were working the bed with what seemed to be long pointed sticks."What on earth are they doing?"

"Clamming," said Matthew. "It's almost the town sport out here."

"Clamming," she repeated, remembering the thick red broth with the succulent pieces of clams Cook made on a regular basis. "Do you go clamming?"

"Last night," he said, urging the chestnut on. "On the beach at low tide."

She conjured up a vision of him knee deep in the ocean, his white shirt open and the sleeves rolled up. Surreptitiously she cast a look at his forearms as he held the reins and wondered if they were as beautifully made as she imagined them to be.

A gust of wind ruffled her hair and caused Marisa's scent to float toward her from the bag on her lap.

Why on earth would her mother be writing to her so soon? Alexandra had posted her duty letter to Marisa but one week earlier and in the best of times her mother had never been one to indulge in lengthy correspondence.

Only something very important would cause Marisa to post a letter so quickly.

Dear God! Alexandra's hand flew to her throat as the notion formed. Had this all been a dreadful mistake and Marisa was now writing to tell her to come home? Was it possible that this letter contained a voucher for a berth on the next steamer out of New York?

"It's from my mother," she said by way of explanation. He turned to her and his look was sharp. "Your mother? I thought she was dead."

She tried to explain the tangle of her life with a minimum of words. "Would you mind terribly if I--"

"Go ahead," he said gruffly. "And don't worry: I can't read French."

"Why must you always say things like that?" she said, opening the envelope with her fingernail. "That thought never occurred to me."

"Maybe it should have."

Her hands shook as she unfolded the sheet of perfumed vellum and saw her mother's childish scrawl slanting across the page. How she had longed for her mother's infrequent letters when she was at the Aynsley School. Now the sight of Marisa's hand brought equal amounts of hope and dread.

Alexandra: I trust you are settled in your new home and that your accomodations are adequate. This is to tell you I am leaving Paris for Switzerland for an indefinite time. I will send you my new address when I am settled.

Your Mother

No words of affection and encouragement. No inquiry about her health or happiness or anything else that might be dear to Alexandra's heart.

And, most telling of all, no reprieve.

"Bad news?" McKenna asked as they approached Old Beach Lane and Sea View rose up in the distance.

"No," she said. "Nothing I hadn't expected." She tore the letter into tiny pieces and scattered them to the ocean breeze but not before she caught the look of compassion in his beautiful blue-green eyes.

"Hell, no!" Matthew paced the length of Andrew's studio to which he'd been summoned upon his return from town. "That's a goddamn dirty trick, Andrew, and it's not going to work."

Andrew tapped the two tickets to the Silver Lake Quartette's musicale on the edge of his easel. "Are you finished haranguing me?"

Matthew glared at the older man. "I haven't gotten started. If you have become such a music lover, you go."

Across the room, Dayla opened her mouth to speak but Andrew motioned her silent.

"I have sorely neglected my social responsibilities to this town."

Matthew arched a brow. "And sending me to a musicale at Clinton Hall will remedy that, of course."

"It will be a start."

"Start some other time," Matthew retorted. "Have Stephen delay his trip." But Andrew was not to be bested. "Stephen has his duties, you have yours."

"Are you ordering me to go, Andrew?"

"If it comes to that."

"How do you know I won't put a blot on your social reputation?"

"I know you, boy. I trust you."

"You're a damn fool then."

"Yes," said Andrew, "I probably am."

Matthew raised his whiskey glass to his lips then thought better of it. "What time does this damn thing start?"

"Seven-thirty." Andrew's voice was impassive but his lion's eyes twinkled. "There's one more thing you need to know."

Matthew leaned against the doorjamb. "I should have known there was more to this."

"You seem to forget there are two tickets, Matthew."

Matthew's eyes sought Dayla's. "I didn't think you would leave Andrew."

Dayla's laugh was amused. "I would not," she said, "not even for so nice a night."

Suddenly Matthew remembered Evangline Ames. "You're not going to ask me to escort Cook, are you?" If Emmy Dwyer smiled once each full moon that was saying much.

"Cook is a kindly woman," Andrew said evenly. "Does she not deserve a night out?"

Let it never be said Matthew McKenna was a man who let opportunity slip by. "She certainly does. In fact, I would be pleased to make the supreme sacrifice and send Cook with her beloved husband Johnny. I would even ready the coach for them to go into town."

"A wonderful attempt, Matthew, but I'm afraid your theatre partner has already been chosen."

An odd feeling crept up his spine. "Alexandra?" he asked.

Andrew smiled. "Alexandra."

Whittington and his letters; Madolyn and her stunts; even, for one split second, the memory of his son all receded and joy, plain and simple, filled his heart.

Stephen had been waiting for Alexandra on the back porch when she returned home from her trip to town and she hadn't missed the look of displeasure on his face when he saw Matthew grasp her by the waist and lift her from the trap. Unceremoniously Stephen had led her into the library where he presented her with the key to the medicine chest that held Andrew's pills and powders. He gave her a handwritten list of instructions and made her read each one aloud twice until he was satisfied she understood what was expected of her. His patronizing attitude set her teeth on edge and for the first time she knew how Matthew felt.

How odd, she thought, turning from the window as the coach bearing Stephen to the railroad depot disappeared around the curve of the driveway. Twenty-four hours ago she would have been awash in tears that Stephen should be going to Paris while she remained in a strange country, far from everything she knew and loved, but now she was able to wave goodbye to him and feel only the slightest twinge of pain.

Now her thoughts were with Matthew, traveling down pathways fraught with dangers she didn't understand. Thank goodness the demanding Andrew Lowell kept her too busy to brood over the impossible.

She worked in the carriage house through her normal lunchtime making lists of watercolor landscapes in a ledger she'd purchased at Osborne & Hand and it wasn't until her stomach rumbled alarmingly that she realized the afternoon was nearly over. Perhaps she would go back to the main house and fix herself a platter of last night's roasted chicken and a glass of lemonade to bring back up to the attic.

Hundred year old oaks and red cedar cast long shadows across the backyard as she made her way back toward the house. Here and there a random patch of cord grass popped up to mar the emerald perfection of the lawn while in the distance the mournful cry of gulls mingled with the sweet sound of chickadees.

Suddenly the slam of the back door pierced the air, followed closely the sound of Janine's voice shattering the pastoral scene.

"Off with you, you worthless beggar! How dare you be comin' around to the door after the trouble you be causin' this town!"

Alexandra heard a man's voice raised in protest but he was no match for Janine.

"You take your wife and the others and you be leavin' this town. Don't you ever be darkenin' our door again!"

She caught a glimpse of a dark-haired man and woman disappearing through the azalea bushes planted along the back and side of the house.

"Whatever was that all about?" she asked Janine, who stood, hands planted on her narrow hips, on the back porch. "You sounded as if Satan himself had shown up on the doorstep."

"And he might as well have," Janine said, her cheeks flushed with anger. "Bold as brass they were, tappin' on the door and lookin' to see what we have so they could fill their sacks with ill-gotten gain!"

"Janine! What on earth are you talking about?"

"Gypsies, miss, that's what. They came right onto the property and knocked on the door, they did. Why, they even--"

Alexandra didn't wait to hear the rest of the sentence. Instead, she lifted her skirts, flew down the porch steps and headed after the man and woman she'd seen fleeing Janine's tirade.

They'd headed in the direction of the Talmadge estate. More than likely, their camp was set up on the crest of the dune behind the house. An angry bee buzzed around her head and she brushed the air absently as she ran. She had just cleared a tiny stream meandering through the Talmadge property when a hand caught her ankle and she sprawled headlong on the grass then looked up into the dark brown eyes of a girl no older than she.

"We do nothing," the girl said, her teeth brilliant white against her deeply tanned skin. "We not steal anything. Why you chase us?"

Alexandra's eye was caught and held by the enormous gold earrings dangling from her ears. "I want to talk," she said, gasping for breath. "I mean you no harm."

The girl still glared suspiciously at Alexandra as if she found it hard to believe a white woman could possibly tell the truth.

"You chase us," the girl said. "For what reason?"

"My mother was Rom," Alexandra said. "I was pleased to know you're here."

"You?" The girl's lip curled in a sneer. "I do not believe."

"You and your man are tinkers, are you not? I believe you came to the house to sharpen knives."

"You have heard talk. You know this already."

Alexandra tapped into a deep well of memory for the words. "Si khohaimo may patshivato sar o tshatshimo." There are lies more believable than truth.

She laughed as the girl's mouth dropped open in surprise.

"Now do you believe me?" she asked, then hummed a gypsy tune she'd learned on Esme's knee.

"Who goes there?" came a voice from the back porch of the Talmadge house. "I shall send the dogs out if you do not leave the property this instant!"

"I must go," the girl whispered urgently. "We break camp tonight and we need no more trouble."

"Please, no!" Alexandra cried, anxious to be among ways she found familiar. "I have so many questions, so much I'd like to know."

The girl hesitated a moment then moved closer to Alexandra. "Then I tell you something you should know, lady. The man is evil. He means you harm."

Alexandra shivered despite the warm spring breeze. "Who means me harm?" Matthew. Please don't say it is Matthew. "Is it one of your people?"

"He lives in the house on the hill," the girl said, motioning back toward Sea View. "He plans great evil."

"Please tell me," Alexandra said, grabbing the girl's forearm. "Please!"

The backdoor slammed and they heard heavy footsteps clattering down the porch stairs.

The girl pulled away from Alexandra. "Yellow hair," she said as she turned to run. "The yellow-haired man."

She disappeared like a wisp of smoke.

It took Alexandra a second to gather her wits about her and the moment she did she fled back to Sea View as quickly as her feet would carry her.

The yellow-haired man. How utterly ridiculous.

As if Stephen Lowell would be sneaking around plotting mishaps and mayhem. With his spotless kid gloves and impeccably tailored suits it was hard to imagine him doing anything more taxing than taking the reins of the trap on a trip in from town.

She leapt the narrow stream and headed through the yard once more on her way to the porch. The girl had been skittish as a colt, anxious to escape Alexandra who, to her eyes, represented the enemy.

How far she'd traveled since leaving Provence.

Matthew had said no good would come of approaching the gypsies in their camp.

Sadly, she understood now exactly how right he was.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Twelve

Janine gasped when she saw the huge grass stains crisscrossing the front of Alexandra's dress. "Throw you down to the ground, they did, the monsters! Would they be gettin' your pearls or earbobs, miss?"

"I tripped," Alexandra said, brushing uselessly at the dirt with the heel of her hand. "They weren't here to steal anything from us, Janine. They're tinkers."

Janine harrumphed. "Sure, and as if I'd be handin' over the carving knives to the likes of them."

Dayla appeared at the back door. "Is anything wrong, please?"

How did she manage to always look so composed, so lovely? In comparison Alexandra felt like the lowliest guttersnipe imaginable in her stained and torn frock.

"I tripped jumping over the stream," she said, smoothing a lock of hair off her face.

"She went off chasin' after gypsies," Janine said, shaking her head in dismay. "I told her no good could come of that."

"Well, you were right, Janine." Alexandra turned her attention back to Dayla. "You were looking for me?"

"If you please, miss, he wishes to speak with you."

Dayla somehow managed to add an emphasis to the word "he" that left no doubt in Alexandra's mind. "Andrew Lowell?"

Dayla nodded. "This same moment, if you will."

"Not like this!" Alexandra exclaimed. "I must wash and change and comb my hair and--"

Dayla gently touched her forearm. "Now," she said softly.

"He hates disorder."

"He will not mind this once."

The Andrew Lowell she had been posing for minded disorder a great deal and Alexandra said so.

"He is most anxious to speak with you," Dayla urged. "Delay would cause him much nerves."

Alexandra mumbled all the way up the winding staircase to the second floor but Dayla simply smiled her serene smile and said no more. What an odd combination McKenna and this exotic creature were. He was so volatile, so complicated, while she seemed as tranquil and calm as Georgica Pond. Did he find solace within her quietude? Did she make him laugh when they were alone or hold his head close to her breast and soothe him with a woman's gentle touch?

Whatever, it was none of Alexandra's business and she was going to redouble her efforts at putting such unnerving thoughts from her mind once and for all.

They paused in front of the double doors to Andrew's suite of rooms and Alexandra took a deep breath.

If anything could put those thoughts from her mind, it was the prospect of an unexpected audience with Andrew with her in her scullery-maid best.

Andrew Lowell had always enjoyed playing God.

Great wealth had given him the ability and genius had given him the right, and through the years he had used those gifts to his best advantage, others be damned. He'd mellowed some since Dayla came into his life, although if he were honest, he would have to admit that illness played a large part in this transformation. He saw few people save his woman, and those he did see remained at the periphery of his existence.

With the exception of Matthew.

From the very first that boy had reached inside Andrew's soul and tugged at emotions he would have sworn he didn't possess. Fatherhood had never piqued his interest. While other men spun dreams about the sons who would carry on their names, Andrew spilled his life force onto canvases that would take his name into the next century and beyond.

But when the fifteen year old twig with the big dreams had barreled his way into the Lowell library that day and told Andrew he intended to become rich as Croesus and twice as powerful, something in Andrew had flickered to life. Memory--dark and unpleasant--threatened to overpower him and he pushed it aside and listened to the dreams of Katie McKenna's seventh son. Matthew was smart and he was strong and he wasn't afraid of life. How little it had taken for Andrew to open a few doors for him. How quickly Matthew was able to fling open the rest.

He was the son he'd never had, the son he'd never even realized he wanted. Andrew Lowell had done precious few kindnesses in his life but, good God, the benefits he'd reaped from that one were limitless.

He'd watched helplessly these past months as Matthew systematically worked to drink himself to death. The loss of his son had devastated Matthew and he'd accepted Madolyn's hatred as just punishment.

But now there was Alexandra. The beautiful girl with that black mane of gentle waves and those eyes of molten gold. She was all fire and honey, a combination designed by the gods to bring men to their knees. Each morning as Andrew painted she talked, weaving stories of her life in Provence until he felt he would recognize Paul and Esme, Gabrielle and Luc and the baby. He also recognized the loneliness inside her lovely heart. A loneliness not unlike Matthew's.

He'd seen the way Matthew came to life in her presence, felt the sweet tension flowing between them, caught the scent of possibility in the air. He also knew that sometimes even love needed a guiding light to make it through the darkness.

Matthew had balked about the musicale tonight but ultimately he acquiesced to Andrew's wishes.

He had no doubt Alexandra would, as well.

Janine had worked an absolute miracle; in two hours the maid had not only combed and curled and styled Alexandra's thick mane of hair into a most becoming upsweep, but Janine had taken her russet gown and affixed a chou, or large cabbage rosette, of lace and ribbons to her right shoulder.

Alexandra artfully smudged black kohl around her eyes to accentuate their natural tilt and anointed her lips and eyebrows with sweet oil. The Glenn pearls adorned her throat and anticipation filled her heart as she walked down the staircase to where Matthew awaited her while Janine fluttered in the background, anxious to see McKenna's pleased expression at Alexandra's transformation.

Well, they needn't have bothered, Alexandra thought a half-hour later as she and Matthew walked toward Clinton Hall where the Quartette would be playing. He looked at her but once during the ride into town and then only because she pointed out a deer poised to leap into the road.

McKenna was a rude, arrogant, stupid clod of a man and if Alexandra only weren't so fearful of offending Andrew Lowell, she would have grabbed the reins of the coach long before they reached Main Street and headed back to Sea View.

After tethering the horse in the center of town, he headed off down the street without bothering to help her exit the trap. Had it not been for a pleasant-faced older man walking an elegant black Cocker Spaniel, she would still be sitting back there on the hard leather bench.

"I may as well have worn sackcloth," she muttered as they approached the front door. Or stayed at Sea View.

He looked down at her, his expression distant, bored. "Did you say something?"

"No." They walked a few yards then she came to a stop. "Yes." Steeling herself against his fury, she tilted her head back and met his eyes. "I wish you had stayed home."

"What the hell did you say?"

So she finally had his attention. "If my company is so unpleasant, you should have stayed home and sent Cook in your place."

"You're right," he said calmly. "I should have."

A very unladylike epithet rose to her lips but she bit it back. "Am I so displeasing to you?"

A wicked gleam sparked in his blue-green eyes. "Fishing for compliments, are you, Alexandra?"

"No, of course not!" she sputtered. "I am simply curious why you have acted as if I were not even here."

That gleam in his eyes sparked brighter. "The hell you are. You're wondering why I haven't told you how pretty your gown is and how nice your hair looks and--"

"Oh, do be quiet," she hissed as they approached a knot of people milling around the entrance to Clinton Hall. "I am wondering no such thing."

"You are," he said, gripping her elbow with his hand. "Women always want to know these things."

If three white-haired ladies hadn't been regarding them with a great deal of interest, Alexandra might have delivered a sharp kick to his ankle. "I rely upon my own judgement in such matters," she replied airily, if not honestly.

His laugh rippled through her. "You look lovely, Alexandra."

She pretended not to hear him although his words were tumbling around in her brain like shiny gold coins.

"I believe you're the most beautiful woman here tonight."

Beautiful. He thought her beautiful. "Thank you," she managed, heat suffusing her breasts and throat and face. "I think we should go in and take our seats."

His hand moved from her elbow to the curve of her waist and she cast a look at him as they entered the darkened hall.

His gaze settled upon her lips and she was flooded with the memory of that kiss on the beach.

"Coward," he said softly as they found their seats. Yes, she thought. Most definitely.

The Silver Lake Quartette was superb--or at least that's what Alexandra surmised, if the thunderous applause of the audience were an indication.

Oh, she vaguely remembered hearing strains of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and the foot-tapping melody of a waltz by Strauss but more than anything else, it was Matthew McKenna who entranced her that night.

He wore the dove grey suit he'd worn her first night at Sea View and her heart swelled with idiotic pleasure each time she glimpsed the gold cufflinks sparkling at his wrists and the way his chestnut hair brushed his collar. If he had been drinking earlier in the day, it wasn't obvious and when the curtain fell for the intermission, he contented himself with the lemonade punch and didn't venture toward the group of men sharing a quart of whiskey near the door.

He never once reached for her hand or let his knee bump up against hers yet she was as intensely aware of his presence as if he'd drawn her into his arms right there in the middle of Clinton Hall. The only regret she had about the evening was that it was drawing to a close.

"How wonderful," she sighed, turning to Matthew as the lights in the hall came back up and the curtain descended to resounding applause. "I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed anything so much."

"Don't tell Andrew," he said, rising and offering his hand. "He'll be insufferable if he knows we actually had a good time."

"Perhaps that was the point of this," she said, as they made their way up the aisle toward the door. "Did you ever consider he may indeed have wanted us to enjoy ourselves?"

For the first time that day Matthew's laugh was lighthearted. "All the more reason to keep this to ourselves. He has always taken extreme pleasure in playing God." He looked younger when he smiled, more accessible and human.

"A good point," she said. "Certainly one to be considered."

As they made their way down Main Street, they were stopped many times by various townspeople, all of whom asked after Andrew while staring openly at Alexandra. Matthew introduced her as Andrew's new assistant and most accepted that with a brief nod of interest, their curiosity satisfied. Women of all ages flirted shamelessly with Matthew and he bore their attentions with grudging good grace. The men seemed genuinely fond of him and, to Alexandra's amazement, only one person asked after Stephen and that in a less-than-friendly manner.

The yellow haired man. The gypsy's words came back to her and she pushed them away. Ridiculous, she thought. Absolutely ridiculous.

"Don't look so surprised," Matthew said, cutting into her thoughts as he took her arm to lead her back to the trap. "I know how to conduct myself in polite company."

"I am surprised," she said, drinking in the sweet night air. "Until tonight, I saw no sign of these social skills."

"Do you think me a savage, unable to tell a soup spoon from a shrimp fork or a waltz from a march?"

She considered his question. "Let us say you were somewhere between savage and heathen."

He scratched his head in dismay. "Not a hell of a lot of leeway in there."

"I'm sorry if I offended you, but I am in the habit of speaking my mind."

"I noticed."

They reached the trap and once again he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her in as if she were a bag of feather dusters and she imagined his fingers lingered a moment longer than absolutely necessary. It had been a magical night and with all her heart she wished to make the magic last, even if she had to invent it.

As the chestnut took them back to the house, Matthew whistled a tune and soon Alexandra joined in humming and, before she knew it, they were both singing the round-robin song the Quartette had taught to the children in the audience during their concert. Their voices, offkey but enthusiastic, mingled with the night sounds of an owl hooting somewhere in the woods and the incessant low roar of the ocean that surrounded them.

Instead of letting her off at the front door, Matthew surprised her by leaving the trap and chestnut at the carriage house and together he and Alexandra walked back to the main house. Silver bands of moonlight illuminated the wide expanse of lawn, giving everything a luminous glow.

"There was one thing missing," he said, breaking their companionable silence as he opened the front door and ushered her inside.

"I cannot think of a single thing." Only that the clock was nearing midnight and soon they must say goodnight.

"There should have been dancing."

She couldn't have been more surprised had he suggested she flap her arms and fly across the room. "I'm sorry," she said, giggling. "I have imagined you many things but a dancer was never among them."

"I happen to be an expert dancer."

"I find that quite difficult to believe." Men as muscular as Matthew were rarely graceful. Gabrielle's husband Luc had stumbled over his feet at their wedding party when he tried to twirl his bride around the floor.

He turned and held out his arms. "I'll prove it to you."

"But you cannot," she said, flustered. "It's terribly late and there is no music and--"

"We'll be very quiet," he said, pulling her into his arms, "and why can't we provide our own music?"

Don't do this! her mind screamed, but she went willingly to him, nearly sighing with delight as his big arms folded around her and he took her right hand in his.

"Waltz, madam?"

She looked up into his eyes. "That would be wonderful, sir."

He began to hum Strauss and suddenly they were gliding in the effortless three-quarter time of the waltz, skimming across the huge center hall, their feet barely touching the shiny marble tiles. The gas globes on the wall bathed everything in a warm and romantic glow and it took little imagination to conjure up a castle in the French Alps, far away from everyday cares.

"I apologize," she said as he swept her from one end of the massive hall to the other with movements as graceful as they were masterful. "You are truly a marvelous dancer!"

"I have a partner beyond compare," he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That makes a difference."

They danced together instinctively, as if the motions were something they had perfected a lifetime ago. He ceased to hum the tune for both heard the same music playing inside their heads, so precisely were they matched in style and enthusiasm.

Alexandra felt giddy and lightheaded, as if she had partaken of too much champagne. After they made their fifth grand sweep of their impromptu ballroom, she begged him to stop.

"Please!" She placed a hand against her waist and struggled to regain her breath. "I am dizzy!" Indeed he had spun her around so expertly that the room tilted around her and she leaned against him for support.

"There are dances besides the waltz," he said, not relinquishing her from his arms.

She hesitated. The hour was late and temptation was blossoming all around them.

"I think not." Gently she placed her palm against his chest and to her intense surprise he covered her hand with his and held it close to him.

"Is it asking so much of you, Alexandra, to give me one more dance?"

"No," she whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

He pulled her close, much closer than befit a waltz or, indeed, any dance at all, and brushed the tip of her ear with his warm mouth. She was about to protest, when he began to hum a tune they'd heard earlier that evening, a tune so lush, so romantic, that her protests died before reaching her lips.

This was heaven.

There could be no other explanation for the sheer, towering joy flooding through her as they moved together, their bodies in shocking proximity. The hard length of his legs moved against hers and she could clearly feel his thigh muscles with every step they danced.

Her head nestled in the space between his collar and shoulder and the smell of his skin was more intoxicating to her than champagne could ever be.

This was madness.

There could be no other explanation for the violent heat claming her for its own. She was pinpoints of flame, smoldering coals ready to blaze. The pretense of dancing fell away from them as they stood in the middle of the hall, arms entwined, swaying gently to an age-old rhythm she had only begun to hear.

His hands caressed her, rough palms moving over the smooth skin of her back until she thought she would go mad with a desire that terrified even as it enticed.

Her pulses quickened, hammering in her throat and at her wrists and--sharply, mysteriously--springing to life in a sweet and sensual throb at the juncture of her thighs. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she were suspended in a dream, sinking deeper into seductive darkness from which there would be no escape.

He placed his right hand at the small of her back, long fingers splayed across the swell of her derriere, and drew her even closer. At the feel of him, hard and aroused against her hip, she gasped--whether from surprise or need she did not know for every color of the rainbow seemed gathered within her body.

Timidly, she let her hands slide across his wide shoulders and down over his chest, savoring the wild pounding of his heart beneath her fingers. The smell of fire was on him; the scent of desire filled the air.

Gently he placed his left hand alongside her cheek and smoothed a lock of hair back. She lifted her eyes to meet his and, tilting her chin with his index finger, he brought his mouth down to hers.

The kisses they'd shared on the beach were but a match in the darkness compared to the raging inferno his touch now ignited. Her lips parted of their own volition and eagerly she drank of the taste and feel of him. His tongue plunged into the moist cavern of her mouth and some primitive instinct caused her to capture it and suck greedily until she wrested a groan from him that was so violent, so intense, that she started to tremble in his arms with longing.

Dazed, she was vaguely aware of movement, that somehow they had crossed the hallway and now she leaned against the library wall, the only solid thing in a swirling universe. He filled her senses with touch and smell and taste and she was drowning with pleasure.

He burned hot against her belly, huge and powerful and demanding in a way her virgin's imagination could only guess at. Her body, however, reacted with primal greed as her hips pressed ever closer to him, the urge to cradle him within her growing dangerously more urgent with each second that passed.

"Sweet Alex," he murmured, breath moist and hot against her cheek. "Let me love you."

Unbidden she saw Dayla, lovely Dayla with the soft dark eyes and the gentle ways.

"I cannot," she said, praying she would have the courage to stand by her words. "This is wrong."

"Something so wonderful cannot be wrong," he said, gently cupping her breasts.

"It is wrong," she persisted, "when it is at the expense of another."

His laugh was ragged. "I am no virgin, Alex. I guarantee my honor is not at stake."

"Dayla," she said, pushing him away so she could see his face, watch his eyes. "It is Dayla I am thinking of."

"Dayla?" His thick brows slanted down toward the bridge of his nose. "What does Dayla have to do with this?"

A blush stained Alexandra's face. "I am not such a country fool that I do not recognize what goes on right under my nose, Matthew."

"Explain it to me," he demanded, "because I do not know what in all holy hell you're talking about."

My God, what a cruel man he was to make this so exceedingly difficult for her. "I realize she is your mistress, Matthew, and I--"

His bark of laughter was like ice water in her face. "My what?!"

"Mistress," she repeated, anger supplanting passion. "Surely you are acquainted with the term."

"Intimately," he said, "but what in hell does that have to do with anything?"

She remembered their voices, the sound of Matthew's laughter on her first night at Sea View. Burned indelibly in her mind was the memory of Dayla's small yet lush body cradled in Matthew's arms with the starshine all around them. Even Janine had called Dayla "the missus," for wont of a better term.

She could feel the grasping claws of jealousy around her heart.

"You're despicable," she said, pushing away from him and wishing she could blink her eyes and find herself back in her room on the second floor. "Have you no honor? No conception of what is right and what is wrong?"

He looked dangerous, volatile, ablaze with anger and need. "Spit it out, woman. Say whatever the hell you're trying to say and be done with it."

"Damn you!" she cried in exasperation. "How can you love one woman when you stand ready to bed another?"

"Love?" His puzzlement seemed genuine. "What has love to do with this?"

"You don't love her?" Dear God in heaven, how fortunate she was to have stopped before it was too late. The man had neither conscience nor shame.

"I care for her dearly, but love? No. I leave that for those better suited."

For a few brief moments she had harbored the hope that maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong about Matthew and Dayla, that they were not lovers at all, but while McKenna denied the finer emotion of love, he did not deny the baser emotion of lust, and that, she feared, was the truest answer of all.

"Good night, McKenna, and thank you." Turning on her heel, she headed for the staircase.

He was next to her in a flash, her wrist trapped by his lean strong fingers. "We're not finished yet," he said, his voice low and threatening.

"I'm afraid we are." She sounded a great deal more courageous than she was feeling at that moment.

"You play a dangerous game, little girl. Maybe you should learn just how dangerous it is."

"Let me go, McKenna, before I scream this house down around your arrogant ears."

The words had barely escaped her mouth before he swept her into his arms and started up the winding staircase.

"You won't scream," he said, taking the steps two at a time. "At least not now."

A sensual thrill coiled deep in her belly and she fought to displace it with an intelligent emotion like fear but it refused to budge. He has another woman, she reminded herself desperately. Open your eyes, you fool! He has Dayla to warm his bed and see to his needs.

"I despise you, McKenna," she hissed as they reached the second floor landing. "You're a low, abominable, vile creature who--"

"Shut up." His lips came down upon hers again, his tongue sliding past the barrier of her teeth and plundering her mouth. With each thrust, each parry, he took possession of another piece of her soul and she knew if she didn't stop him now, she would be forever lost.

The door to her room was ajar. With Alexandra still in his arms, he pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside. Her bed loomed large in the center of the room, her lace-trimmed nightgown neatly laid out atop the down pillows. In another moment it would be too late.

In desperation, she drew his mouth toward hers one last time and bit down hard on his lower lip until his blood sprang hot and brackish upon the tip of her tongue.

"Son of a bitch!" He reared back, eyes wide, and she watched as a trickle of blood trickled over his lip.

Dear God, what on earth had she done? Certainly there must have been a better way to handle the situation.

He tossed her down onto the feather bed and touched his hand to his mouth. "I'm bleeding!"

"I'm sorry."

"You should be horsewhipped."

"Come here," she said, scrambling to her knees and searching for a handkerchief in her nightstand. "Let me take care of it."

"You've done enough."

"You deserved it, McKenna. You had no right to force your attentions upon me when you already have a woman right under the same roof."

"Son of a bitch," he said, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "You're jealous."

"I shall not dignify that with an answer."

"You're jealous," he repeated, as if savoring the words. "I'll be damned."

"You, Mr. McKenna, can go straight to hell."

He stood in the doorway for an eternity, his beautiful eyes shifting with a thousand different emotions. "I think I will," he said, with a mocking bow. "Don't show me out, Alex. I already know the way."

He slammed the door behind him and Alexandra sat very still at the edge of the bed and listened as his footsteps disappeared down the hallway.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Thirteen

Matthew was halfway down the stairs when he saw it. He stopped, an angry red mist still swirling around his head, and stared at the delicate lacy shawl crumpled on the fourth step from the top.

Alexandra's.

Leave it there, his mind said. Janine will fetch it for her in the morning. The girl was nothing more than a foolish virgin, given to playing dangerous games. She enticed, she teased, she promised endless delight but when the time for gameplaying was over and the time for passion begun, she skidded to a stop.

He bent down and retrieved the shawl, letting the shimmering square of fabric slither between his fingers as if it were the silk of her hair. She thought it was Dayla who held his heart, Dayla who warmed his bed, Dayla who fired his dreams and ignited his fantasies.

Crushing the shawl in his hand he buried his face in its soft folds, inhaling the sweet perfume of wildflowers and Alexandra.

Sweet, fiery Alex who deserved a hell of a lot better than anything he could offer her. Leaving her bedroom was the most difficult thing he'd ever done.

And probably the finest.

Why then did he feel as if a part of him had died? Stuffing the shawl into his pocket, he headed toward the library for a drink.

Stephen had planned it as a dress rehearsal, a chance to make certain he could make his way back to Sea View and slip inside without being noticed. To be naught but a simple stopover before heading for New York City. The success of his plan depended on it and, thus far, things had progressed without a hitch. His horse had covered the distance between Westhampton Beach and Sea View quickly and Stephen had managed to make his way up the dunes with no trouble.

The house was dark except for the hall lamps and a light in the rear. The French doors to the library library were open and Stephen crouched down behind an azalea bush as McKenna muttered a few words to Dayla then retreated with his bottle of vodka. The gas lamp on the desk burned brightly and Stephen cautiously peered inside the room in time to see Dayla puttering near the wall safe hidden behind one of his uncle's rare still lifes. Except for some old family letters, the safe had remained empty for at least twenty years and when his uncle had given Stephen the combination a few months ago it was to provide him with a place to store his own valuables.

That was exactly what Stephen had done. The small portrait of Marisa Glenn--painted when she was still Mary Margaret Kilbride--was tucked away inside. Stephen had found it in Rome, in a tiny gallery near the Via Veneto and he'd paid a small fortune for it. Andrew had destroyed most of his work from the Hudson Valley period; this was one of three paintings to survive.

When Andrew died, Stephen could name his own price.

And then the unbelievable happened: before his horrified eyes, Dayla removed the still life from the wall and placed it against the leather wing chair. Her dusky fingers spun the dial left, then right, then left again and Stephen groaned as the door to the safe swung open.

He held his breath as she reached in and extracted a sheaf of letters neatly tied with a faded red ribbon and was about to close the safe door when she hesitated then reached back inside.

The painting.

The bitch had the painting in her hands and Stephen knew it would now only be a matter of time before it found its way back to his uncle Andrew.

"It doesn't matter," he whispered into the darkness. A delay, that's all it was. One small seback in an otherwise perfect scheme. He'd think his way through this the same way he'd thought his way through everything else. He was a Lowell, one of a long line of pirates and privateers and men willing to take what they wanted, consequences be damned.

Anyway you looked at it, Andrew Lowell was a dead man.

Stephen was smiling as he disappeared back into the night.

Saturday morning Alexandra arose early, ostensibly to get a head start before the temperature rose. She was glad that Andrew had once again requested she pose in the afternoon and she had been quick to agree. The thought of being enclosed in a sweltering attic room while the afternoon sun blazed overhead made her dream of icy streams and tall glasses of lemonade.

Dreaming of icy streams and lemonade was infinitely safer than dreaming of Matthew McKenna, which was exactly what she'd done all night. Each time she closed her eyes she'd seen his face in the moonlight, heard his voice, felt the touch of his hand against her cheek.

And, God forgive her, each time she drifted into sleep she relived the wild surge of desire she'd found in his arms.

She came down to breakfast trembling with anticipation and terror, only to find the elusive Mr. McKenna had saddled a chestnut and ridden off just after dawn. She managed only a half piece of toast before her appetite fled and she headed out to the carriage house.

When he didn't return for luncheon she was almost relieved, for the dark shadows beneath her eyes were testimony to her restless night. Indeed, she wondered if she would ever sleep again. She could imagine herself lying awake night after night, listening for the sound of McKenna's footsteps in the hallway outside her bedroom door.

She was ashamed to admit to herself that she'd wished he would force his way in and pull her into his arms, even though she was certain to suffer eternal damnation for even thinking such a thing.

When she arrived at his studio shortly after two, it came as no surprise that Andrew Lowell recognized her distress immediately.

"You look awful, girl," he greeted her.

"Thank you," she said grimly, taking her usual position near the French doors. "How kind of you to mention it."

He muttered something about temperament being the province of the artist not the model. She was about to retort that she was an artist too when Dayla placed a hand upon her shoulder and whispered the word, "Please," low into her ear.

He's ill, Alexandra told herself as he began to work. He had earned the right to be crotchety and fractious. In fact, today she preferred it for it meant no conversation. She didn't believe she could find a single amusing story to wile away the hours as he worked.

He worked steadily, occasionally breaking the silence to tell her to turn her face more toward the window. By the time the sun was halfway to the horizon, she was gazing moodily out at the window to the beach below. The tide was low and sandbars stood out in bold relief against the shimmering pools of water dotting the landscape. A few hundred yards out, gentle waves splashed against the receded shoreline and she imagined herself there, as the cool water swirled around her ankles and calves.

And then she saw him.

Knee-deep in water was Matthew McKenna. It was difficult from that distance to tell what trousers he was wearing but she could easily make out his white cambric shirt with the sleeves rolled up clear above his elbows. He wielded a long wooden instrument like the one she'd seen the men using to dig for clams in Georgica Pond, but there all resemblance ended.

Those men had worked slowly, methodically, conserving their energies in order to see the job through but there was no moderation in Matthew's movements. He worked furiously as she watched him, his powerfully muscular forearms glistening with saltwater and sweat in the fierce yellow light. She imagined she could taste him against her tongue, his skin warm and resilient to her touch, and her eyes fluttered closed for one heartstopping moment.

He toiled as if possessed, as if he were trying to drive out some black demon coiled around his heart.

How well she understood.

Nothing about her life seemed familiar to her any longer. Not the sounds of the birds flying overhead, nor the scrub pines ringing the house, nor the sight of her strange and familiar face in the cheval mirror each morning--nothing was as it once was.

Newly discovered emotions smoldered inside her, making it difficult to eat or sleep or think about anything beyond the way Matthew McKenna made her feel.

"Turn toward me, girl!" Andrew snapped. "I do not intend to paint the back of your head."

Dayla, who had been sitting in the corner of the room sewing, looked up. "Perhaps this is enough today."

"I say when it is enough," Andrew roared, "and it is not!"

Beyond the window, Alexandra saw Matthew rip off his shirt and tie it around his waist, baring his chest to the sun--and to her fevered gaze.

"Turn to me, girl!" Andrew repeated. "Have you taken leave of your senses?"

"Yes," she said, rising from her chair. "I do believe I have."

"Where do you think you're going?"

She hesitated, torn between her desire to leave and her longing to stay. "I--I am feeling lightheaded. I need to--"

"If you're lightheaded, then sit down."

"I cannot."

"Cannot?" He turned to Dayla. "What does she mean 'cannot'?"

Dayla's eyes met hers. "She would like to return to her room, Andrew."

His attention swiveled back to Alexandra. "Do I pay you to hide in your room, girl? I do not think it is asking so much that you give me an hour of your time."

"I cannot," she repeated, her gaze drawn again to Matthew on the sunswept beach. "Please--the heat. I am not myself."

Andrew opened his mouth to speak but Dayla stepped in. "She is ill, Andrew. Let her be."

Oh, dear God! This simply wasn't fair. Now she was indebted to Matthew's woman.

"Sir," she began, "if you can find it in your heart to allow me this one favor, I swear I'll--"

"Save your swearing for what is important," Andrew said. "Go to your room."

"You cannot know how I appreciate this kindness that you've--"

"Go to your room," he bellowed, "and cease this infernal talk."

She was anxious to get away, but his voice stopped her in the doorway.

"And, girl?"

She paused, heart pounding. She had pushed him too far; she knew it.

To her intense surprise, the hint of a smile played across his countenance. "Get some sleep. I cannot have a model with circles beneath her eyes."

"I shall make it up to you, Mr. Lowell. You can withhold pay or--"

"Go!" he roared. "Go before I change my mind and put you on the next train out of town!"

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Fourteen

Matthew stayed out on the beach until nearly dusk before he finally went back up to the house where he presented Cook with two wooden buckets of steamers that sent her into rhapsodies over the chowder she intended to make.

But unused energy still coiled inside him like a mainspring and he decided to walk along the beach, in an attempt to think his way around the hopeless tangle his life had become.

The girl was falling in love with him. Even he, blinded by desire, could see the signs. Her swift changes of mood, the way those golden eyes watched him last night, the soft touch of her hand as she straightened his cuff. She was so young--too young to understand how it was with him. How could she, when he often found it difficult to understand himself?

Married yet not married.

A father in his heart but not in fact.

A rich man living as a beggar in another man's home, drinking himself to the death he so richly deserved.

He snatched a piece of driftwood then sent it sailing into the ocean. What could he offer her but a life spent in the shadows, neither honored wife nor pampered mistress, condemned to wait until the day came when he could give her more.

He thought of Madolyn, of her greed, of her excesses, of the sorrow he had brought to her. Alexandra deserved better than the lowlife drunkard he'd become. One day a man like Stephen Lowell would come along, all polished and poised in his white flannel pants and navy blue blazer and her untried heart would tumble to his feet. There wouldn't be a damned thing Matthew could do except dance at her wedding and pretend it didn't matter.

But he knew it would.

He knew it deep down in the soul he oft believed long-departed. He would regret it every day of his life.

And why not? Regret was something he understood.

In Westhampton Beach that night, Stephen was about to have dinner.

"If there is anything more I can do for you, Mr. Lowell, please let me know." The young chamber maid with the big green eyes smmiled up at him, her dimples deepening.

He chucked her quickly under her chin and pressed a half-dollar into her warm palm. "You are a veritable haven in a troubled world," he said, sitting down to table. "Rest assured I'll ring for you if need be."

Blushing to the roots of her light brown hair, the maid closed the door behind her and, at last, he was alone.

At times it was too easy. Women like the little chambermaid were ripe fruit hanging low on a branch, just waiting to tumble to the ground in the slightest wind. It was the ones you had to reach for that had the sweetest taste.

And he'd believed Marisa's little girl would have tasted sweeter than honey.

It was a shame that now he'd never had the opportunity to find out.

For awhile he'd entertained elaborate notions about the way he'd seduce her from under McKenna's nose. He'd fantasized about the way she'd feel beneath him, the way her rounded hips would arch to meet his...

No matter. That time was past. He'd learned that last night as he hid behind the azalea bushes and watched his future unfold in the dusky hands of Andrew's whore.

It was now or never.

He plunged his knife into the slab of blood-red steak on his plate and cut off a piece.

He had no choice.

His ship left tomorrow.

The murders would be tonight.

Without the medication, Andrew's pain was more intense, but the keenness of mind made the suffering almost bearable. Fooling Stephen had been difficult; fooling Alexandra that morning had been easy. Oddly enough, he had felt not the slightest whit of guilt over tricking Stephen while a vague feeling of remorse had settled upon him when he saw the trusting look in Alexandra's eyes.

Her eyes.

Daylight was gone but still he worked on her portrait by the yellow glow of the gas lamp on his nightstand. How was it he seemed to recall each nuance of expression, each angle and plane of her face, in almost excruciating detail?

None of it made any sense.

In three weeks he had not seen overmuch of her, save for those sessions in his studio. She spent most of her hours up in the carriage house attic while he was a prisoner in his suite of rooms.

Yet, there it was. Without her to model for him, he had somehow captured her.

His palette was heavy with color. Rich mounds of silver white and raw sienna and a Veronese green so lustrous it seemed to breathe. He dipped his brush into a swirling mixture of sunlit flesh tones and began to bring light to her face. His hand, gnarled though it was, flowed effortlessly across the canvas in a way that startled him. The face of the young girl came to life as if the Almighty had touched her shoulder and breathed life into her lovely body.

But, wait. Lovely as she was, something was not quite right. The angle of the cheekbone was a shade too rounded. The breasts, too full. The look in her eyes held a slyness he had never before observed in Alexandra.

Was the eye of the artist seeing something he could not?

He glanced down at the oil painting Dayla had handed him that morning. Annoyed, he had propped it up against his easel at his feet, not caring to fathom what deep secrets his woman thought it possessed.

Of course.

Somehow his mind had played tricks upon him, substituting features of one girl for features of the other in an artistic give-and-take. Except for their coloring which was, indeed, vastly different, the two models actually had a great deal in common: the same proud carriage; the same intelligence blazing in their eyes. The same pronounced cheekbones and dimpled chin and--

Ridiculous.

What connection could there possibly be between a little chambermaid from the old Van Voorhies estate and a penniless art student from Provence?

The woman in the picture was young--no more than a score of years. Her long coppery-blone hair spilled over shoulders unbowed by worry while her cornflower blue eyes held the hint of a smile, as if she held a secret deep within her soul. She wore a silk kimono of the palest goldenrod with delicate embroidery tracing an exotic pattern along the sleeves and across the front. The robe had slipped down low enough to expose the rounded tops of her full young breasts and his body jerked with the sudden violent memory of their ripeness against his mouth.

"Ridiculous," he mumbled. What in hell was he thinking? He'd had a thousand models in his day. Why was he remembering the texture of this one's skin, the smell of her haikr so clearly across the years? Much as it chagrined him, perhaps Stephen was right after all. Perhaps pain did dull one's judgement and hinder one's perceptions. As if on cue, a stabbing pain radiated up his spine, and he could do naught but hold his breath until it released him. Beads of sweat trickled down his back and sides yet he felt gripped by ice, and it took a quarter hour for his body to recover from the onslaught.

Daunted, he opened his nightstand drawer and retrieved one of the pills he had stashed away.

Perhaps a good night's sleep was what he needed.

"Too hot," muttered Cook as she put away the last of the dinner dishes and untied her white apron. "'Tisn't natural to be so hot in May."

The house shimmered with a heat that not even the coming of darkness had lessened. The back door was open wide, the better to catch the breezes rising off the ocean, and the window curtains were pulled back with strips of yellow ribbon.

And still it wasn't enough.

Janine, her red hair coiled in a knot atop her head, fanned herself with her apron as the two women stepped from the airless pantry into the spacious kitchen. Cook was looking peaked, her long narrow face pale and bathed in perspiration.

She placed her hands upon the older woman's shoulders and pushed her toward the door.

"Off with you," she said, over the woman's protests. "I'll be finishin' up here. Your man is waitin' for you at the cottage." Cook sighed and murmured something about not even heat being enough to cool Johnny's ardor but she heeded Janine's advice. Janine stood in the doorway and watched as Cook made her way slowly across the wide expanse of backyard and headed toward the caretaker's cottage at the western edge of the property.

"Quiet as a morgue tonight, it is," she said to the empty kitchen then shivered as a feeling of dread settled across her, real as the banshee's cry.

"Nonsense," she said, hanging her apron up on the hook behind the door and extinguishing the gas lamp on the table. It was the heat playing tricks with her poor addled mind, it was, sure as she was standing there.

The whole house had been topsy-turvy today, a thick tangle of misunderstandings and temper that had her jumping at the sight of her own shadow. Mr. Andrew had snarled at her when she carried in his breakfast tray. Cook and Johnny hurled barbs as well as frying pans at one another in the kitchen while Arthur spilled a bottle of milk on the freshly washed floor then fell going for the mop. Even Miss Alexandra didn't take her usual breakfast then stayed in her room through dinner. And Mr. Matthew--he had come barreling into the kitchen like a house afire only to grab himself a chunk of fresh bread and head out to saddle a horse. He was a gentleman, Mr. Matthew was, and he wouldn't say a thing but Janine knew deep in her soul that Miss Alexandra was at the heart of his temper. "The heat," Cook had said.

The heat could make a body crazy.

She walked through the quiet house and out the front door to sit on the porch and look up at the stars.

A refreshing breeze wafted over her Janine's spirits rose. If her luck would be holding, spring would return with the morning sun.

All they had to do was get through the night.

Patience. Stephen crouched deeper in the shadows alongside the house. Patience was the key.

Lights still burned in the caretaker's cottage adjacent to the carriage house and he could see Johnny dozing by the open window.

All the doors and windows to the main house were flung wide and he could barely contain the thrill of excitement barreling through him.

Once again, it seemed almost too easy. This sudden heat wave was a gift from the gods, as if Fate had recognized the inequity of Stephen's situation and sought to rectify it in her own way. No need for jimmying locks or forcing windows. No shattered glass or splintered wood.

He would climb the latticework to the second floor, hoist himself onto Andrew's balcony, then stroll through the French doors as though it were his birthright.

And it was his birthright, damn it. Didn't the Lowell blood flow through his veins same as through the mighty Andrew's? Was it his fault he'd been born to a sniveling fool of a father who had put a higher store in good faith than he had in good sense and ended up with nothing.

He'd fry in hell before he let Marisa's bastard daughter take away everything he'd earned.

The azalea bush next to him rustled in the warm breeze and the redhaired maid glanced in his direction. He flattened himself against the weathered shingles and held his breath until her attention returned to the stars overhead.

Patience.

For over thirty years he had waited for this opportunity, planned for it, dreamed over it, until he doubted it would ever become a reality. It could all be destroyed by his own recklessness.

The plan was flawless. There would be no gunshot breaking the silence. No knife wound to spread a crimson stain on the white sheets. Just a chloroform-soaked rag followed swiftly by pressure applied skillfully to a windpipe and it would be over.

This was his one chance--his only chance to grab the brass ring and he had to wait until the maid retired to her third floor room and McKenna vacated the library and the house finally went dark.

The reward would be great if he could just bide his time a little bit longer.

Gabrielle's voice rushed toward Alexandra from a blackness deeper than the night.

"You cannot leave me," her friend said, eyes bright with tears. "Luc...Mireille...the baby on its way...how can we do without you?"

The cooling breezes of Provence lifted Alexandra's hair from her forehead, drying the tiny beads of sweat trickling backward from her temples.

Home.

She was finally home.

This is a dream, a voice whispered in her ear. Do not believe what you hear.

She tossed restlessly in the wide feather bed, her thin nightdress tangling around her legs and hips.

Of course she was home. Where else could she possibly be but in her room in Gabrielle and Luc's tiny cottage? Soon dawn would break over the meadows and it would be time to rise and tend to the milking and gather the eggs and--

Andrew Lowell, his white hair rising up around his face like a corona, stood before her. "Help me!" he cried, golden eyes alight with fear. "Help me!"

Abruptly she sat up in bed, her hand on her chest to still her thundering heart. The massive armoire loomed dark and dangerous in the greyness of the room and it took her a moment to remember where she was.

This wasn't Provence.

This was Easthampton and she was in Andrew Lowell's house. Once again the image of him pleading, "Help me!" sprang to mind and it seemed as if he stood before her, his golden eyes blazing a path in the darkness.

"A nightmare," she whispered. "That's all it is." But she was awake and the vision persisted until she sprang from bed and slipped into the kimono Dayla given her for the modeling sessions.

The vision of Andrew Lowell was ridiculous and she knew it. The man was probably sleeping peacefully in his room at the other end of the hall, yet the sound of his voice pleading for help lingered in her ears.

There was no hope for it. She eased open her door and tiptoed down the hall. The Persian carpet was tufted silk beneath her bare feet and the only noise in the quiet house was the sound of her breathing.

The door to Andrew's suite was open and she silently stepped into the drawinng room only to discover the door to this bedroom closed tight. All seemed as it should. She pressed her ear against the heavy oak, expecting to hear nothing save a gentle snore from within.

But it wasn't a snore she heard: it was a grunt. Soft, but unmistakable, followed by the squeaking of bedsprings and the crack of a hand against tender flesh.

Dear God! Her face flamed. She had heard intimate sounds from Gabrielle and Luc's bedroom during her months at the cottage, sounds that made her blood rush hot through her veins, and she was about to slip back to her room when she remembered this was not the room of young lovers. This room was Andrew Lowell's.

Andrew Lowell, whose hands could barely hold the finest brush, whose legs could not carry him across a room. The sounds coming from the bedroom could not possibly be the sounds of passion.

They were the sounds of struggle.

Flinging open the door, she faced her nightmare head-on: A man dressed in black leaned over Andrew's great cherrywood bed, his soft pale hands wrapped around the artist's throat. Andrew's magnificent eyes were wide with horror yet he offered no struggle. In an instant she saw the life ebbing from his body and the scream that rose from her gut echoed throughout the house.

"Let him go!" She raced toward the bed, barely registering the pain as a splinter pierced her instep, and grabbed a carafe of water from the nightstand. "Let him go this minute!"

The man's voice was a horrifying rasp, "Shut up, bitch!" His hand swung out, barely missing the side of her head.

"Help!" she screamed, throwing the carafe at him. "Somebody, please help!"

The pitcher bounced off the man's shoulder and shattered into a thousand pieces. Andrew was quick losing the battle; he drooped helplessly over the man's right arm and she knew it was only a question of moments before he stopped breathing entirely.

She heard the sound of footsteps racing down the hallway. "Hurry!" she screamed, her words tearing from her throat. Please, God!

The man leaned over Andrew; his hands gleamed white in the moonlight through the open French doors. His long aristocratic fingers wrapped themselves once again around Andrew's throat and she sprang forward, enraged, and pummeled the man's head with her fists.

Now! I need help now! What happened to the footsteps? Why was no one there?

Her fingers curved into talons and she reached for the assailant's face in a last-ditch attempt to divert him. Elation welled inside her as her nails dug deep into his flesh.

His eyes! If she could just reached his eyes, she could--

The man roared with pain and, dropping Andrew like a sack of grain, he reared back and dealt her a devastating blow to her jaw.

Pain exploded inside her head, sharp arrows of white light darting through her face and neck.

Through her haze, she saw Andrew sprawled across his bed, motionless, and she struggled to move toward him.

"Oh, no, you don't." The man's voice was low with rage as he tackled her around the waist and flung her across the room as if she were no more than a wornout blanket.

She fell gracelessly, too dazed from the initial blow to do anything to protect herself. Her left shoulder slammed into the bottom of a huge chifferobe and before the pain could reach her nerve endings, she saw the man's face.

Dear God! It couldn't be...it just couldn't be.

The yellow-haired man.

The last thing Alexandra saw before she passed out was Stephen Lowell's smile.

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Fire's Lady

Chapter Fifteen

Matthew couldn't sleep.

For two hours he'd lain motionless across his narrow bed, staring at the bottle of whiskey on his dresser. Not even whiskey could help him this time.

All day he'd pushed himself to the limits of his endurance, trying desperately to force the longing and sorrow and anger from his body.

He'd failed royally.

Alexandra Glenn haunted him at every turn. He saw her in the sun blazing overhead. He heard her in the sighing of the wind. He felt her in the fever heating his veins.

He'd stayed on the beach until well past dark then climbed the dunes to the house, sitting for a long time in the library on the offchance she would appear in the doorway. But of course she hadn't and he'd been a fool to even dream she would.

Finally, long past midnight, he rose from bed and pulled on his trousers. Sleep was as far away as ever and he knew he'd rather be outside walking the beach than inside, drowning in his own despair. Quietly he slipped from his room and was making his way down the hallway toward the staircase when he noticed the door to Andrew's suite was open wide. Dayla must have slipped down to the kitchen for a pitcher of water for the nightstand or some chips of ice to combat the overwhelming heat. He was about to continue on when a noise, low and muffled, caught his ear and he turned back.

Everything seemed normal in the anteroom, as far as he could tell without lighting a candle. Gingerly he skirted the priceless sculptures dotting the perimeter of the room and pushed open the door to Andrew's bedroom.

His mentor and friend lay face up across his wide bed, one arm dangling lifelessly over the side. Dayla, face contorted with fear, was fighting off a man who looked like Stephen Lowell.

But it wasn't until he saw Alexandra, his Alexandra, slumped on the floor near the chifferobe with a thin trickle of blood coursing down her cheek that the animal in him sprang to full and violent life.

With a primal howl he vaulted himself across the room, landing square on Stephen's back. Released from Lowell's grasp, Dayla flew to Andrew's side and her low keening wail filled the room.

"You're too late," Lowell grunted as they crashed to the floor, locked in combat. "You're too damned late."

Fury, red and ugly, burned in Matthew's gut as his fist connected with Lowell's jaw with bonecracking impact. He was beyond thought, beyond reason; the only reality was his need for revenge.

Dimly he heard Dayla's voice but her words were lost to him. Blood-lust drove him on. For each blow Stephen landed, Matthew landed two of deadly power and accuracy that did little to wipe away the agony of loss building within.

"You bastard!" he spat, knocking loose one of Lowell's teeth. "You stinking bastard."

Lowell's eyes were dilated with both fear and pain. Huge purple bruises began to stain his face and Matthew knew he had him--had him exactly where he wanted him--helpless and terrified and a heartbeat away from death.

However, he had underestimated the depth of Stephen's fury. "Go ahead!" the smaller man taunted through lips both swollen and split. "You've killed once already. This should be easy for you..."

He wanted the stink of Stephen's last blood to fill the room.

"Rot in hell, Stephen Lowell," he said, gathering power. "Rot in hell with the rest of your kind."

...killed once already...killed once already...

Lowell's words tumbled inside his brain like white-hot coals. He saw his son's tiny, broken body curled at the side of the road...saw those cornflower blue eyes staring up at the summer sky...saw Andrew slanting across the bed...the trickle of blood starkly crimson on Alexandra's pale and lifeless face...he saw it all in that one instant and all the years of pain coalesced within him.

He reared back, set to deliver the final blow, when Dayla's scream pierced the thick haze surrounding him.

"Don't, Matthew!" Her voice was high and urgent. "They live!" He hesitated, teetering on the honed edge between reason and madness. "Listen to me, Matthew: they live!"

She was asleep, surely that was it.

She was back in her bed with the warm May breeze carrying the scent and sound of the ocean into her room. The nightmare had faded, disappearing in a haze of light and heat, and she found herself drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, unwilling to give herself up totally to either state.

"Alex." Something cold pressed itself against her jaw and a stinging pain flared up. "Alex, open your eyes."

She tried to turn her head away but a large hand held her still.

She pushed at the man's hand. "Stop," she mumbled. "Let me sleep."

"She's conscious," the man said and the next moment something powerful and sharp was passed beneath her nose and her eyes shot open.

"What are you doing here?" Matthew McKenna had no business at all being in her bedroom. "This is my room!"

He helped her to a sitting position, his hands gentle against her back and shoulders. "This is Andrew's room."

"Andrew's room?" She frowned as her gaze flickered over her surroundings. Shards of glass sparkled on the floor. A nightstand had been overturned and a score of books and papers were scattered across the bedclothes. And there, in the middle of the cherrywood bed, was Andrew Lowell, his bony frame cradled in the arms of the dark-haired Dayla who looked down upon him with an emotion that could only be described as love.

"I don't understand--" Her breath caught in her throat. "Dear God, Matthew!" Gently she touched the swelling beneath his right eye. "What happened?"

"Stephen."

Stephen towering over her, his handsome face contorted with hatred, his fists coming toward her face. There was nowhere to go...no place to turn...

"It was real," she said, trembling. "It wasn't a nightmare."

Matthew plucked a handkerchief from the floor next to them. "Chloroform first," he said, fingering the fine linen, "then strangulation. He had it planned to the last detail."

"But that is insane!" Why would he take such drastic action? "He has position and family and everything he could ever want." Everything she had never possessed.

"Not everything." A familiar voice came from the opposite side of the room and Alexandra's head shot up. Stephen Lowell, his wrists bound behind his back, lay on the floor watching her. "You, darling girl, have everything."

The room went deathly silent. She wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to control her trembling.

"Come, come," said Stephen as if he weren't restrained like a common criminal. "Surely you must have figured it out by now."

Her eyes darted to Matthew but he was intent upon the other man, as were Andrew and Dayla. Her gaze shifted back to Stephen. "I have figured nothing out," she said, wincing at the sudden dart of pain in her jaw, "except for the fact that you tried to kill me."

"Certainly you cannot blame me, darling girl. I have no intention of losing what is rightfully mine."

"But this is insane!" She stood up, her legs wobbly as a foal's. "You are Andrew's heir. That should be enough for one lifetime."

His laugh sent chills racing throughout her body. "Quite the innocent, aren't you? I would almost believe you had no idea."

She had the sudden, swift intuition that nothing in her life would ever be the same again and, more than anything, she wished to stop his words before it was too late.

From his bed in the center of the room, Andrew spoke for the first time, his voice raspy from the injuries to his throat. "For the love of God, Stephen, stop this vendetta before you cause damage you can never repair."

"Shut up, old man!" Stephen snarled, glaring at Dayla. "Maybe if you'd been able to service that slut of yours, you wouldn't have--"

Andrew's scream came from the depths of his soul. "No more lies, Stephen, no more. Your time is over." He turned to Matthew. "Tell Johnny to ready the coach. I want him out of here."

Matthew hesitated. "The Hunttings have a telephone," he said. "We can ask them to call up the police and--"

"No," said Andrew. "This shame shall not leave Sea View."

"You cannot let him go. This bastard should be put behind bars. He attempted murder, Andrew. Murder!"

Andrew would not yield. "I will not be the one to tarnish the Lowell name. He--"

"You're making a mistake," Matthew interrupted. "Bring the full power of the law to bear against him."

Andrew would have none of it. "You are a guest, Matthew, not the master of this house. You will do as I say." Andrew decreed that Stephen would be banished from Sea View permanently and struck from his will but it would be a private punishment, never to go beyond the boundaries of that house.

"You'll regret this, Andrew," Matthew pressed.

Andrew cast a look at Stephen who was listening intently to their exchange. "I would regret more the sullying of our family name."

Matthew kicked at an overturned table in frustration and the muttered word, "Bastard!" lingered in the room even after he left to wake Johnny to ready the coach.

Stephen's shrill laughter filled Alexandra with dread, and she had to remind herself that he was bound and helpless. "If it is a bastard you are looking for, McKenna," he called out although Matthew was already out of earshot, "look elsewhere in this room."

Dayla flinched as if struck and Alexandra, riddled with guilt for the dreadful things she'd thought about the woman, lashed out at Stephen. "How dare you? Dayla is from another culture. You cannot hold her responsible for an accident of birth."

"Quite the innocent, aren't you?" Stephen drawled. "One would almost believe you did not know."

Apprehension snaked its way across her back and coiled itself around her heart. "I do not know what you are talking about, Stephen."

Stephen turned and looked at his uncle who was sitting up, his weight supported by the fragile woman at his side. "But you know, do you not, Uncle Andrew?"

Andrew went yet another shade of white and remained mute as the marble sculptures all around them.

"Show her the picture, Uncle Andrew," Stephen urged, his voice dripping with venom. "Let her draw her own conclusions."

"I do not know what in hell you are talking about," Andrew said. "What picture?"

"The one Dayla took from the safe."

Andrew said something low to Dayla who quickly rose to fetch a small canvas that had fallen near the easel. She returned to the bed and handed it to him. Alexandra watched, scarcely breathing, while Andrew studied the painting. Her fists were clenched so tightly that her nails dug bloody grooves in the palms of her hands.

"No," said Andrew, breaking the troubled silence in the room. "This cannot be."

"But it can," countered Stephen. "Perhaps the name Mary Margaret Kilbride will restore your memory."

A moan of despair escaped Andrew and his eyes closed for a moment.

"Take a look, darling girl," Stephen urged. "Look back upon your past and tell me what you see."

Her eyes met Andrew's. He nodded and she crossed the room toward the bed and took the small painting from him.

"This is my mother," she said instantly, gazing upon the beautiful coperry-haired woman. "She must have been very young." Straightening her shoulders, she looked down upon Stephen. "She is the most famous artist's model in Paris."

"Marisa Glenn," said Stephen, "is also the most famous whore in Montmartre."

"Liar!" Alexandra screamed. She wanted to drag her nails down his cheeks until his blood ran freely for exposing all that she refused to see. "She is a model, nothing more!"

"She was a whore," Stephen bellowed. "Andrew Lowell's whore."

She whirled on Andrew. "Tell him! Tell him she was just your model. Tell him the truth!"

Andrew's eyes met hers. "You know the truth, girl," he said quietly. "You know the truth as well as I."

"I don't!" Her voice broke on a note of panic. "My mother is a widow. She never--"

"Your mother spread her legs for half of Europe," Stephen cut in. "My elegant uncle was merely the first in a long line of swordsmen to come to rest within her sheath. Those talents kept her in splendor, darling girl."

This couldn't be happening. "You're wrong," she said, clinging to a shred of hope. "You've made a mistake. My father left her well-provided for. We never wanted for a thing."

"Your father left her nothing, darling girl, but a bastard growing in her belly."

"You'll regret this, Stephen," Andrew warned. "Say no more."

"I'll say it all, old man!" Stephen lashed out. "It is long past time for it to be said."

"He cannot hurt me," she said, praying to maintain her composure. "My father was a highly-placed English soldier."

"No, darling girl, your father was not a soldier." Stephen smiled and she knew she evil faced for the very first time. "Your father is Andrew Lowell."

She could scarcely hear over the wild crashing of her heart. "No! That cannot be. Tell him he is wrong!" she demanded of Andrew. "Tell him the truth."

Andrew raised a gnarled hand to silence her. "Come here, girl," he said, motioning her to his side. "Let me see you."

Trembling uncontrollably, she knelt down before him. Dear God! she thought as she studied his face intently. Those eyes! Those golden eyes, so strange yet so familiar.

How blind had she been to not see they were the same eyes that looked back at her each morning in the mirror? The one, unmistakable legacy of Andrew Lowell to his bastard daughter.

The handsome father who died a hero's death had never existed except in her mother's devious mind. Colonel Glenn and his daring exploits, Colonel Glenn and the love he had for the child he fathered were lies, lies and more lies. She had no name, no family, nothing upon which to justify her very existence.

Only Andrew Lowell who watched her now, safe and secure within the framework of family and position, forever beyond her reach.

"Alexandra." His voice was soft with wonder. "My daughter."

"No," she whispered. "It can't be. My mother wouldn't--"

"She was young," Andrew said, "she was desperate."

"And you?" Her voice was raw with shame. "Were you not part of this? Surely it was not an immaculate conception."

"It was part of another time, Alexandra, another world. I am not proud of turning from her."

"You knew? You knew she was with child and yet you turned away?"

"Your mother was well provided for. She had all the money necessary for her confinement."

"And what then?" she pursued, voice rising. "Did you not care about the child? Did you not want to see me?"

"Mary Margaret disappeared," Andrew said. "She took the money and fled from my life."

"Were you not curious? Was the mighty Andrew Lowell not curious about the child she was carrying?"

"No," he answered, meeting her eyes. "I was not."

Tears flooded her eyes and she breathed deeply to stem the flow. They were watching her--Andrew...Stephen...all of them--watching to see what she would do, how she would react. She wouldn't cry in front of them--would not!

"The great man speaks from the heart," she spat. "Well, here I am, Andrew Lowell, despite your wishes: your bastard."

"My child."

"Your bastard! Can you not admit even that much?" Nineteen years of lies, nineteen years of pretty stories lay crumbled at her feet.

He reached out to her and the touch of his hand against her cheek broke the last of her control and she slapped him hard across his face. Her palm stung with the feel of his sharp cheekbone as the sound echoed in the silent room.

She fled the room before anyone could react and ran headlong into a human form in the hallway.

"Alex?" McKenna gripped her by the forearms. "Is something wrong?"

Her laugh sounded wild and high to her ears as she violently pulled out of his grasp. "Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?"

"Stephen," he said, his voice low and menacing. "If that bastard did anything more to harm you, I'll--"

"Don't blame Stephen for this, McKenna. I'm in his debt this time. He did me quite a favor in there."

"Alex, what the hell is--"

"Mr. Matthew?" Cook's husband Johnny approached them. "The coach is ready to go."

"It'll wait for me," Matthew snapped. "Leave us alone."

"Don't listen, Johnny. Matthew is ready."

"Talk to me, Alex," he commanded as the bewildered Johnny backed away. "Let me help you."

"I don't need your help," she spat, her anger and pain erupting. "I don't need anyone at all."

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Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | Fire's Lady Chapter Sixteen Alexandra yanked her valise from under the feather bed and began tossing chemises and stockings into it in a tumbled pile of silk and cotton in her haste to flee Sea View. Her father's house. Dear God! How on earth was she to bear the shame? Tears blurred her vision as swept her toiletries from atop her dresser and flung them into her trunk. All she wanted was to get as far from the scene of her humiliation as possible, to put as many miles as she could between herself and Andrew Lowell and everyone else in this godforsaken place. Male voices floated up from the courtyard near the carriage house and she parted the window curtains just enough to see the shadowy figures of Matthew and Johnny standing near the coach that would take Stephen away. A slight breeze ruffled the curtains and Matthew stopped what he was doing and glanced up in her direction. Tonight he had looked at her with a tenderness that on another evening would have made her heart sing with joy. Tonight, however, there was no room in her heart for tenderness or joy. Indeed, there was no room in her heart for anything beyond the overwhelming sense of Marisa's betrayal thundering inside her head. Turning from the window she yanked her few dresses from the armoire. She wanted to be a thousand years away from this moment, a thousand miles away from this place. Your father! her mind screamed. Your father is Andrew Lowell. He lived in that house; she had talked with him and worked with him and, on occasion, laughed with him and never once guessed the truth. What a fool they must think her to be so easily gulled. Marisa had played her perfectly, moving her around as if she were no more than a chess piece and her life, a game to be won or lost at will. And how willing a partner Marisa had found in Stephen. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror as she folded her faded pink cotton frock. An ugly bruise was blossoming along her jaw line and the imprint of Stephen's hands formed a necklace of red marks on her throat. And yet she felt nothing, only that sickening sense of treachery that had gripped her since he broke the news. That was her father in the room down the hall. Her own flesh and blood. Surely that should mean something in the vast scheme of things, should it not? She sank down onto the bed next to the valise. She used to dream about her father, the imaginary Colonel Glenn, dream that he had somehow been lost at war and had finally found his way home, found his way back to her. He would be tall and distinguished, handsome enough to make her schoolmates jealous as cats. Rich as a king he would be, and he would love her more than anything on earth. Colonel Glenn didn't exist. He never had. Only Andrew Lowell was real. She could walk down that hall and throw her arms around him and finally call a man "Father," as she had longed to all her life, for all that it would matter. He was her blood, her family, her father and she cursed the emptiness that made her long for the impossible. She couldn't force him to love her, could she? Her arrival in his life came nineteen years too late and she knew that what there was between them was all there could ever be. But that wasn't true for her and Matthew. Last night their relationship had taken a dangerous, passionate turn; she vibrated with all she had felt during those brief moments in his arms. If she fled now she would be turning away from him forever. There was a sadness in Matthew that called out to her; a tenderness that moved her; an extraordinary intensity that thrilled her and made her blood run hot. What on earth was she to do? Running away would be an admission of guilt, and she knew she was guilty of nothing, save the sorry fact that she was the victim in her mother's wicked game. If she left in haste, she would never have the opportunity to speak to Andrew as her father, to ask questions for which only he had the answers. Tomorrow morning she would ask to speak to him and then she would leave by the front door just as she had arrived. It didn't matter where she went: to California or Chicago or back to Provence. When she left she would hold her head up with dignity and no one at Sea View would ever know how much it hurt. If only she could blink her eyes and wake up to discover this was all a terrible dream. If only this night were over--surely in the light of day her painn would seem more bearable. What a fool she'd been! What an arrogant, naive child to imagine herself somehow immune from the darker side of life. No one was: not McKenna, not Andrew, not Stephen, nor anyone else in this great house. Only her mother had managed to elude the darkness, turning each setback she faced into a triumph, no matter what the cost. No matter whom she hurt. She noticed her pearls nestled on a piece of black velvet in the open drawer of her dresser. The Glenn pearls. Her legacy. Picking them up she savored their weight against her palm and then, before she had the chance to change her mind, she threw them against the wall and watched them scatter, rolling under the bed and the armoire and bouncing against the nightstand. Perhaps it was time to raise a glass to her sainted mother. The hallway was deserted. Clutching her robe tightly around her, she raced down the staircase then darted into the library to find the whiskey bottle in its usual place on the side table. Snatching it up, she thrust it inside her robe and hurried back to her room, closing the door behind her. How many nights had she seen Matthew pour whiskey down his throat in his search for oblivion? How many nights had she heard him pacing the hall on the second floor, haunted by demons she had believed herself safe from? With great ceremony she filled her crystal water glass with whiskey. "To you, mother," she said, raising the glass high in salute. "Marisa Glenn...Mary Margaret Kilbride...whoever you are, may you rot in hell for eternity." Closing her eyes, she brought the glass to her lips and was about to gulp down the whiskey when her door swung open and she found herself looking into the beautiful eyes of Matthew McKenna. "You needn't look so shocked," she said as he stepped into her bedroom and closed the door behind him. "Do you think you are the only one in this house with a taste for whiskey?" "Put it down, Alex." He advanced toward her. "Don't be a damned fool." She swirled the amber liquid around in the glass,, admiring the way it picked up the glow of the candle burning atop her dresser. "Don't be selfish, McKenna. You seem to find tremendous pleasure in this liquid. Why shan't I?" Quickly she took a sip, shuddering as the vile stuff slipped down her throat and assaulted her belly. "How can you drink it?" she gasped in amazement. "It is foul." "It's not for everyone," he said, taking the glass from her. "Do you like the way it tastes?" He shrugged. "Taste is secondary. I drink it for its effect." She reached once again for the glass. "Give it to me," she commanded. "I intend to get blindingly drunk tonight." "That's not the answer," he said softly. "The problem will still be with you come morning." "Then I'll drink more whiskey at dawn," she retorted. "I've watched you, McKenna. I understand the way these things work." "It doesn't work, Alex. You cannot run away from yourself." "And why not?" She sat down on the edge of her bed. "My mother did it and my newfound father as well. Andrew acts as if his younger self never existed, as if he came into this world fully grown and standing at an easel." She watched him as he took a sip of the whiskey from her glass, grimaced, then put it back down. "With such illustrious forebears, why shouldn't I try my hand at it?" He glanced at the whiskey bottle as if to check the level. "You're not making sense, Alex." Her eyes widened. "Don't tell me you don't know the wonderful news, Matthew! Congratulations are in order: Andrew Lowell has become a father at last." "How much have you had to drink?" "Not nearly enough. News like this does indeed require some adjustment." "What happened in that room after I left? Andrew looked as if he'd seen a ghost." She chuckled wryly. "In a way, he had. The ghost of sins past." He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her to her feet. "Alex, so help me God, if you don't tell me what this is all about I'll--" "He's my father." His grip tightened. "Say that again." She looked him in the eye with all the bravado she could muster. "Andrew Lowell is my father." He stared back at her as if she were speaking tongues. "What the hell--?" "It's the truth, Matthew. I saw his portrait of my mother when she was no older than I. All the pieces fit together." "Has he known about it all this time?" Alexandra shook her head. "He says not." "Trust him," said Matthew. "Trust him! Good God, McKenna, do you know what you are asking of me?" "He's a good man. A fine friend." She pulled out of his grasp. "I do not need a friend. What I needed was a father, not a pretty story about a man who never existed except in my mother's imagination." "Give it time. This must be as difficult for him as it is to you." "He knew," she said, her voice low. "He knew my mother carried me and he salved his conscience with money." McKenna's blue-green eyes seemed to absorb her pain. "Some men do even less, Alex." "Some men are not my father!" she lashed out, her voice breaking. "Think, Matthew! Think how you would feel if your father had walked away from your birth." She paused, trying to gain control of her rampaging emotions. "Think how you would feel if your mother used you against him." She watched as comprehension dawned on Matthew. "Your mother and Stephen--?" "A pretty picture, is it not?" Hot tears sprang once again to her eyes and she could do naught to stop their flow. "What a colossal joke I must have been for them to use me so abominably." He drew her into his arms and this time she offered no resistance. Somehow--somehow through some wonderful miracle of chance--he understood. She saw it in his eyes; she felt it in his touch. She knew it in that hidden part of her heart she had guarded zealously all the years of her life. "This pain won't last forever," he whispered against her hair. "Tomorrow you'll talk to Andrew...tomorrow you'll ask the questions you need to ask..." "I cannot," she cried. "The shame I feel threatens to break my heart in two." His lips gently brushed the curve of her ear. "Let me help you, Alex." His voice was a sweet and dangerous rumble rippling down her spine. "Let me ease your pain..." His words were lost against the larger backdrop of the pleasure she was experiencing in his arms. His voice curled inside her ear, insinuated itself around her heart as he stroked her hair then cupped her head with his large, warm hand. Make me forget, she whispered silently. Just for tonight, make me forget it all. Give her one night without a past or present, one perfect night and she would ask no more. She was dizzied by his touch; her legs grew weak as pure physical sensation began to replace reason. His shirt was open nearly to the waist and she gave in to impulse and rested her cheek against his warm skin. How violently his heart hammered beneath her ear--and how quickly her own pulsepoints leaped to throbbing life in response. She could lose herself with him, hide within his warmth and strength, forget the ugliness of the past few hours within the beauty of his touch. "Alex?" Her name penetrated the sensuous fog settling over her and she looked up into Matthew's beautiful eyes. "Alex," he repeated, softer this time, then brought his mouth down to hers in a kiss that shattered the last of her reason and turned her into pure and shimmering heat. Her mouth flowered beneath his, her lips opening at the touch of his tongue demanding entry. With thrilling, insistent strokes, he swept across her teeth then darted inside, drawing her into a sensual swordplay that sent tremors radiating throughout her body. The contrasts were dazzling: the silky smoothness of his tongue inside her mouth against the callused palms of his hands as he gently eased the silk kimono off her shoulders, leaving her clad in only her chemise. Never, never had she imagined a man as glorious, as powerful, as purely male as the one who stood before her. She gasped as his mouth left hers and he began a series of lazy, heated kisses down her throat and across her bared shoulders. Boldly she slid her hands inside his open shirt and gloried in the hard muscled strength of his chest. A thick furring of hair whorled around each of his flat nipples, tickling against her palm. Gently his hands moved upward from her waist, over her narrow ribcage, until his strong fingers rested just beneath the fullness of her breasts, so close she could feel the heat of his skin near hers. He paused for the space of a heartbeat and her entire body yearned toward him as a flower yearns toward the sun. "Beautiful," he murmured, cupping her through the fragile fabric. "So beautiful." Swiftly he undid the first few buttons of the chemise then dipped his head low. Her breath caught as he caught one tender nipple between his lips then began to suckle. She bit back a cry of shocked pleasure as he moved to her other breast, greedily suckling at that nipple until waves of violent sensation flooded her body with magnificent white heat. Deep within her belly a rhythmic throbbing began, snaking its way lower until she felt an answering pulse at the juncture at the top of her thighs. Her hands trembled as she touched his silky sunbleached hair as he bent before her. Suddenly his suckling stopped and she realized he was tasting the underside of her breast, her ribcage, his tongue traveling downward toward her navel. "Matthew," she whispered as he undid the rest of her chemise. "Please, you mustn't..." The chemise fell to her feet with a silken hiss and she stood naked and vulnerable before his heated gaze. Trembling, she met his eyes. "Alex..." His voice was a low groan. "Sweet, sweet Alex..." He swept her up into his arms and carried her to the feather bed, positioning her against the pillows with her hair spilling around her shoulders and over her breasts. The linens were cool against her heated flesh and the scent of her own perfume rose from the pillows and teased her nostrils. Matthew stood at the side of the bed, backlit by the swift-burning candle on her dresser, watching her and she reached for the quilt to cover her nakedness. "No." His voice was deep, commanding. "Let me see you, Alex." "Matthew, please." A deep blush colored her breasts and throat as she drew the quilt over her loins. "I cannot--" Comprehension dawned and a slight smile lit up his eyes. She watched, spellbound, as he pulled his shirt tails from his trousers and with one swift movement, divested himself of it. Dear God, but he was finely made! His chest was deeply muscled and broad, furred with hair of deep tawny gold. His shoulders were wide; his arms, powerful with thick veins coursing down his forearms. His hands moved to the waistband of his trousers and she waited, scarcely breathing. "Tell me now, Alex," he said, towering over her. "If it isn't to be, tell me now because soon it will be beyond my control." Sending him away now would be like stemming the tide of the ocean that crashed beyond the window. She opened her arms to him in welcome. "Stay," she whispered. "Stay with me tonight, Matthew." He stepped out of his trousers and approached the bed. His hips were lean, his flanks long and lithely muscled, the shape of his legs, most pleasing to the eye. But it was another part of him that held her captive. From a nest of mahogany curls, he sprang to violent life, jutting proudly out from his flat belly, so huge, so powerfully male that she found it impossible to avert her gaze. For a long moment he stood near her, his powerful arms resting at his sides, and allowed her to feast upon his nakedness as he had feasted upon hers. "You're magnificent," she breathed, small praise for such splendor. "I never knew..." He eased himself onto the bed and the touch of his hip against hers sent violent shivers rippling through her from the top of her head to the ends of her toes. Gently he turned on his side and, placing his hands at her waist, turned her so she faced him. There was nowhere to hide; he allowed no quarter between them. His beautiful eyes were level with hers and he watched her with an intensity so compelling that she could do naught but match his gaze. With one hand he cupped the back of her head, his large fingers spanning from temple to temple, tangled in her thick mass of hair. His other hand slid down the curve of her spine and traced a pattern on the rise of her buttocks. She found it difficult to think as his fingers moved over her hipbone. She lay there, paralyzed with fear and wonder, as he moved over her belly, to the silky triangle of dark hair at the top of her thighs. His fingers laced through the curls and she thought her heart would burst through her ribcage with the powerful sensations his intimate caresses aroused within her. And then--dear God in heaven!--he did the most unthinkable, the most amazing thing. His hand cupped her mound, the heat of his flesh searing her mind of anything but desire, and he opened her with the tips of his fingers. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he eased one finger inside her willing femininity and she gasped at the sensation of fullness as she closed around him. He rubbed her mound lightly with his thumb, moving in tiny circles over the throbbing nub that was suddenly the center of her universe. He drew a second finger across her opening and she was aware of moisture, hot and quick, easing him inside her. She pulsed around him, muscles tensing and relaxing out of her control, and her hips suddenly arched upward toward him. "Matthew," she moaned low in a voice she didn't recognize as her own. "I want--" She stopped for she didn't know exactly what it was she wanted, only that she prayed he would never stop moving his hand within her in such a wickedly sublime manner. "Slow, sweet Alex." His breath burned wet and hot against her cheek. "All in good time." "Teach me, Matthew," she said, moving closer to him. For endless moments she lay there, receiving wave after wave of pleasure so intense she thought surely she would die of it. How did he know the secrets her body held when until this moment she'd had no idea such heights of passion were possible for mere mortals? And then he stopped. His hand still cupped her but the rhythmic stroking ceased and she whimpered deep in her throat and shamelessly moved against his hand. His chuckle rumbled up from his chest, thrilling her. "You want to be taught, do you, Alex?" She could only nod for conversation was beyond her powers. "Then I'll teach you to pleasure a man." Her heart thudded so violently she could scarcely hear his words. Weren't women to be passive recipients of a man's attentions? Did they not find the ultimate satisfaction in somehow spending themselves within her body? Was it not enough to simply offer one's self to a man to do with as he will? Matthew McKenna, however, had other ideas. Ideas as dark as the night--and as thrilling. He lay back on the tangled linens and placed his hands behind his head. His body gleamed golden and dangerous in the waning light of the candle, all muscle and conquering male strength. "Touch me," he commanded and she knew instinctively he meant for her to touch his manhood which rose proud and terrifying from his loins. Leaning upon one elbow, she tentatively laid a hand upon his thigh, surprised at the way his muscles tensed at her touch. He waited, watching her, and she gathered courage to move beyond. Although his chest was relatively smooth, his legs were nicely furred and she let her fingers trail over the tawny hairs, amazed at their springy resiliency. The nest of curls below his navel were a darker shade and his shaft stood out in bold relief against it. "You cannot be hurt by it," he said as her fingers gingerly explored the base. "Do as you will, Alex." He was hot, so hot against her hand, as she tried to circle the base with her fingers, but he was too thick for her fingertips to meet. A purple vein throbbed along a taut ridge of flesh and for a moment she had a wild desire to run her tongue against it and savor his heat. How soft his skin was, softer than velvet, softer than the finest silk. How amazing it was that such softness could shield such something so deceptively--so amazingly--hard. She slid her hand up the base and he groaned violently at the friction of her palm against him. To her amazement two tiny pearls of moisture appeared at the tip and she bent low over him, her hair drifting lazily across his belly and chest, and touched her tongue to taste him. His body jerked suddenly as if jolted by an electric current. She lifted her head to look at him but his eyes were tightly closed, yet one hand resting gently against her nape encouraged her to explore further. He was vaguely salty, reminiscent of the ocean, of life itself, and she inhaled deeply of the clean crisp scent of him. Another drop of moisture appeared and this time she took it upon her fingertip and gently massaged him, her whole body aching with a fierce desire that threatened to turn her to pure light, pure fire. "Good God, woman!" He pulled her up until she lay atop him. "Do you know what you're doing to me?" But of course she didn't. She knew nothing of what was happening except that it all felt so good, so right, that she could not imagine how such splendor could be anything but a gift from God above. "Teach me more," she whispered, pressing kisses along his cheek and jaw. "Teach me everything, Matthew." He rolled her onto her back. With his knee he separated her legs and positioned himself against her slender thighs as a quivering sensation began deep inside her body. It wasn't possible! Surely he could never-- "Matthew!" she gasped as he found her with his hand. "I cannot--I mean, certainly it isn't possible for you to--" Certainly he didn't mean for her to sheathe his extreme size within her virginal passage. He bent low and pressed a shocking kiss against her belly. "A moment's pain, sweet Alex, and after that I promise you great pleasure." The tip of his manhood pressed powerfully against her moist and ready opening and she knew there was no help for it. Her emotions raged out of control, her thoughts scattering to the four winds, her very being disappearing before this onslaught of sensuality. A moment's pain, she thought, as he began to push against her. A moment's pain and then great pleasure. She was opening for him; she could feel the delicate folds embracing him, welcoming him deeper and deeper until-- Her back arched as he found her maidenhead barring entry into her virginal passage. "Come with me, Alex," he urged in a voice filled with raw sweetness. "Come with me." He caressed her belly and her breasts. He drenched her shoulders and throat and forehead with honeyed kisses. And when she was mindless, begging him to give her ease, he pulled back and, watching her, ever watching her, plunged deep within, her maidenhead gone forever. Pain was a fiery sword slicing through her and she bucked wildly in an attempt to throw him off. But he was an expert rider and, murmuring softly, he gentled her, telling her the best was yet to be. Miraculously he was right. The pain receded and only a strange and wonderful sensation of fullness remained, as if she'd never been complete until this moment, with this man nestled snugly between her thighs. For a time he lay still as her body adjusted to his presence within her. Then he began to move, slowly at first, in a rocking, rhythmic motion that triggered a primitive response. Each movement he made brought forth an answering motion from Alexandra, as if she sought to draw him so deeply inside her they could never be parted. She caressed his shoulders, trailed her hands over his back until they came to rest over the smooth muscles of his buttocks. He groaned into her mouth as she continued to explore him and she felt the tempo of his thrusts increase. To her amazement he seemed to grow larger, stronger, burn hotter and she caught his fire as her own. He was pure flame within her, igniting her with a passion that drove all but pleasure from her consciousness. A delicious tension gathered within her, a powerful aching sensation propelling her faster and faster toward the sun. She didn't know what it was she yearned for, but the need in her was great, so great that nothing else mattered but finding that which she sought. "Now," she whispered against his lips. "Now, Matthew!" Suddenly his body arched like a bow and grasping her more tightly to him, he took her with him as they fell into the flames. Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Seventeen Matthew awoke with the dawn to find Alexandra cradled in his arms. For a moment, as he hovered between sleep and wakefulness, he thought her a dream, a fantasy conjured up to ease his heart. But she was there. Her silky hair spilled over the pillows, teasing his nostrils with the scent of wildflowers. One long leg gently rested over his; her breasts pushed softly against his chest. Last night she had shown him love in the fullest measure. She had come to him without fear, eager and passionate and beautiful beyond his wildest dreams. Where had expected joy, he found transcendence. Where he had expected pleasure, he found paradise. Last night she had been heartsick with pain and found comfort with him. With each kiss, each caress, he sought to ease the ache inside her even as he sought to ignite the flames of ecstasy in her soul. Gently he pushed back the thin sheet covering them and extricated himself from her embrace. She protested softly in her sleep and he kissed the creamy apricot skin of her shoulder and climbed from the bed. His body was slightly sore from their lovemaking, the pleasant sensation of being well-used. He glanced down and noticed the red streaks of blood at the base of his member and the dots of crimson staining her thighs and he was profoundly moved by the notion that he had been the first man to love her. The only man. She lay, still sleeping, on the wide feather bed and he eased the covers down and feasted upon her splendor. Her limbs were long and beautifully curved with graceful hands and feet worthy of a marble statue. Her waist was narrow, all the better to complement the rounded flare of her hips. With her eyes closed she looked painfully young. Her mouth had yet to settle into the hardened lines of regret and he prayed to God above that he would never be the cause of any sorrow or pain. A large washstand stood atop her dresser and he retrieved a clean cloth and dipped it into the wildflower-scented water in the pitcher. He plucked a Turkish towel from the stack that rested next to the washstand then returned to the bed. With great care he began to stroke the damp cloth against her skin, washing away the traces of their lovemaking. Her eyelids fluttered open and she gasped softly in surprise at the sight of him kneeling between her thighs. "Matthew!" He could feel the heat of the blush traveling the length of her body as she tried to draw her knees together. "Please, don't..." He kissed each knee and pushed them gently apart once more, ignoring her protests. With the first few strokes she was once again clean but he continued to touch her, drawing the cloth time and again over her soft flesh until those protests shifted into moans of pleasure. The scent of wildflowers mingled with the warm musky smell of her womanhood and his senses grew painfully heightened. Dropping the cloth to the floor he bent his head and pressed his mouth against the flesh of her inner thigh and her body jerked in shocked response. "Shh," he whispered against her skin. "Let me love you, Alex." Trembling, she lay back against the pillow once again, her fingers laced in his hair. He moved slowly, kissing his way with great deliberation toward her core, feeling the inferno within him raging out of control as the scent of her grew more arousing. She was pink and rosy, the delicate folds of her sex glistening with the scented water. Succulent as a peach she was and he could not resist tasting her with the tip of his tongue. Once again she reacted as if jolted by lightning, a spasm of pleasure rippling through her that he felt through his body as well. "Matthew...dear God..." Her voice was faraway, reaching his ears as through a thick fog. He paid her the ultimate homage, plying her with his tongue and teeth, gentle nibbles and tender pressure that elicited wave after wave of response from deep within her. And when she grabbed his shoulders, climbing closer and closer to the peak of ecstasy, he kissed his way over her belly and breasts then watched her eyes as he buried himself deep within her and showed her all he could never say. Ten miles away in Riverhead, Stephen considered his temporary home. The cell was clean, he'd grant them that, although it lacked the amenities he had grown so fond of over the years. The narrow cot upon which he lay was set up beneath the tiny window and if he turned slightly to the left he could watch dawn streaking its way across the sky. He'd been close--so damned close--to his goal that he'd almost felt the weight of Andrew's fortune in his hands, could almost taste the fine champagne and eager women he would be his to command. Now instead of being the heir to the Lowell fortune, he was heir to disgrace. But, no matter. No plan was perfect and he hadn't been fool enough to believe this one was an exception. There were other ways to achieve his goal even if those ways required more intricate planning. He thought of his uncle, the dying king surveying his subjects from a throne of feathers and ticking. He'd banked upon the Lowell pride to keep Andrew from contacting the constabulary should the murder attempt fail and the Lowell pride had not disappointed him. The fools! Did they not wonder at his docile acceptance of his banishment? Did they believe being cast from Sea View as if it were the Garden of Eden was so painful a sentence that he would give up everything and embrace exile as his just punishment? Was Andrew so secure in his divine power that rebellion never even crossed his mind? Stephen cursed the flash of temper that had made him lash out at Andrew. Betraying his own rage had cost him. But he would have the last word, have no doubt about that. Settling back against the thin pillow he closed his eyes. McKenna would be the key to the new plan. Through McKenna he could bring about the downfall of Andrew and Marisa's bastard daughter and even McKenna himself, that swaggering half-witted fool. Stephen blessed whatever gods there were that inspired him some months ago to hire a private detective to look into McKenna's mysterious background. And what a background it was: The dramatic climb from poverty--with more than a little help from the redoubtable Good King Andrew; the storybook marriage to a woman from a "good" family; success on a scale most men never dreamed of and a son to carry on his name. All the elements inherent in good drama were present in McKenna's story. All the elements including a tragic death. The details about Christopher McKenna's death beneath the wheels of a carriage were sketchy at best. Memories had become clouded by sorrow and time but one fact came through in all accounts he'd read: Matthew McKenna was responsible. With luck, that would be all Stephen needed to effect his downfall and if Marisa's bitch happened to fall along with him, so much the better. Stephen may not have been able to destroy Andrew Lowell yet, but he would destroy everyone around him and that just might be enough to do the job. In a few weeks he would be in San Francisco; soon after, he would be in Madolyn Porter McKenna's bed. Ah, yes, he thought, drifting into sleep. His revenge would be sweet indeed. Matthew was gone when Alexandra awoke and for a moment she wondered if the night before had been no more than a dream. But Matthew's scent lingered on the bedclothes; the impression of his head marked the pillow next to hers; and, dear God, the delicious sensations flooding her body were not the product of her imagination but of the very real, very wonderful miracles she had discovered last night in his arms. Somewhere between their last kiss and Janine's usual morning knock on the door, Matthew had slipped away. As much as Alexandra longed for him to stay, she relished this moments alone with her thoughts. She wanted to hold her memories of last night to her heart, examine them, watch them sparkle in the light of the sun. Of course it would be a miracle if everyone didn't realize the truth the moment they looked into her eyes. It showed--she knew it did--in the sparkle that wasn't there yesterday, in the sudden and powerful awareness of her femininity that had somehow eluded her until last night in Matthew's arms. It was still unseasonably hot and she took a dark blue twill skirt and a cornflower blue blouse from her cupboard and buttoned herself into them. The skirt fit snugly at the waist and hips then eased its way to the ground, flared by the flattering gored construction. The bodice also clung to her body, emphasizing the roundness of her full breasts, breasts that just a few hours before had known the wonder of Matthew's touch. The high collar was softened by a soft silk tie and she fastened a tiny cameo brooch to the center of the knot. Her hair was smoothed off her face and coiled in a thick figure eight held by ivory pins and she prayed she looked more confident and self-possessed than she felt inside. Were it not for Matthew awaiting her in the dining room she doubted she would have the temerity to take her seat at the breakfast table. Last night a sea change had occurred; there wasn't a part of her life that hadn't been changed by the tidal wave that had washed over Sea View less than twenty-four hours ago. From girl to woman, from employee to daughter. She could not imagine what her position at Sea View would be now--indeed, she was not entirely sure there was a position for her. Andrew Lowell was a difficult man whose moods seemed to change with the ocean breezes. Working with him required diplomacy on the best of days. How could they possibly manage to work together now that her parentage had been revealed? And, even more troubling, where would she go if she left Sea View? The brief glimpse she'd had of Manhattan Island had terrified her: thousands of people scurrying around like so many ants. She hated the way the tall buildings of fifteen and twenty stories hid the sky from her view. Easthampton, by contrast, was small and friendly. She could imagine living in a town like that. Come summer, the city squires would be traipsing out on holiday. Perhaps she could find a job as governess to their children or kitchen maid. She smiled as she smoothed her hair back one final time. Lord knew, she had scrubbed many a floor back in Provence. One thing was certain: she would do anything in her power to stay close to Matthew. In the blink of an eye, he had taken her heart as his own and she could not imagine a life without him. But that still left Andrew, she thought as she made her way through the hallway to the stairs. He owed her nothing. Oh, last night she had lashed out at him in her fury but she knew now that fury was misdirected. Her soul ached that he had been able to turn from her mother so coolly all those years ago; it was a side of man she prayed she would never see. But that had happened between Andrew and Mary Margaret. What transpired twenty years ago had little to do with how she perceived Andrew or, more precisely, how he perceived her. Andrew had betrayed Mary Margaret Kilbride but it was Mary Margaret--Marisa--who betrayed Alexandra. There were things she needed to say, questions only Andrew could answer. She needed to speak to her father, not the artist, before she could put her feelings to rest and move forward again. First, however, and most wonderfully, there was Matthew. She paused a few feet from the entrance to the dining room to straighten her collar and smooth her hair. Her heart was a wild thing inside her chest and it took great effort to draw a deep and calming breath. How would he look at her? Would he smile or gaze deep into her eyes or leap to his feet and draw her into his arms, servants be damned? It was all so new to her, so thrilling, that she needed Matthew to show her the way. One day, long after they were married, she would look back upon this time and smile fondly at her naivete but for now it was uncharted territory and she, a sailor relying on celestial navigation. "Good morning, Matthew," she said as she entered the room. "I--" "Mornin', miss," said Janine, eyes bright with curiosity. "I was just bringing in the tea, all freshly brewed." Alexandra's disappointment tasted like ashes in her mouth as she took her accustomed place at the empty table. "Mister Matthew isn't here," Janine said, her voice studiedly bland. "He saddled up early and told Cook he wouldn't be comin' back for luncheon." She knows, Alexandra thought wildly. Janine knew and Cook knew and before the sun set, everyone in Easthampton would know. She had hoped that the uproar between Stephen and Andrew would have occupied their attentions so totally that her newborn love would escape notice. She poured herself a cup of tea and was reaching for a slice of toasted bread when Dayla appeared in the doorway. "I may join you?" Dayla asked. She was dressed in her usual white gown, and her serene face did not reveal the turmoil of the night before. "Yes, I would be pleased." A knot of tension lodged itself squarely in Alexandra's throat and she found it difficult to sip her tea. For weeks she had believed that Matthew and Dayla were lovers and, now that she knew exactly what that encompassed, she was deeply embarrassed and reluctant to meet the other woman's eyes. Besides, Dayla was Andrew's companion. What must she be thinking now that Alexandra had been revealed to be his daughter? Janine bustled in and out of the dining room in a shameless attempt at eavesdropping but was rewarded with little more than a pile of soiled dishes to return to the kitchen as conversation between the two women was limited to the weather. After Janine reluctantly retired to the kitchen to help Cook clean up, Dayla looked at Alexandra and touched her own cheek. "You do not hurt overmuch?" "Not terribly," said Alexandra. "The bruising looks quite frightening but I had expected more pain." The two women fell silent and Alexandra fiddled with her teaspoon while Dayla sat there, composed and quiet, her delicate hands resting in her lap. "Andrew will be pleased," Dayla said, breaking the silence. Alexandra's head shot up. "Beg pardon?" Dayla's full lips curved in a smile. "Andrew will be pleased about you and Matthew." Alexandra did not know whether to laugh or cry. "Have you spoken to Matthew this morning or is it that obvious?" "We meet in the hallway this morning..." Dayla paused for a moment. "He was coming from your room." Alexandra's face flamed. "He told you we were together?" "It was not necessary to tell me. The look on his face told the story." Then where are you, Matthew? If you care, why are you not here this morning? She spread plum jam on her toasted bread and prayed to regain her composure. The normally reserved Dayla, however, leaned toward Alexandra. "Your father is worried you will leave us." "He is right," said Alexandra with characteristic honesty. "I planned to leave last night but Matthew stopped me." "He will be most pleased you did not." "That may not be so after today." Dayla laid a hand upon Alexandra's forearm. "He is not the man your mother knew." Alexandra placed her serviette on the table and rose. "I'm sorry. This is not something I wish to talk--" Dayla did not release her gentle hold upon Alexandra. "You hurt. He hurts, as well." "Dayla, I do not think this is a topic on which we can freely speak." "I step over my bounds but it must be said: he made many sins in his younger age. Now he pays for them. Judge him for what you see today, not for what you hear of the past. Only that way will things be fair for each of you." Alexandra swallowed hard. "I can make no promises but I shall try." "I ask no more." Dayla stood up; her head barely reached Alexandra's shoulder. "Come," she said, linking her arm through Alexandra's. "He waits upstairs." The woman saw her to the door of Andrew's studio then excused herself, leaving Alexandra to meet with her father alone. Now that she was there, Alexandra wanted to do anything to postpone the inevitable, but she took a deep breath, tapped upon the door, then stepped inside. Andrew was seated upright in bed. The previous night had obviously taken its toll upon him; dark circles shadowed his golden eyes and, if possible, his cheekbones stood out in even sharper relief. The portrait of her mother rested on his lap and although he was looking down upon it she had the feeling his thoughts were far away. "Good morning, Mr. Lowell." He lifted his eyes and looked up at her entrance. "It would seem we need a new appellation in light of last night's revelations." She frowned. "I shall not call you father." "Have I asked you to, girl?" He fairly bristled with indignation. "I was about to suggest using my Christian name for wont of something better." "I felt it important to make my feelings known on the subject." He motioned her to the chair next to the bed and she sat down, arranging the folds of her skirt in a graceful puddle at her feet. "You are well this morning?" Alexandra asked politely. "I have been better." His eyes narrowed as he looked at her. "You're hurt. You should see a doctor." She dismissed the bruises with a wave of her hand. "It is nothing serious." She took a deep breath. "I have been wondering why it is you allowed Stephen his freedom. Had he succeeded in his plan, you would not have awakened this morning." Andrew considered her for a long moment before answering. "Twenty years ago I would have killed him myself. I no longer have time for anger and revenge. He is out of my life and that is enough." "But it would seem to me that--" He raised his hand. "It is my life and my decision, girl. I do not need you to tell me how to live." "Ah, yes," she said, stung by his words. "It is obvious how well you have managed your life, Mr. Lowell." He observed her closely. "You are a great deal like your mother. If memory serves she, too, had a temper." "My mother has an even disposition." And why not? She made her wishes plain and her servants hurried to comply. Displays of temperament were unnecessary. "Marisa Glenn may have an even disposition. Your mother, Mary Margaret, had a shrewish temper." "Perhaps she was provoked." "Perhaps you are more like her than I first suspected." She raised her chin in defiance. "I confess to wondering what it was my mother saw in you." His gaunt face lit with amusement. "Some would say I cut a fine figure in my youth." She considered his still aristocratic bone structure, the leonine white hair, those eyes of molten gold. "I imagine that would be true. I heard many stories about you when I modeled back home." "Modeling." He stiffened. "Your mother's idea, I would imagine?" "My idea," she corrected him. "Provence draws artists the way Paris draws romantics. It seemed a fine way to earn money and knowledge simultaneously." "As you know, that is how I met your mother." His eyes narrowed. "Did you pose for nudes?" She shook her head. "Never." "Did you lose many jobs?" A smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "A number of them." "Mary Margaret posed for me." He gestured toward the portrait on his lap. "You may find the nude studies in the attic." She nodded, aware of a hot flush staining her throat. "There is nothing shameful in the unclothed body," he said. "I am aware of that." Andrew looked down at the portrait of Marisa and tapped the edge with an index finger. "Great beauty often exacts a great price. Your mother was young and inexperienced. She should not be held accountable for what happened between us." Alexandra's right brow lifted. "And you are taking the blame?" His eyes closed briefly. "For that, yes. I made it a habit to seduce each of my models. Mary Margaret was no exception." "How generous of you to bear the burden nineteen years too late." "A child in the belly is no more than words if you do not love the mother." Her temper flared. "That is contemptible." "That is life, Alexandra. That is life the way it truly is." Some of her mother's long ago fury became Alexandra's own. "The child in a woman's belly is no less real, is it not?" "For a man, it is." "And I?" she countered. "Am I real to you?" His eyes softened as he looked upon her. "Yes," he said. "You are very real to me." "Then I am afraid I do not understand, Mr. Lowell." "The idea of a child is vastly different from the vision of that child standing before you, with her black hair sparkling and her golden eyes glittering with righteous fury." "The child in Mary Margaret's belly and the woman before you are one and the same," she said. "For me there was a difference." "I fail to understand that difference." "At this moment, so do I." An odd emotion twisted around her heart, making it difficult to draw a breath. "I am quite surprised you stayed on, Alexandra." His words were coming slower, as if his energy were fast being depleted. Indeed, he seemed to sink deeper into his pillows with each moment that passed. "That is not to say that I wish you to leave. You are welcome to stay on as long as you wish." "I will not accept charity." He smiled weakly. "When you know me better, girl, you will understand I do not extend charity to anyone. I always exact a price." Her back stiffened. "And your meaning, sir?" "Work for me," he said. "Finish the cataloguing you've begun." She hesitated. It was the perfect solution to her predicament but still she felt uneasy. "You're an artist, girl," he said. "I have not missed the way you study technique when you pretend to be daydreaming. There is much I could teach you." "I don't know..." Her voice trailed off in confusion. The opportunity to learn at the elbow of the master was what she had dreamed would happen here. "You do not have to like me," he said, meeting her eyes. "I do like you," she answered. "It is just that I do not love you." "Nor I you, but it is a start." "Yes," Alexandra said after a moment. "I suppose it is." Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Eighteen Admit it, McKenna. The girl terrifies you. Matthew retreated deeper into the shadow of the poplars and feasted his eyes upon the sight of Alexandra sketching near the gazebo. Late afternoon sun spilled over her slender shoulders like a benediction and he couldn't remember a time when he'd seen beauty and goodness so perfectly united in the form of a woman. Leaving her that morning had been one of the most difficult things he'd ever done for he'd wanted nothing more than to have her awaken in his arms, to take her again while she was still soft with sleep, a vulnerable and sweet bundle of woman. But, there was her reputation to consider, her position in the house to protect and so he had climbed from her bed with the coming of dawn and slipped out of her room. A volatile combination of emotions battled within him--desire and fear, tenderness and rage--and he had saddled his horse and ridden out to the easternmost tip of Long Island where he stood in the shadow of the Montauk lighthouse and watched the waves crashing against the rocky shore while he tried to make sense of his wayward soul. He felt as if he'd been captured by Alex, as if she had reached inside his heart and taken it as her own. He felt young again in a way he hadn't in the four years since his son's death. Hope, an emotion foreign to him, blossomed inside his chest, pushing out despair and anger and all the dark emotions that had been keeping him company for so long. Not even the letter from Edward Whittington, resting in the bottom of the huge pile of mail he'd picked up from the post office in town, was enough to dim the joy he felt. He didn't need to open it to know what it said. "...your money, Matthew...your good name...come back to San Francisco...you must return soon or it will all be..." Didn't Whittington understand? It simply didn't matter. He had Alexandra and for now he needed nothing else. Alexandra knew he was there long before he stepped out of the shadows. Growing up as she had in the open countryside of Provence under Esme's tutelage, she had mastered the secrets of nature: a faint rustling of leaves, the delicate rush of footsteps on dew-laden grass, all the minute, but telltale signs that told a person she was not alone. But not even her beloved Esme had taught her the most important secret of them all: the unmistakable way a woman felt when her lover was watching her. What a delicious form of torture it was to know Matthew's blue-green gaze was upon her as she worked on her sketch of the lilacs blooming near the back door of the house. As her hand inscribed the curve of the lilac bush, she grew painfully aware of the corresponding curve of her arm, the tilt of her head, the way the sun splashed across her shoulders and made her dark hair sparkle with highlights of midnight blue. All day she had been dizzy with longing for him, to see his face, to touch his hand, to discover if what they'd shared last night had been as wondrous for him as it had been for her. To know that he stood but ten feet from her, hidden in the shadows of the poplar trees was more than she could bear. "Matthew," she blurted when she could wait no longer, "please say something for you are distracting me so I cannot draw a straight line." His low, rumbling chuckle sent shivers of anticipation up her spine. "Shall I tell you how the sight of your breasts distracts me, Alex?" "Matthew..." she whispered his name, her face flaming with embarrassment and delight. "Someone might hear you." He stepped out of the shadows and came toward her, his chestnut hair gleaming gold in the sunshine. He wore what he always wore, black trousers and white shirt, but now that she intimately knew the powerful body hidden by the clothing she wondered why every man on earth didn't understand the devastating effect of simplicity. "I missed you," he said, drawing her into his arms. "All day you were foremost in my mind." She rested her cheek against his warm, hard chest. "I feared you had regrets about last night and sought a way to kindly spare my feelings." His hold on her grew tighter. "I regret only the time wasted before last night." Her breath caught in her throat and she could say nothing. "Alex?" She looked up at him, her heart thundering madly. "Yes, Matthew?" "Last night was only the beginning." He would declare himself any time; she could feel it in her very bones. The May heatwave soon broke but a gentle warmth lingered on. It seemed to Alexandra that she had never seen so beautiful a springtime. Each day a lemon sun rode high in skies bluer than even the skies over Provence. The elms and oaks and poplars were in full leaf and from their branches robins and cardinals and chickadees thrilled her with their songs. Matthew occupied her thoughts during the day as she counted the hours until they would come together again in the benevolent darkness of her room on the second floor. She lived for his touch, for the sound of his voice, for the sheer wonder of love, and if he had yet to declare himself as she'd thought he would--well, it would happen in time. A love such as theirs could only end in marriage and she knew that one day Matthew would understand. Was it only a month since she'd first stepped through the front door of Sea View and met Matthew McKenna? She could scarcely remember a time when he hadn't been part of her thoughts and dreams, a time when he hadn't held her heart in the palm of his hand. As she worked on a portrait of Matthew in the moments stolen from her busy days, she felt a closeness that transcended the wonders of the flesh. Matthew had told her precious little about his past and she wondered what had happened to make him the solitary and often angry man he was. But these were the only clouds on Alexandra's horizon for it was a time of great bounty. Instead of being an uncertain guest in Gabrielle's home, she was now an important part of Sea View. By nature of her ties to Andrew Lowell, she belonged there. In all her life, there had not been a time when she had truly belonged anywhere at all and the feeling was most gratifying. Her mornings were spent in Andrew's sunny studio as hecontinued to work, albeit slowly, on a portrait study of her. Every other day she prepared his palette: on the lower side next to the thumb hole was a bean size lump of Naples yellow, then yellow ochre, sienna earth, and red ochre, followed by madder red, green earth, Veronese green, cobalt, and--the "queen of colors," ivory black. Earlier in his career, black had been eliminated according to the dictates of the early Impressionist period, but it was impossible to capture Alexandra's gypsy hair without it. She would watch, entranced, as he mixed colors upon a stretched canvas which had first been coated in silver white to provide an inner shimmer. He taught her about proportion, about painting for the future, and quoted Renoir who had believed his paintings would take fifty years or better to se caser, find their place in the world. They had achieved an uncertain peace and she found herself eagerly anticipating the hours they spent together. Amazingly, Andrew's health was much improved. Matthew had called in a new doctor from Easthampton who had unceremoniously thrown all of the pills and powders procured through Stephen into the Atlantic. The fever Andrew had suffered during his days in the South Seas still recurred with alarming frequency, but without the mind-deadening drugs, he was alert and able to work, despite the aching of his limbs and joints. Now and again Andrew would do or say something and she would suddenly see herself in his movements or hear herself in his voice and the sensation was most disturbing. Her notion of "father" was still tied up with the English colonel and it would take some doing for her to fully commit her energies toward building a familial relationship with him. She still struggled to come to grips with his treatment of the young Mary Margaret Kilbride. Marisa Glenn, however, was another story. Her mother's perfidy had caused Alexandra tremendous pain. Even now, weeks after the initial shock, there were still nights when she lay in Matthew's arms and wept that her own mother could send her blindly into such a volatile--and possibly destructive--situation. But, then, Marisa's actions had always been born of selfish desires and Alexandra wondered how it was that she had not seen this ultimate betrayal in the offing. She had written Marisa a letter addressed to her Bois du Bologne apartment, trusting her mother's maid, Liane, would forward it to Marisa's mysterious Swiss destination. The silence from Marisa was deafening and Alexandra chose to believe her letter had not yet arrived in Switzerland. Besides, she had so little time to dwell on sadness. Each day she and Matthew shared their lunch on the back veranda, watching the ocean crash against the shore below and glorying in the simple pleasure of being in one another's company. After lunch he would sometimes accompany her back to the attic over the carriage house and watch as she painstakingly attempted to clean some of the older, more damaged paintings. Andrew had given her permission to try her hand at it and, so far, she was having remarkable results using a mixture of beeswax, rubbing alcohol and water and the afternoon hours flew by as she learned first-hand the secrets of brilliance. Her nights, however, belonged only to Matthew, to secrets of a far more brilliant nature. May became June and with the coming of summer Alexandra felt herself blossoming like the roses that grew wild beneath the front windows at Sea View and up and down the Main Street of town. She made it a point to pop into the post office with Matthew at least once a week, for she and Evangeline Ames had taken a liking to one another. Alexandra thoroughly enjoyed listening to the latest Easthampton doings, as filtered through the formidable eyes and ears of the lively widow. "Mr. Grimshaw is putting up a windmill for Dr. Monroe," Evangeline confided during the first week of the month. "Seems right foolish to me when he's only going to be out here for the summer, but who am I to say what's right?" Alexandra patted the woman's hand. "I am quite certain you have made your opinion known, Mrs. Ames." Evangeline's eyes twinkled with amusement. "A body has a right to speak her mind." She glanced over at Matthew who was standing in the doorway, scanning the post for Sea View. "I saw you two at Mrs. Lawrence's Ice Cream Parlor last Saturday night. Lookin' mighty sweet you both were, if I do say so." Alexandra blushed to the soles of her feet. "You're incorrigible," she said, unable to hold back her laughter. "Can we not have a simple repast without being the target of idle gossip?" "Not in Easthampton," said Evangline Ames. "Mrs. Huntting carried the news to the Island Inklings column in the Star." Alexandra, whose name had never appeared in a newspaper, could not wait to tell Matthew. She turned, expecting to see him in the doorway but to her surprise he wasn't there. She turned back to Evangeline Ames. "Did you see where Matthew went to?" "My Lord!" Evangeline's eyes went comically wide with surprise. "He was there just a moment ago. You best be looking for him, Miss Glenn. I know I wouldn't be letting such a handsome young man get away from me." Alexandra did not have to look far. Matthew was but a few yards up the block, leaning against the side of the trap, reading a letter. "I thought I had lost you, Matthew." He looked up, eyes blank as if he were far away. "Matthew?" She touched his arm as a frisson of apprehension raced up her spine. "Is everything all right?" He crumpled the sheet of heavy ivory paper and tossed it into the trap and it took every ounce of self-control at her command not to reach down and read it. His expression had closed in upon itself, extinguishing the sparkle that had danced in his blue-green eyes since they awoke that morning. "Mrs. Ames informed me that we are the object of town gossip," she said, hoping to bring a smile to his face. "A Mrs. Huntting saw us having ice cream at Mrs. Lawrence's emporium and brought the news in to the Star. We shall be famous." He said nothing, simply helped her into the trap then leaped into the driver's seat and they were off. What on earth was the matter with him? The toe of her boot rested provocatively atop the letter and she could make out a San Francisco postmark. "Matthew," she said, her voice a trifle snappish. "Have you not heard a word I've said?" "I apologize," he said as they turned right onto Ocean Avenue. "Would you tell me again, Alex?" "Please, Matthew, if something is amiss you must tell me. You cannot pretend there is nothing wrong for your expression gives you away." Abruptly he pulled back on the reins and came to a stop beneath a thicket of overgrown hydrangea bushes, their snowball-shaped pink flowers gracefully swooping over the dirt road. Before she could say anything more, he pulled her into his arms and her questions disintegrated before the force of his desire. His lips were demanding, insistent, and so persuasive that her mouth opened for him even though another carriage could rumble past at any moment, thoroughly scandalizing them both. It was only when his hands strayed to the buttons of her bodice that reality struggled to the surface and she pulled away, shaking with an unnerving mix of both passion and bewilderment. "What is it, Matthew? What on earth is it?" "A business problem," he said, rebuttoning her bodice for her. "Nothing for you to be concerned about." "I--I didn't know you had a business." Truth to tell, she knew precious little about his life before he came to Sea View. A strange melange of emotions flickered across his handsome face. "I may not have one for much longer." Her eyes were drawn again to the letter with the San Francisco postmark. "You won't--I mean, will it be necessary for you to leave here?" Please, God, if You are in Your heaven, keep him here with me forever. His face softened and the knot of apprehension in her stomach began to unravel. "No," he said, touching her cheek gently with his fingertips. "I'm not going anywhere, Alex." Matthew's odd mood vanished as quickly as it had arrived and by nightfall, he was once again the ardent lover she had come to know. When he suggested a walk along the shore she was eager to comply. An opalescent mantle of moonlight cloaked the beach with silver and danced off the blackness of the water, taking her breath away. Matthew held her hand tightly as they went down the rickety wooden staircase to the beach. At the bottom of the stairs, Alexandra slipped off her delicate slippers and left them on the last step. The sand still held the day's warmth within it and she sighed with pleasure as her toes sank into its velvet softness. Matthew's arm settled across her shoulders and, putting her own arm about his waist, they walked along the shoreline. In the far distance a gypsy campfire glowed orangey-red and a wave of nostalgia drifted over her then receded. The gypsies had returned to the area a fortnight earlier and once again Alexandra had tried to befriend them to no avail. Finally it struck her that what had once been, could no longer be. This was a new country and here she was a stranger to be shunned. She had left gypsy lore and friendship behind in Provence with her old life and it was time she put it aside for good. Old entanglements had no place in this wonderful new life she was living. She thought of the crumpled letter with the San Francisco postmark. Were there old entanglements somewhere in Matthew's life, entanglements he was unable to put aside? Stopping, she took a deep breath and looked up at him. "Talk to me, Matthew," she implored. "I know something upset you this afternoon. If it is something I have done, you must tell me and I'll--" He drew his hand lightly across her cheekbones, then cupped her chin with his strong fingers. "Sweet Alex," he murmured, drawing closer. "Everything you do brings me nothing but joy." "I thought you were angry," she whispered, close to tears. "You were so distant...I feared you were growing tired of me..." He silenced her words with his kisses--ardent, deep kisses that seemed to draw her very soul from her body. Her fingers entwined themselves in his thick, sunkissed hair as her senses heightened to the point of pleasure/pain. "We should go back to the house," she said, tearing her mouth from his. "We should--" "We should love." He inched her skirts up higher. A laugh escaped her. "I have no argument with that, but must we love here?" "Yes." His hands slid under her petticoats. "Yes, we must." Desire was a hot flame and it blazed between them. Her knees trembled with it and Matthew swept her into his arms only to take her behind a dune heavily covered with tall grasses. "This is insane," she said as he swiftly divested her of her gown. "I cannot imagine--" "But you can," he said, stripping off his coat and spreading it upon the sand for her to lie upon. "Between us, anything is possible." In moments they both were naked, the gentle night breezes drifting across their bodies like a lover's kiss. She lay back upon his coat in the ebony darkness as he bent before her, drawing his tongue along the arch of her foot, her calf, nipping the back of her knee, gliding dreamily over the smoothness of her inner thigh and then-- "Oh, God, Matthew..." Her words died as he found her with his mouth and tongue. Her back arched and his hands slid beneath her until he cupped her buttocks in his palms, fingers digging possessively into her flesh. He grazed her gently with his teeth, then sucked at the sensitive nub of flesh until she bit her lip in an attempt to keep from crying out. "Scream," he said, kissing her belly and the curve of her hip. "There's no one here, Alex, but us." He urged her on, urged her to give in to the sheer primitive power building inside her body, urged her to put aside the strictures of convention and live only for that moment. He moved again to that throbbing spot at the top of her thighs and the scream she'd been withholding was torn from her throat. Her blood rushed through her veins, hot and violent; she could hear it pounding in her ears, more powerful than the ocean crashing on the shore just yards from where they lay. And just when she was approaching the crest of the wave, he slid up her body, positioned himself between her thighs and thrust into her willing body again and again until they were both transported to paradise and back. "I love you so," she whispered against his cheek. "More than I ever dreamed." He pulled her close but for one swift moment Alexandra saw the crumpled letter on the floor of the trap and she wondered when he would say those words to her. Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Nineteen The oldtimers declared it the hottest July on record and the steady influx of city dwellers in search of country comfort seemed to bear that opinion out. The small town of Easthampton teemed with summer residents and Evangeline Ames vowed she would need new eyeglasses before Labor Day rolled around for the volume of mail had suddenly tripled. Handsome men in pale pink jackets and straw hats escorted lovely ladies in gowns of violet and canary and mint down Main Street and Alexandra was reminded of Paris and the daily promenade. Heat blanketed the east end and fishermen in Shinnecock Bay worried that the oystering in September would be damaged beyond repair. The lush flower beds that were part of the landscaping of every self-respecting summer house wilted sadly and only the sweet honeysuckle lawns seemed to fare well at all. As July melted into August, life at Sea View slowed almost to a crawl. Andrew worked an hour or two each morning on the portrait of Alexandra, but more often than not they spent that time talking about painting techniques. When the sun rose high in the sky so did the mercury and the carriage house attic became an inferno. Regretfully, Alexandra heeded her father's advice and put off work on the collected paintings until after the heatwave broke. Janine and the other servants seemed to move through the house in slow motion and Alexandra pitied them the heavy black uniforms propriety dictated they wear. It amazed her that anyone was able to accomplish anything at all with this oppressive blanket of hot, humid weather covering the eastern end of Long Island. There were mornings when she found it required Herculean effort on her part to simply lift her head from her pillow and drag herself from the huge feather bed. The heat seemed to creep inside her pores, driving her temperature up each morning the way Matthew's nearness did each night. Only with Matthew could she find sweet relief; from the heat, she could not and it was taking its toll upon her. As August wore on she grew short-tempered and shockingly impatient, snapping at Janine and Andrew and even her beloved Matthew. It was too hot to eat and she took to spending the dinner hour beneath the shade of a huge oak tree, sipping lemonade and trying to stay awake. At times the unrelenting heat won out and she fell into a deep, drugged sleep from which she was loath to stir. Two more letters with San Francisco postmarks arrived and both times Matthew's mood changed drastically upon receipt and he spent long hours alone in the library or talking with Andrew behind closed doors. His drinking had abated since the night of the musicale in early May but in the past few weeks she'd tasted whiskey on his lips and fear on her own. They shared so much, she and Matthew, so many wonderful things that she felt almost ashamed that still she wanted more. She wanted to hear the words, "I love you." She wanted him to talk of the future, of a church wedding, of growing old together. She tried to pretend it didn't bother her, that surely he was on the verge of offering for her hand at any moment but, truth to tell, his omission was beginning to frighten her. It was because of Andrew. She knew it in her very bones. Matthew was obviously not a man of wealth and the fact that she was Andrew Lowell's daughter made Matthew uncomfortably aware of the difference between his station and her father's. But it should not matter. Not one little bit. Yes, she was Andrew's daughter but she most definitely was not his heir and therein lay the most important difference. She wanted nothing from her father but the opportunity to know him and, God willing, to love him. She did not want his fortune or even his name and there had to be some way to communicate this to Matthew without treading upon his pride. But, she simply did not have the energy to think. Toward the end of the summer, the Maidstone Club opened and a flurry of parties were held around town to celebrate the event. The official gala, however, was held the weekend before Labor Day at the club itself and all of Easthampton's elite were expected to attend en masse. Andrew, of course, would be unable to attend but he made it known that he expected Matthew and Alexandra to represent Sea View for him. Once again Janine proved a godsend. Each night for a week before the gala, Alexandra and the young maid pored over the latest Godey's Ladies Book for ideas and labored to turn Alexandra's cream silk gown into the height of fashion. "Mr. Matthew's eyes will be poppin' out of his head tonight, miss," Janine said as Alexandra twirled before the cheval mirror on the evening of the gala. "You could be one of Mr. Gibson's girls, you could." "Oh, Janine, without you I would just be wearing my red dress, same as ever. You are a miracle worker!" Janine blushed prettily and bent down to touch the gold trim about the hem. "Ma taught me to hold a needle before I could walk." "Well, you have done yourself proud. I shall be the envy of every woman there." The gold trim at the hem and bodice added a touch of opulence to the simple dress and somehow Janine had played with Alexandra's convent-lace petticoats and created the illusion of a double skirt that was just short enough to show off her delicate slippers. Her earbobs were paste but it seemed to Alexandra as if they sparkled same as the real thing. Her neckline was bare for the so-called Glenn pearls were now just tumbled loosely in a velvet pouch tucked away in her armoire. Janine had also assisted in arranging her hair in a simple but lovely upsweep held in place with rhinestone clips and a few sprigs of white babies' breath that looked wonderful tucked within her shiny black curls. The only problem was the fact that her miraculously revamped gown seemed strangely tight around the bodice and waistline. She had tightened her stays to compensate for this puzzling development but made a vow to exercise some self-control the next time she and Matthew went to Mrs. Lawrence's parlor in town for strawberry ice cream. There was a knock upon her door and Matthew, looking devastatingly handsome in his dove grey frock coat, entered her room. Janine winked conspiratorially at Alexandra, then slipped out. "You're exquisite, Alex," he said, standing behind her and watching their reflection in the cheval mirror. "Never more so." She leaned back against him, resting the back of her head against his shoulder. "You are just accustomed to seeing me in my faded pink dress." "There is one thing your costume lacks, however." He dipped into his pocket and withdrew a long, flat box. "This is for you." Her eyes filled with foolish tears. "Oh, Matthew! A present. I never expected you to--" "Open it," he said gruffly. "We must be leaving for the ball." Hands trembling, she lifted the top and gasped. A single diamond, flashing fire in the candlelight, lay suspended upon a fragile golden chain. Matthew took it from her and she watched in the mirror as those huge hands of his manipulated the tiny clasp. The look of tenderness upon his handsome face moved her beyond all reason as the gem nestled in the hollow at the base of her throat. "It's magnificent, Matthew," she breathed. "How did you...I mean, I didn't think you could..." He silenced her with a kiss. "I can," he said, as he led her toward the door. "And I will again, Alex." She stopped and cradled his beloved face between her hands. "Why?" she asked, kissing the dimple in his chin. "I already have everything I could ever long for." A home. A family. A man she loved more than life itself. And if he had yet to speak of love and marriage, so be it. Nothing could change the truth: she would belong to him until the day she died. The Maidstone Club was every wonderful thing advance rumor had said it would be. A large, graceful structure it boasted a pool, clubhouse, billiards room, bowling alley, and all manner of luxuries important to the upper classes. The club house was lighted with electric lights powered by a small generator located near the pond and Alexandra marveled at the clean, bright light it produced. In a spacious library off the main dining room, a tall black man played popular music on a massive grand piano situated before the open French doors. Scores of formally clad waiters quietly circulated throughout the many rooms, making certain the guests were well provided for. French champagne and Napoleon brandy, Spanish sherry and perfectly aged Scotch whiskey--only the finest could be found at Maidstone. As magnificent as the club house and surrounding grounds were, the ballroom far surpassed them. Enameled walls the color of heavy cream were overlaid with panels trimmed with pastel molding and papered with watered silk of the palest mauve and dove grey. Crystal chandeliers twinkled from the domed ceiling and a full orchestra barely made a dent on the enormous dance floor. Matthew introduced her to one well-known Easthamptonite after another: The Gallatins and the Bownes, the Hunttings and their friend Mrs. Harris, the entire Social Register paraded before her and before the first half hour was over, names and faces began to swirl together in a dazzling blend of silks and satins and fine perfumes. The waltz was the favored dance and Matthew possessively refused to yield her company to any of the other men who attempted to cut in upon them. "How cruel," she teased as he whirled her across the polished floor. "You selfishly prevent me from stepping on any toes but your own." "I want all of you, Alex," he said, dancing her close to the patio. "The good and the bad." They were whirling so fast she could scarcely catch her breath and she missed a dance step. "Matthew, I--" The dance floor somehow became the ceiling and she feared she would step upon the chandelier. "Alex?" His voice was hazy, indistinct. "Are you all right?" Her mouth formed the words yet nothing came out. Dear God, it was so hot in the ballroom. If only she could get some air. If only-- "I am so embarrassed," Alexandra moaned as Matthew drove the carriage back to Sea View an hour later. "Are you certain no one saw me faint?" "I am positive, Alex." Matthew glanced at her as they turned into the drive that led up to the main house. "I danced you out onto the terrace then carried you to the coach myself. No one saw." "The champagne," she said knowingly. "Champagne on an empty stomach will do it every time." "You will not feel particularly fine come morning," he warned. "Champagne has some nasty after-effects." "Why do people drink? It simply isn't worth it if it makes one feel so wretched afterwards." But Matthew said nothing and Alexandra could only wonder what his own reasons had been. Unfortunately, Matthew's prediction had been all-too-right and come morning, Alexandra did indeed feel wretched. Matthew was already out exercising the horses with Johnny when she awoke and she was thoroughly pleased he was not there to witness her humiliation. A thousand tiny hammers pounded behind her eyes while the slightest movement brought great distress to her beleaguered stomach. She lay there motionless in the feather bed for a long while, praying for a miraculous recovery, but none was in the offing. She had to get up--why, she could tell by the angle of the sunlight streaming through the bedroom windows that it was near to ten in the morning and she had not so much as combed her hair yet. Gingerly she sat upright, wincing as a vicious throbbing commenced at the base of her skull. She eased her legs out of the bed then stood up on shaky legs. There. That wasn't so terrible. She was standing up and nothing dreadful had happened to her. More confident, she headed toward her chest of drawers when a storm of nausea swooped down upon her and she barely made it to the washstand before she retched violently again and again. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead and she leaned over the washstand, gasping for breath, wondering if she could live through another assault such as that. She did. She lived through a second assault and a third before she sank to the floor and leaned against the bed. There was a knock at her door and she closed her eyes and groaned silently. "Go away, Janine!" she called out, her voice weak and trembling. "I never want to see breakfast again." Again, a knock at the door. "I am quite serious, Janine! You cannot make me change my mind." "It is not Janine," came the gentle voice behind the door. "May I see you?" Good Lord! It was Dayla. Alexandra pulled herself up until she was perched on the very edge of the feather bed. "Come in," she managed. As always, Dayla looked fresh and serene in an immaculate white dress of gauzy cotton. Her straight black hair was carefully plaited and the long braid hung nearly to her narrow waist. "You are unwell," she said, looking at Alexandra. "I wondered when it would begin." What an odd statement that was. If Alexandra had felt better, she would have questioned Dayla but, as it was, she was more concerned with not retching in front of the woman. "Champagne should be outlawed," she said, massaging her temples. "What a devious people the French are to invent such a wicked indulgence." Dayla merely smiled. "It is not the champagne that plagues you." "But of course it is," Alexandra said. "An empty stomach and three glasses of Rothschild is a devastating combination, Dayla." "Not the champagne," Dayla repeated. "I appreciate your concern," Alexandra said, her mood taking a sudden turn for the worse, "but I believe I am in the best position to understand my problem and I am telling you my problem is French champagne." Dayla smiled and shook her head. "Your problem, Alexandra, is that you are with child." Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Twenty "Ridiculous!" Alexandra exclaimed as her heart threatened to stop beating inside her chest. "That's simply not possible." "You and Matthew love," said Dayla calmly. "When you love, it is always possible." "You don't understand, Dayla." How on earth could she explain the things she'd learned from Esme and the gypsies of Provence? "I have--I have been taking certain precautions to see that does not happen." Dear God! The last thing she wanted was to repeat her own mother's mistakes. "I do not think I make a mistake," said the older woman, "but perhaps..." Another wave of nausea flooded Alexandra and she swallowed against the fear rising inside her. "What makes you believe it is so?" she asked, voice trembling. Dayla's eyes strayed to her bodice. "Your breasts ready themselves," she said bluntly, "and your waist begins to grow wide." Alexandra glanced toward the drawer where she kept her corset--the same corset she had pulled tight as could be just the night before. "Perhaps I eat too much." "You eat like a sparrow." "The ice cream. I have enjoyed Mrs. Lawrence's strawberry one time too many." "I think not, Alexandra." Dayla crossed the room and sat down on the bed next to her. "Your woman cycle, does it come? "I don't know," said Alexandra, near panic. "I can't remember." Think, you fool! Think! Dear God in heaven, when was the last time she had her flow? Dayla patted her hand. "Think quietly, Alexandra. Do not be so upset." "Do not be so upset?" A strangled laugh tore from Alexandra's throat. "How am I to feel when you tell me I may be with child?" "It is God's will." "What kind of God would wish this upon a child?" Could the woman not see how her own illegitimacy had changed both her own life and her mother's? "Perhaps you were born into a kinder world, Dayla, for this world will not tolerate it." Compassion was etched in Dayla's features as she took Alexandra's hand in her own and squeezed it. "It may not be so," she soothed Alexandra. "It may be the heat." Alexandra glanced out the window toward the ocean crashing against the shoreline. "The heat," she whispered. The heat that rose inside her body each time Matthew said her name. The flame that fired her blood each time he touched her. The hot rush of shame she felt that her mother's sin may well be her own. For the first time she did not find ease in Matthew's arms. That night as he held her, as he loved her, a part of her remained separate, hovering over the big feather bed, watching her shame. Alexandra's fears multiplied with each day that passed. Each night she prayed to God above for an answer only to awaken each morning to find the answer still not forthcoming. Dayla's eyes were gentle with understanding but she did not broach the topic again for which Alexandra was deeply grateful. It was also apparent that Dayla had not betrayed her confidence and spoken to Andrew about her suspicions for Andrew was as irascible and demanding as ever. The heatwave ended a week after Labor Day when a violent thunderstorm blew in off the ocean, bringing with it black skies and jagged bolts of lightning that felled trees from one side of the Island to the other. Two oaks on the Sea View estate toppled then caught fire and Matthew and Johnny put out the flames with water from the pump near the carriage house. With the end of the heatwave came a new harmony within the house. Janine and Cook ceased their open warfare. Andrew's bad temper cooled as the mercury came down. The letters from San Francisco ceased and Matthew turned away from the whiskey bottle once again. And Alexandra faced up to the reality of her situation: she was going to bear Matthew's child. Two weeks after her confrontation with Dayla, Alexandra finally gathered nerve enough to look at her body in the mirror. Her belly was growing perceptibly rounder. Her breasts were swollen; just the brush of Matthew's lips upon them was enough to make her cry out. The sight of herself nude sent a thrill of fear mixed with wonder up her spine and she realized the changes were happening not only to her body; they were happening to her heart as well. Deep inside, Matthew's child was forming. A child their love had created. A child who might have Matthew's eyes and his smile and be the embodiment of everything she could hope for the future. The day after the thunderstorm she accompanied Matthew into town to collect the mail and to purchase some yard goods for the gowns Janine offered to sew for her. Evangeline Ames was in a chatty mood, telling both Alexandra and Matthew about the summer people who were returning to the city and the broken hearts they'd left behind. It took all of Alexandra's self-possession to keep from weeping when she saw the familiar San Francisco postmark on a large ivory envelope--and the all-too-familiar black cloud descend over Matthew's mood. She had planned to tell him on the drive back to Sea View but he was unapproachable and she kept her own counsel. Truth to tell, she was grateful for the reprieve. At dinnertime Matthew seemed more relaxed and she entertained him with stories of her childhood spent half running barefoot in Provence and half in starched uniforms at the Aynsley school in London. A brisk breeze was blowing off the ocean and after their meal she fetched a wrap and they went down the rickety wooden steps to the beach.. They held hands as they walked, talking little, and when she grew tired they sat on a small rise and watched the sun drop into the Atlantic. And because she knew no other way, she simply told him. "Matthew," she said, looking into his eyes, "I am with child." His expression did not vary. "What did you say?" Her hands trembled and she hid them inside the folds of her cape. "I am going to have your child." Kiss me, Matthew. Hold me close. Tell me how you've longed for a son to be proud of, a daughter to protect. His features seemed hewn from granite. "How long have you known?" She swallowed around an enormous lump of fear in her throat. "I have suspected for two weeks. I only became certain this morning." Haltingly, she explained about the sporadic nausea, the absence of her monthly flow, the unmistakable changes in her body. "When is the child due?" "Dayla said it shall be right after the new year." "Dayla?" His voice rose angrily on the name. "And what in hell has Dayla to do with this?" Heat rose to her face despite the chill wind. "Dayla was the first to realize I was enceinte." "Who else knows about this, Alex? Is Andrew preparing for his first grandchild? Is Janine knitting booties?" His accusations stung. "You insult me, Matthew. I did not tell Dayla--she told me." What on earth was happening? Where were the kisses and the concern and the sweetness she always thought to be part of such a grand annnouncement? He looked angry, Matthew did, and his anger cut through her like a sword. "Say something," she begged. "Please tell me what you are thinking." Don't look at me like that, Matthew. Do you not know this isn't the way I planned my life either? "I am thinking I would like to go for a walk." A red mist of fury descended upon her. "And I am thinking that is not a good idea." "At this moment, Alex, staying here with you doesn't seem a good idea." He rose and headed down the beach. Was this how it had been for her mother? Had Marisa been flooded with the same terrifying fear as Andrew turned away from her twenty years ago? How little the world had changed... She jumped up and hurried after him through the still-warm sand. "Do not turn from me this way!" Matthew ignored her and kept walking as anger exploded behind her eyes. Her mouth and her throat were filled with the taste of rage as Andrew's words echoed inside her head: She was on her hands and knees...begging.... "You cannot walk away from this, Matthew. I will not allow it!" The life of her mother would not be hers, no matter the obvious parallels. He stopped and faced her, his expression unreadable in the gathering dusk. "It is not up to you, Alex." "If you run there can be no common ground upon which to meet." I cannot follow you where you do not wish me to go. Her pride would not allow it. "I need time." He dragged his hand through his hair and the gesture tore at her soul. "I need to think." "Damn you!" Before she could weigh the consequences, she slapped him in a terrifying rush of anger. "You will not walk away from me, McKenna for I shall be the first to leave." Stop her! his mind screamed. Stop her before she runs from your life forever. This was the moment he'd dreaded, the moment they'd been racing toward from that day they met in the main hall of Sea View and she'd dressed him down in no uncertain terms. He'd fallen in love with her spirit, her wit, her vulnerability. He'd loved her body and fallen beneath the spell of her soul. She was as much a part of him as the air he breathed, as much a part of him as the blood pounding fiercely in his veins. And if he didn't go after her now, she would be forever lost to him. "Alex!" Her name tore from the depths of his aching heart. She kept running, her dark cloud of hair flowing behind her like a banner unfurled. "Alexandra!" He sprang forward, muscles coiled and tight, his strides long and powerful. She stumbled over a patch of dune grass and pitched forward and in an instant he was next to her, holding her, taking the fall himself as he cradled her to his chest. "Damn you, McKenna! Let me go." His grip tightened as she struggled in his arms. "No, Alex. Listen to me--" She swung out wildly with her fists, her anguish piercing his heart. "I have listened!" she screamed, her voice ragged with emotion. "I have listened and listened and listened and still I have heard nothing at all! Nothing about how you feel or what you think--" A sob broke through and she lowered her head. "Look at me, Alex," he urged as her struggling ceased. "You know I care--you must know that!" "I know nothing, Matthew. Nothing of what matters. You are the father of my child and I don't know where you were born or where you grew up. I don't know your dreams or your plans." A wild laugh tore through. "For all I know you may have a wife hidden somewhere--" He couldn't prevent the jerk of surprise that ripped through his body. "Alex, I--" "Dear God, no!" Her eyes--those beautiful eyes of deepest gold--clouded with pain and he would offer ten years of his life if he could only wipe it away. "It is not as you think, Alex. Madolyn is--" "No! Don't say it, Matthew...I can't bear it..." "Madolyn and I have not lived together for many years." She covered her ears with her trembling hands. "Say no more. I refuse to listen to you. You're vile...I will not allow our child to--" "You will listen to me," he roared, pulling her hands down and pinning them behind her back. "You say I do not reveal myself to you. You say there is much you do not know. Then listen, Alex, damn you! Listen and find out why..." The marriage was dead and had been so for a very long time. Matthew leaned back on the veranda of their country house north of San Francisco and watched his wife and his son and his wife's current lover playing croquet on the lawn. Madolyn didn't realize Matthew knew the gentleman was her lover but then intellect had never been Madolyn's greatest attribute. No, her attributes appealed to a man's baser instincts. She'd taken her first extramarital lover soon after Christopher was born and, in a way, Matthew could not blame her for his work consumed him. He'd often considered divorce but Madolyn had been quite plain in her threats. Madolyn liked being Mrs. Matthew McKenna and if he left, she would make certain he never saw Christopher again and he would endure any humiliation before he would allow that to happen. And so it had begun, the inexorable destruction of a marriage. Soon afterward he had taken a lover himself and his last dream of creating a marriage like the one his parents had enjoyed went up in flames. He took a sip of whiskey as he watched his son cavorting on the lawn. The rhythmic pounding of hooves made him look left as his newest coach, pulled by two spirited bays, careened off the drive and bounced across the green lawn toward the croquet game. Madolyn's brother Anthony, as reckless as his sister, held the reins loosely in one hand and a bottle of vodka in the other. "The Terhunes are having a house party," Anthony called out. "Why don't we ride over and join in the festivities?" The horses whinnied and tugged at their harnesses and Matthew stood up, suddenly alert. "Yes!" Madolyn exclaimed, beaming up at her lover. "Adelaide has been insufferably smug about her newest chef. Let us see for ourselves." "And me! And me!" Christopher, his blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight, danced around his mother, waving a miniature croquet mallet in the air. "Patty has a new puppy and she said I can play with him." Anthony leaned down to lift the boy and the carriage rocked crazily as Madolyn and her paramour climbed into the back. Christopher had no business even riding in that damned coach with Madolyn's drunken brother at the reins and if Madolyn had the mothering instinct of an alley cat she would know that. "Wait!" Matthew vaulted the railing of the veranda and raced toward them over the vast expanse of rolling lawn. Anthony held the crop high and the horses lurched forward, ears flattened against their massive heads. "Take the whip, Chris!" Anthony's words were slurred by drink. "Make them fly like the wind." Christopher's china blue eyes were wide with uncertainty as he reached for it. Don't do anything, Chris! The horses are whip-shy. I'm almost there...almost... The bays bucked, whinnied, then took off across the lawn, headed straight for the ravine. Matthew's legs pumped furiously as he leaped an azalea bush and tried to head the carriage off. "The wheel!" he yelled to Anthony, his lungs burning for air. "The back wheel is shaking loose!" The carriage bounced crazily over the bumps in the lawn. Good God! Christopher held the reins in his tiny hands. Thirty feet before the ravine Matthew managed to grab the long-step in the front. His teeth rattled as the coach slammed over a bed of rocks and he struggled to pull himself up onto the front seat. The horses were wild with fear and even were they not, Christopher had not the strength to subdue them. Anthony, drunk beyond reason, laughed and tried to hit Matthew's fingers with the vodka bottle. "...spoil our fun...what kind of person would spoil our fun..." Matthew levered himself up and swung his legs over the railing. "The reins!" he screamed over the rushing of the wind. "Give me the reins, Chris!" But the boy was beyond hearing as the coach rumbled closer and closer to the ravine. In the back seat Madolyn screamed while her useless lover sat still as a stone. The coach tilted wildly as the loose wheel worked its way off inch by inch. Matthew knew it was do or die. Somehow he found the strength to hoist himself into the front seat over Anthony's drunken objections. Christopher seemed frozen in place. The reins had somehow wrapped themselves around his hands and the leather straps were cutting into his tender flesh as the horses strained forward. Matthew climbed over Anthony and, grabbed for the inner reins of the horses' harnesses. "Whoa!" he roared as he pulled back with all his might. The horses resisted. Matthew pulled back again, pinning Anthony under him on the narrow bench. Christopher's piteous sobs rose over the rush of blood in his ears. The coach wobbled as the rear wheel loosened yet another degree. The ravine was no more than twenty feet away. If it were only his life, he would let the goddamned coach plunge into the blackness and be done with it for certainly eternal damnation would afford him more happiness than this existence had. But there was Christopher, his beloved son--his own flesh, his own blood. More than anyone on that coach, Christopher McKenna deserved to live. But it was Christopher McKenna who died. "I stopped the damned thing," Matthew said, his fce buried in his hands. "Just before the ravine." His torment penetrated Alexandra's guarded heart and her tears mingled with his. "Oh, my God, Matthew. I didn't know...I had no notion..." But he didn't seem to hear her; he was face to face with his own private hell. "Everyone was safe. It was over. I climbed down and was about to help Christopher out when the wheel gave way, the horses bolted and--" A deep wracking sob ripped its way up from his gut. "Chris pitched forward and the carriage...the wheels..." Alexandra could see it all as if it were happening right before her: the child's small body tossed to the ground; his cap of curls gleaming like fool's gold; the terrifying realization that the boy he'd fathered, the son he'd loved, was gone. "They blamed me," Matthew managed. "All of them..." From his wife to her brother to the faceless stranger who shared his woman's bed. "But the wheel was faulty," Alexandra said, wishing she could ease his pain. "You tried to stop them." His shrug was eloquent testimony to the hopelessness of it all for after a time, even Matthew ceased to believe it was anyone's fault but his. Whiskey became his solace; vodka, his confidante. He sought the unending blackness that had devoured his son and plagued his soul. Death was preferable to the living hell his wife set out to create for him. "But why not a divorce?" Alexandra whispered, holding him close to her breast as dusk wrapped them in its embrace. "Why would she stay married to you?" "My punishment," he said, voice flat. "Madolyn sought to create my enternal punishment here on earth." "But you left San Francisco, Matthew; it's been years since you lived together as man and wife. Surely now, after all this time, she would--" He grabbed her shoulders and she looked up into his eyes. "She will not, Alex. If you understand nothing else, understand that. Until she draws her last breath, she will never let me go." "Maybe now," she said, her hands spanning her belly protectively. "Maybe now that we--" "She would see me dead first." There would be no marriage between them. No gold and diamond ring upon Alexandra's hand, no flower-bedecked church, no happily-ever-after ending as in the fairy tales she had loved as a child. There was only this man and this moment and the love that tore at her heart and she prayed it would somehow be enough. Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Twenty-One How Alexandra's heart ached for Matthew and the little boy he'd lost. Christopher. A happy child who had played and laughed and died many years before his time. Was it any wonder Matthew had sought solace in a bottle of whiskey? With their child growing safe within her belly, she could only guess at his anguish. This baby was still a stranger to her and yet she loved it with a fierceness that sometimes frightened her. She rarely painted any longer and it seemed as if she lost yet another part of her independence with each night she spent in Matthew's arms, powerless to break free. Her sense of self, her need to create beauty on canvas, had both been overshadowed by her need for this man. The phrase, "Like mother, like daughter," occurred to Alexandra with increasing frequency and she found it difficult to reconcile her feelings for Matthew with the fact that technically he was a married man. Although he still had not spoken of love, that emotion seemed visible in the way he held her through the night, the way he eased her fears and encouraged her dreams. Surely God would not bless her with Matthew's child, only to withhold the sacrament of marriage. It will work out, she told herself each morning when she awoke. All Matthew had to do was contact his wife, offer her a settlement. Madolyn had already built a new life for herself; Alexandra was certain the woman would be ready now to set Matthew free. Life had become so complex, so confusing that were it not for the simple beauty of the love she felt for Matthew she might have booked passage back to Provence. I never knew how it would be, Alexandra wrote to Gabrielle in French rusty from lack of use these past months. He has become my reason for being. And--may God forgive her--she allowed her old friend to believe she and Matthew were married. By mid-October, Alexandra's pregnancy was quite apparent and she stopped accompanying Matthew on his trips into town. Evangeline Ames's eyes were too sharp and she did not want to be the topic of any more gossip. Sea View offered her the privacy to revel in the changes happening within her body--and the opportunity to shield those changes from prying eyes. She spent her days resting and walking the windswept beach, trying to see around the corners of her life and seize a glimpse of her future. The gypsies had set up a new camp on the beach some two miles east of Sea View and twice Alexandra had tried to find the young girl who had given her the warning about Stephen, "the yellow-haired man," and thank her but each time she had been turned away by a fierce-looking young man guarding the caravan. Finally on the morning of All Hallow's, Alexandra found the girl collecting cranberries from the bog alongside Old Beach Lane. "I have been looking for you," Alexandra said in Rom to ease the girl's fears. "I know," the girl replied in English. "It has been spoken of in the camp." "You were right," Alexandra said, suppressing the urge to pat the girl on the forearm to reassure her. "You warned me about the yellow-haired man and it came to pass." "You are angry?" The girl's onyx eyes widened and she took a step back. Alexandra smiled. "I am only sorry I did not realize his treachery sooner. I am in your debt." The girl clutched her basket close to her chest. "You will not tell the authorities I take these berries?" "I will not." Alexandra stood quietly as the young gypsy studied her. "Your babe comes with the New Year," the girl said. "A fine daughter." "Not a son? I had imagined the child to be a boy." A boy to fill the emptiness in Matthew's heart left by the loss of his son. The girl's long hair whipped around her face as she shook her head. "A fine and healthy daughter to make you proud but there--" She stopped and looked away. "I say no more." "But you must!" Fear raced through Alexandra like a chill wind off the ocean and she grabbed the girl's slender wrist. "Is it the baby? Is there something you see in the baby's future that you dare not tell me?" "'Tis not the baby's future, lady, 'tis yours." "Mine? What on earth--?" "I say too much," the girl protested, backing away. "'Tis not illness or death I see." "Then what?" Alexandra cried. "Dear God, please do not say something will happen to Matthew before the baby arrives!" The girl's eyes mirrored Alexandra's anxiety. "I see no man, lady. I see no man with you at your time at all." That evening Alexandra and Matthew slipped away from the house and lit a fire on the beach. He wrapped her in a warm blanket and they sat together and watched the flames dance against the backdrop of the roaring ocean. "A girl," said Matthew, his hand warm against her round belly. "I'll be damned." "I promised you a son," she murmured. "Would a daughter disappoint you?" His laughter rumbled delightfully against her ear. "Not if she is like her mother." Like mother, like daughter. Alexandra sighed deeply. Was there to be no escape from it? All day long she'd carried the gypsy's prediction inside her chest like a hot stone burning against her heart. She would give birth without Matthew to comfort her, without Matthew to witness the miracle of his newborn daughter, without Matthew to pledge his undying love to the family they had created. "You are quiet," Matthew said, stroking her hair. "Do you feel unwell?" "I wish my mother were here with me," she blurted. "She would understand." But, of course, that was impossible for it wasn't Marisa Glenn Alexandra needed; it was Esme. Esme with the kind voice and the gentle hands and the gypsy-black eyes that saw into Alexandra's soul and cast light where there had been only darkness. "Then write to your mother," Matthew said, meaning Marisa. "Tell her how you are feeling." Alexandra thought about the score of letters she had begun to Marisa only to consign them, unfinished, into the fireplace in her room. "I have you, Matthew," she whispered against his cheek, trying to will away the gypsy's prediction. "You are all that I need..." Switzerland "Madame is well today?" Marisa looked up from the book she was reading. "If Madame were well she would not be in this godforsaken place, now would she, Doctor Beaulieu?" He leaned over to place a hand upon her forehead and she caught the scent of lilac-scented soap. Fop, she sneered inwardly. She had always preferred a man to smell of the outdoors, of fresh pine and clean skin and the brisk November winds blowing beyond her window--not of womanly flowers. "Pain?" he asked, sitting opposite her. "Pain." Jagged flaming barbs of pain ripping away at her day and night. He patted her hand. "I shall increase the morphine dosage immediately." She nodded her thanks, unwilling to acknowledge her need. "You realize, Madame, that you shall not be entirely lucid with such a dosage." "I realize." Dull my mind, Doctor. Lift me from this bed, this room, this body and take me somewhere else. "If you have any familial matters that need tending, this would be the time." Alexandra. She owed Alexandra a letter of explanation. "I shall take care of such matters immediately, Doctor." As soon as she could figure out how to tell her daughter she was dying. And as soon as she could figure out why her daughter should even care. Thanksgiving Day dawned clear and cold and Sea View buzzed with activity. Matthew watched, amused, as Alexandra threw herself into the thick of things, to the point of baking pies in the kitchen with Cook who had become one of her staunchest supporters. Alex overflowed with questions about this uniquely American holiday and he found her enthusiasm to be catching. Even Andrew seemed caught up in the spirit and Dayla informed everyone that he would indeed be taking dinner in the dining room that afternoon. A sense of family had settled over the house and they had Alexandra to thank for it. For the first time since Christopher's death, the splendors of whiskey had dimmed. She was his intoxicant; the sweetness of her body, the buffer between himself and old guilts. The past, most especially his disastrous marriage, had no business intruding upon him now. Not even Whittington's letters with their portents of doom could dim the joy he felt and he tried to communicate that in his return letters. You must understand my position for neither money nor Madolyn's threats will bring me back to San Francisco. Be happy for me, Edward, for my life is here and here it will remain. He had found happiness for the first time in years, an optimism that he'd thought forever lost and he would do anything in his power if he could suspend the passage of time and savor these golden days a little longer. But he would be both fool and liar if he did not admit to himself the guilt he felt each time he looked at Alexandra growing large with his child. It was not as if he could offer her more. On the other side of the continent, a woman he had learned to hate carried his name and fortunes through the bedrooms of San Francisco. No, there would be no marriage, no wedding band glittering on Alexandra's finger; but, Matthew took comfort from the fact that what he gave her was all he had to give: his heart. San Francisco Stephen Lowell's patience was wearing thin. It was the first week of December. The round of holiday soirees had just begun and still he was no better off than when he first arrived. He watched as Madolyn McKenna poured them each a tumbler of brandy then settled herself on the settee next to him. Her heart-shaped face was flushed with pleasure--and with good reason. He'd just spent two hours in her enormous bed guaranteeing her exactly that, hoping she would be more amenable to his proposition. For five months he'd painstakingly laid the groundwork for his plan to destroy both McKenna and Andrew and for four months he'd been up against a stone wall. Madolyn had definite ideas about what constituted revenge and forcing her husband back to San Francisco did not figure among them. There was an undercurrent to Madolyn that he had not at first recognized but which now disturbed him. She was given to mercurial changes of personality that had him ill-at-ease, never knowing which Madolyn he would find in his bed. A violence rippled through her, an uncontrollable edge of wildness that would drive him away were it not for the prize at stake. She leaned back and her negligee dipped low across her breasts. At that moment he would forego another taste of them for the satisfaction of getting his plan underway. A letter from Danziger & Doheny burned inside his breast pocket. He had the information he needed to make Madolyn change her mind and now was the time to use it. "You do not seem to understand my position," she was saying as a kittenish smile drifted across her perfect face. "Although you have made a rather valiant effort..." "A compliment, Madolyn?" he drawled, raising his brandy toward her in salute. "Does Vladimir rate such high praise?" She dismissed her other lover with a wave of her tiny hand. "That is like comparing an appetizer to a main course, darling." "And I--?" "You are quite definitely the main course." "I can do more for you than please you in bed, Madolyn." "I'm sure you can, darling, but you must understand my feelings on this. Why would I want to bring Matthew back to San Francisco when I already have access to everything he owns? Whatever can be gained by that?" "Revenge." Her brow wrinkled. "I was under the impression revenge is what I have been gaining all along." This was the opportunity he'd been waiting for since the day he arrived at Ferry Landing. "He has not been suffering in New York, Madolyn." He sensed her body stiffening. "As I understood it, Matthew has been ruining himself with drink. He is a lonely, bitter man--exactly the fate I intended for him." Slowly he withdrew the envelope from his pocket and, equally slowly, removed the letter and unfolded it. "I appreciate your theatrics, Stephen," she said brusquely, "but you shan't change my mind." "Listen, first, Madolyn. Listen and then tell me how you feel." Five minutes later he had enlisted Madolyn McKenna's full cooperation. "I shall see him dead by my own hand before I see him the father of a child," she swore with savage intensity. "He'll never hold that baby in his arms, Stephen. Of that you can be sure." For a moment, Stephen Lowell pited Matthew McKenna. But only for a moment. Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Twenty-Two Alexandra was reclining on the chaise longue in the bedroom suite she shared with Matthew. She had spent much of the morning watching the snow falling beyond her window and occasionally wielding her knitting needles as she worked on a white Christening sacque for the baby. "Is this not amazing?" She held up the sacque for Matthew to admire as he came into the room. "It is a miracle to think this child within me shall someday wear this." He fingered the delicate garment but his eyes were intent upon her and the child within her stirred. Reflexively her hand went to her belly and moved in calming, circular strokes. "What is it? Has Andrew--" "Andrew is fine." He moved toward the window and leaned against the sill. She watched, trembling, as he drew a deep breath. "I'm leaving, Alex." "How funny, Matthew!" she said, chuckling at the very thought. "For a moment I thought you said you were leaving." He dropped to one knee and took her hand. "I did, Alex. The trap is waiting in the courtyard to take me to the Bridgehampton station." Why hadn't she noticed he wore his dove grey suit instead of his usual black trousers and white cambric shirt? "Business for Andrew?" She tried desperately to slow down the erratic pulsing of her heart. "New York City is so far away. Can this trip not wait at least until the snow has stopped falling?" Please do not say it, Matthew. Do not say the words I've feared so long... "I am returning to San Francisco, Alex." Her knitting clattered to the floor. "Dear God, Matthew! Why...have I...I do not understand!" "I have unfinished business." Her trembling accelerated. It was over...it couldn't be over...the gypsy's words tumbled over and over in her mind. "The baby," she whispered. "You cannot! In just six weeks--" "In six weeks I will return, Alex." He tilted her chin up so she was forced to meet his eyes. "I hope to return with my freedom." "You said that was impossible! You said she would never release you." A flicker of pain showed in his eyes and was quickly extinguished. "I have reason to believe things have changed, Alex, that there may be a chance for a final break between us." "A divorce?" "That is my hope." "Wait, Matthew. Don't--" "You deserve more, Alex." He rose to his feet, hands clenched at his sides. "The child deserves more." "The child deserves a father to love him and I deserve to have you at my side." She stood up with great difficulty. "If you go to San Francisco, we both shall be denied." "This must be settled once and for all." "Wait until spring," she cried, voice rising in panic. "Wait until the child comes." "I have asked Janine and Dayla to take special care of you while I'm gone." "Stay, Matthew," she urged, her tears wetting his cheek. "I cannot bear to lose you." "You'll never lose me. I'll be back, Alex, before you miss me." "You are wrong," she whispered, "for already I miss you more than I can bear." "This child will carry my name, Alex, and you will be my wife in the eyes of man as well as God." She heard his words but they did not matter, not when weighed against the enormity of losing him. "Your place is here. I need you with me." ...you will be alone...I do not see the man..." "And I need to go!" His anguish was obvious in his voice but not even that anguish could sway her. The child stirred again and she knew the battle was lost. "A few weeks, Alex," he said, pulling her into his arms as close as her belly would allow. "A few weeks and it will all be over." She said nothing, simply memorized his features with her eyes and hands against the moment when he left. "You'll be waiting for me here?" he asked. "Don't you know, Matthew?" she asked softly. "I have nowhere else to go." He kissed her, the sweetness of his mouth mingling with the salt from her tears, and she wondered what had happened to her pride that she would accept so readily the pronouncements of a man to whom she was not even betrothed. "I love you, Alexandra," he said as he turned to leave. "If you believe nothing else, believe that." The door closed quietly after him and she sank down slowly onto the bed, wondering why he couldn't say those words to her until he was ready to leave. Matthew slumped back in his seat as the coach rattled its way down the curving drive leading away from Sea View--and away from Alexandra. He was breathing; his heart was beating inside his chest; but he was dead as surely as if he were interred in his conffin six feet below the ground. He wanted to grab the reins from Johnny and race back to Sea View and let the rest of the world go straight to hell but the pale blue letter in his pocket made it impossible. How strange that this one anonymous piece of mail with a New York City postmark could do what Edward Whittington's thousand missives could not: force him to return to San Francisco. He needn't unfold the letter to know what it said; the printed words were etched for all time within his brain. You will pay Madolyn McKenna's gambling debts in person at the offices of your attorney Edward Whittington in San Francisco within two weeks. If you do not, your whore and her unborn child will die. Will more blood be on your hands? The letter could be a fraud, in which case his trip to San Francisco will have been for naught. But should he ignore the missive and lose Alexandra in the bargain--it didn't bear contemplation. The pain he'd felt when he lost Christopher was not something he could endure a second time. He had no choice. The trip was imperative but to leave her unprotected was unthinkable and, without hesitation, he'd used Andrew's name and position with the local police force to procure an extra measure of security at Sea View while he was gone. If he loved her, he would leave her. There was no other way. Women make choices. Men do as they will. In the days after Matthew's sudden departure, the reality of her position in life became terrifyingly clear to Alexandra. Was this how her mother had felt then, all those years ago when she discovered she was carrying a child--trapped by her own body, helpless against a world dominated by men and their needs, their rules. How arrogant she'd been in her pure and innocent youth, so certain her mother's sins could never possibly be hers, that she would be mistress of her life and not mistress to a man who could never make her his wife. She had been as helpless before the forces of love as Mary Margaret Kilbride, as foolish and thoughtless and trusting as a child, and she wished she could sit down at her escritoire and tell her mother exactly that. Words, however, were ungainly creatures and she found that in French she said too much and in English she said too little and once again her attempts ended up in the fireplace. Ten days after Matthew left, she received a letter from him, a letter filled with love and longing but without answers to the questions that plagued her days and nights. "Make me understand," she demanded of Andrew one morning in his studio. "Explain why he left me now when I need him most." "He must have his reasons," said her father. "It is not up to me to question them." "Is your kinship with Matthew stronger than our bloodties?" she challenged, standing over him with her back swayed against the weight of her belly. "Would you put me through torment to assuage his male ego?" "I know nothing of his reasons for returning to San Francisco." She eyed him long and hard. "And if you knew, would you tell me?" "Now I believe I would." Andrew cleared his throat. "Off with you, girl. I have some correspondence to attend to. I cannot sit here all day in idle gossip." Alexandra met up with Dayla in the library. "He is looking to do his correspondence, Dayla," she said as she slowly lowered herself into the leather wing chair near the window. "Your session is over?" As usual the dusky-skinned woman was in white, but these days she wore a loose gown of bengaline mohair, rather than the cotton she favored in the summer. A dull pain tugged at her mid-section and she hesitated a moment before answering. "Yes, it's--oh!" "You have pain?" Dayla was at her side in an instant. "Not pain--not exactly. Just a tug." She patted Dayla's hand. "It was over before it began. I am certain I strained myself changing the curtains in the nursery alcove." "Your time is nearly upon you, Alexandra." Dayla's eyes were warm with compassion. "Your labor could be starting." Alexandra shook her head. "Not for another month, Dayla." Not until Matthew returns. "Children believe not in schedules, Alexandra," she chided gently. "They come in their own time." "I know," said Alexandra, massaging her belly. "And the time is not yet upon me." Upon Andrew's urging, Dr. Harding had been visiting regularly and he predicted the birth to occur near the end of January. "As you say." With a rustle of her skirts, Dayla excused herself to help Andrew with his correspondence. This child would not come yet, Alexandra thought fiercely. She could not allow that notion access to her mind. Matthew would return. He would be there with her when her time came. He would hold her hand as their child drew its first breath and uttered its first cry. Yes, would resolve his problems and return before the baby dropped low in her belly. Alexandra was not her mother, destined to carve a life from the rock of hardship. She had found love in great abundance and she would hold onto it, both for her sake and for the sake of her unborn child. San Francisco It was as Matthew remembered it: a world of controlled excesses outsiders could only guess at. He stood on the ornately carved balcony and looked out at the growing landscape of San Francisco. From where he stood to Russian Hill, it all belonged to him. Houses. Three fine stores. Acres of land waiting to be developed, barren now in the dim winter light with hundreds of leafless trees standing guard. The country home some miles north with the crowded stables and the empty nursery. All his. All nothing. None of this made any sense. He had been in town for two days and had yet to see Whittington. Edward, it seemed, was in Chicago and would not be returning until this afternoon. Matthew intended to be in his office as soon as Edward arrived, complete with the anonymous letter and all the cash money he could get his hands upon. Madolyn had arrived, cum lover, the night before and they'd had an unfortunate run-in on the stairs. The urge to fling her over the railing and send her crashing to her death had been so intense that he'd bolted for the library and the soothing qualities found in a bottle of whiskey. She was at the bottom of this. He knew it in his gut and he intended to tell Whittington exactly that when he saw him. But, no matter the game, he would play by her rules if it meant keeping Alexandra and the child safe from harm. He heard the rustle of silk from the street below and stepped back inside. Madolyn's high trill pierced the air as she called to her current paramour, Count Vladimir. "Hurry, darling! I don't care to be kept waiting for my breakfast." Vladimir's low rumbling laughed drifted up to where Matthew stood inside the French doors. "You did not feel that way earlier, my love." Matthew slammed shut the French doors and stormed back inside the library. Damn her thieving soul to hell! Four years since he'd left his own home in disgust and she was still behaving like a rutting bitch in heat. "Divorce you?" she had said when he first discovered her flagrant infidelities. "You must be mad, darling. No, I intend to retain what belongs to me--your money and my pleasure. And there's nothing you can do to stop me. Now get out!" Four years ago he had done exactly that, but that was before Alexandra, before the baby, before he'd discovered that he wasn't the no-good bastard she had painted him to be. She floated into the room in a cloud of perfume and sexual satisfaction but, to his delight, the sight of him caused her fair skin to flush with anger and her blue eyes to crackle with fury. "And what are you doing here?" she asked as she poured herself a brandy. "I thought you would seek shelter in a hotel." "I may be mistaken," Matthew drawled as he leaned one elbow on the marble mantelpiece, "but I believe I am still owner of this house." "Owner?" she said with a short laugh. "This house means nothing to you, darling. Why, you haven't even bothered to pay the taxes. Vladimir was kind enough to see that the servants were compensated for their time otherwise I should be living in abject squalor." He narrowed his eyes and looked at her. Although it was still before noon, Madolyn wore rings on every finger and matching diamond earrings and choker. Her pale blue morning dress was intricately embroidered with silk and dotted with pearls. "You hardly look as if you live in a boarding house, dear wife." He casually lit a cigar, trying to control the flame of rage burning inside him. "'Dear wife?'" She threw her head back and laughed, exposing small even teeth. "Have you come back to try to reconcile our differences?" "Hardly. Having been cuckolded once, I have no desire to repeat that experience." He took a long drag on his cigar. "I want to dissolve this marriage...this farce we call a marriage. I want my freedom." She gracefully reclined on a red velvet chaise longue and lifted her heavy hair off her neck. "Well, well. Something new has been added to the stew. Have we found ourselves a paramour, darling? Who is she? A New Orleans coquette? A Texas rose? A sensible New Englander?" He crossed the salon with long strides and stood over this stranger, his wife. "I want no connection with you, Madolyn. You broke our vows. You drove me from my own home with your accusations. This last threat of yours was beyond even your normal capabilities." "Truths, darling, not accusations. I would have my son alive today were it not for you. I would have my brother healthy and able to walk today were it not for you. I would--" "Damn you to hell!" He slammed his fist into the wall, knocking a small framed watercolour to the floor. The sound of breaking glass echoed in the cavernous room. "You are insane, woman! Will you never accept the fact your brother was drunk? He gave the reins to a child. He couldn't regain control of the horses. He--" "Shut up!" She leaped to her feet. "I don't want to hear it. I shall not hear it! How is it you survived when no one else did? Why were you the lucky one? You must have been the one at fault." He grabbed her shoulders roughly and shook her until one of her diamond earrings flew across the room. "I lost a son, too, Madolyn. How is it you find it so difficult to remember that simple fact?" The anger in her eyes was replaced by fear. "Divorce me," he pressed. "You can have everything. Let it go, Madolyn. Let me go!" She pulled from his grasp and stood a few feet away, flushed and panting with fury. "Never, darling. You'll never be free of me--not so long as you live. Yes, I brought you here. Yes, I know about your slut and her child." Her china blue eyes glittered with malice. "How can you be sure the bastard she carries is even yours, Matthew? How can you be--" "Enough!" He lifted his right arm and swept the porcelain vases and Faberge eggs from the marble mantel. "Enough lies. Our marriage was over long before the accident, Madolyn. It was only for the boy's sake that I stayed with you. I wanted him to have a real family but even that was denied me, thanks to you and your whoring." "Can I be blamed for seeking elsewhere what I could not find at home? You are not the man you claim, Matthew, my love. Not at all." "Then let me go. Cut me free and build a new life. Name your price, Madolyn, and it is yours." Greed distorted her lovely features for a moment. "We begin with money, Matthew, but it is more than your gold that I'm looking for." "I, too, lost a son, Madolyn. That is enough pain for one lifetime. Set me free." "So you can play house with your whore? I'll see your woman dead before I grant that wish. All it will take is a message over the wireless and--" Fury exploded red-hot behind his eyes and he grabbed her arm and twisted it up behind her back. Her yelp of pain barely penetrated his rage. "Harm her or the babe, Madolyn, and I'll slit your pretty throat from ear to ear." He released her and stepped away. "You have my word on that, dear wife." "May you always have what you deserve," she murmured, her voice a sugary whisper. "Nothing. A lifetime of nothing." "Amazing," he said, looking down at her. "I wonder how it is I ever loved you." She yawned. "You did once, darling. And this is how it ends." He slammed the door behind him and her laughter followed him as he strode down the hall. Tucked away in what once was Christopher's nursery was a wall safe, the combination of which existed only in his memory. There was money in there. Lots of it. He would take that money and then he would go to Edward Whittington and order his attorney to bribe a judge or buy an official or do whatever damned thing he had to do to get him his freedom. He swore as he bumped into a gateleg table set along a wall in the narrow hallway. His situation may not have changed, but Madolyn had made certain that everything in the mansion had. New silk drapes hung from the windows and fancy velvet paper covered the walls. Lustrous oak paneling had been ripped down and replaced by cream-color enameled walls. Great sums of money had been siphoned into turning the house into a mock Palace of Versailles. One thing, however, still remained the same: the nursery. He opened the door and a violent rush of memories dropped him to his knees. It was all the way he remembered it, right down to the last detail. The bed with the eiderdown quilt in bright red and white and blue. The toy soldiers arranged on a battlefield of green felt layered with dust. But it was the tin bank in the shape of a fox terrier that wrenched at his heart. It was a small mechanical marvel that Matthew had found in Boston just before Christopher's second birthday, and it had delighted his son as if it were cast in solid gold. The room still echoed with his son's laughter. How Chris's eyes would widen each time Matthew deposited a coin on the terrier's nose and the little dog would wag its tail and open its mouth to catch the coin. Eyes burning, Matthew stared at the nursery. Nothing had changed--even the boy's nightshirt still lay draped across the foot of the bed, as if waiting for Christopher. In a house where even the doorknobs had been replaced by newer, more opulent models, this room remained as it had been over four years ago. Except for the safe. All that remained of it now was a gaping hole in the candy-cane striped wall. A ripple of fear rose up from the base of his spine as he finally understood what Whittington had tried so long to tell him. Edward Whittington listened to Matthew's accounting, then leaned back in his swivel chair, fingers laced to form a bridge. "I suspected as much," he said, face grave, "but I could not be certain." Not even his investigators had been able to reach the nursery to see what Matthew had seen. Matthew listened as Whittington detailed Madolyn's excesses--and his losses. Sweat trickled down his back as the enormity of it all sank in. "I'll sign anything,"he said, jumping to his feet. "I'll do anything, say anything, give her anything at all, but I'll be damned if I stay here any longer than I have to." Three thousand miles away, Alexandra came closer to giving birth to their child and he ached to be with her. Whittington fingered that anonymous letter Matthew had brought with him across the country. "You miss the point, Matthew. The rules have changed." "She wants money, Edward. I'll give her money. She wants the house and it's hers." Whittington raised his hand. "What she wants, my friend, is to see you suffer and she means to do it the best way she knows how." "Madolyn may indeed be mad, but she is also a greedy, selfish bitch who can be bought and sold at the drop of a diamond. She--" "Not this time, Matthew. This time she has someone else concocting the scheme." Matthew dismissed Whittington's words with a wave of his hand. "That fool Russian count? He's nothing." "You're right, Matthew. Count Fedayev is nothing." "Then what in hell is the problem, Matthew? What goddamned fool has Madolyn been leading around by his manhood?" "Stephen Lowell," said Whittington. "This time, Matthew, I believe you are in for the fight of your life." Christmas came and went at Sea View, but not even the huge candlelit evergreen in the main hallway was enough to enstill the Yuletide spirit in Alexandra's aching heart. Each morning she awoke, certain that this would be the day that brought Matthew back to her, and each night she fell asleep knowing that he may never return to her. Soon, he promised her in his letters. I promise you, Alex, I'll be back with you as soon as I can. Again and again she remembered the day he left and the words of love he'd uttered, words she had hungered to hear, but even that was cold comfort against the loneliness. Each day that passed took them deeper into the heart of winter--and closer to the time when their baby would be born. That tugging sensation she had first experienced shortly after Matthew's departure had been occuring at odd intervals and on the day after New Year's it returned with a vengeance. "It is too early," she moaned as Dayla and Janine helped her up the stairs and put her to bed. "I am certain this is but another false alarm." You will be alone, the gypsy girl had said. I see no man with you when your time is at hand. The two women looked at one another across the bed. "It is!" she protested as a new wave of pain ripped through her--sharper, more frightening. "Matthew should be here with me. He promised...he promised..." Dayla gently brushed a lock of hair from Alexandra's forehead. "Do not worry," she said in a voice soft as the falling snow. "This is woman's work and we shall stay with you through it all." Janine blessed herself then whispered a prayer Alexandra remembered from her girlhood and Alexandra sent her own wishes heavenward that when this was all over, the rest of the gypsy's prediction would come true and a healthy baby daughter would suckle at her breast. Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Twenty-Three "A daughter?" Matthew stared at Edward Whittington blankly. "I have a daughter?" Whittington looked down at the transcribed wireless message propped up on his desk. "You have a healthy, six pound baby daughter named Katie. Mother and child are doing fine." Matthew sank down into the chair opposite his friend and buried his face in his hands as a thousand conflicting emotions shot through him. All his plans to be with her when her time came had amounted to naught. She had faced childbirth alone and brought forth a baby girl. In the blink of an eye Alex had gone from girl to woman to mother while he struggled in vain to obtain his freedom. Suddenly he looked up. "Did you say her name was Katie?" Edward nodded as he poured them each a celebratory brandy. "Katie, it is." "That was my mother's name," Matthew said quietly. In conversation once he had spoken about his mother, about how hard she had worked for her family, about the love she'd shown him. Now, through their daughter, he and Alex were taking that fine woman into the next generation. "What the hell do I do now, Edward? I have half a mind to kill Madolyn and that bastard Lowell and be done with it." "And spend a lifetime in jail? Not very smart, my friend. You stay put." Edward handed him his brandy. "Madolyn is unstable and, from what I have ascertained, Stephen Lowell's greed is surpassed only by his passions. They'll tip their hands soon enough, Matthew. Be patient." Matthew thought of the woman and child three thousand miles away. "I am tired of being patient." "The stakes are too high, Matthew. She means what she says when she threatens to kill Alexandra. Do not risk it now." But didn't Whittington know that he was the greatest risk of all? He had failed once and tragically with his son. What guarantee was there that he wouldn't fail again? "Would you be lookin' at that now, missus?" Janine exclaimed. "The little sweetheart is smilin' at me, she is!" Alexandra laughed and finished diapering the rosy baby gurgling up at her from the bed. She simply hadn't the heart to tell Janine that Katie's smile was the result of a gastric disturbance and not mirth. "Katie is a brilliant child," she said instead. "She recognizes a friend when she sees one." Janine chucked the infant under her pudgy chin. "She's changed this house, the little one has. Why, Mr. Andrew be smilin' from dawn to dusk with love of her." What an amazing addition an infant was to a household. In just four weeks, Katie had brought sunshine to the darkest corners of Sea View and Alexandra had even found it possible to write Marisa a letter informing her of the baby's arrival. The normally dour Cook actually smiled at Alexandra these days while Johnny went out of his way to drop in upon the baby every chance he got, bringing with him new rattles and stuffed animals bound to please an infant. Janine was quite literally beside herself with pleasure; although she had helped to raise eight little brothers and sisters, she still delighted in all the work surrounding babies--a fact for which Alexandra would be forever grateful. Dayla was a deep well of wisdom and calm and without her Alexandra doubted she would have survived the first days of Katie's life. In the early hours of the morning as Katie nursed, Alexandra and Dayla had had long conversations during which Alexandra began to understand more about the woman her father loved. Dayla was from the Marquesas in the South Seas. She had been wed to a fisherman who one day went berserk, killing their two young sons and leaving Dayla for dead on a lonely stretch of beach. Had it not been for Andrew, who had been traveling the islands, she would not be alive today. Angry selfish Andrew Lowell, artist without conscience, had picked Dayla--broken and bleeding--from the sand and carried her back to his cottage where he willed her back to health. She owed him her life; her love, she freely gave. And Alexandra believed it was Dayla's love that enabled Andrew to adore Katie the way he did. To see his stern face light up with pleasure at the sight of the blonde-haired cherub was to see a miracle in progress. It never failed to send Alexandra's heart soaring with pride and happiness. In four short weeks, Katie had filled Alexandra's heart with joy, but that joy was incomplete without Matthew by her side. Each morning a letter from San Francisco arrived at the Easthampton post office and each afternoon Johnny delivered it to Alexandra in the library where she and Katie took the sun. His words were filled with love and longing as he told her about how the three of them would live as a family one day soon. He told her about Madolyn and her excesses and how Edward Whittington swore that any moment now Madolyn would give up the fight and let Matthew go free. Wait, he said in his letters. Wait just a little longer. But it seemed to Alexandra that waiting was all she did these days. She waited for Katie to awaken each morning and for her to go to sleep each night. She waited for Johnny to bring the post to her each afternoon and, most important of all, she waited for Matthew to return to her. Katie changed with each day that passed, and--with or without Matthew--she would continue to do so. Alexandra would continue to wait for Matthew but Katie would wait for no one at all. Winter came to an end and with it came the promise of spring. It would be wonderful to take Katie for long walks on the beach but it would be even more wonderful if Matthew were there to share it with them. Sharp painful stabs of anger and resentment surfaced frequently and Alexandra was fiding it harder and harder to battle them down. "Mail come early today, missus," Janine said, bustling into the library one day in late March, carrying a stack of envelopes and a large box. "Looks to be another present from Mr. Matthew." Alexandra suppressed a sigh for there was nothing Matthew could send that could take the place of seeing his handsome face before her once again. She took the package from Janine and carefully unwrapped it, then pushed aside the layers of tissue. "What on earth?" Two signet rings, one diamond bracelet and a tiny gold mesh reticule rested inside the box, along with two letters, one of which was addressed in her mother's childlike hand. I enclose my valuables for you. They aren't much of a legacy for you but then nothing between us was ever the way it should be. Maybe one day your daughter will wear them. When you read this, I will be gone. I did the best I could, Alexandra. I hope you understand.         Your Mother. The other letter was printed on a typewriting machine and signed by a Doctor Beaulieu, director of the Hospitale Sur in Geneva. It was your mother's wish that you receive these effects upon her death. I should like you to know the ending came peacefully in her sleep. She has arranged for all bills to be paid. You need not trouble yourself on that account. It is with deep sympathy that I am--         Claude Beaulieu "Missus?" Janine shifted nervously from foot to foot. "Would you be needin' something?" Alexandra shook her head numbly. "I would just like to be left alone, Janine, if you would." Quickly the young maid disappeared, closing the door behind her. Alexandra sat, package in hand, and waited for the tears to come. What was wrong with her? No profound thoughts raced through her head. No tears pricked against her eyelids. When the Charbonnes died, she had railed against Fate and cursed the gods for taking them from her. Her young heart had ached so that she feared she would die from grief. But now she felt nothing. Rising, she tucked the box and the letters under her home and made her way upstairs to Andrew's studio. Dayla was playing with Katie in the nursery and he was alone. "Andrew?" "Speak up, girl!" he called from his chaise longue near the window. "I do not take kindly to stealthy entrances." She crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the chaise. "My mother is dead." Her voice was flat, emotionless. "These letters just came." He took them from her then read them quickly, lingering for a moment extra on Marisa's note. "She died much before her time," he said at last. "I do not feel anything, Andrew. I want to cry for her, but I cannot." Awkwardly he patted her hand. "Yours was a difficult relationship. Sorrow will take its own form." "I always believed that someday we would find a common ground." She chuckled softly at the thought. "I had even believed Katie might be that ground I'd been searching for. But it's too late now, isn't it?" What there was, was all there could ever be now--and what a sad legacy that was. For the next week, regret ate away at Alexandra each time she looked at her daughter. Circumstance had made it impossible for Alexandra and her mother to have any kind of rapprochement; death made it impossible for Katie to know her grandmother. In the blink of an eye, fate took away those options forever and the finality of it rocked Alexandra to the very core. Who could say how much time he or she would be allotted on this earth? In each letter Matthew said, "Wait!" and "Be patient," but how could he know if the time would ever be right for them? The child asleep in the crib was a pledge of love, an act of faith and yet he had still to meet her. The days and the weeks raced by her as Alexandra stood quietly, waiting for someone to tell her what to do. Once again she was observing her life from a distance, allowing others to determine the path she took and when she took it. First Marisa played God with her life, and now Matthew was trying to, as well. Marisa had allowed an accident of birth to determine the course of her daughter's life; Alexandra would not allow that to happen to Katie. Perhaps there might be no future in the cards for her and Matthew McKenna, but Katie was as much a part of Matthew as she was a part of Alexandra and Alexandra would be damned to hell for all eternity if she allowed her daughter to be deprived of a father's love. She had learned that lesson through bitter experience. She would head for San Francisco and introduce the man she loved to the child he had fathered and suffer the consequences later. One thing was certain: Katie McKenna would grow up knowing both of her parents. Andrew was not pleased about her decision but he allowed Alexandra to ask Janine if she would accompany her to San Francisco as a combination of ladies' maid cum nanny and the young girl almost collapsed with excitement at the prospect of traveling clear across the country. There was much to be done in the two weeks before they boarded the Penn Railroad train for Philadelphia on the first leg of the journey. Dayla offered to help with Alexandra's wardrobe and between her and Janine, Alexandra found herself with more stylish outfits than at any time in her life. Finally the day arrived. The suitcases and trunks were neatly stacked in the main hallway, waiting to be loaded into the coach for the trip to the Bridgehampton railroad station. Katie, sensing the excitement, was wide-eyed and fretful and her goodbye visit with her grandfather Andrew was abbreviated. Then it was Alexandra's turn. He did not grant her time to so much as wish him a good morning before he began to speak. "I have given it much thought, Alexandra," he said in his cool, upper-class voice, "and it occurs to me that in many ways besides the obvious I have fallen short of being a good father to you." "You cannot be a father before you know your daughter," she said gently. "Be that as it may, you are my only child, girl, and my legal heir." "Andrew," she said, standing up, "I do not want to hear talk of death. The coach is almost ready and I--" "Sit down!" he commanded. "There are things that need to be said." To her utter astonishment, Andrew produced a copy of his will, revised the day after her identity was revealed. In an emotional and most uncharacteristic step, he had eliminated Stephen and bequeathed Sea View and much of his fortune to Alexandra. "I have no desire to acquire your wealth," she said bluntly. "I only wish to learn more about you...to have Katie know you." Andrew, however, was determined. "All my life I have understood the power of money, the way it gives one person dominion over another. Many times I have been guilty of wielding that power." He told her the story of Mary Margaret Kilbride kneeling before him to pick up the scattered dollars and he did not spare himself in the telling. "In this society it is always men who have money and women who are without and therein rests the problem." Without further preamble, he handed Alexandra a letter from his attorney which freed fifty percent of her inheritance for her use--and Katie's--now. "Matthew McKenna is a good man and a kind one," he said, his voice suddenly cracking with emotion. "I believe he truly loves you. But love, at times, is not enough. I want you to enter this relationship as his equal in all ways, for that is the only way to build a marriage." "I cannot," she began, "for there may never be a marriage. Besides, it simply does not seem--" "This is not charity, girl, nor an attempt to ease a guilty conscience. This is your birthright long-denied and the legacy you will pass on to your child." He took her hand in his and her throat ached with unshed tears. "Take what is yours, Alexandra, and use it well." "Thank you," she whispered, as he folded her into an embrace. "Thank you for everything, Father." It seemed to Alexandra that Janine talked all the way to San Francisco. For seven days as they traveled by rail through Philadelphia and Roanoke, through Chattanooga and New Orleans then across the vast prairies, Janine provided an endless stream of conversation that at times drove Alexandra close to madness. On their sixth travel day, Alexandra pleaded a headache and spent much of the afternoon in the private car Andrew had provided for them, rather than in the parlor car where most passengers converged. Even the sunny-tempered Katie was fractious and spent much of the day fussing. "One more day," Alexandra whispered as the train wound its way toward San Francisco. One more day and Matthew McKenna would meet his daughter. To Matthew's surprise, Madolyn left early that morning for a week-long visit to friends in Sacramento, leaving him alone in the house, alone with an infinite supply of whiskey and dark memories. If it weren't for the fact he was expecting Edward Whittington for dinner, Matthew would have called for a coach and headed north to the country house. He had not been back to the estate since the day Christopher died and it seemed long past time he returned, if not to confront his memories then to retrieve some personal belongings. He had tired of San Francisco, of city life in general, but Madolyn's constant presence in the mansion had kept him on a short lead. At each turn he expected to see Stephen Lowell appear on the scene; the man had not as yet shown himself, but both Matthew and Whittington knew it was only a matter of time. The grandfather clock in the library tolled the noon hour. Another endless, useless day far from the woman he loved stretched before him and, at the moment, there seemed to be no end in sight. The train reached the station at nine p.m. on the seventh day of their trip. Once again, Alexandra blessed her father's presence of mind for she had given no thought to how she and Janine and an infant would manage to find Matthew's house and were it not for the coach and driver awaiting her at the station--well, it didn't bear thinking about. Swiftly the driver and two railroad employees loaded her trunk and valises into the hold of the carriage and they were on their way. A heavy fog blanketed the Bay and coupled with the darkness she could see little of the sprawling city as they headed up a series of steep hills with twists and turns so dangerous she feared the coach would tip over. Katie finally slept soundly and Janine had fallen silent, leaving Alexandra alone with her thoughts as the coach rumbled closer and closer to Matthew. What if he did not want her there? What if he had moved or gone away on a trip? A thousand scenarios, all of them terrible, screamed inside her brain. Panic rose in her chest. Had she made a terrible mistake? Should she have continued to wait for him at Sea View, hoping for a miracle? But it was too late now. The driver stopped the coach before a huge house that, even with the darkness and the fog, loomed majestic atop Nob Hill. Janine met her eyes in the dimly lit interior of the coach. "God bless you, missus," the girl whispered. Alexandra prayed He was listening. Dinner was over and Edward was ensconced in the leather wing chair in the library with a brandy in his right hand and a Cuban cigar in his left. "Wonderful," he said, sipping the brandy. "I could learn to enjoy this life, Matthew." "It's yours," said Matthew, pacing the room. "I am damned sick of it." All evening Matthew had sought to discuss the real problems at hand but Edward had neatly danced around them with clever dinner conversation. Now that they were alone and away from the prying eyes of Madolyn's servants, it was time for some real talk. Unfortunately, a knock at the door put a stop to his plans. "Aren't you going to answer it?" asked Edward as they heard a second knock. "It is Benjamin's job to answer the door," Matthew said. "Let him earn whatever outrageous amount it is that Madolyn pays him." "Apparently Madolyn is not paying him near enough, Matthew," Edward observed as a third and fourth knock followed in quick succession. Muttering an oath, Matthew strode to the door, then swung it open, ready to unleash his anger on the hapless soul on the doorstep only to find his anger evaporating in the San Francisco fog. "Alex?" She was a dream, an apparition conjured up from loneliness and need. "Tell me I'm not dreaming." "If you are dreaming, then so am I," she said, a hesitant smile flashing across her beautiful face. "I know I dreamed this moment so many times that I--" Wildflowers. The unmistakable scent of wildflowers in spring caught him and he knew beyond doubt that sometimes miracles happened to men who had given up believing in them. "Oh, Matthew," she whispered as he drew her into an embrace. "I don't know what I would have done had you not looked at me exactly as you did." He said nothing, simply brought his lips to hers in a kiss of such dizzying sweetness and love that it took their breath away. "How?" he managed between kisses. "I don't understand--" "It's simple," she said, cradling his face in her hands. "I could not live without you any longer." "Oh, God, Alex..." He dipped his head to claim her mouth once again, but she extricated herself from his embrace and moved toward the door. "Stay there," she ordered him. "I have someone who is eager to meet you." A sweet rush of anticipation flowed through his body as Alexandra stepped back outside then swiftly returned with a tiny, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. His heart twisted painfully and he had to remind himself to breathe as memories of Christopher rose up from the depths of his soul. Could he love a child again? Would he forever look at his future children and see his son--his boy--mirrored in their eyes? "Matthew McKenna," Alexandra said softly, "I think it is time you met your daughter." She pushed back the blanket. He looked at Alex then down into the face of a little girl so like her mother--and yet so miraculously like him--that he threw back his head and for the first time in years, he laughed with joy. Table of Contents Home | Letter From Barbara | Sneak Peek | What's Cooking | Scrapbook Free Stuff | Contest | Bio | Booklist | The Secret | Just For Fun | Free Reads Newsletter | Writers Daily Quote | He Said She Said | Sitemap Message Board | Guestbook | Weblog | Knit Purl Write © Barbara Bretton Web design by Willa Cline Hosted by   Fire's Lady Chapter Twenty-Four Wonder was in Matthew's eyes, and pride, and a love so overwhelming that if she were to die at that moment, Alexandra felt she would have had her full measure of earthly happiness. Janine stood in the doorway, crying over the reunion of father and daughter and Alexandra was about to weep herself when suddenly she realized they were not alone. A man in late middle age stood in some ten feet away from them, watching the tableau with an odd look of consternation and joy upon his kind face. Matthew looked up. "Edward! Come over here this minute and meet Alexandra and my daughter Katie." His pride was so unbridled that she wondered how she'd ever worried he would not take to the child. "This is Edward Whittington, Alex. He's both my attorney and my friend." Whittington shook her hand warmly. "I have heard endless tales about your charm and beauty, madam, yet I fear Matthew understated the case." "You are quite the gentleman, Mr. Whittington." Katie, who had been amusing herself by pulling on her father's nose and lower lip, sneezed and Janine snapped to life once again. "We should be gettin' the little one out of this drafty hallway," the young maid said, draping a light blanket over the infant's head. "To the library," said Matthew. "We'll toast Katie's birth." He smiled at the redhaired maid. "You, too, of course, Janine. Just tell the driver to bring the bags around back and--" "No." Edward Whittington's voice rang out loud and clear. "Tell the driver nothing of the sort." Confused, Alexandra looked at Matthew for explanation but he was staring at his friend in surprise. "To the study then?" he asked with a cautious chuckle. "If you have any objections to the library, Edward, I'd be happy to--" Edward did not return the smile. "I look forward to toasting the birth of your daughter, Matthew, but this is not the time." He glanced at the baby then at Alexandra and her stomach tightened with fear. "I think it in the best interests of your family if you were to take them up to the country house tonight and away from San Francisco as quickly as possible." "Ridiculous," said Matthew as his daughter sneezed again. "Madolyn is away for the weekend. Certainly Alex isn't in any danger." "Danger!" Her voice rose an octave. She had been under the impression he was in San Francisco seeking a divorce. Danger of any kind had not occurred to her. "What on earth are you talking about?" "You have not told her?" asked Whittington. "I did not want to worry her." "I am extremely worried now, Matthew, so I would advise you to tell me exactly what is going on." He did and two hours later, a frightened Alexandra climbed into the coach with Katie, Matthew, and Janine. "My house in the Sonoma Valley will be available Sunday, Matthew," said Whittington just before closing the door to the coach. "Make certain no one sees you at your house. If Madolyn gets wind of this, there's no telling what will happen." Matthew was to bring Alexandra, Katie and Janine to Whittington's house on Sunday then return to San Francisco that night as if nothing had happened. "There will be an end to this," Edward said, kissing Alexandra's cheek, "and soon. Until then, we cannot lose by being cautious, can we?" Matthew tried to reassure Alexandra as they made their way to his estate but the thought of Stephen Lowell being somewhere in the vicinity sent a stab of fear coursing through her. "Perhaps he has gone to Europe," Matthew offered, stroking her knee beneath the cashmere lap robe draped across them. "We may be worrying for naught." Alexandra nodded but she couldn't shake the feeling of dread that had settled over her. The gypsy's warning about the "yellow-haired man" resurfaced and she shivered. Matthew looked down at her and she saw the hot flame of desire in his eyes. He glanced across the coach at Janine who slept with a still-sneezing Katie curled in her arms. The baby's face was flushed and damp and Alexandra feared she might be feverish. It would be good to put her down in a real bed tonight and not in a rumbling, smoke-spewing railroad car. A good night's sleep and one of the herbal remedies Dayla had sent along should do the trick. "Were we alone, Alex, I would venture to take the fear from your heart." "But we are not alone." His fingers trailed higher up her thigh and she almost cried out. Even through the heavy layers of her traveling costume, his touch was incendiary. "I intend to take you as soon as we reach the estate." His breath caressed the curve of her ear. "I ache with wanting you, Alex." Her eyes closed against the rise of desire within her and she could only count the minutes until they were finally alone. Edward Whittington had told Matthew that a full complement of staff still worked at the estate so it came as no surprise to any of them that a few lights were burning inside the huge main house. What did surprise Alexandra was how odd a structure the house was. Set as it was in the middle of nowhere, it meandered all over in a haphazard pattern and, although the house boasted three stories, the windows seemed closer to the ground than the norm, most especially the first floor windows which were nearly obliterated by a row of dense hedges. Matthew instructed the driver to let them off in the front, then to follow the sandy drive to the back of the house where the bags could be unloaded. Alexandra, Janine and the baby waited in the chill night air while he fumbled around in his pockets for the big brass key to the front door. "Damnation," he muttered. "I know it is in here some place." Katie punctuated his statement with another sneeze and Alexandra looked at him with wide eyes. "Hurry," she said, as Janine pulled the blankets more tightly about the baby's body. She reached over to touch Katie's cheek. "I think she is running a fever." "Holy Mother of God!" Janine's exclamation split the air as she stared at the front door. Alexandra turned in that direction and her blood went cold as she saw Stephen Lowell in the doorway. "What a perfect family scene we have here," he said as if they had just seen him yesterday. "You should ask your father to paint a portrait of it, darling girl." Matthew stepped in front of Alexandra, as if to shield her. "What the hell are you doing here, Lowell?" Stephen's smile was as bland and perfect as always. "I might well ask you that same question, old man." "I own the goddamned house," said Matthew, his voice approaching a growl. "No, darling," came a woman's voice from somewhere behind Stephen. "You own half of this house." Alexandra thought she would die from apprehension as she stood there behind Matthew, unable to see what was transpiring. Madolyn, she thought, clutching Katie close. That voice had to belong to the infamous Madolyn Porter McKenna. "Do come in," invited Stephen, ever the gentleman. "We are having a house party this weekend but a few more guests are always welcome." "I'd rather rot in hell," Matthew spat. "I'd rather you rot in hell, too," Stephen concurred cheerily, "but it is late and you do, after all, own part of this house." Matthew turned and grabbed Alexandra's arm. "You're going to Whittington's tonight," he said low. "Matthew, you're not thinking of staying here alone, are you?" "I'll be damned if I am driven from my own house by a sniveling, rutting coward like Lowell." "Matthew!" Her voice rose with fear. "Remember all that Edward said. You wouldn't be safe." "There are other people here," he said, his anger pulsing from him in waves. "They would not try anything." "I will not leave without you, Matthew." "You'll do as I say, Alex." "You have not the right to order me about." "And you hadn't the right to come across the country the way you did." "Matthew, so help me, if you continue to--" "Missus!" Janine's voice was high and tight. "Missus! The baby!" Alexandra's mouth opened in horror as she saw the infant gasping for breath in Janine's arms. "Katie!" Alexandra snatched her daughter from the maid. Her forehead was slick with sweat and she cried weakly as Alexandra touched her cheek. If they left, they risked their daughter's life. If they stayed, they risked their own. Looking down at her daughter, she knew what the choice must be. Stephen stepped back to allow them inside the grand hallway but Alexandra's concentration was focused on her daughter and not her surroundings. She was, however, aware that Madolyn McKenna stood quietly near an elaborate marble sculpture, looking as perfect and unapproachable as one herself. As a parlormaid led her and Janine up the winding staircase, Alexandra glanced down at Matthew's wife, glimpsing the shiny coronet of ice-blonde hair and the tiny, perfectly curved body in a dress of pale blue silk. "A beautiful child," said Madolyn Porter McKenna in a voice sleek as her gown. "He reminds me much of Christopher." An unpleasant prickling sensation rippled through Alexandra and with a nod in Madolyn's direction she continued up the stairs. "You're a lucky man, McKenna," said Stephen as Alexandra disappeared up the staircase. "You have a wife and a mistress under the same roof. Other men would kill for such an opportunity." "I am sorely tempted, Lowell," Matthew said through clenched teeth. "I advise you to not provoke me." "Ah, yes! I'd forgotten your infamous temper." He glanced over to where Madolyn had been standing but she had vanished. "Were Madolyn here I would ask her to refresh my mind about your murderous ways." "I'm warning you," Matthew said, drawing closer. "One more word, Lowell." "I shudder to think what you're capable of, McKenna, with all that shanty Irish blood in your veins." A clear vision of his mother on her knees cleaning house so her children could live in dignity rose up before Matthew and in an instant he had Stephen Lowell pinned against the wall, gasping for breath. "I would kill you, Lowell, if you were worth spending the rest of my life in jail." He released Stephen in disgust. "Unfortunately, you're not." "The score between us isn't settled yet," said Stephen, straightening his jacket, "but it will be soon. Have no fear." "Thank you for the hospitality," Matthew said dryly, "but Alexandra and I will take our leave in the morning." "You'll go nowhere until I say you can, McKenna." The coach had been dismissed and all of the estate's vehicles were out fetching party guests for tomorrow night. "And don't think you'll commandeer one of them when they return," Stephen added, "for the drivers are in my employ and listen to no orders but mine." "You're a bastard, Lowell," Matthew said. "A true bastard." "A bastard?" Stephen's laugh chilled Matthew's bones. "I think not, McKenna. I believe you brought the bastards with you." The suite of rooms the parlormaid showed Alexandra to were large and beautifully appointed in an English country decor. There was a sitting room, a large master bedroom, and a nursery complete with a crib for Katie and a bed for Janine. The parlormaid bade them goodnight and the first thing Alexandra did was strip the baby of her clothes and sponge off her body. She had only a clean blanket from the crib to bundle Katie up in so she sent Janine downstairs in search of their trunks. Fortunately Alexandra had kept a sampling of Dayla's herbal remedies in her handbag and she lay Katie down in the crib then hurried into the sitting room to search them out. Measuring out a portion of the fever concoction into a shotglass, she realized she needed water and hurried down the hall on the offchance the house possessed upstairs plumbing. She passed one closed door after another and had she not bumped into another maid, she would never have found the facilities. The maid explained that the sixty year old house had been structured as an anomaly for its time, boasting running water on all three stories, and to accomplish that miracle the stories had all been truncated. That illusion of the windows being closer to the ground had been no illusion at all. The ceilings were all abnormally low and outside the shrubberies practically reached to the second story. Alexandra carried the pitcher of fresh water back to their suite of rooms. A woman's voice trilling a lullaby floated out from the nursery and she smiled. Janine was a godsend, truly a-- She stopped in the doorway, her mind filling with horror. Katie, wrapped in a warm blanket, was in Madolyn McKenna's arms. "Is she all right?" Alexandra asked as she entered the room. Madolyn said nothing, just continued to sing to the baby. "Put that child down," Alexandra said, her voice a study in self-control. "She is feverish and needs her sleep." Madolyn had beautiful eyes of china blue and those china blue eyes stared through Alexandra. Dear God in heaven, she thought. Tell me the right thing to do. Her heart pounded as if trying to break through her ribcage. "It is late, Madolyn," Alexandra said quietly. "The baby should be in the crib." Madolyn blinked and seemed to notice Alexandra for the first time. Gently she put the baby back in the cradle then slumped to the floor in tears. What on earth was happening? Alexandra ran to the doorway and called out for the upstairs maid who expertly helped Madolyn to her feet as if this were an everyday occurrence. "You were right, Matthew," she said when he joined her a few minutes later. "We should not be here." Quickly she told him what had transpired. "She is mad! I saw it in her eyes. Please, have them bring the carriage around and we'll--" Matthew put a hand on her forearm to silence her as a stream of sleepy stableboys put their luggage in the front room. Janine was in her element, ordering the boys about, and if the situation were not so desperate, it would have been quite amusing. "Do not unpack, Janine," said Alexandra as soon as the door closed behind the stableboys, "for we are going to leave for Mr. Whittington's house soon as the carriage is brought round." "Continue with your work, Janine," said Matthew, overriding her. Alexandra spun around to face him, fury rising in her breast. "Have you not heard one word I've said, McKenna? Katie is in danger! We must leave and the sooner the better." "I agree she should not be near Katie, but I fail to see this madness you speak of, Alex." "I sense it, Matthew. I can feel it in my very bones." She searched for the right words to make him understand but could find none to explain a mother's instinct. "You must believe me when I say we must leave." "We can't leave, Alex." "What do you mean, we can't leave? Surely they cannot hold you prisoner!" She gestured toward the baggage in the middle of the room. "Forfeit our belongings. I do not care about anything except getting away from here." The memory of Madolyn with Katie in her arms filled Alexandra with terror. "Listen to me, Alex. The coach is gone. We're fifteen miles from the nearest house." "Take one of their coaches. My God, they are half yours, are they not?" "The coaches are all out, Alex. For the moment, we're at Stephen's mercy." She and Janine stood there and listened as he explained the situation. "When I do not return to San Francisco on Monday, Edward will spring into action," he said, in an obvious attempt to comfort her. "We just have to hold on until then." "I have such a terrible feeling about this, Matthew. If you had but seen her with Katie--" "They are watching us, Alex. Right now they have servants outside the door making certain we stay put." "Tomorrow night then," Alexandra persisted. "Once the party starts, we could slip away." "Walk fifteen miles with a sick infant? Be reasonable, Alex." He paced the room angrily. "A horse. Damn it. If we only had a horse..." "There are horses in the barn," Janine piped up. "I saw them when I went with the parlormaid to be fetchin' the stableboys for the trunks." "The same problem remains, Janine," said Matthew. "If Alex or I disappear, the game is over." "But if I be the one doin' the disappearing, who in the world would ever notice?" "It would have to be at night, Janine," he said. "I'd give you the best directions possible, but it's been years and the terrain can be difficult." Janine straightened her shoulders proudly. "I would be willin' to try. I love that little babe same as I love my brothers and sisters and I would be doin' anything to keep her safe." "I shall never forget you for this, Janine," said Alexandra softly. "Not in a thousand lifetimes." They sat down to formulate their plan. Two hours later the bedroom was dark save for the candle flickering on the nightstand. From the room next door came the sounds of Janine's snoring and the soft sibilance of Katie's even breathing and Alexandra thanked God for the medicinal herbs Dayla had thought to pack. Matthew had assured her no danger could possibly befall them that night and she believed him. The country house was still and with the door to the suite securely bolted Alexandra felt safe. Yet, as she stood there in the candlelight before him, she trembled. "Have no fear, Alex," he said, his beloved voice for her ears only. "We are alone now." Warmth, liquid and sweet as honey, flooded her veins as he slowly walked toward her, unbuttoning his shirt with sensual deliberation. "No," she said, her voice low and urgent. "Let me." He lowered his hands to his sides and inclined his head toward her. "My pleasure." "No, Matthew. The pleasure is mine." She undid the oval buttons and slid the shirt off his broad, well-muscled shoulders and onto the floor. "Never again," she whispered, pressing a kiss along the side of his neck. "I'll never allow us to be separated again." He reached behind her and smoothly undid the hooks on her dress and in an instant it slithered to the floor next to his shirt. He touched the curve of her shoulder with his finger and she wondered that she did not dissolve in the heat. "I have changed," she said, her fingers hesitating at the laces of her corset. "I may not be all you remember." "You are a miracle come true, Alex. Nothing can change that." She hesitated, her body flaming with a combination of fear and wild desire. "The baby..." Swiftly he undid the laces of her corset and she stood there naked before him. His gaze burned across her hips, the slight swell of her stomach, the proud fullness of her breasts. "Matthew? Dear God, Matthew, say something before I--" But then he dropped to his knees before her and the tears she felt against her skin filled her heart with joy. "There is something we must talk about, Alex." He rose and stood slightly away from her. "Something of vital importance." "I realize how much you have given up for me." "Matthew, I--" He placed a finger against her lips to silence her. "I'm not a fool, Alex. I know how you've longed for a church wedding, to say our vows before God. I know full well how much you have sacrificed because of my situation." "I could not do otherwise. I love you. I shall always love you. It is as simple as that." "I want to marry you, Alex." Why would he even broach the topic? Didn't he understand that wishing for the impossible only made reality more painful? "Perhaps one day things will change," she said, wishing she could believe her own words. "Perhaps Madolyn will come to her senses and--" "You don't understand, Alex. I want to marry you tonight." "Perhaps we should get some rest, Matthew. It has been a long and trying day." "I haven't been drinking, Alex." She didn't try to deny what she'd been thinking. "It was a natural assumption." He took her hands in his, strong fingers enveloping hers in his grasp. "There is so much I cannot offer you now, Alex. Let me give you what I can." Releasing her, he reached inside his jacket and withdrew a small square box. "Please, no!" she said, shaking her head. "You must not be extravagant, Matthew. I do not need diamonds to prove your love." His beautiful eyes were dark with emotion. "Open it, Alex. I have carried it with me for months." "Matthew, I--" He pressed the box into her hand. "Open it." She lifted the top and stared in amazement. No flash of diamond or sparkle of emerald. Resting inside was a simple ring of burnished gold. Puzzled, she met Matthew's eyes. "It's a wedding ring," he said, taking it from its nest of black velvet. "My mother's and her mother's before. Now it is yours." Her eyes filled with tears. "Oh, Matthew! I do not know what to say." "Say yes, Alex. Wear this ring." The gold was smooth and cool against her skin as he slipped the wedding band on the third finger of her left hand. Ducking his head, he pressed a tender kiss against her lips. "You're my life, Alex." He touched her cheek. "You and Katie. Nothing can part us." That night by the glow of the waning candlelight, they pledged their love and fidelity and asked the Almighty to bless their union and Alexandra offered up a silent prayer that soon they would be safely back at Sea View where they belonged. 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