by Jane Archer
"Olaf," she whispered as she knelt by his strangely contorted body covered in dust and mud. "Olaf, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault," she said chokingly as her tears formed two paths down her cheeks. She lifted his head to her lap and for the first time saw that he looked old, tired, and at last, mortal.
"Alexandra," he whispered hoarsely.
She pushed back his hair, stroking his temples, as she leaned down close to his face.
"Alexandra, you must flee. Do not delay. They'll kill you, too, or force you to marry one of them. Beware of Stan—Lewis. He's deadly," Olaf rasped, then coughed weakly. His face was becoming grayer by the second, but yet she could not believe that he would really leave her. He was all she had, had ever had.
"I've loved you like my granddaughter, like the grandson I never got to know. Go, Alex, go to New Orleans. Find my daughter, my grandson. Perhaps they'll be able to help you. Go, while you still can. Hide from the family, at least until you come of age," he whispered weakly, his eyes glowing feverishly in his head.
She could hardly see him for the tears clouding her eyes, but she knew she would forever hear his words.
"Promise, promise me you'll go—now. Go to
New Orleans and find my family. Tell them that I always loved them and that I was... was a stupid old man."
"No! No, Olaf, you were never stupid, and I, I promise—anything, only don't leave me."
"Don't wait for my funeral, Alex. Go now. Flee while you can, before they can snare you, make you one of them. Prove that you're your father's daughter. Prove—" he started, but his breath seemed to die away and his eyes lost their brilliance, slowly losing their focus. Then he was still and lifeless against Alexandra. She hugged him to her, sobbing in her anguish.
Although her heart felt like ice, her mind was on fire with his words. They had killed Olaf—killed him to gain control, she thought. Well, she would show them. She would go. She would flee to New Orleans. If Olaf had used his last moments to ask her to promise him something, nothing in this world could keep her from that promise.
Yet how would she find two people she had never seen, who had been gone from New York for twenty-five years? But she would find them—she had promised. And she was glad that Olaf had at last forgiven his daughter for marrying a Southerner and then following him to Louisiana. Olaf had once explained to her how his only daughter, Eleanor, had fallen in love with a Southern gentleman named Jarmon from Louisiana when he had been on business in New York City. They had married almost immediately, even though Olaf had not approved of her choice. But they had been so much in love that nothing could stop their happiness, or their determination to be together, until Jarmon received word from his plantation in Louisiana that his father was sick. He was needed at home. He was afraid for Eleanor to travel with him since she was now pregnant, and so she agreed to stay in New York with her father until the child was born. Then her husband could return and take them to his plantation near New Orleans.
Eleanor had bravely accepted their separation, consoling herself with thoughts of their child and their future together. She moved in with her father and waited for word from Jarmon. She received no letters and no replies to her own letters. Time passed and her child was born, a son, but still there was no word from her husband in Louisiana. Olaf told her to forget the man who had so abandoned her, but she finally became desperate and, after arguing with Olaf, fled, taking her infant son, Jacob, to Louisiana to find the man she loved. Olaf never heard from any of them again, and his pride had kept him from seeking them in the South.
And now, after all these years, after the bloody Civil War, would they even still be alive? Would she be able to find them? Alexandra pulled Olaf's body closer to her, thinking that if he wanted her to go to them, find them, then she must. And Olaf's death would not go unpunished. She would have her revenge. She would—
Suddenly Alexandra was jerked up roughly by strong hands. She whirled around, her eyes flashing dangerously.
"Stanton Lewis," she said, surprised. "What are you doing here?" Seeing him there reminded her suddenly of Olaf's words concerning this strange, cold man—beware, deadly. She would indeed be wary of him, but then she had never trusted Stan Lewis.
"I was coming to see you, Alexandra, when I saw the commotion in the street. I came over to offer my services, but found you—and Olaf," he said slowly, without emotion.
Alexandra eyed him unsurely. His answer was too pat, too ready. She didn't trust him.
"Olaf. I don't know—" she began, feeling her tears dry and a numbness invade her body. She did not feel warm and vibrant any longer, but cold and lifeless like Olaf. Still, she had a mission and she must be very careful, cautious if she was to carry it out.
"I will take you back to your home, Alexandra. You shouldn't be out here in the street—with all of these people. It is lucky for you that I came along."
"But Olaf—"
"I will see that all is taken care of. There is nothing more that you can do for him now," he said authoritatively, as he pulled her away from Olaf, out of the ring of spectators and toward his carriage.
"But what happened? I didn't see—"
"You didn't see what happened?" he asked quickly.
Alexandra thought she heard a note of surprise, a pleased sound in his voice, but she couldn't be sure. They stopped by his carriage and he continued speaking.
"It's best that you didn't see, Alexandra. He was run over by a carriage and its team of horses."
"Oh, no. Did they tell you that?"
"That's what the spectators saw. The driver never stopped or returned to help. We'll never know now."
"No," she said vaguely, really believing that her friend had been murdered by her own family.
Stan Lewis helped Alexandra into his carriage, then jumped in beside her. They rode the short distance to her home in silence. He helped her out, hurrying her up the steps and into the large, imposing house with a proprietary air that she didn't think necessary. After escorting her into the dimly lit parlor and carefully seating her on a small settee, he rang for service. Alexandra didn't like his taking charge, but she remained quiet.
Soon the maid returned with two drinks on a heavy silver tray. Stan took them from her and came to Alexandra, sitting down beside her on the settee. The maid discreetly shut the door, leaving them alone together.
"Here, Alexandra, drink this," he said softly, handing it to her.
"I don't really want—"
"Drink it. You need it."
She took the crystal glass and touched it to her lips—it burned. Brandy. She drank a little more. It was warm and comforting. She began to feel more like herself, but even the brandy could not warm the coldness in her heart.
"Now, Alexandra," he said, leaning toward her.
Alexandra looked up and was surprised to find his face so close to hers; his gray eyes were burning with an intensity she had not thought possible. She shrank back from him, not recognizing this Stan Lewis.
"Alexandra," he began again, "you needn't worry about Olaf. I will take care of the funeral. You needn't worry about anything—anymore."
Alexandra quickly looked away from him, her heart beating faster. She knew he was going to say more and she didn't want to hear the words. Intuitively she had never trusted Stan, never, not even before Olaf had told her about him: about how he was the illegitimate son of Celeste, the sister of the Clarke cousins, about how she had been raped at fourteen; about how his birth had killed his young mother.
Under the circumstances, the Clarke family had walked the middle road, giving the child the last name of Lewis, his grandmother's maiden name. But Stan had always been an outcast, an underdog, determined to improve his lot and to prove himself more worthy than other men in order to compensate for his socially inferior status. He had worked harder than others, learned faster, risen through the company ranks quicker until at last he had been Olaf's right-hand man, helping to manage the company. But still, though Olaf could understand what drove Stan
and motivated him to such extreme exertions, the old sea captain had always felt there was something disturbing and basically dishonest lurking just under Stan's hard-working, conscientious veneer. And Alexandra had felt it too, even as a little girl. Perhaps his gray eyes were too intense? Had they watched her too closely then, just as they were doing now?
She made a move to get up, but suddenly found herself stopped by the iron grip of his hand. She looked down at it and then up into his determined face. It was a face strangely without lines, the smooth pale skin drawn tightly over his prominent bone structure, and the only concession he seemed to have made to age was the silver gray hair blending in with the natural sandy color. Still, as long as she could remember, his hair had been that silver-sandy mixture, giving him the look of a wolf with his piercing gray eyes.
"Please, Mr. Lewis, you're hurting my arm," she said softly.
"I'm sorry, Alexandra. I've no wish to harm you," he said as he loosened his grip, yet kept his hand on her arm. "I only want to help you, Alexandra, as I've always tried to do. This is not the best moment to discuss what I'm going to tell you, but our lack of time makes it imperative."
"Oh," she said, hardly aware that she had spoken.
"I will see that the funeral takes place in three days, Alexandra. In four days we will be married."
"What?" she cried, jerking roughly away from him. "Are you mad? No! No! A hundred times no," she screamed, her fists clenched as she stared at him with furious eyes.
"Don't reject me so soon, Alexandra," Lewis said, ignoring her fury, his voice lulling, reassuring as she stood there, her breasts heaving in her agitation. He could not help but think of how her smooth, warm flesh would feel when she at last lay beside him.
"Don't reject you? I am rejecting you—now and for all time! Get out of my home," she hissed, her eyes glinting with fury.
God, she was beautiful, he thought, then said, "I know what has happened between you and the Clarke boys. I don't blame you for not wanting to marry them, but you must marry someone of the family. You know that. I will be a good husband to you, Alexandra. I'm not so old that I can't make you happy and I will be gentle with you, if you allow me to be. You will have no worries. I'll handle everything for you. You could not ask for a better husband, Alexandra, and I've been determined to have you since you were a child. I understand you. I can make you happy."
"You've planned all of this, haven't you—in your cold, calculating way?" she asked, understanding dawning on her.
He laughed harshly, smiling. "I'd do anything to get you, Alexandra, and now my chance has finally arrived. You have no choice, my dear."
She paced the room several times, trying to calm herself enough to think how to get rid of him, then finally turned, facing him. "Mr. Lewis, even if we are to be married, we could not possibly wed the day after Olaf's funeral."
"Call me Stan. It's only fitting since I'll soon be your husband. The gossip will die down—that doesn't worry me."
"You won't be my husband as Stan or Mr. Lewis," Alexandra cried angrily as she stamped her foot on the expensive, imported rug.
Lewis smiled smugly as he walked over to her, putting his hands on her shoulders. She tried to shrug them off, but he tightened his grip mercilessly. She bit her lower lip in pain, furious with his presumption. "I am the one for you, Alexandra. The others are too young to appreciate you, and besides, I'm giving you no choice. You will marry me in four days."
As he bent his head toward her face, she pushed against him, desperate in his tightening embrace. "You're wrong, Mr. Lewis. You have no rights where I'm concerned, and you can't force me to marry you."
"Don't fight me, Alexandra. Don't make me hurt you. I'm going to have you one way or another," he said hoarsely as his mouth came down hard on hers.
Alexandra grew rigid in response to her first kiss, automatically clinching her jaws desperately. She felt stifled and her mind flew to thoughts of escape. She couldn't travel on one of her own ships. She would have to rent some small schooner to take her down the coast and then around to New Orleans. A boat that could not be traced; one on which Lewis would never think to look. She would have to get money from her bank, pack her clothing, rent the schooner—all in three days, but it could be done—it must be done!
In frustration and irritation, Stan Lewis finally raised his face from hers, his eyes glittering dangerously as he held her rigid body away from him. "I know you're not that cold, Alexandra, for all that you're inexperienced. Perhaps you simply need lessons. I'll be happy to give them to you," he said, his silver eyes glowing with passion. "Would you like your first one now?"
Fury and disgust washed over Alexandra at his words, his insults, and she slapped him hard across the face with all her strength. She was glad to see the white imprint there which slowly began to turn red. Then she glanced into his eyes, the eyes of a mad wolf, and she stepped back— frightened of him for the first time. He didn't seem human any longer as his eyes suddenly raked over her body.
He grinned, showing animal white teeth, and said, "That was really quite stupid, Alexandra. I suppose now I will have to teach you more than one lesson. I am your master and you will learn to obey me in all things—no matter what your feelings are. And never—never, ever strike me again. I might not be able to control myself as I am today, and I might hurt your lovely body seriously. But then, we don't know just how lovely it is, do we?"
Alexandra did not retreat any further, determined not to show her fear, and said, "You're mad. Absolutely mad. Get out of my house and never come back."
He laughed, a sound almost like a wolf howling, and turned sharply on his heel. She watched him distrustfully as he hurriedly crossed the room, then stopped before the door. The lock clicked into place, the noise seeming to fill the room; Alexandra felt helpless, a feeling that she had never encountered before. She hated it, and him even more.
Still grinning his wolfish grin, he turned around and started back for her. Darting in front of him, she reached for the bell rope—her servants would answer her summons, but he was there before her, stopping her desperate bid for help.
"Now, Alexandra, you don't seem anxious for your lessons. Aren't you interested in learning something new?"
She tried to squirm out of his hands, shaking her head back and forth. "You can't do this. Get out of here. Let me go, you animal."
But her fury seemed only to excite him all the more, as if he would rather tame a wild cat than toy with a gentle kitten. He pulled her hair, clutching both her wrists with one hand in an iron like grip, and soon the golden-red curls cascaded down all about her shoulders, falling heavily down to her hips. His eyes glowed as he stared at it, almost mesmerized, then he lost his hand in its thickness. She tried to kick out at him, but became tangled in her skirts, losing her balance and falling heavily against his chest.
"That's better, my dear," he said, his voice muffled as he buried his face in her rich, luxurious hair.
"Let me go, you monster," she cried, trying to pull away from him for his body heat seemed to reach through her clothing to her bare skin beneath, and his very nearness was stifling, hateful.
"I'll never let you go, Alexandra. You're mine and I'll prove it now—once and for all. Then you'll truly be mine, all mine."
"No! No, I hate you," she cried, helplessly caught in his arms and her clothing, but struggling with all her might. Pushing at him, kicking at him, she finally knocked them both off balance and they fell heavily to the floor. She tried to roll away from him, fighting furiously, but he threw himself on top of her, jerking her arms up over her head. She was now pinned under him and incapable of escaping, but still she struggled, writhing beneath him helplessly.
"Stop it, Alexandra," he said angrily, his face a stern mask of passion and determination. "Be still."
"No! Never!" she cried out, tossing her head back and forth.
A loud crack sounded in the room, and pain flooded Alexandra's face where Stan Lewis had hit her hard with his fist. Stun
ned, she watched him, feeling almost detached from her body, as his gray eyes raked her limp body in triumph. There was no longer any need for him to hold her hands for she was incapable of moving after his devastating blow.
Ripping her bodice apart to expose her full, tantalizing breasts, he panted over her, his breath coming in quick gasps. He grabbed her breasts savagely with his hands, cruelly squeezing them before he hungrily covered them with his mouth. Dazedly, Alexandra could feel his teeth biting her suddenly taut nipples in his frenzy; it was like a nightmare in which she was a spectator. It couldn't be happening to her.
Then Stan moved still lower, pulling the offensive skirt and petticoats completely off her and tossing them across the room. Only her chemise was left to cover her nudity. He ripped it open and his panting increased as he ran his hands over her naked body, plying, pinching, feeling every curve and valley. He was leaving nothing, no spot untouched. She shivered automatically, still stunned from his blow, as her soft, virgin body was explored by a man's hands for the first time.
There was a low moaning in his throat as he roughly pulled her legs apart, spreading them wide with his knees. He was like a wildman, or a starved animal, as he grasped her hips, pulling her roughly upwards, then caught her softness with his mouth, plying it with his lips until he suddenly plunged his tongue into her moist warmth. Alexandra gasped, unable to control her own body. She could feel herself growing tight as a burning sensation began to grow where his tongue plied so artfully. Then he suddenly drew back, leaving her feeling cold and strangely empty, before he lifted his body over hers, pausing only a second before plunging his hard, pulsating manhood into her softness. Alexandra caught her breath, and gasped out loud. Stan's silver-gray eyes, dark with desire, mesmerized her now open green ones, as his hot, rigid organ pushed repeatedly, as if demanding acknowledgement, against her maidenhead. He smiled wickedly at her, pleased with himself, then said, "You see, Alexandra, you belong to me." Then he drove in deep, tearing through her natural defenses to make her a woman. And as she screamed out in pain, he covered her mouth with his, driving his tongue into her, filling her completely with himself. In a few quick, yet furious movements, Stan spilled his seed in Alexandra, leaving his mark deep within her.