Fire's Lady

by Bretton, Barbara

  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 even 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 bring about 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 it all 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 moment alone with her thoughts. She wanted to hold her memories of last night to her heart, examine them, see 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 twinkle 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.

  Last night a sea change had occurred; there wasn't a part of her life that hadn't been forever altered by the tidal wave that had washed over Sea View.

  From girl to woman. From employee to daughter. She couldn't imagine what her place at Sea View would be now, if there were a place for her at all.

  Andrew Lowell was a difficult man whose moods changed 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?

  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 naiveté 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—"

  "Morning, 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 East Hampton 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, that would be lovely." 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 think now that Alexandra had been revealed as his daughter?

  Janine bustled in and out of the dining room in a shameless attempt at eavesdropping but was rewarded with more dirty dishes. 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. "He 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."

  "He may not be so pleased 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. I can't talk about this with you.

  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't make any promises."

  "But you will try?"

  She nodded. "I'll try."

  "Then 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."

  Dayla saw her to Andrew's door then excused herself.

  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 but she had the feeling his thoughts were far away.

  "Good morning, Mr. Lowell."

  He lifted his eyes and looked up at her entrance. "I don't think you can continue calling me Mr. Lowell."

  "I won't call you fa
ther."

  "Have I asked you to, girl?" He fairly bristled with indignation. "My name is Andrew. Use it."

  "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. "I have been wondering why it is you allowed Stephen his freedom. He tried to kill you."

  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." 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."

  "Am I real to you?"

  His eyes softened as he looked upon her. "You are very real to me."

  "Then I am afraid I still don't understand."

  "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."

  "For me there was a difference."

  "I fail to see that difference."

  "At this moment so do I."

  An odd emotion twisted around her heart and made it difficult to draw a breath.

  "I am quite surprised you stayed on, Alexandra." His words were coming slower and 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."

  "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?"

  "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," 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."

  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 Strawbridge, 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 Strawbridge 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.

  "Want me to 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.

  She rested her cheek against his warm, hard chest. "I was afraid you had 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 heat wave soon broke but 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.