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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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