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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.

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