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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."

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