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Fire's Lady

Chapter Two

The foyer was cool and dim as a confessional and it took a few moments for Alexandra's eyes to grow accustomed to the shadowy light after the bright spring sunshine.

It was also silent as a confessional, she noted, the only sound being her rapid breathing as her eyes adjusted and she was able to take her first look at her surroundings.

The foyer was immense, easily running thirty feet back and another thirty feet across, with a ceiling that vaulted nearly as high. The floor was brightly polished, its alternating tiles of sleek black and stark white providing an elegant, almost dizzying, contrast. Directly opposite the front door, a staircase of shining wood led up toward the gallery on the second story where floor-to-ceiling bookshelves lined the hallway. The walls were papered in what seemed to be a watered silk of the palest tea rose, and a marble sculpture of a bird in flight dominated the area, not only by size but by beauty.

A Lowell, she thought. It must be. No one else could have captured both the beast and the beauty inherent in a hawk.

Mesmerized, Alexandra started toward the sculpture, eager to run her fingers across its marble wings and back, when she caught sight of herself in a small mirror that hung by a gold tassel over the entrance table.

Her perky dark gold toque that had looked so stylish when she donned it that morning now dangled precariously from her lopsided chignon. Long strands of wavy black hair had worked their way out of the framework of pins and now drifted across her shoulders and back. Her cheeks were flushed with a combination of nervousness and anticipation and despite circles beneath her eyes, she looked slightly wild with excitement. Even her traveling costume of deep topaz barathea cloth that Madame Olga had promised would never wrinkle showed each and every mile of her journey to Sea View.

Thank the Good Lord no one had been lurking to witness her humiliation.

Quickly she opened her reticule and withdrew a tortoise shell comb then yanked off her hat and proceeded to pull each and every pin from her chignon until her hair spilled over her shoulders and down her back.

"Much better," she said aloud to her reflection. Much more the way she normally looked.

When her hair cascaded like this, Esme had often called Alexandra her little Gypsy girl for Romany blood had flowed through her foster mother's veins and it pleased them both to imagine their connection to be blood and bone as well as spirit.

Dangerous territory, that.

Thinking about Esme and Paul and all that was lost to her was not the way to begin her new life. If she was to succeed here in America, she must begin to think and act like an American and the first order of business was to pin her hair back up in a neat and tidy chignon before Stephen came to fetch her.

She raised the comb and began to draw it through her thick tresses when she saw him. A man, clad in a rough shirt of white cambric and tight-fitting black breeches, was leaning insolently against the priceless sculpture, watching her. He was tall, much taller than Stephen, and more powerfully built. His shirt was unbuttoned near to the waist and a fine sheen of sweat gleamed dangerously on his bronzed chest. For one crazy instant he called to mind that beautiful chestnut stallion, all rippling muscle and coiled strength, and she dropped her gaze as a flood of sweet fire raged over her.

Taking a deep cooling breath, she turned to face him.

"Mr. Lowell has taken the trap around back," she said, her voice surprisingly composed and pleasant. "My trunk and valises are there."

The man said nothing as he advanced toward her. Never in her life had she seen a man more glorious--or more frightening--than this intimidating stranger. The desire to step back was strong within her but she held her ground.

"I do not know as yet which room will be mine," she continued, meeting his eyes, "but I'm certain Mr. Lowell will be able to provide that information for you."

He continued toward her not stopping until his large booted feet brushed the hem of her skirt. "I have some advice for you, Miss Glenn," the man said at last, all menace and muscle as he towered over her.

Alexandra's legs trembled as she attempted to step back, only to feel the edge of the table jut against the base of her spine.

"How do you know my name?" she managed, wishing her voice hadn't suddenly taken such a vulnerable turn. She had heard that servants in upper-class houses knew everything but nothing in her past had prepared her for this.

His sensual mouth twisted in something more like a grimace than a smile. "I know everything that goes on in this house, Miss Glenn, and if you're as smart as you seem to think you are, you'll have Lowell put your bags back in the carriage and get the hell out of here."

Outrage erupted inside her breast. "And what, pray tell, gives you the right to speak to me in such a manner?" she exploded.

"Not one damned thing," he said, eyes glittering as he looked at her. "Just some friendly advice you should take in the manner given."

The sting of whiskey reached her nostrils and, behind her back, Alexandra's hand closed around a brass candlestick.

"I'd thank you to cease intruding upon my person," she said, praying her fear didn't show, "and move before Mr. Lowell returns."

"So he's been filling you up with pretty talk, has he?" "He has been a gentleman which is more than I can say for you."

"Go home," he said. "Break your arrangement and go home."

She tightened her grip on the candlestick. "If you don't move within the next three seconds, I shall--"

Her words died in her throat as he took that one final step that brought their bodies together. In a flash his arm snaked around her waist and she felt her wrist encircled by a grip of pure steel.

"Picking up a souvenir to take home with you?" The pressure on her wrist increased and her fingers flew open against her will. The candlestick clattered to the marble floor and the sound echoed in the cavernous foyer.

"No," she said, her voice trembling with fury. "I intended to hit you with it."

"Then you are damned lucky," he said, laughing at the look of outrage she was unable to mask. "Next time you try a stunt like that, don't stand before a mirror."

"Is this the way it is in America, then," she managed, trying to regain her composure. "Domestic help ordering visitors about? I daresay I do not think highly of your democracy if this is the case." She picked up her heavy skirts and turned. "When Mr. Lowell returns, please tell him I am waiting outside."

He grabbed her wrist as she made for the front door.

"One more thing." His voice was low and menacing.

"Another piece of friendly advice?"

He ignored the gibe. "Don't become too attached to anyone here, Miss Glenn. Your stay here at Sea View may not be an extended one."

"Thank you," she said, sweeping past him. "And now if you'll excuse me, I need a breath of fresh air."

Matthew McKenna watched, fascinated, as Alexandra glided across the hallway and out the front door. Even the heavy traveling costume she wore couldn't hide the sweet curves of a body made by a very generous god.

When he'd heard the words "art student," he'd conjured up a picture of a serious, bespectacled miss as studious as she was plain. Never had he imagined a creature so glorious.

And Alexandra Glenn was glorious.

The sound of her voice, laced with the flavor of both Britain and France lingered in his ears. The way her golden eyes flashed at him as she threw her slim shoulders back and gave him a look worthy of one of the crowned heads of Europe had done more to win his respect than any coy posturing by another woman.

But what the hell did any of this matter anyway?

She was here at the behest of that sniveling Stephen Lowell, part of his grand scheme to win control of Andrew's assets. What other possible reason could explain the sudden reappearance of Andrew Lowell's daughter after nearly twenty years of silence?

A gravely ill man, an avaricious nephew...a perfect opportunity for a clever young woman.

And Matthew McKenna knew all about clever young women. He knew enough to understand that a man needn't be a genius to recognize danger when he saw it.

But the flashing brilliance of her golden eyes, the frothy cloud of Gypsy-black curls, the delicate curve of her cheek....

Desire, hot and urgent, flared within him.

She was magnificent.

She was dangerous.

And nothing on earth excited Matthew McKenna more than danger.

Alexandra waited on the front porch for nearly a quarter hour, alternating between berating the man in the foyer for his unconscionable rudeness and berating herself for allowing it to affect her. A thousand cutting responses now flooded her brain as she waited for Stephen Lowell to return, and she wondered why she was always struck dumb when she most needed her wits about her.

But, no matter.

Surely what had happened in that foyer was an isolated experience. Not even in America, land of equality, could a servant so abuse a guest.

But then she wasn't a guest, was she? No, her mother had seen to that. Her laugh was low and bitter as she leaned against the porch railing and looked out at the rolling green lawn and the curving drive lined by tulips of poppy red and butter yellow.

She was a servant same as the man she'd just encountered, with no more rights or privileges than her position allowed, and no matter how charming he might be, she couldn't run to Stephen Lowell with her problems, both real and imagined.

"Miss Glenn?"

Alexandra spun around at the sound of the voice. A woman of some sixty years stood before her, clad in a black dress with an immaculate white apron tied around her waist.

"Yes," said Alexandra, smiling politely at the woman. "And you are--?"

The answering smile was perfunctory. "I am to escort you to your quarters." The woman turned and headed toward the front door leaving behind the scent of vanilla. "If you'll follow me..."

I have no choice, have I, thought Alexandra as she hurried across the shiny floor of the foyer. Choice was a luxury taken from Alexandra when her mother set forth to rearrange her life.

The older woman took the stairs with a stately measured pace and as Alexandra followed behind, she found herself with ample opportunity to gaze at the faces of long dead Lowells whose portraits angled up the staircase wall. A number of Andrew Lowell's ancestors had eyes of a deep topaz color much like her own, and Alexandra smiled to herself to think she had even that in common with such a great man.

At the second floor landing the woman murmured, "This way, please," and glided her way through the hallway to the eastern wing. Alexandra hurried after her, making a mental note to examine the objet d'arts scattered on various side tables once she was settled in.

"What an enormous house," she remarked, attempting to break the overwhelming silence. "How many rooms has it?"

The older woman came to an abrupt stop in front of an open door near the end of the hallway. "Only one you need worry about," she said briskly. "You will find your trunk and valises in here. Janine will bring up a tray of tea and cakes. Dinner will be at seven and Mr. Lowell said it is formal." With an incline of her head, she glided back down the endless hallway.

Alexandra stood frozen in the doorway until the woman disappeared, thankful that she was there in a working capacity and not as the lady of the house. The thought of coping with such arrogant, overbearing hired help was more than she could manage and turned to look at her room for the first time.

Late afternoon sun streamed through the windows with their diamond-shaped panes of glass, casting intricate shadows on the parquet floor. The battered Saratoga trunk and valises were neatly stacked on the floor near an enormous armoire of lustrous pine and the scent of lemon oil delicately teased her nostrils. Her breath caught as she took in the brass bed in the middle of the room, covered with a peach satin quilt and piled high with feather pillows that begged to be tested. She ran her fingers lightly across the delicate flowered wallpaper and marveled at the wash of apricot and pearl tints.

Outside the window lay a well-tended piece of property with narrow slate walkways that trailed through beds of budding impatiens and daisies. A large white gazebo stood between a bower of rose bushes and wooden steps that led down the dunes to the beach.

And, of course, there was the ocean. The ceaseless, crashing, Atlantic in all her savage beauty. Never in her life had Alexandra lived amidst such richness and splendor. Her senses were reeling from trying to take in so much loveliness at once.

There was a knock at the door and she started, her reverie abruptly ended. Of course it was too good to be true, she thought as she went to answer it. The maid had probably discovered that she wasn't meant to be in this beautiful room at all; there was a perfect little room for her in the attic, that would be much more suitable.

"I'm Janine," said a girl whose mass of red curls bobbed about a freckled face as she hurried into the room, bearing a silver tray. "Cook told me she had taken you to your room. This here is your tea and cakes but I have to warn you that Cook be makin' way too much food what with dinner not too far away from now and you needin' your rest. If you ask me, just have one cup and try the walnut and be done with it." The girl met Alexandra's eyes and her fair skin reddened until it matched her hair. "I be oversteppin' my bounds, wouldn't I? Mr. Lowell keeps warnin' me about my Irish tongue but my mother brought me up to speak my mind and I'm findin' it hard to keep my peace."

"One cup and the walnut cake?" Alexandra said, delighted by this outspoken bundle of energy who looked to be no more than fifteen years old.

Janine nodded, turning down the quilt. "And then to bed with you. Traveling can make a body tired."

Alexandra unbuttoned her jacket and slipped it off. "May I ask you a question, Janine?"

Janine, her blue eyes alive with curiosity, nodded. "As you wish, miss."

"Does everyone in this house know everything about everybody?"

Janine reddened once again. "The servants do talk, if that's what you be meaning."

"That's definitely what I mean. I feel as if you know more about my future here than I."

"Is there something I could help you with, miss?"

So many things, thought Alexandra. "That man downstairs," she said carefully. "The stablemaster or groom or whatever he is. He--" she paused, uncertain how to continue.

"Stablemaster?" Janine's freckled brow wrinkled. "We don't have a stablemaster, miss. Cook's husband Harold takes care of the horses and carriages." A prickling sense of apprehension gathered at the base of Alexandra's neck. "Well, I just assumed he was a stablemaster."

"I cannot imagine who you would be thinking about, miss. Could it be Harold's young son Danny?"

"How old is Danny?"

"Fifteen."

Alexandra swallowed hard. "This man was twice that age."

"Holy Mary," Janine mumbled, crossing herself. "The poacher is back after the geese. Mr. Lowell will be--"

Alexandra placed a hand on the girl's forearm. "He wasn't a poacher."

"Oh, I know he doesn't look like one--he's a sly one, he is. Sneaking around the back, hiding behind the beach steps. Why, he--"

"Listen to me, Janine. This man wasn't outside."

Janine's eyes widened. "He wasn't?"

Alexandra shook her head. "He wasn't. He was in the downstairs hallway." The stranger's image rose up clear before her eyes. "He's a tall man, lean and muscular. He was wearing--"

"A white cambric shirt and black trousers."

"You know him?" Alexandra asked.

Janine nodded, looking exceptionally relieved. "That be Mr. McKenna."

"He works here?"

The girl's face reddened again, but this time a giggle accompanied the blush. "He lives here."

Oh, dear God... "As an employee?" she whispered, hoping against hope.

Janine's giggle turned into a girlish laugh. "Oh, no, miss. As a guest."

Somehow Alexandra managed to keep her composure while the girl showed her about the room, pointing out the bell pull and the hip bath and the fireplace on the wall opposite the brass bed.

"You eat now, miss," said Janine, as she bustled toward the door, "then take yourself a rest. I'll make certain you are up and about in plenty of time for dinner."

Alexandra murmured her thanks then closed the door behind the redhaired maid. Woodenly she crossed the room toward the tray set up on the table near the window; her hands shook as she poured herself a cup of tea.

What on earth had Marisa gotten her into? Stephen Lowell had been the essence of charm during the carriage ride from the station, regaling her with delightful stories about Easthampton and its residents. Yet, the moment he deposited her in front of Sea View, he'd disappeared, sending a maid to see her to her room. And the man in the white shirt--"Mr. McKenna," Janine called him--had gone out of his way to let her know her presence was most unwanted.

As for Andrew Lowell--only God in His heaven knew what his thoughts were.

She brought her tea cup to her lips but not even the bracing brew was enough to restore the happiness she'd felt but one hour ago.

Perhaps Janine was right, she thought as she sat on the edge of the bed and unlaced her boots. Perhaps things would look brighter after a nap.

And if not, she would think of something else, some way to escape this prison of her mother's design.

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