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Fire's Lady

Chapter Eight

Three weeks of despair and fear and loneliness erupted and Alexandra could do nothing save stand there with her face buried in her hands and weep for everything she'd lost--and everything that would never be.

He probably thought her a spineless fool, falling apart with so little provocation, shaking with huge gulping sobs that were neither pretty nor polite. She felt the heat as he stepped closer and she knew she should move away, should do anything but stand there and let him see her like this, but she was helpless to move. Huge fingers covered hers and gently pried her hands away from her face, until she found herself staring into those beautiful blue-green eyes of his.

"Cry," he said, his voice low and oddly tender. "Cry it all out, Alexandra."

He rested his hand on the top of her hair and that simple action tore down the last of her boundaries and she allowed herself the exquisite luxury of being held in his strong arms while she cried her heart out.

It was gone, all of it. Gabrielle and the baby and the golden meadows of Provence and that feeling of joy that came over her each time she took her sketchbook out into the field and captured the beauty of the land.

"She never asked me...she didn't care how I felt or what I wanted...everything was taken from me...everything."

"I understand," he whispered. "I know how it feels."

Strangely, she believed he did. How wonderful it felt to rest her head against his chest and feel the beating of his heart, strong and sure against her cheek. Was that how it was with a man then? Protection and comfort and words whispered in the darkness?

He stroked her hair while she cried and listened quietly as she railed against Marisa and the unfairness of life and with each tear shed came acceptance.

"I never wanted anything more than my sketching and the countryside," she managed, accepting a square of white cambric from him to blot her eyes. "I never asked to come here."

"I'm sorry."

She looked up at him, expecting to see that angry cynicism she'd come to know, but it wasn't there. Was it a trick of the moonlight or had they reached an understanding? Feeling awkward, she folded the handkerchief and slipped it into her pocket. "I'll see that it is laundered for you."

"Come," he said gruffly, pushing a lock of hair off her cheek. "I'll take you back to the house. The poacher may still be around."

"I'm fine." She straightened the shawl draped across her shoulders. "Please tend to your own business."

"My business is to see you safely inside."

She glanced toward the campfire gleaming red and orange down the beach. "I am too restless to retire for the evening. I thought I might--"

He grabbed her shoulders and turned her around to face him. "Isn't one attempt on your life diversion enough for an evening, woman? You were lucky this time--you may not be the next."

"I'm not afraid."

"Maybe you should be."

She felt his anger in the way he gripped her. "Do not threaten me, Mr. McKenna, for I shall not stand for it."

"Threaten you?" he roared. "I save your pretty neck from taking target practice and you accuse me of threatening you?" He pulled her up against his body and held her tight. "The candlestick was a threat, Miss Glenn. Saying you would push me down the stairs was a threat. Plunging a knife in my chest was a threat."

"You frightened me," she said, praying she could maintain her composure in the face of such rage. "I took it upon myself to protect my person."

His hands spanned her back, burning through the shawl and the satin dress until her skin sizzled from his touch.

"And now?" he asked, dipping his head toward her. "Are you frightened now?"

"Yes," she said as he moved his mouth near. "Yes."

He was going to kiss her--she knew it in every fibre of her body. Her knees trembled helplessly and her hands grasped his waist for support. Dear God, what on earth was happening to her? He could be her enemy as easily as he could be her friend. How did she know he hadn't taken the initial shot at her?

If she had any sense whatsoever she would turn away from him or struggle or scream if she must, anything to prevent the kiss that she knew would be her undoing. Instead she stood there, paralyzed, and waited.

But to her surprise, he stopped just a breath away from her lips and said, "Go back to the house."

She blinked as if awakening from a dream. "What?"

"Go back to the house."

"But I don't--"

He turned her toward the wooden stairs and gave her a push. "Now!"

Lifting her skirts over her ankles, she flew up the creaking wooden stairs then hurried across the lawn to the main house and she didn't look back.

Matthew watched until he saw her disappear safely into the house and then he swore.

What kind of man was he to send a beautiful woman away without so much as sampling the sweetness of her lips? She had been his for the taking. Only a fool could have misinterpreted the pliant way she acquiesced to his embrace, the look of soft surrender on her lovely face, the low rush of anticipation in her voice.

Right then, right there, he could have tumbled back to the ground and pressed her into the sand with the weight of his body and found the release he needed so desperately--but, no. Honor and compassion and a thousand other worthless emotions he'd believed himself long rid of decided to resurface, making it impossible for him to do anything but what he'd done.

When he'd covered her body with his to shield her from the bullets whizzing overhead, he'd been unbearably aware of her as a woman. The feel of her soft breasts pressed against his chest, the curve of her hips and thighs between his, the way she smelled of the rain combined to bring him quickly to the breaking point.

That had all changed the moment he saw her tears. How defenseless she'd looked without her veneer of worldliness. How vulnerable she had seemed with her proud neck bent and her beautiful face hidden in her hands. How incredibly sweet she had felt in his arms as her tears wet the front of his shirt and tore into his heart.

She'd said things to him that he knew were important, things that would demand his attention later on, but none of it mattered right now. All he could think of was that for a moment, with her in his arms, he had felt alive.

"Good mornin', miss," Janine piped up as Alexandra came downstairs the next morning. "You be up early."

"There's much to be done today," she said as the maid polished the last curve of the bannister. "I thought I would get an early start." She wanted to see Matthew first thing and hopefully put to rest some of the jumbled thoughts that had kept her awake all night. Perhaps the same things that seemed so upsetting in the darkness would seem trifling in the light.

"It would be seemin' today's the day for early starts," Janine said, following Alexandra into the dining room. "Mister Matthew gobbled breakfast and left more than an hour ago."

Disappointment captured her breath for a second, then: "And Stephen?"

"Oh, we wouldn't be expectin' Mister Lowell before evening," she said, eyes dancing with mischief. "He's quite a busy man--or so I hear."

Alexandra refused to speculate on Stephen's illicit rendezvous; her thoughts were too filled with Matthew McKenna and their encounter of the night before. She sat down at her place and helped herself to a steaming cup of tea while Janine bustled into the kitchen for her breakfast.

"Janine," she said as the young maid returned with a tray piled high with coddled eggs and sausage and huge flaky corn muffins dripping with butter, "may I ask you a question?"

Janine looked quite pleased with the idea. "Anything at all, miss. I been here most of my life. If I wouldn't have the answer I should be knowin' someone who do."

"Why do McKenna and Stephen hate one another so much?"

Janine thought for a moment then shrugged. "I never thought much about it, miss. Mister Lowell has been here less than a year and hatin' him seems natural to me. Even his Uncle Andrew ain't partial to him."

"Then I don't understand what he is doing here."

"Blood," said Janine succinctly. "Ain't much reason beyond that so far as I can see. He come 'round one day to visit with his uncle and next thing I know we'd be settin' a place for him each mornin' for breakfast."

"And Mr. McKenna," she ventured, praying her face did not betray her keen interest in the maid's answer. "What is his connection?"

Janine considered her question for a few moments, opening her mouth to speak then closing it quickly. "I don't exactly know," the redhaired maid answered finally, her eyes not quite meeting Alexandra's. "All I can say is he and Mr. Andrew be like a son and his father." She glanced quickly over her shoulder then leaned down toward Alexandra. "Cook told me that his mother worked belowstairs for Mr. Andrew's family back in the city and that Mr. Andrew took her boy under his wing."

"So McKenna works for him then?" she prompted.

Janine shrugged. "He would be takin' care of Mr. Lowell's business, yes, but he wouldn't be one of us."

The maid hurried back into the kitchen as pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place. So she and McKenna were more alike than he had first allowed: neither servant nor family, they both occupied an uncertain position in the hierarchy of Sea View although his position certainly ranked higher.

How odd it was to imagine Matthew McKenna as a little boy taken under a man's wing. He seemed as if he had sprung from the earth, with both his strengths and his angers already part of who and what he was. She sipped her tea then shook her head. Impossible to imagine such a powerful man living belowstairs, the son of a woman who made her living on her knees scrubbing floors.

Her teacup clattered back into the saucer as the full meaning of the copper bath tub came clear for her.

He'd watched her--there could be no other explanation.

While she was on her knees scrubbing the wooden floor of the attic, she'd heard a sound near the stairs. Brushing her hair away from her eyes, she'd looked up to see nothing at all yet the sensation of being watched persisted.

Now she knew he'd been there. McKenna had watched her work and somehow her actions had triggered in him an answering memory. The copper tub had been a gesture of respect to those memories; she had only happened to be the recipient.

Those long and languid daydreams she had entertained while soaking in the fragrant water had been the product of her own loneliness, her own needs. They hadn't come close to the real reason behind Matthew McKenna's actions.

The way he'd pushed her from him and ordered her back to the house last night returned in vivid detail making her face flood with color as she attacked her eggs with a fork.

All night long she had wondered why he hadn't kissed her there in the moonlight.

Now the answer was crystal clear.

Why should he? She was nothing to him, just another worker in the Lowell household, and one he associated with his nemesis Stephen in the bargain.

And he had Dayla. Beautiful exotic Dayla with her soft voice and even softer hands to keep him company in the heart of the night.

What use had he for a backward and innocent country girl whose only hope for the future was her ability to paint and the fact that she didn't fear hard work.

Forget him, she ordered herself. Put him from your mind here and now. No good could come of nursing daydreams about Matthew McKenna. No good at all.

And the sooner she could convince herself of that the better off she would be.

Switzerland was magnificent in the spring.

Below the window of Marisa's suite, Lake Geneva glittered in the late afternoon sunshine, the Alps reflected in its turquoise depths.

The last time she visited she had been with Jean-Paul--or was it Henri who had shared her bed. Ah well. No matter. Her fortieth birthday loomed on the horizon and passion was relegated to memory.

How pathetically unfair.

If she felt well enough, she would weep for what had become of her life but she had barely the energy to keep her eyes open although it was but early afternoon.

"Madame Glenn." Her doctor, debonair in a dark brown frock coat and striped trousers, tapped on the door then entered the room. "Your beauty surpasses even our glorious scenery."

"You flatter me, Doctor." You lie, as well.

He availed himself of the chair opposite her chaise longue. "You are well today?" She laughed but the sound was devoid of mirth. "I would rather you tell me."

His festive mood vanished and a sense of dread draped across her like a shroud. So there it was: once again the Almighty had taken her life into His Hands and nothing she or the doctor could do would change the direction in which He was propelling her.

"We have done all we can, Madame. I am sorry." The doctor began to speak rapidly in French and, despite her years in Paris, she found herself losing much of what he said.

"I assume you would advise I get my affairs in order, would you not?"

"That is wise for any of us, Madame Glenn."

"Yes," she persisted, "but wiser for some of us than for others."

He looked up, his brown eyes solemn. "You are correct, Madame. I would recommend you speak with your family. There is, I believe, a daughter...?"

"She is in America," Marisa said. "I will write to her this afternoon."

There was, of course, nothing more to be said and the doctor soon excused himself to see to his next patient.

Alexandra. Marisa leaned back against the pillows and closed her eyes. The last four nights she had dreamed of her daughter, dark threatening dreams in which the girl held a knife to Marisa's throat and Andrew Lowell, still beautiful, laughed in the background.

Ridiculous, she thought, shaking off the disturbing images.

Andrew Lowell was an old man now and a sick one, if Stephen Lowell were to be believed, and deserving of every ill that befell him. She had waited twenty years for this opportunity, twenty long years to take her revenge upon the man who had changed her life.

Oh, Mary Margaret had done well enough for herself. No one could deny that fact. Anger had fueled her ambitions and she had quickly mastered the intricacies of Parisian society, using her beauty and wit as entree into their world.

But, the girl...dear God, the girl. Marisa had done what she felt was necessary, what she felt was right--even when she agreed to Stephen's grand scheme and sent her daughter off to America to make a future for herself she had managed to believe Alexandra would be the better for the opportunity.

Stephen had approached her when she was at her lowest point, when the knowledge of her impending mortality lay over her like a shroud. She could not, would not, go to her grave without seeking her revenge upon the mighty Andrew Lowell and it Stephen's plans had dovetailed so nicely with her own desire for revenge that she had said yes before she gave her daughter's needs a second thought.

At times it made her uncomfortable that it was Alexandra who would ultimately become the instrument of Andrew Lowell's destruction but the irony of that was unavoidable. Alexandra was the key to their success, the seed Andrew sowed in Marisa's belly coming into full flower before his very eyes. Stephen's plan was foolproof--she knew it was.

What did Alexandra know of the darker side of life, sheltered as she had been in the golden meadows of Provence? Let the girl take what she could from the experience, then build a life for herself afterward.

Let Stephen have Andrew's fortune, for whatever good it may do him.

All Mary Margaret McBride wanted was for Andrew Lowell to understand that his sins would follow him to the grave.

And she would be there waiting for him at the gates of hell.

Alexandra finished breakfast and was passing through the kitchen on her way to the carriage house when Janine called out. "Miss! Miss, it's glad I am I found you. Mr. Matthew been lookin' for you everywhere."

Just the mention of his name made Alexandra's hands start to shake. "He mustn't have looked everywhere, Janine, for I was sitting quite plainly in the dining room this past hour."

"You are wanted upstairs. Mr. Lowell wishes to see you."

"Stephen has returned?"

Janine shook her head. Her eyes were wide as soup bowls. "Mr. Andrew Lowell," she said. "If I were you, miss, I would hurry--Mr. Lowell don't always feel well enough for visitors."

Alexandra knew from her one visit how true that statement was. Racing through the center hallway she paused in front of the mirror and smoothed down her hair and ran a finger across her brows. Thank God she had chosen to pin her hair up in a French twist this morning and that only a few curls had thus far tumbled free. Despite his age and illness, Andrew Lowell had the sharp eyes of an artist and she instinctively knew he would be critical of imperfection.

The exotic Dayla greeted her at the entrance to his suite of rooms. "Good morning, Miss Alexandra," she said in a voice soft as a rushing stream. "He awaits you most anxiously."

The woman's greeting was warm and cordial and Alexandra had to battle down a nip of jealousy at the thought of Dayla in the arms of Matthew McKenna.

McKenna himself stood by the window in Andrew's studio, his profile etched sharply against the leaded glass. He didn't glance her way when she entered and silently she vowed to ignore his presence.

This morning Andrew Lowell sat in a straight-backed chair, draped in a satin-bound blanket. An easel was set up to his right; to his left was a gateleg table with his palette and tins of turpentine and linseed oil arranged upon it.

"Over here, girl," he said, motioning toward a hassock in front of him. "I want to see you when I talk."

McKenna glanced toward her as she crossed the sun-filled studio but she refused to meet his eyes. The memory of the way his arms had felt around her last night was still too fresh in her mind.

Smoothing the back of her skirt she settled herself on the low stool and wished the great artist had seen her last night in her elegant russet gown instead of this flower-sprigged dress.

Andrew Lowell fixed her with his fierce topaz eyes. "I am waiting," he said, his voice stronger than the previous day.

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

"I am waiting," he repeated.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "I'm afraid I do not understand."

"Details, girl, details! Stephen sent you into the attic to begin cataloguing, didn't he?"

She nodded.

"Well, then, how bad is it?"

Matthew's attention was riveted to her and he flashed her a "be careful" sign and beside him, Dayla's huge dark eyes urged caution.

"There's a great deal of work," she began, choosing her words judiciously. "I have barely begun to--"

He raised a gnarled hand to stop her. "The truth," he commanded. "I will not accept less."

Both Matthew and the darkhaired woman looked at her anxiously, warning her to cushion her words but when Alexandra looked into the great Andrew Lowell's eyes, she knew she could not deceive him. She folded her hands on her lap and leaned toward him. "It is a disaster," she said meeting his gaze. "Your works have been sadly neglected and the resulting damage was inevitable."

"Is everything lost?" His eyes were keen upon her, glowing brilliantly within his ravaged face.

"No, but it will take great effort to salvage much of it." She listed the few paintings that needed little more than a thorough cleaning and minor repairs then eased into a list of the more seriously damaged items.

He listened quietly, nodding at intervals, fingers tapping out some inner rhythm on the edge of the gateleg table. "Do you withhold anything, girl?"

"Nothing, sir."

He pointed in the direction of Matthew and Dayla. "They would have had you soften the blow, wouldn't they?"

Alexandra took a deep breath before answering. "They care a great deal for you, sir, and wish you to be happy."

"Come here," he said, motioning her closer. "Bend down beside me and let me see your face."

She cast a questioning look toward Matthew but his face was impassive. He merely watched her, arms folded across his chest. Dayla fluttered like a bird seeking its nest, obviously worried about whether Andrew was tiring himself.

Alexandra rose and moved closer to Andrew, then bent down until her eyes were level with his. He smelled vaguely of lavendar soap and peppermints and, up close, his eyes were even more startling. Age showed more clearly from this range but so did intelligence and fire.

"Look toward the door," he ordered, cupping her face between his bony fingers. "Lift your chin...there it is..." He turned her face so that their eyes were level. "You do some modeling, girl?"

She swallowed hard. "Yes, sir. A little." She named a few of the artists she'd posed for and he nodded distractedly.

"Your skin takes the light...a rare thing, that...and your features are familiar somehow..."

Dayla stepped forward, breaking the moment. "She is uncomfortable, Andrew. Please let Alexandra sit down again."

Andrew dismissed the darkhaired woman with a wave of his hand. "Don't disturb me," he barked, then turned back to Alexandra. "You would tell me if you were uncomfortable, wouldn't you, girl?"

"Yes, sir," she managed. "I am in the habit of speaking my mind."

With his fingertips he probed her cheekbones, the angle of her nose, the gentle curve of her forehead and jaw and his inspection caused her to relax as she understood the artist's mind was at work.

"I don't know," he mused quietly. "Something so familiar here...that jawline...have we met before?"

"No, sir," she said with a smile. "I know I would remember such an occasion."

"You were born to be painted, girl. That face is meant to be treasured."

Alexandra knew he was not an idle flatterer and his words caused a thrill to run through her but she could not keep still. "I was born to paint," she corrected softly.

A bushy white eyebrow arched skeptically. "Audacious chit. How dare you assume you can wield a palette knife. It takes years of study." He glared at her. "Artistic talent is a gift from the gods."

She didn't blink beneath his scrutiny. "I have talent," she retorted, "and I hope one day to have time to study."

Closing his eyes, he waved her away impatiently. "Off with you, girl. You're dismissed."

Dear God! Why had she spoken so boldly? Embarrassed, she stumbled to her feet, hands clutching the sides of her cotton gown. "Does that mean I am to leave Sea View?" Her voice was a whisper as she felt a blinding rush of fear sweep down over her.

One golden eye flickered open. "That means you are to go about your business then return here after luncheon to pose for me."

Dayla stepped forward and put a restraining hand on Andrew's shoulder. "Tomorrow morning would be better for you," she murmured softly. "Afternoons are your time to rest."

"I'll rest when I'm dead," he barked. "I am going to paint this afternoon. Now I intend to eat my breakfast in peace. Out with you all!"

Alexandra didn't need to be told twice and her feet carried her swiftly out of the studio. Only when she reached the relative safety of the drawing room, did she dare lean against the wall and wait for her heart to stop pounding wildly inside her chest.

A few moments later Matthew entered the drawing room, closing the door to the studio behind him. "Dayla will help him with breakfast," he said.

Alexandra nodded, finding it difficult to stop her heart's furious pace.

"You handled him very well," he observed, watching her closely. "Good work."

"I did nothing but answer his questions truthfully. If that is cause for thanks..." Her voice trailed off meaningfully.

"How extensive is the damage to the paintings?" he asked as they left Andrew's suite and moved down the hall toward the staircase.

"Very," she said bluntly. "I told him no lie when I said it will take hard work and even then the results cannot be guaranteed."

"Can you handle the job?"

"Some of it, yes. Once the items are properly cleaned and catalogued, the more severe cases should be sent to a museum for examination."

"No." Matthew's voice was adamant. "Under no circumstances do his paintings leave Sea View."

She stopped at the head of the staircase. "I do not understand, Mr. McKenna. I thought the purpose of all this was to save as many works from destruction as possible."

"Not at the risk of Andrew's pride."

"His pride? Those paintings are his legacy. Restoring them should be a tremendous source of pride."

"You don't understand." He started down the stairs and Alexandra hurried behind him.

"Explain it to me then, please," she said, touching his arm as she caught up to him on the landing. "How can sending his paintings to a museum for repair damage his pride?"

McKenna dragged his hand through his hair and muttered an oath that sent Alexandra's color rising but she kept silent. McKenna was obviously struggling to keep his temper under control but still his anger was something to behold. "We have made every effort to prevent Andrew's condition from becoming common knowledge. He's a proud man--pity could do more to hurt him than his illness ever could."

"But the work must be done," she cried. "It would be unconscionable to allow such treasures to turn to dust."

"Then you do it, Miss Glenn. Not a museum."

"But I'm not capable."

"You said you could handle some of it."

"A portion," she explained, "not half of what an expert could accomplish."

"It's the only way," he said, continuing down the stairs. "Either that or the paintings decay before your eyes. It's your choice, Miss Glenn."

Picking up her skirts, she followed him down the steps and into the library in time to see him reach for the decanter of whiskey on the side table and take a long swallow.

"McKenna." Her voice was a whisper. "Don't do it."

His look was dark and unfathomable. "You made your choice," he said, wiping his mouth, "and I made mine."

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