Fire's Lady Page 17

  Alexandra artfully smudged black kohl around her eyes to accentuate their natural tilt and anointed her lips and eyebrows with sweet oil. The Glenn pearls adorned her throat and anticipation filled her heart as she walked down the staircase to where Matthew awaited her while Janine fluttered in the background, anxious to see McKenna's pleased expression at Alexandra's transformation.

  Well, they needn't have bothered, Alexandra thought a half-hour later as she and Matthew walked toward Clinton Hall where the Quartette would be playing. He looked at her but once during the ride into town and then only because she pointed out a deer poised to leap into the road.

  McKenna was a rude, arrogant, stupid clod of a man and if Alexandra only weren't so fearful of offending Andrew Lowell, she would have grabbed the reins of the coach long before they reached Main Street and headed back to Sea View.

  After tethering the horse in the center of town, he headed off down the street without bothering to help her exit the trap. Had it not been for a pleasant-faced older man walking an elegant black Cocker Spaniel, she would still be sitting back there on the hard leather bench.

  "I may as well have worn sackcloth," she muttered as they approached the front door.

  He looked down at her, his expression distant, bored. "Did you say something?"

  "No." They walked a few yards then she came to a stop. "Yes." Steeling herself against his fury, she tilted her head back and met his eyes. "I wish you had stayed home."

  "You're right," he said calmly. "I should have."

  A very unladylike epithet rose to her lips but she bit it back. "Am I so displeasing to you?"

  A wicked gleam sparked in his blue-green eyes. "Fishing for compliments, are you, Alexandra?"

  "No, of course not!" she sputtered. "I am simply curious why you have acted as if I were not even here."

  That gleam in his eyes sparked brighter. "The hell you are. You're wondering why I haven't told you how pretty your gown is and how nice your hair looks and—"

  "Oh, do be quiet," she hissed as they approached a knot of people milling around the entrance to Clinton Hall. "I am wondering no such thing."

  "You are," he said, gripping her elbow with his hand. "Women always want to know these things."

  If three white-haired ladies hadn't been regarding them with a great deal of interest, Alexandra might have delivered a sharp kick to his ankle. "I rely upon my own judgment in such matters," she replied airily, if not honestly.

  His laugh rippled through her. "You look lovely, Alexandra."

  She pretended not to hear him although his words were tumbling around in her brain like shiny gold coins.

  "I believe you're the most beautiful woman here tonight."

  Beautiful. He thought her beautiful. "Thank you," she managed, heat suffusing her breasts and throat and face. "I think we should go in and take our seats."

  His hand moved from her elbow to the curve of her waist and she cast a look at him as they entered the darkened hall.

  His gaze settled upon her lips and she was flooded with the memory of that kiss on the beach.

  "Coward," he said softly as they found their seats.

  Yes, she thought. Most definitely.

  #

  The Silver Lake Quartette was superb—or at least that's what Alexandra surmised, if the thunderous applause of the audience were an indication.

  Oh, she vaguely remembered hearing strains of Mozart's Eine Kleine Nachtmusik and the foot-tapping melody of a waltz by Strauss but more than anything else, it was Matthew McKenna who entranced her that night.

  He wore the dove grey suit he'd worn her first night at Sea View and her heart swelled with idiotic pleasure each time she glimpsed the gold cufflinks sparkling at his wrists and the way his chestnut hair brushed his collar. If he had been drinking earlier in the day, it wasn't obvious and when the curtain fell for the intermission, he contented himself with the lemonade punch and didn't venture toward the group of men sharing a quart of whiskey near the door.

  He never once reached for her hand or let his knee bump up against hers yet she was as intensely aware of his presence as if he'd drawn her into his arms right there in the middle of Clinton Hall. The only regret she had about the evening was that it was drawing to a close.

  "How wonderful," she sighed, turning to Matthew as the lights in the hall came back up and the curtain descended to resounding applause. "I cannot remember the last time I enjoyed anything so much."

  "Don't tell Andrew," he said, rising and offering his hand. "He'll be insufferable if he knows we actually had a good time."

  "Perhaps that was the point of this," she said, as they made their way up the aisle toward the door. "Did you ever consider he may indeed have wanted us to enjoy ourselves?"

  For the first time that day Matthew's laugh was lighthearted. "All the more reason to keep this to ourselves. He has always taken extreme pleasure in playing God." He looked younger when he smiled, more accessible and human.

  "An excellent point," she said. "Certainly one to be considered."

  As they made their way down Main Street, they were stopped many times by various townspeople, all of whom asked after Andrew while staring openly at Alexandra. Matthew introduced her as Andrew's new assistant and most accepted that with a brief nod of interest, their curiosity satisfied. Women of all ages flirted shamelessly with Matthew and he bore their attentions with grudging good grace. The men seemed genuinely fond of him and, to Alexandra's amazement, only one person asked after Stephen and that in a less-than-friendly manner.

  The yellow-haired man. The gypsy's words came back to her and she pushed them away.

  "Don't look so surprised," Matthew said, cutting into her thoughts as he took her arm to lead her back to the trap. "I know how to conduct myself in polite company."

  "I am surprised," she said, drinking in the sweet night air. "Until tonight, I saw no sign of these social skills."

  "Do you think me a savage, unable to tell a soup spoon from a shrimp fork or a waltz from a march?"

  She considered his question. "Let us say you were somewhere between savage and heathen."

  "Not a hell of a lot of leeway in there."

  "I'm sorry if I offended you, but I am in the habit of speaking my mind."

  "So you've told me."

  They reached the trap and once again he placed his hands on her waist and lifted her in as if she were a bag of feather dusters and she imagined his fingers lingered a moment longer than absolutely necessary. It had been a magical night and with all her heart she wished to make the magic last, even if she had to invent it.

  As the chestnut took them back to the house, Matthew whistled a tune and soon Alexandra joined in humming and, before she knew it, they were both singing the round-robin song the Quartette had taught to the children in the audience during their concert. Their voices, off key but enthusiastic, mingled with the night sounds of an owl hooting somewhere in the woods and the incessant low roar of the ocean that surrounded them.

  Instead of letting her off at the front door, Matthew surprised her by leaving the trap and chestnut at the carriage house and together he and Alexandra walked back to the main house. Silver bands of moonlight illuminated the wide expanse of lawn, giving everything a luminous glow.

  "There was one thing missing," he said, breaking their companionable silence as he opened the front door and ushered her inside. "There should have been dancing."

  She couldn't have been more surprised had he suggested she flap her arms and fly across the room. "I'm sorry," she said, giggling. "I have imagined you many things but a dancer was never among them."

  "I happen to be an expert dancer."

  "I find that quite difficult to believe." Men as muscular as Matthew were rarely graceful. Gabrielle's husband Luc had stumbled over his feet at their wedding party when he tried to twirl his bride around the floor.

  He turned and held out his arms. "I'll prove it to you."

  "But you cannot," she said, flustered. "It
's terribly late and there is no music and—"

  "We'll be very quiet," he said, pulling her into his arms, "and why can't we provide our own music?"

  He began to hum Strauss and suddenly they were gliding in the effortless three-quarter time of the waltz, skimming across the huge center hall, their feet barely touching the shiny marble tiles. The gas globes on the wall bathed everything in a warm and romantic glow and it took little imagination to conjure up a castle in the French Alps, far away from every day cares.

  "I apologize," she said as he swept her from one end of the massive hall to the other with movements as graceful as they were masterful. "You are truly a marvelous dancer!"

  "I have a partner beyond compare," he said, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That makes a difference."

  They danced together instinctively, as if the motions were something they had perfected a lifetime ago. He ceased to hum the tune for both heard the same music playing inside their heads, so precisely were they matched in style and enthusiasm.

  Alexandra felt giddy and lightheaded, as if she had partaken of too much champagne. After they made their fifth grand sweep of their impromptu ballroom, she begged him to stop.

  "Please!" She placed a hand against her waist and struggled to regain her breath. "I am dizzy!" Indeed he had spun her around so expertly that the room tilted around her and she leaned against him for support.

  "There are dances besides the waltz," he said, not relinquishing her from his arms.

  She hesitated. The hour was late and temptation was blossoming all around them.

  "No." Gently she placed her palm against his chest and to her intense surprise he covered her hand with his and held it close to him.

  "Is it asking so much of you, Alexandra, to give me one more dance?"

  He pulled her close, much closer than befit a waltz or, indeed, any dance at all, and brushed the tip of her ear with his warm mouth. She was about to protest, when he began to hum a tune they'd heard earlier that evening, a tune so lush, so romantic, that her protests died before reaching her lips.

  This was heaven.

  There could be no other explanation for the sheer, towering joy flooding through her as they moved together, their bodies in shocking proximity. The hard length of his legs moved against hers and she could clearly feel his thigh muscles with every step they danced.

  Her head nestled in the space between his collar and shoulder and the smell of his skin was more intoxicating to her than champagne could ever be.

  This was madness.

  There could be no other explanation for the violent heat claiming her for its own. She was pinpoints of flame, smoldering coals ready to blaze. The pretense of dancing fell away from them as they stood in the middle of the hall, arms entwined, swaying gently to an age-old rhythm she had only begun to hear.

  His hands caressed her, rough palms moving over the smooth skin of her back until she thought she would go mad with a desire that terrified even as it enticed.

  Her pulses quickened, hammering in her throat and at her wrists and—sharply, mysteriously—springing to life in a sweet and sensual throb at the juncture of her thighs. Her limbs felt heavy, as if she were suspended in a dream, sinking deeper into seductive darkness from which there would be no escape.

  He placed his right hand at the small of her back, long fingers splayed across the swell of her derriere, and drew her even closer. At the feel of him, hard and aroused against her hip, she gasped—whether from surprise or need she did not know for every color of the rainbow seemed gathered within her body.

  Timidly, she let her hands slide across his wide shoulders and down over his chest, savoring the wild pounding of his heart beneath her fingers. The smell of fire was on him; the scent of desire filled the air.

  Gently he placed his left hand alongside her cheek and smoothed a lock of hair back. She lifted her eyes to meet his and, tilting her chin with his index finger, he brought his mouth down to hers.

  The kisses they'd shared on the beach were but a match in the darkness compared to the raging inferno his touch now ignited. Her lips parted and eagerly she drank of the taste and feel of him. His tongue plunged into the moist cavern of her mouth and some primitive instinct caused her to capture it and suck greedily until she wrested a groan from him that was so violent, so intense, that she started to tremble in his arms with longing.

  Dazed, she was vaguely aware that somehow they had crossed the hallway and she was now leaning against the library wall, the only solid thing in a swirling universe. He filled her senses with touch and smell and taste and she was drowning with pleasure.

  He burned hot against her belly, huge and powerful and demanding in a way her virgin's imagination could only guess at. Her body, however, reacted with primal greed as her hips pressed ever closer to him, the urge to cradle him within her growing dangerously more urgent with each second that passed.

  "Sweet Alex," he murmured, breath moist and hot against her cheek. "Let me love you."

  Unbidden she saw Dayla, lovely Dayla with the soft dark eyes and the gentle ways.

  "I cannot," she said, praying she would have the courage to stand by her words. "This is wrong."

  "Something so wonderful cannot be wrong," he said, gently cupping her breasts.

  "It is wrong," she persisted, "when it is at the expense of another."

  His laugh was ragged. "I am no virgin, Alex. I guarantee my honor is not at stake."

  "Dayla," she said, pushing him away so she could see his face, watch his eyes. "It is Dayla I am thinking of."

  "Dayla?" His thick brows slanted down toward the bridge of his nose. "What does Dayla have to do with this?"

  A blush stained Alexandra's face. "I am not such a country fool that I do not recognize what goes on right under my nose, Matthew."

  "Explain it to me," he demanded, "because I do not know what in all holy hell you're talking about."

  My God, what a cruel man he was to make this so exceedingly difficult for her. "I realize she is your mistress, Matthew, and I—"

  His bark of laughter was like ice water in her face. "My what?!"

  "Mistress," she repeated, anger supplanting passion. "Surely you are acquainted with the term."

  "Intimately," he said, "but what in hell does that have to do with anything?"

  She remembered their voices, the sound of Matthew's laughter on her first night at Sea View. Burned indelibly in her mind was the memory of Dayla's small yet lush body cradled in Matthew's arms with the starshine all around them. Even Janine had called Dayla "the missus," for wont of a better term.

  She could feel the grasping claws of jealousy around her heart.

  "You're despicable," she said, pushing away from him and wishing she could blink her eyes and find herself back in her room on the second floor. "Have you no honor? No conception of what is right and what is wrong?"

  He looked dangerous, volatile, ablaze with anger and need. "Spit it out, woman. Say whatever the hell you're trying to say and be done with it."

  "Damn you!" she cried in exasperation. "How can you love one woman when you stand ready to bed another?"

  "Love?" His puzzlement seemed genuine.

  "You don't love her?" Dear God in heaven, how fortunate she was to have stopped before it was too late. The man had neither conscience nor shame.

  "I care for her dearly, but love? No. I leave that for those better suited."

  For a few brief moments she had harbored the hope that maybe, just maybe, she had been wrong about Matthew and Dayla, that they were not lovers at all, but while McKenna denied the finer emotion of love, he did not deny the baser emotion of lust, and that, she feared, was the truest answer of all.

  "Good night, McKenna, and thank you." Turning on her heel, she headed for the staircase.

  He was next to her in a flash, her wrist trapped by his lean strong fingers. "We're not finished yet," he said, his voice low and threatening.

  "I'm afraid we are." She sounded a great d
eal more courageous than she was feeling at that moment.

  "You play a dangerous game, little girl. Maybe you should learn just how dangerous it is."

  "Let me go, McKenna, before I scream this house down around your arrogant ears."

  The words had barely escaped her mouth before he swept her into his arms and started up the winding staircase.

  "You won't scream," he said, taking the steps two at a time. "At least not now."

  A sensual thrill coiled deep in her belly and she fought to displace it with an intelligent emotion like fear but it refused to budge. He has another woman, she reminded herself desperately. Open your eyes, you fool! He has Dayla to warm his bed and see to his needs.

  "I despise you, McKenna," she hissed as they reached the second floor landing. "You're a low, abominable, vile creature who—"

  "Shut up." His lips came down upon hers again, his tongue sliding past the barrier of her teeth and plundering her mouth. With each thrust, each parry, he took possession of another piece of her soul and she knew if she didn't stop him now, she would be forever lost.

  The door to her room was ajar. With Alexandra still in his arms, he pushed it the rest of the way open and stepped inside. Her bed loomed large in the center of the room, her lace-trimmed nightgown neatly laid out atop the down pillows. In another moment it would be too late.

  In desperation, she drew his mouth toward hers one last time and bit down hard on his lower lip until his blood sprang hot and brackish upon the tip of her tongue.

  "Son of a bitch!" He reared back, eyes wide, and she watched as a trickle of blood trickled over his lip. He tossed her down onto the feather bed and touched his hand to his mouth. "I'm bleeding!"

  "I'm sorry."

  "You should be horsewhipped."

  "Come here," she said, scrambling to her knees and searching for a handkerchief in her nightstand. "Let me take care of it."