Fire's Lady Page 8

  And if he didn't go, he might as well consign himself to spending the rest of his life in hell.

  All things considered, it was probably no better than he deserved.

  #

  Andrew Lowell's paintings commanded a handsome price and at first glance it seemed as if he had a king's ransom of them stored in the dusty room. To Alexandra's horror, however, canvases were stacked one atop the other in huge teetering piles. Fragile watercolors were laid out on splintered wooden tables, vulnerable to the sunlight streaming through the dusty windows. One wall bore an amorphous stain the color of tobacco that snaked its way from the ceiling to the floor, threatening a pile of framed pastel portraits of ballerinas Degas would have envied.

  A score of enormous landscapes, heavily framed in mahogany and oak and pine, were covered with a thick layer a dust and she saw at a glance that the ultramarine blue pigment was already bleaching out. Coupled with the darkening of the varnish overlay, the results were devastating.

  "You regret taking the position," Stephen said, brushing a layer of dust from the windowsill then leaning against it. "You are overcome by the enormity of it and would now like to sail back home to France and be done with it."

  She looked at a once-beautiful engraving and sighed. "I am overcome by the waste of such bounty." She fingered a distorted watercolor then held it up to Stephen.

  "It cannot be repaired?"

  Her gaze flickered over oils and charcoals, gouaches and wood cuts. "Perhaps some can be salvaged but I'm afraid many of these treasures will be lost."

  "You're quite certain of that?"

  "I apprenticed one summer at the London Museum where I spent an inordinate length of time buried in the attic learning how to recognize the different degrees of damage."

  Stephen stroked his chin thoughtfully. "How am I going to tell Uncle Andrew about this? He has so little to occupy his mind—this will take on terrible proportions. Perhaps it is better to keep this our own secret."

  "I do not understand."

  "He's a very sick man, Miss Glenn. How do we know how he would cope with such news?"

  "Do you not owe him the truth?"

  "Not if the truth could trigger a further decline into illness."

  "As you wish," she said, remembering the man's already fragile health. "I will catalogue these items just as he hired me to do and, with your permission, repair the items I can."

  "You would do that to help my uncle?"

  "No," she said, meeting his eyes. "I would do that to help preserve brilliance for the future."

  "Ah, darling girl!" He grabbed her hands and held them fast. "The moment I saw you get off the train I knew you were here to make my life wonderful!"

  She started to remind him that he had not actually seen her get off the train but stopped herself. That was a small unimportant detail and she had already learned that Stephen Lowell was a man of verbal excess. His words were outrageously flattering but not to be examined too closely.

  The canvases were all that mattered: those watercolors and sketches and engravings. A man's life had been stretched before the world same as the canvas pulled taut between the frames and it was up to Alexandra to make certain that what he had to share didn't wither and die in some wretched attic.

  "You cannot know how much it means to me to have you at Sea View," Stephen continued, his boyish face delightful in his earnestness. "The thought of leaving Uncle Andrew alone has been most distressing.

  "Leaving your uncle alone? I'm afraid I do not understand." Please don't say you're leaving! You're my only ally, Stephen.

  "My gallery tour of Europe is long overdue, darling girl. Uncle Andrew has granted me the honor of representing him internationally and I have been most derelict in my duties, having chosen to stay here at Sea View and attend to his health."

  "Wh—when do you plan to depart?"

  She believed she saw compassion—and a tinge of regret—in his eyes. "Two weeks from today."

  She must have done a dreadful job of masking her feelings for he held her hands ever tighter. "There is one quite delicate topic I must broach, Alexandra, and I hope you will hear me out."

  "Of course," she said woodenly. "Anything at all."

  He looked dreadfully uncomfortable but she refused to make it easy for him. How was she to manage in this godforsaken place with only Janine to smile at her each morning?

  "As I said, I shall be in Europe next month on a gallery tour and I—dash it, there does not seem to be a delicate way of saying this. I would rest easier if I knew you were seeing that my Uncle Andrew receives his medicine daily." He hesitated, looking out the dusty window toward the scrub pines ringing the property. "One cannot be too careful in a situation like this."

  His words were unsettling and she gathered her thoughts together. "You could ask Mr. McKenna or the... the dark-haired woman," she finished lamely. "I'm certain they would be happy to oblige."

  The look on his face spoke volumes. "Yes," he said dryly, "I'm certain they would be most happy to oblige, however I would vastly prefer your help."

  "I don't understand," she persisted. "Are you implying they might—"

  "I have said all I dare on the subject. May I count on your help?"

  What harm could come of it? "You may count on my help."

  Stephen's handsome face broke into a wide smile of relief and he raised her hands toward his mouth and pressed a kiss into each palm. She gasped as if scalded and pulled away from him, her face flaming with embarrassment.

  "Come now, darling girl. I shall never believe I am the first man to kiss your hand. You are far too beautiful for that."

  She knew enough about human nature to understand that the more she protested, the weaker her protestations would grow. Instead she busied herself by unrolling a pen and ink sketch that had been left to ruin on a windowsill, clucking over the deterioration of what had once been an intriguing study of a duck-filled pond.

  Next to her, Stephen made a show of unbuttoning his coat and the sun sparkled against his pocket watch as he checked the time.

  "I must be off," he announced just as if nothing untoward had happened. "I trust you will find enough to occupy you while I'm gone. You still have a great deal to acquaint yourself with around Sea View."

  "I shall be fine," she said, meeting his eyes. "Do not concern yourself with my well-being."

  He arched one elegant brow, his pale blue eyes dancing with amusement. "Dinner is at seven," he said. "I shall see you then."

  With a bow, he turned and disappeared down the wooden steps and within moments she heard the sound of a coach being readied for his trip.

  The attic was still as a mausoleum, she thought, and frowned for the analogy was more apt than she cared admit. She stood still, surrounded by the dying remnants of a once brilliant man, the fruits of whose talent had been grossly mishandled. These paintings and prints and sketches had no business growing yellow and dry in the attic of a carriage house. She brushed a layer of dust off a table top and smoothed the pen and ink sketch out flat. These pictures should be lovingly framed, displayed on the walls of a great museum somewhere for the world to enjoy.

  A brittle corner of the drawing paper broke off between her fingers and tears of rage sprang to her eyes. It would be a miracle if she managed to catalogue this immense inventory before the forces of neglect and nature destroyed much of Lowell's artistic legacy.

  The scuttle of wheels against a straw-covered floor floated up toward her and she heard the low nicker of a horse, followed by the steady clip-clop of hooves as Stephen departed for Riverhead.

  She surveyed the room and sighed deeply. There was enough work to keep her busy for many months—longer if Andrew Lowell found other duties to occupy her as well. The thing to do was separate the works according to medium then further separate them according to condition. She would need a tablet of paper, a fountain pen and ink.

  "Enough dilly-dallying," she said aloud into the emptiness. It was high time she earned her keep. />
  Perhaps Janine could supply her with a bucket of soapy water and clean sheets so she could rescue the attic from the encroaching filth. She turned to head for the stairs then stifled a scream as she found herself looking up into the stormy eyes of Matthew McKenna.

  Chapter Six

  He stood in the doorway much the same as Stephen had just moments ago but there all resemblance ended.

  Stephen was handsome in a lighthearted way while Matthew McKenna had the brooding looks that Alexandra instinctively recognized as being dangerous. He filled the doorway with an almost palpable menace that would terrify any sane woman but Alexandra was horrified to find an answering thrill curled deep inside her stomach at the sight of him.

  She must get out of there as quickly as possible.

  "If you'll pardon me," she said, looking him in the eye, "I was on my way back to the house for supplies."

  He didn't move. His large, powerfully made body blocked her exit.

  "Quite a tender scene between you and Stephen."

  The pulse point at the base of her throat sprang to violent life. "I have no idea what you're talking about, Mr. McKenna. Now if you'll excuse me..." She allowed her words to trail off meaningfully. A gentleman would immediately recognize the question implicit in her silence.

  However, a gentleman McKenna was not.

  "'Darling girl,'" he drawled, the words like acid from his tongue. "What else does he call you, Alexandra? What does he call you at night when he climbs between your sheets?"

  She raised her hand to strike him but he grabbed her wrist and held it fast, his large fingers overlapping by several inches. The sudden fierce sound of bones cracking echoed in her brain and it took her a moment to realize it was her imagination and not her wrist snapping apart like a dry wishbone.

  "Let me go," she said, her voice low and controlled.

  He laughed and tightened his grip. "So you can try to break my nose? Not bloody likely."

  "Let me go or I'll push you down the stairs." She tried not to think of the fact that she would go tumbling down the stairs with him if she did.

  A certain grudging admiration flared in his eyes but was quickly masked. "I want to know what in hell is going on between you and Lowell."

  "Nothing is going on. I met him for the first time yesterday at the railroad depot and I think he's a very kind man."

  His grip on her wrist loosened a fraction. "I don't believe a damned thing you're saying."

  "And I don't very much care, Mr. McKenna, what you believe."

  Abruptly he released her wrist and she suppressed the urge to rub the spot where her skin blazed red.

  "He's going to Europe?" McKenna asked.

  "I advise you to ask Mr. Lowell."

  "I don't talk to the bastard."

  "Perhaps you should," she said, growing increasingly aware of how quiet the attic room was—and of how very alone they were. "You might learn something about proper behavior."

  "I don't give a good goddamn about proper behavior. I want to know what that he's up to."

  "Sir, I am not accustomed to hearing such language in polite conversation. I'll thank you to hold your tongue."

  He looked at her as if seeing her for the first time and she took a step backward.

  "I'm sorry," he said as the faintest of smiles flickered across his face. "It's been a long time since I've had a polite conversation. It won't happen again, Miss Glenn."

  He swept low in a mocking bow but the twinkle in his blue-green eyes caused her to soften toward him for the first time.

  "Yes, Stephen is going to Europe," she offered.

  "Do you know why?"

  "To tour the galleries."

  "Nothing more?"

  "I am not Mr. Lowell's confidante."

  Those startling eyes of his narrowed as he took her full measure. "You're telling the truth."

  "I have no reason to lie."

  "Women rarely need reasons for deception. It is part of their nature."

  "Clearly your judgment leaves much to be desired."

  "You will never know just how right you are, Miss Glenn."

  She hurried through the carriage house then, hiking her skirts up over her anklebones, she started to race toward the big house when she was grabbed from behind by a pair of strong male hands.

  "A word of advice," McKenna breathed into her ear. "I'll be watching every step you make. There'll be no secrets in this house."

  "Do as you will," she snapped, "but here is a word of advice for you: If you lay your hands upon me one more time, I will find the longest butcher knife I can and plunge it into your black heart."

  She picked up her skirts once again and his mocking laugh followed her as she marched back toward the house.

  #

  Matthew's experience with women had been limited to those who could be bought with his hard-earned money and those who could be rented. His wife Madolyn was no exception. She didn't walk the streets in a tight-fitting satin gown but she had sold herself to the highest bidder same as one of Madame Olga's girls.

  And now, seven years later, he was still paying the price.

  So was it any wonder he found it difficult to believe that Alexandra was telling the truth about her connection with Stephen Lowell? Alexandra Glenn was a magnificent woman. Standing there in her dress of royal purple she had the manner of one born to nobility, a grace born of the blood even though he'd been told she was the child of farmers. Her fury had been sharp and pure and not once had she struck a false note in her short, angry answers to his heated and clumsy questions.

  Where another woman would have pouted prettily then resorted to adorable tears to sway him, Alexandra Glenn stared him straight in the eye and threatened to push him down the staircase then impale him with a butcher knife. Hardly the actions of the practiced flirt accustomed to the ways of men.

  He laughed out loud. Definitely not the actions of a woman who was intent upon seduction.

  But then she hadn't treated Stephen Lowell that way, had she? The sight of Lowell's blonde head bent low over her hands, his mouth pressed against the flesh of her palms, tore at him. Her beautiful face had registered an intoxicating blend of astonishment and wonder and fear and in the blink of an eye, he imagined himself bent over her, breathing in the perfume that followed her like a cloud of wildflowers.

  He imagined himself taking her fast and savagely, spending himself inside the richness of her body and being done with it. He knew all too well the tricks women used to control a man and he was immune to them all now.

  Yet still he wanted her.

  Mindlessly.

  Senselessly.

  Dangerously.

  In less than twenty-four hours she had somehow gotten beneath his armor and ignited a spark that had long lain dormant. He wasn't fool enough to think this was love for he knew love was an illusion. What he felt was lust and what he wanted to do about it was elemental.

  He watched as she hurried toward the house. The attic was a stinking mess. He couldn't imagine a woman like Alexandra Glenn soiling her hands cleaning it. He'd bet a ten-dollar gold piece that before this day was over she'd run crying to Stephen Lowell and one of the maids would be on her knees scrubbing the attic floor.

  But, by God, this amber-eyed woman was beautiful. Watching her, he could almost forget the perfidy such beauty could mask.

  She stopped in the doorway and looked back, her eyes searching the grounds until she found him. She made no motion nor did he. They merely looked at one another for what seemed a very long time then she disappeared inside.

  What did it matter that he wanted her?

  Maybe in another time or place it would have been possible to play out the delightful scenario his imagination had been conjuring up, but not now. Now he must watch and wait.

  And, when the nights of wanting grew dark and long, he would do what he did best: he would drink until he didn't hurt any more.

  #

  It was good to feel useful again.

  Al
exandra wiped her hands on the cotton apron Janine had given her, then stood back to survey her handiwork. There was no denying the attic was still in need of attention but soap and water had wrought wonders. Cobwebs no longer dangled from the rafters nor dustballs skitter along the floor planks. Late afternoon sun filtered through windows that sparkled for the first time in years.

  Of course, that same sunshine had one distinct drawback: it enabled Alexandra to clearly see the appalling condition of the art work stored in the attic. How on earth had Andrew Lowell ever held his own work in such flagrant disregard? Alexandra had modeled for enough artists to know that most of them believed their creations to be second only to the creation of the world by the Almighty. Indeed, each time she herself had turned out a particularly fine watercolor, she felt a thrill of pride unequalled by anything in her experience.

  It simply didn't make sense that a man like Lowell would turn out masterpiece after masterpiece only to let them turn to dust in the attic of a carriage house. There were a thousand things she longed to ask him but if their first meeting was a portent of things to come, she doubted she would ever have the opportunity. The extent of his illness had been painfully obvious both by his appearance and by the way Stephen and Matthew and the dark-haired woman Dayla revolved around him like planets around a dying sun.

  Stephen, of course, had every right to be solicitous of Andrew. Andrew was blood; the Lowell heritage flowed through both of them. She dared not wonder what kept Matthew and Dayla by his side.

  "Miss?"

  Alexandra jumped and turned toward the door. "Janine! I didn't hear you."