Barbara bretton, p.19
Barbara Bretton, page 19
But, wait. Lovely as she was, something was not quite right. The angle of the cheekbone was a shade too rounded. The breasts, too full. The look in her eyes held a slyness he had never before observed in Alexandra.
Was the eye of the artist seeing something he could not?
He glanced down at the oil painting Dayla had handed him that morning. Annoyed, he had propped it up against his easel at his feet, not caring to fathom what deep secrets his woman thought it possessed.
Of course.
Somehow his mind had played tricks upon him, substituting features of one girl for features of the other in an artistic give-and-take. Except for their coloring which was, indeed, vastly different, the two models actually had a great deal in common: the same proud carriage; the same intelligence blazing in their eyes. The same pronounced cheekbones and dimpled chin and--
Ridiculous.
What connection could there possibly be between a little chambermaid from the old Van Voorhies estate and a penniless art student from Provence?
The woman in the picture was young--no more than a score of years. Her long coppery-blone hair spilled over shoulders unbowed by worry while her cornflower blue eyes held the hint of a smile, as if she held a secret deep within her soul. She wore a silk kimono of the palest goldenrod with delicate embroidery tracing an exotic pattern along the sleeves and across the front. The robe had slipped down low enough to expose the rounded tops of her full young breasts and his body jerked with the sudden violent memory of their ripeness against his mouth.
"Ridiculous," he mumbled. What in hell was he thinking? He'd had a thousand models in his day. Why was he remembering the texture of this one's skin, the smell of her haikr so clearly across the years? Much as it chagrined him, perhaps Stephen was right after all. Perhaps pain did dull one's judgement and hinder one's perceptions. As if on cue, a stabbing pain radiated up his spine, and he could do naught but hold his breath until it released him. Beads of sweat trickled down his back and sides yet he felt gripped by ice, and it took a quarter hour for his body to recover from the onslaught.
Daunted, he opened his nightstand drawer and retrieved one of the pills he had stashed away.
Perhaps a good night's sleep was what he needed.
"Too hot," muttered Cook as she put away the last of the dinner dishes and untied her white apron. "'Tisn't natural to be so hot in May."
The house shimmered with a heat that not even the coming of darkness had lessened. The back door was open wide, the better to catch the breezes rising off the ocean, and the window curtains were pulled back with strips of yellow ribbon.
And still it wasn't enough.
Janine, her red hair coiled in a knot atop her head, fanned herself with her apron as the two women stepped from the airless pantry into the spacious kitchen. Cook was looking peaked, her long narrow face pale and bathed in perspiration.
She placed her hands upon the older woman's shoulders and pushed her toward the door.
"Off with you," she said, over the woman's protests. "I'll be finishin' up here. Your man is waitin' for you at the cottage." Cook sighed and murmured something about not even heat being enough to cool Johnny's ardor but she heeded Janine's advice. Janine stood in the doorway and watched as Cook made her way slowly across the wide expanse of backyard and headed toward the caretaker's cottage at the western edge of the property.
"Quiet as a morgue tonight, it is," she said to the empty kitchen then shivered as a feeling of dread settled across her, real as the banshee's cry.
"Nonsense," she said, hanging her apron up on the hook behind the door and extinguishing the gas lamp on the table. It was the heat playing tricks with her poor addled mind, it was, sure as she was standing there.
The whole house had been topsy-turvy today, a thick tangle of misunderstandings and temper that had her jumping at the sight of her own shadow. Mr. Andrew had snarled at her when she carried in his breakfast tray. Cook and Johnny hurled barbs as well as frying pans at one another in the kitchen while Arthur spilled a bottle of milk on the freshly washed floor then fell going for the mop. Even Miss Alexandra didn't take her usual breakfast then stayed in her room through dinner. And Mr. Matthew--he had come barreling into the kitchen like a house afire only to grab himself a chunk of fresh bread and head out to saddle a horse. He was a gentleman, Mr. Matthew was, and he wouldn't say a thing but Janine knew deep in her soul that Miss Alexandra was at the heart of his temper. "The heat," Cook had said.
The heat could make a body crazy.
She walked through the quiet house and out the front door to sit on the porch and look up at the stars.
A refreshing breeze wafted over her Janine's spirits rose. If her luck would be holding, spring would return with the morning sun.
All they had to do was get through the night.
Patience. Stephen crouched deeper in the shadows alongside the house. Patience was the key.
Lights still burned in the caretaker's cottage adjacent to the carriage house and he could see Johnny dozing by the open window.
All the doors and windows to the main house were flung wide and he could barely contain the thrill of excitement barreling through him.
Once again, it seemed almost too easy. This sudden heat wave was a gift from the gods, as if Fate had recognized the inequity of Stephen's situation and sought to rectify it in her own way. No need for jimmying locks or forcing windows. No shattered glass or splintered wood.
He would climb the latticework to the second floor, hoist himself onto Andrew's balcony, then stroll through the French doors as though it were his birthright.
And it was his birthright, damn it. Didn't the Lowell blood flow through his veins same as through the mighty Andrew's? Was it his fault he'd been born to a sniveling fool of a father who had put a higher store in good faith than he had in good sense and ended up with nothing.
He'd fry in hell before he let Marisa's bastard daughter take away everything he'd earned.
The azalea bush next to him rustled in the warm breeze and the redhaired maid glanced in his direction. He flattened himself against the weathered shingles and held his breath until her attention returned to the stars overhead.
Patience.
For over thirty years he had waited for this opportunity, planned for it, dreamed over it, until he doubted it would ever become a reality. It could all be destroyed by his own recklessness.
The plan was flawless. There would be no gunshot breaking the silence. No knife wound to spread a crimson stain on the white sheets. Just a chloroform-soaked rag followed swiftly by pressure applied skillfully to a windpipe and it would be over.
This was his one chance--his only chance to grab the brass ring and he had to wait until the maid retired to her third floor room and McKenna vacated the library and the house finally went dark.
The reward would be great if he could just bide his time a little bit longer.
Gabrielle's voice rushed toward Alexandra from a blackness deeper than the night.
"You cannot leave me," her friend said, eyes bright with tears. "Luc...Mireille...the baby on its way...how can we do without you?"
The cooling breezes of Provence lifted Alexandra's hair from her forehead, drying the tiny beads of sweat trickling backward from her temples.
Home.
She was finally home.
This is a dream, a voice whispered in her ear. Do not believe what you hear.
She tossed restlessly in the wide feather bed, her thin nightdress tangling around her legs and hips.
Of course she was home. Where else could she possibly be but in her room in Gabrielle and Luc's tiny cottage? Soon dawn would break over the meadows and it would be time to rise and tend to the milking and gather the eggs and--
Andrew Lowell, his white hair rising up around his face like a corona, stood before her. "Help me!" he cried, golden eyes alight with fear. "Help me!"
Abruptly she sat up in bed, her hand on her chest to still her thundering heart. The massive armoire loomed dark and dangerous in the greyness of the room and it took her a moment to remember where she was.
This wasn't Provence.
This was Easthampton and she was in Andrew Lowell's house. Once again the image of him pleading, "Help me!" sprang to mind and it seemed as if he stood before her, his golden eyes blazing a path in the darkness.
"A nightmare," she whispered. "That's all it is." But she was awake and the vision persisted until she sprang from bed and slipped into the kimono Dayla given her for the modeling sessions.
The vision of Andrew Lowell was ridiculous and she knew it. The man was probably sleeping peacefully in his room at the other end of the hall, yet the sound of his voice pleading for help lingered in her ears.
There was no hope for it. She eased open her door and tiptoed down the hall. The Persian carpet was tufted silk beneath her bare feet and the only noise in the quiet house was the sound of her breathing.
The door to Andrew's suite was open and she silently stepped into the drawinng room only to discover the door to this bedroom closed tight. All seemed as it should. She pressed her ear against the heavy oak, expecting to hear nothing save a gentle snore from within.
But it wasn't a snore she heard: it was a grunt. Soft, but unmistakable, followed by the squeaking of bedsprings and the crack of a hand against tender flesh.
Dear God! Her face flamed. She had heard intimate sounds from Gabrielle and Luc's bedroom during her months at the cottage, sounds that made her blood rush hot through her veins, and she was about to slip back to her room when she remembered this was not the room of young lovers. This room was Andrew Lowell's.
Andrew Lowell, whose hands could barely hold the finest brush, whose legs could not carry him across a room. The sounds coming from the bedroom could not possibly be the sounds of passion.
They were the sounds of struggle.
Flinging open the door, she faced her nightmare head-on: A man dressed in black leaned over Andrew's great cherrywood bed, his soft pale hands wrapped around the artist's throat. Andrew's magnificent eyes were wide with horror yet he offered no struggle. In an instant she saw the life ebbing from his body and the scream that rose from her gut echoed throughout the house.
"Let him go!" She raced toward the bed, barely registering the pain as a splinter pierced her instep, and grabbed a carafe of water from the nightstand. "Let him go this minute!"
The man's voice was a horrifying rasp, "Shut up, bitch!" His hand swung out, barely missing the side of her head.
"Help!" she screamed, throwing the carafe at him. "Somebody, please help!"
The pitcher bounced off the man's shoulder and shattered into a thousand pieces. Andrew was quick losing the battle; he drooped helplessly over the man's right arm and she knew it was only a question of moments before he stopped breathing entirely.
She heard the sound of footsteps racing down the hallway. "Hurry!" she screamed, her words tearing from her throat. Please, God!
The man leaned over Andrew; his hands gleamed white in the moonlight through the open French doors. His long aristocratic fingers wrapped themselves once again around Andrew's throat and she sprang forward, enraged, and pummeled the man's head with her fists.
Now! I need help now! What happened to the footsteps? Why was no one there?
Her fingers curved into talons and she reached for the assailant's face in a last-ditch attempt to divert him. Elation welled inside her as her nails dug deep into his flesh.
His eyes! If she could just reached his eyes, she could--
The man roared with pain and, dropping Andrew like a sack of grain, he reared back and dealt her a devastating blow to her jaw.
Pain exploded inside her head, sharp arrows of white light darting through her face and neck.
Through her haze, she saw Andrew sprawled across his bed, motionless, and she struggled to move toward him.
"Oh, no, you don't." The man's voice was low with rage as he tackled her around the waist and flung her across the room as if she were no more than a wornout blanket.
She fell gracelessly, too dazed from the initial blow to do anything to protect herself. Her left shoulder slammed into the bottom of a huge chifferobe and before the pain could reach her nerve endings, she saw the man's face.
Dear God! It couldn't be...it just couldn't be.
The yellow-haired man.
The last thing Alexandra saw before she passed out was Stephen Lowell's smile.
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Fire's Lady
Chapter Fifteen
Matthew couldn't sleep.
For two hours he'd lain motionless across his narrow bed, staring at the bottle of whiskey on his dresser. Not even whiskey could help him this time.
All day he'd pushed himself to the limits of his endurance, trying desperately to force the longing and sorrow and anger from his body.
He'd failed royally.
Alexandra Glenn haunted him at every turn. He saw her in the sun blazing overhead. He heard her in the sighing of the wind. He felt her in the fever heating his veins.
He'd stayed on the beach until well past dark then climbed the dunes to the house, sitting for a long time in the library on the offchance she would appear in the doorway. But of course she hadn't and he'd been a fool to even dream she would.
Finally, long past midnight, he rose from bed and pulled on his trousers. Sleep was as far away as ever and he knew he'd rather be outside walking the beach than inside, drowning in his own despair. Quietly he slipped from his room and was making his way down the hallway toward the staircase when he noticed the door to Andrew's suite was open wide. Dayla must have slipped down to the kitchen for a pitcher of water for the nightstand or some chips of ice to combat the overwhelming heat. He was about to continue on when a noise, low and muffled, caught his ear and he turned back.
Everything seemed normal in the anteroom, as far as he could tell without lighting a candle. Gingerly he skirted the priceless sculptures dotting the perimeter of the room and pushed open the door to Andrew's bedroom.
His mentor and friend lay face up across his wide bed, one arm dangling lifelessly over the side. Dayla, face contorted with fear, was fighting off a man who looked like Stephen Lowell.
But it wasn't until he saw Alexandra, his Alexandra, slumped on the floor near the chifferobe with a thin trickle of blood coursing down her cheek that the animal in him sprang to full and violent life.
With a primal howl he vaulted himself across the room, landing square on Stephen's back. Released from Lowell's grasp, Dayla flew to Andrew's side and her low keening wail filled the room.
"You're too late," Lowell grunted as they crashed to the floor, locked in combat. "You're too damned late."
Fury, red and ugly, burned in Matthew's gut as his fist connected with Lowell's jaw with bonecracking impact. He was beyond thought, beyond reason; the only reality was his need for revenge.
Dimly he heard Dayla's voice but her words were lost to him. Blood-lust drove him on. For each blow Stephen landed, Matthew landed two of deadly power and accuracy that did little to wipe away the agony of loss building within.
"You bastard!" he spat, knocking loose one of Lowell's teeth. "You stinking bastard."
Lowell's eyes were dilated with both fear and pain. Huge purple bruises began to stain his face and Matthew knew he had him--had him exactly where he wanted him--helpless and terrified and a heartbeat away from death.
However, he had underestimated the depth of Stephen's fury. "Go ahead!" the smaller man taunted through lips both swollen and split. "You've killed once already. This should be easy for you..."
He wanted the stink of Stephen's last blood to fill the room.
"Rot in hell, Stephen Lowell," he said, gathering power. "Rot in hell with the rest of your kind."
...killed once already...killed once already...
Lowell's words tumbled inside his brain like white-hot coals. He saw his son's tiny, broken body curled at the side of the road...saw those cornflower blue eyes staring up at the summer sky...saw Andrew slanting across the bed...the trickle of blood starkly crimson on Alexandra's pale and lifeless face...he saw it all in that one instant and all the years of pain coalesced within him.
He reared back, set to deliver the final blow, when Dayla's scream pierced the thick haze surrounding him.
"Don't, Matthew!" Her voice was high and urgent. "They live!" He hesitated, teetering on the honed edge between reason and madness. "Listen to me, Matthew: they live!"
She was asleep, surely that was it.
She was back in her bed with the warm May breeze carrying the scent and sound of the ocean into her room. The nightmare had faded, disappearing in a haze of light and heat, and she found herself drifting somewhere between sleep and wakefulness, unwilling to give herself up totally to either state.
"Alex." Something cold pressed itself against her jaw and a stinging pain flared up. "Alex, open your eyes."
She tried to turn her head away but a large hand held her still.
She pushed at the man's hand. "Stop," she mumbled. "Let me sleep."
"She's conscious," the man said and the next moment something powerful and sharp was passed beneath her nose and her eyes shot open.
"What are you doing here?" Matthew McKenna had no business at all being in her bedroom. "This is my room!"
He helped her to a sitting position, his hands gentle against her back and shoulders. "This is Andrew's room."
"Andrew's room?" She frowned as her gaze flickered over her surroundings. Shards of glass sparkled on the floor. A nightstand had been overturned and a score of books and papers were scattered across the bedclothes. And there, in the middle of the cherrywood bed, was Andrew Lowell, his bony frame cradled in the arms of the dark-haired Dayla who looked down upon him with an emotion that could only be described as love.
