“I know that china. My grandmother had some.” The delicate porcelain and the smell of Chantilly perfume were about all she did recall of her grandmother. The old woman had died when she was six. She thought about mentioning this to Alex, but old habits of reticence were deeply ingrained. She was not in the habit of sharing any details about herself, not even those of the long-since past.
“Je regrette. You cannot escape, monsieurs,” she heard Alex say to their dinner.
Harmony hurried toward the dining room, hands over her ears in case lobsters did make noise when they expired. She wanted to keep her appetite for Alex’s feast. After all, it wasn’t every day that a girl had the chance to eat a meal prepared and served by Alexandre Dumas.
She found the dining room without difficulty, and it was a strange enough room to make her pause in the doorway. Ivy was growing all over the interior wall that faced east. It showed none of the dispirited pallor of a reluctant houseplant either; rather, it was bursting with green vigor. That someone was aware of the ivy’s power was obvious, because it had been trimmed from around the six long, narrow windows that were set in the thick wall. Harmony knew from past experience that the ivy would be the ruination of the plaster when the roots ate deeply enough into it, but it looked so charming and smelled so nice that she understood why Alex had left it. That this was Alex’s doing she did not doubt for even a minute. The cottage’s caretaker was probably scandalized at the owner’s eccentricity.
A short hunt showed her where the first strand of ivy had wormed its way through an ill-fitting casement on the far right window. Roots had burrowed into the wood. To have grown this much, the plant had to have been there for at least a half a decade.
The irresponsible whimsy of the act made her smile. This was something she never would have expected of the legendary Alexandre Dumas. Nothing she had read about this swashbuckler, spendthrift, and egoist would have led her to believe that he would be protective of the island flora. He was a hunter and had a reputation for fighting duels with only minimal provocation, and she herself had seen how ruthless and cold he could be when danger threatened. Yet, here was her third proof of his compassion for the out-of-place creature that crossed his path. Alex had saved her—a stray human—then the stray dog, and now this straying plant. And he was doing whatever he could to see that they all thrived.
Forcing the casement open, she leaned out and saw that the outside of the wall was likewise festooned with ivy. The vines were thicker, much older and tougher, the leaves dark and waxy. Some strands were as thick as her fingers and looked strong enough to climb down the cliff almost to the high-water line. She didn’t test her theory, though—there would be no Darwin Award for her.
A breeze attacked her suddenly, and Harmony blinked under the assault. Her eyes began to water and her face began tingling. Perhaps it was the salt in the sea air. It was certainly brisk. In fact…squinting, she looked up at the sky. She couldn’t see the sun, but it seemed to her that the light had dimmed considerably in the last hour, though sunset was still a ways away. Perhaps they would have fog, or maybe a storm.
The thought of a squall made her draw back in and secure the window as best she could without harming the ivy. Her nervous system must have still been on red alert, her subconscious still sufficiently outraged by her recent experiences that even the consideration of facing another storm made her nervous.
“Coward. Saint Germain is thousands of miles away.” The words were true enough, but she didn’t feel entirely reassured. She wished she knew more about him and all the strange things Alex had talked about him doing. But in all the books in the cottage, she doubted he had a copy of Zombies for Dummies or The Necromancer’s Cookbook—if such things even existed. They might not. It couldn’t be a popular pastime for people or she would have heard of it before.
“Just let it go. Do something useful. Find the dishes and get the table set.”
Harmony found the china Alex wanted after a bit of a search in the oaken bureau. The collection in the old carved cabinet was eclectic and carelessly stored, stacked as high as it could go without running into the shelves above. She found in a drawer some linen napkins and a tablecloth of slightly yellowed brocade, which she spread over the table, trying to press out the creases with her hands. Next she folded the napkins into limp but recognizable swans. If Alex could be whimsical, so could she.
Last, she added two candlesticks, the bases thick with wax but still having stubs long enough to light. A part of her thought it would be good to have candles in case the storm were bad enough to make the house lose power.
Having lingered as long as she reasonably could, she walked slowly back toward the kitchen carrying two large platters, but prepared to bolt again if the lobsters were still begging for mercy.
“Come—it’s safe,” Alex assured her as she lingered in the doorway. “And you will miss the fun part if you don’t come now. I added balsamic vinegar before our guests joined the pot, and made an essential reduction of the sauce. The necessary deed accomplished, I have removed our shelled friends and strained the court boullion. The reduction is by itself delicious, but now I add the magic.”
Harmony laid the platters near the stove. The copper dunce cap had been removed from the rice pan and replaced with a more traditional lid, though it was indented rather like a saucer for a teacup. The flame was turned quite low but continued to dance. Inside the strainer Harmony could see onion and carrot and a now badly wilted bundle of herbs. Of the lobsters there was no sign. They were probably still drowning in their watery—well, vinegary—grave. She resisted the urge to peep into the pot.
“First, we need music. One cannot cook without music.” Alex began singing a song in French that she vaguely recognized as being from Donizetti’s opera The Elixir of Love. His voice was pure and strong. It gave Harmony goose bumps to realize that he had probably sung this song with the great master himself. He and Donizetti had been good friends, and both men had loved to cook.
Alex rummaged in another cupboard and emerged holding a dusty bottle and a wine opener. He paused in his aria to blow the dust off the bottle, carefully turning from the stove so it would not pollute their dinner.
“Cognac,” he said with satisfaction. He used an implement Harmony had never seen to cut away the wax that covered the cork, and then inserted the opener. His movements were sure and dextrous, as though he had done this a thousand times—which he probably had. “Old, exquisite, and strong. If this dish were not so delicious I should consider it sacrilege to use a fine liqueur this way. But the recipe is that perfect. Here, monsieurs langoustes, have a drink with my compliments.” Not unexpectedly, given his earlier lack of restraint, Alex upended the bottle and poured in the entire contents. A gout of vapor rolled out of the pot.
As he had predicted, it smelled delicious.
“Mmmmm.” Harmony almost moaned. Suddenly she was ravenous.
“Did you ever read of my duel with Albert Vandam?” Alex asked.
“Yes. Did it really happen?” Harmony said. “It sounded a bit—well, apocryphal.”
“Indeed, it did happen. We met on the field of honor—my kitchen—armed with soup spoons. I defeated him with my soupe aux choux.” He sounded smug. “How could he have doubted my abilities?”
“Is it true that you wore only an apron because nudity would intimidate the Englishman?”
“Non—I removed my shirt because of the heat, but not my pants. An accident in the kitchen could be very bad for a naked man,” Alex said severely, but his black eyes twinkled. He used his hand to reach into the crock and smear the last of the butter over the two platters. He then wiped his hands on a towel.
Harmony didn’t envy whoever ended up cleaning after his “kitchen magic,” and hoped that it wouldn’t be her.
Alex opened the rice pot, stepping back from a billow of steam. Ignoring his gauntlets, he lifted the pot and upended it over the platter. The pan had to be terribly hot, but he never flinched. He poured the pink r
ice and ham onto the first serving dish. Elegant curls of fragrant air swirled above the plate. Harmony all but drooled.
“There are some wilted greens in the other pan,” Alex said, and Harmony noticed a small saucepan at the back of the stove, hidden by the cauldron. There were indeed wilted greens in the pot. She couldn’t tell what kind, only that they were glossy with butter. “Please put them in that small bowl,” Alex requested. “You will like them. I had this recipe from President Roosevelt’s splendid wife.”
“You have no fear of fat, have you?” she asked, stepping around the far side of the stove. She began to dish up what looked like dandelion stems and leaves.
“Cholesterol—a myth made up by puritanical Americans to ruin what they consider a sinful enjoyment of food.” Alex all but sneered. “And now for our main course. Watch this. You will agree the cognac has been put to noble use.”
He reached inside the cauldron with a pair of tongs and removed the first lobster. He twirled it left and right so that Harmony could admire the patina it had acquired. The angry red of boiled crustacean had been muted by the thick cognac sauce. The lobster gleamed a beautiful mahogany brown against the jade-colored platter. Its twin joined it shortly, along with the oysters.
“And now we feast,” Alex said, picking up the two platters and heading for the dining room. “If you will fetch the greens and the bottle of wine I set out?”
“Of course.”
“And after dinner we shall work on the second chapter of your book,” he called back. “It seems the only way to get to know your playful side. It is sad that you are so reserved, but I do not despair.”
“I’m not reserved,” Harmony denied. But she was. Sadly, there wasn’t a person on the planet with whom she was completely forthcoming.
I do not despair, he’d said.
He probably didn’t. Why would Alex despair of getting anything he wanted from her? He was Alexandre Dumas, immortal lover extraordinaire and powerful psychic who could read her feelings as easily as—well, a book. He would know she was at least a little in love with him. And he already knew she could be made to want him to the point of complete mindlessness, and he apparently had all eternity to spend on getting to know whatever he wanted—which wasn’t her body. At least, not unless he was high on some storm.
Harmony was suddenly feeling baffled and frustrated again. She could ignore their attraction for a while when something more urgent came up, but the same questions always eventually raised their hackles and demanded attention. Did he want her, or not?
It couldn’t be loneliness that prompted this interest in her—he’d had a century to learn to cope with that—and she wasn’t that beautiful, unique, or fascinating. Compared to his psychic gifts, she was nothing—a baby taking its first steps.
“But why, then?” she asked the mute walls.
Could it really be about her book and wanting to mentor her?
Harmony almost groaned and reached for the wine that was breathing on the far end of the table. Never mind Alex’s motivations—what was she doing in Cornwall? Was it really all about writing a book while Alex figured out what next to do with his nemesis? And if that was her reason for being here—and she wasn’t open to considering any other, since it would mean she was foolish, if not downright stupid, given his indirect statements about not wanting to have an affair—why couldn’t it be his, too? It almost had to be what he claimed—a desire to mentor her and nothing more. He could have sent her anywhere and she would probably be as safe. In fact, probably safer. Instead he had chosen to bring her to an island where no one lived and where they would have no interruptions from the outside world.
Like Alex, The Spider couldn’t have intimate relationships; she knew that now, and he did too—he’d even said so. So, if not for her safety and not out of desire for a fling, then why bring her here? It had to be to write.
The thought was a little flattening, but it added up. Alex had mentored young writers before. And she would be a fool to turn down his offer of help just because she was frustrated and a bit piqued. Alex had been very kind about her writing, taking time away from his own project to work with her. He praised her style and helped her with her plot pacing. Why wasn’t she happy with this—accepting of her good fortune—and relaxing while she did what she’d always wanted?
She had her answer even as she asked the question.
It was because everything felt so much more urgent now that he was with her. She was aware of a whole other world now—a dangerous one that seemed to be aware of her, too. This made her feel exceptionally alive. It made her want to indulge all her senses, including her sexual ones.
But Alex seemed utterly determined that she finish the book as soon as possible, as though sensing somehow that their time for working together was limited. The book had to be done at this time, or not at all. Relaxing wasn’t an option.
That wasn’t something she wanted to think about, though. It had taken her the better part of the day and night to forget about the insane, impossible mess in Mexico. She didn’t want to be reminded of their troubles right before eating what might be the best meal of her life, prepared by the most interesting man she would ever know.
Be present, she told herself. Tomorrow and all its problems will arrive soon enough.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
It is almost as difficult to keep a first-class person in a fourth-class job as it is to keep a fourth-class person in a first-class job.
—Alexandre Dumas
All human wisdom is summed up in two words; wait and hope.
—Alexandre Dumas
Men’s minds are raised to the level of the women with whom they associate.
—Alexandre Dumas
The Spider
Chapter Two
An unexpected chill came with the twilight, reminding Gillian that, unlike California, where summer could linger on into October, autumn in the northern latitudes was loitering right around the corner, waiting for a chance to move in on northern England.
A few dried sticks had been left in the library hearth, and a match was all it took to set a small blaze alight. The fire did very little to heat the room, except perhaps for the dark rafters high overhead, but it provided great psychological comfort as Gillian toured her way through Carter’s impressive library. There wasn’t any title newer than turn-of-the-century gracing the oaken shelves, leading her to believe that the most recent owners were not of a bookish bent. Most of the titles were quite daunting actually, favoring as they did works of classical Greek and eighteenth-century agricultural experiments. But eventually she found a well-thumbed folio of Shakespeare’s works and curled up in one of the giant, flower-spattered armchairs to have the long, uninterrupted read she’d been promising herself all day.
But her mind was unusually active that night, listening with half an ear to the unfamiliar wind rubbing through the elms’ leaves and whispering through the yew, and hearing all the noises that an old house makes as it settles in for the night. Even the Dutch clock in the entry hall sounded portentous with its muffled but monotonous ticking.
Something snapped in the grate. With a start, Gillian realized that she had fallen into a self-induced trance and been staring at the same passage for several minutes.
“‘By the pricking of my thumbs—something wicked this way comes. Open locks, whoever knocks.’ Ah, great bard! You have a bon mot for every obsession.”
Gillian closed the heavy cover on Macbeth’s bloody antics and set the tome aside. It was probably a poor choice for an evening when her mind was spinning sinister plots. What she needed was some of Dr. Henderson’s quiet meditation rituals to help her focus in on a more relaxing subject.
Off went the reading glass and the lamp on the reading table, leaving the dwindling fire to light the fretful shadows that hung lethargically in the beams overhead. Gillian hugged her knees up tight against her chest and tried hard to visualize Dr. Henderson’s cheery red balloon sailing off into a deep blue sky.
&
nbsp; She abandoned the effort ten minutes later. The fact was, she was too restless for reading or meditation. It happened sometimes when she was starting a new project. And this undertaking was going to be a challenge. She had finally achieved the degree of fame that would allow her to branch out into other styles of writing. Not that she was giving up on romances—not at all! But maybe it was time to include more Byzantine plot elements in her heroine’s love affairs. Perhaps add some more sophisticated psychological thrills.
The trouble was, her brain refused to be linear in its thinking. It wasn’t constructing a well-ordered, contemporary plot for the heroine who was supposed to be vacationing in sunny Hawaii. Instead it was twisting about like a cold wind in a graveyard, imagining all sorts of creepy, gothic things that could happen in her new residence. Like the phantom footsteps of a headless cavalier approaching the door of the library with his fleshless skull tucked under a bloodied arm.
She could feel the hairs on her nape rising at the ghastly image—a sure sign that she needed to get up and do something distracting before she came down with a case of nineteenth-century-style hysterics.
A creak from the rear of the darkened room got her starting upright and turning swiftly to peer over the back of the chair where she’d been kneeling.
Seeing that there actually was something hovering in the door, Gillian gave a small scream that was quite loud in the silence that had fallen over the house, and began considering the advisability of hurling herself out of one of the two sets of French doors before the ghost could capture her in its cold, bloody embrace. But she was at heart a sensible woman, not prone to hysterics, and she quickly put aside any notions of fleeing into the night. Two seconds of observation showed her that she was not confronting a ghost. No incorporeal being would look so appalled at a little shrieking. Or wear black jeans with an equally dark pullover and black gloves. Also, his handsome head was still attached to his moderately wide shoulders. There was not a drop of blood in sight.
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