Dragon Tamer

by Jane Bonander

  Eleanor drew a deep breath, expelling it slowly. She needed to find out why he wouldn’t release her vessel. That was reason enough to go, if there was no other.

  “I guess it would be all right,” she said.

  His smile dazzled. “Of course it will.”

  Suddenly from behind her, Eleanor heard footsteps. She tensed until Lydia spoke.

  “Hello, Mr. Pirate.”

  Dante bowed. “Mademoiselle princess. You look lovely today.”

  She came and stood next to Eleanor, who noticed she was wearing some of Butterfly’s gaudy jewelry and had swept her hair on top of her head, holding it there with a strip of cloth.

  Lydia took a step forward. “Did you know that ‘dreamt’ is the only word in the English language that ends in ‘mt’?”

  Dante nodded. “Ah, very interesting. But did you know that the giant squid has the largest eyes in the world?”

  Lydia studied him seriously. “You sure know a lot about the sea.”

  “Perhaps,” he offered, “but when I was your age, I didn’t know half of what you know.” He nodded toward Eleanor, then picked up the carpet and slung it over his shoulder. He gave her a questioning look, and she motioned to the back of the house.

  “I shall return,” he promised.

  Both Lydia and Eleanor continued to stare at the door.

  “I think he’s the handsomest, most nicest man I’ve ever met,” Lydia commented. She turned to Eleanor. “Don’t you, Aunt Ellie?”

  Eleanor raised her eyebrows, still mentally reeling from the change in him. “Well, he’s certainly the most unpredictable.”

  She sat next to him in his carriage, certain that every eye was watching as they drove to his house.

  If she had only known him as he was today, a handsome, pleasant gentleman with a dazzling smile, she might have fallen in love with him herself. But that was a foolish thought. She wasn’t his type, and he certainly wasn’t hers. She could, however, imagine having a man like him for a friend, if he could fight his way out of antiquity and treat her as his equal.

  They stopped in front of a handsome Welles-Gray duplex townhouse at the corner of Kingston and Summer. It was painted gray to emulate stone, but she knew that it was built of brick.

  “This form of housing was introduced by Charles Bulfinch, wasn’t it?”

  He shot her a look of surprise. “Yes. How did you know that?”

  She chuckled, a low sound that came from her chest. “Like Lydia, I have a head filled with useless trivia.”

  He continued to stare at her, and she found it extremely disconcerting. Finally he alit and came around to help her out.

  She had to force herself not to gape in awe when she stepped into the entrance hall. Directly in front of her was a grand staircase with Georgian-style turned balusters and a mahogany handrail. To the right, down a hall that led to another part of the house, was a marble-topped walnut side-board flanked by two balloon-back side chairs with embroidered stitching in the cushions. A handsome seascape in a heavy gold frame was hung from silk cords over the sideboard.

  “I’m already impressed,” she said honestly.

  He removed her cape and hung it on the oak mirrored hall rack to the left of the staircase and put her gloves and bonnet on the seat.

  As Eleanor continued to admire the foyer, a trim man with a thick head of salt-and-pepper hair stepped into view.

  “Horace,” Dante said, “this is Mrs. Eleanor Rayburn. We’ll be in the library. Would you have Mrs. McGill prepare some tea?”

  Horace glanced at Eleanor, the barest hint of a smile on his lips. With a nod in her direction, he said, “Of course, sir.”

  Dante led Eleanor into his library.

  Eleanor stopped and stared. “Oh, my,” she said, barely above a whisper. She gazed at the built-in bookshelves on either side of the fireplace, filled top to bottom with books of every size and shape. She was most impressed to see that they all looked well used, and weren’t there just to impress visitors.

  “I want to show you what I’m working on.” He took her elbow and led her toward a long pedestal desk, the top of which was barely visible because of stacks of papers and books. He picked up a sheaf of papers and handed them to her.

  She took them, reading the top sheet. My Quest to Save Marine Life, it said in bold, masculine script, by Dante Templeton.

  She opened the first page and began to read. Page after page she leafed through, her interest growing greater with each entry.

  This was amazing. He had catalogued plants and animals that she had never even heard of. He’d drawn them in intricate detail, dividing them into the sections of the oceans where they thrived.

  Carrying the papers with her, she crossed to one of a pair of comfortable-looking wing chairs that flanked a low table, curled up in it, and continued to read Dante’s scripted words.

  He wrote of “swimming with dolphins,” describing their intelligence and humor as if they were human. He wrote of waters so blue, they took his breath away, of passive yet extremely unsightly lizards called “land iguanas” and agile, slick marine iguanas that could attach themselves to the rocks and withstand the blasts from the waves. And of turtles so old, they had seen a century come and go.

  I came across a tortoise weighing well over two hundred pounds eating a cactus. The leader of the settlement on Charles Island explained that once they had found one so large, it had taken eight men to lift it and when they butchered it, it gave over two hundred pounds of meat.

  I also discovered that the tortoises that live in the higher elevations where it is lush and green are fond of water and will travel great distances to get it. They can drink large quantities and when their bladders are distended with fluid, it is like a storage place.

  After a long period without drinking, the volume of fluid decreases and the fluid itself becomes less pure. The locals, if they find themselves thirsty down on the dry coastal plain, will often kill a tortoise just to drink the contents of the bladder.

  But what if they continue this slaughter? What happens to this unique animal, when they have disappeared because of the ease with which the natives have killed it for food and drink?

  Although I find it abhorrent that a man will kill a tortoise because he needs food, when there is other, more abundant prey available, it’s abominable to think the species could die out because men kill them so they can drink their urine.

  His words, so passionate and insightful, held her spellbound.

  Because the room was warm, Eleanor absently unbuttoned the top two buttons of her gown and fanned herself with the papers she held in her hand.

  Someone stepped to her side. She looked up to find Horace holding a tray with tea service and some delightful fruit-filled cookies. He placed the tray on the low table.

  “Mr. Dante will return soon, madam,” he informed her.

  She glanced up, surprised and foolishly frightened at the thought of being in his home alone. “He’s gone?”

  Another almost-smile. “No, madam. He’s in the kitchen with Mrs. McGill, the cook.”

  She frowned, finding it an unlikely place for a man like Dante. “Does he often hang about in the kitchen?”

  When Horace graced her with a kind smile, she wished she hadn’t spoken.

  “As often as he must, madam.” He turned to leave.

  “Horace?”

  He turned at the door. “Madam?”

  “Have you been with Mr. Templeton a long time?”

  “Many years.”

  His eyes softened when he spoke, and Eleanor instinctively knew he and Dante had forged a strong bond. She also had the feeling there was something between them that bridged the gap between man and servant.

  She raised a sheet of paper toward him. “How long has he been doing this?”

  “For many years, madam.”

  “Does he often leave for lengthy periods of time?”

  Horace thought a moment. “I believe the longest he has been away is three years
. He has a similar voyage coming up next year. I think.”

  Eleanor sank against the back of the chair. “Three years,” she almost whispered. That was a long time to be away from home. It was as bad as whaling.

  Once again her gaze went to the tea and the plate of cookies. “Horace, I’d like to freshen up before I have tea.”

  “Yes, madam. Up the stairs and second door to your right.”

  Eleanor took the stairs, glancing at the pictures that graced the walls on the way up. They were mostly of the sea and ships.

  At the top of the stairs she turned right and found herself in what was undoubtedly Dante’s bedroom. Feeling a bit flustered, she was about to return to the hall when an enormous picture on the far wall caught her eye. With a pinch of guilt, she crossed the floor and, while a flush crept into her cheeks, she studied the painting.

  She had seen a smaller print of it before. It was, she remembered, called The Happy Lovers, painted by Jean-Honoré Fragonard. She stepped back to gain a better perspective of the voluptuous young woman who was being embraced and kissed by a handsome young man.

  It wasn’t a cynically sexual picture. It was purely about love. The young woman in the picture was naked, and the young man clothed. He supported her back with manly ease. As beautiful as the painting was, Eleanor guessed that it was not painted for a woman’s fantasy, but purely for a man’s.

  Intrigued with his choice in art, she crossed to a smaller painting near the door, and clapped a hand over her mouth to stop a gasp. Never had she seen one like this! Common sense and propriety urged her to leave the room. Curiosity compelled her to stay.

  The illustration depicted a family scene—with a seductive twist. Sitting naked in a chair on a wide, pillared porch was a man. He held a naked woman on his lap. One hand fondled her bosom, the other rested on her soft stomach. He had…entered her, for her legs were eagerly spread.

  Although Eleanor scornfully wondered if the two had actually sat for the portrait, she found it hard to keep her eyes off it.

  The woman’s head was turned, and she caught the man’s kiss. Her hands rested on a child’s bed. A child reclined inside. The etching was signed Marcantonio Raimondi.

  Beside the painting, in an ornate brushed gold frame, was a poem. She bent to read it.

  Sleep, my child, close your eyes

  Like the song says.

  And you, and you, charming mother,

  See how the assault of my cock wakes up your con

  Eleanor’s blush deepened, but she read on:

  What a most enjoyable exercise

  Regular movement, my how you are sweet!

  We do our jobs very well, us two

  I cradle, I rock, and you screw.

  At the bottom was a name—Pietro Aretino. Eleanor released a giddy, if astonished breath and stood mesmerized.

  Realizing that she was loitering in a very dangerous area, she rushed from the room. On the landing, she nearly bumped into Horace.

  “You found the room, madam?”

  She nodded in quick, jerky movements, then all but ran down the stairs. Once in the library again, she caught her breath, pressing a shaky hand to her heart to keep it from flying from her chest. When she was certain her hands had stopped trembling, she poured herself a cup of tea, sipping it slowly, scolding herself for sneaking around in Dante’s bedroom.

  Her embarrassment served her right. But he need never know. And she surely wouldn’t tell him!

  Although she scolded herself for thinking about it, she wondered how many women had been invited into his bedroom. In other words, how many women had he pleasured? Many, she had no doubt. And he was probably very good at it.

  And although she would never admit it to another soul, even she had felt those fleeting stirrings of arousal when she studied the art.

  A thought began to germinate in her mind, but she shoved it away, for it was too outrageous to consider.

  She inhaled deeply and appraised the library. In this room there were no lewd and sexual pictures. At least, she thought, eyeing the bookcase with a bit of skepticism, not visible. The room had warmth. Dante no doubt loved it dearly.

  Feeling warm near the fire, she placed her teacup on the table and crossed to a tall display cabinet. Inside, enhanced by the mirrored back, she found rows of scrimshawed whales’ teeth.

  She scolded herself for snooping, but decided that nothing she saw here could possibly be as outrageous as what she’d seen upstairs. She opened the doors and studied the pieces further. Most were of ships or whales or other marine life. But one, she noticed, was of a young man. Curious, she lifted it out and studied it.

  It was a drawing of a handsome lad, perhaps midteens, with a shock of curly hair and a generous smile. The artist had done a magnificent job in capturing the young man’s personality, she thought. She replaced it, shut the cabinet door, and strolled to a folded card table that stood against the wall between the windows, above which was a sketch that she suddenly realized was of the same young man.

  Then it hit her. Damien. It had to be. The likeness was not Dante, the hair was wrong, as was the face. Still, there was a similarity.

  A sound behind her made her turn. What she saw nearly sent her reeling.

  “Who in the devil are you?” The intruder stood in the library doorway, one hand on her hip and the other twirling a blue velvet bonnet by the satin ribbons.

  Eleven

  Marguerite Banning wore a royal blue dress with a fitted bodice and pagoda sleeves. Her tiered skirt fell effortlessly over her hoops. She looked very beautiful.

  Eleanor felt sick to her stomach, but swallowed her unease and stepped forward, planning to introduce herself. “I’m—”

  “Do I know you?” the mistress interrupted, eyeing her.

  Eleanor forced a tight smile. “We’ve never been formally introduced, but—”

  “I’ve seen you somewhere,” the mistress interrupted again, her smooth, alabaster brow furrowing. She suddenly sighed and shrugged, dismissing the thought. “It doesn’t matter. If it had been important, I’m sure I would have remembered.”

  In an instant, Eleanor’s feelings of inadequacy fell away. The woman might be beautiful, but she was crass, shallow, and rude as well. “Yes, you’re probably right—”

  “But what are you doing here?” she interrupted again.

  Eleanor was not feeling one bit remorseful. “Why, Dante invited me.” At the mistress’s shocked expression, Eleanor continued. “Mrs. McGill prepared tea for us,” she said, motioning to the tea tray on the low table.

  The mistress continued to frown. “Mrs. McGill?”

  “Why, yes. The cook. Surely you know—”

  “Yes, yes,” the mistress interrupted again with a dismissive swoop of her arm.

  Eleanor touched her cheek, noting that it was still warm, undoubtedly from her foray in the forbidden—Dante’s bedroom. As she lowered her hand, her fingers grazed her open collar.

  Embarrassed at having been caught so ill-dressed, she hastened to button her dress. “I guess I got rather carried away. But then,” she said, “you would know much better than I how Dante can make one forget about the time.”

  She’d meant it sarcastically, but the moment the words were out, she wished she could have taken them back, for they had sounded intimate, and she hadn’t meant them to.

  The mistress glared at her, her eyes nearly bulging from her head as she discharged a loud shriek. “Dante!”

  Surprisingly, Dante stepped into the room. “Marguerite,” he said tersely, “what are you doing here?”

  The mistress whirled, her hoops nearly displacing half the furniture in the room. “Who is this…this wretched woman?”

  He frowned. “You haven’t been introduced? Marguerite Banning, this is—”

  “I don’t give a damn who she is, Dante Templeton. What is she doing here?”

  In silence, hoping to be completely unobtrusive, Eleanor watched the exchange, noting that the mistress’s complexion had
become mottled with rage.

  “I believe she was reading.” He turned to Eleanor. “You were reading, isn’t that right, my dear?”

  Eleanor coughed, nearly choking on the intimate address. “Yes, I was…I was reading,” she answered honestly. Well, she had been reading before she went upstairs.

  The enraged mistress expelled another shriek, her gaze swinging from Dante to Eleanor. “I don’t believe you. Either of you. Why, her…her dress was unbuttoned, and…and she as much as admitted that—” she sputtered, unable to continue.

  Dante gave her a look of mock disbelief. “Why, Marguerite. We were merely having…tea,” he finished, after a suggestive pause.

  “Tea!” she spat. She turned, giving Eleanor a scathing look before facing Dante again. “How could you? She…she’s nothing. She’s no one.” The mistress shook her head in disbelief. “Look at her gown. It’s…drab and homely and ugly.”

  By the look in his eyes, Eleanor deemed that Dante had had enough.

  “Marguerite, what do you want?”

  The mistress pressed a hand to her mouth and looked as though she was trying to gather her wits. “I…I came for my clothes.”

  Dante steered her toward the door. “Didn’t I tell you not to ever come unannounced, and that if you did, you would no longer be welcome here?”

  She went with him, although Eleanor wasn’t sure how willingly.

  “Yes, but…I thought, I mean, I didn’t think you meant it.” Her voice was meek now, as if she were trying to atone for her appalling behavior.

  “I never say things I don’t mean.” His voice was cold, indifferent. “Horace has put your things in your carriage. Now, good day, Marguerite.”

  “But…but Dante, darling—”

  “Good day, Marguerite,” he repeated emphatically.

  The front door closed and Eleanor waited, hardly daring to breathe, until Dante returned to the library. When he did, he looked at her, his brows gathered over his eyes, and shook a finger at her. “Shame, shame, Eleanor.”

  Her flush deepened and her guilt at trespassing into his private domain made her defensive. “What? What did I do?” Oh, what if Horace had seen her coming out of Dante’s bedroom, and told him so?