Dragon Tamer Page 7

  “All right, let’s talk about love.” Lydia expelled a contented sigh and waited.

  “Hmmm. Love. Well. I’ve come to love you very much,” Eleanor admitted, giving her a squeeze.

  “Yes, yes, I know,” Lydia said impatiently. “Not that kind of love, Aunt Ellie. The kind of love Romeo had for Juliet.”

  Eleanor wasn’t surprised that Lydia had already read and undoubtedly understood Shakespeare. But how was Eleanor, who had never experienced that sort of love, to talk of it to anyone, much less a child?

  She took a deep breath. “Well, I suspect that had Romeo and Juliet lived, they would have had trouble in their lives even if their parents had finally agreed to let them marry.”

  “But, why? Doesn’t it mean a happy ending?”

  “In storybooks, maybe,” Eleanor answered. “Not in real life.”

  “You mean, no one can live happily ever after in real life?”

  Eleanor thought a moment. “I think,” she began slowly, “that for two people to live happily ever after, they must help each other through the hard times in their lives. They can’t be selfish, and they can’t be secretive. And,” she finished, “they must say they love each other every day. And…and they must kiss each morning and each evening, and they must never go to bed angry with each other.”

  She thought, too, that to share simple things with someone you loved would be priceless. Like, the sunset, or a picnic. Or watching a child play. Or laughter. Especially laughter.

  “Was your marriage like that?” Lydia asked.

  Eleanor shook her head in the darkness, suddenly realizing what she would never have. “No.”

  “Do you think anyone’s is?”

  Eleanor gave Lydia a quick hug. “Oh, I suspect there are a few.” She waited for Lydia to ask if her parents’ marriage was that way, and was relieved when she didn’t.

  Lydia took Eleanor’s thick braid and played with it. “There was a man here tonight who looked like he belonged in a storybook,” she mused.

  Eleanor’s heart did a little dance. “Oh, really?”

  “He had long, black hair and wore an earring. He looked like a pirate.”

  Eleanor thought about the earring in her apron pocket. “Yes, I saw him.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Eleanor’s pulse leapt. “What makes you think I would know that?”

  “Because you talked to him, and he came in here with you.”

  Sudden perspiration dotted Eleanor’s flesh. “Oh, really, Lydia—”

  “Don’t pretend it didn’t happen, Aunt Ellie. I saw it.”

  Eleanor expelled a long sigh. “I presume this can be our secret.”

  “What’s his name?”

  Eleanor toyed with the edge of her quilt. “Mr. Templeton. Dante…Templeton.”

  Lydia sighed. “He even has the name of a storybook pirate. What did he want?”

  Fortunately—or hopefully—Lydia was too young to understand the intricacies of the adult mind. “He’s the man who now owns my share of the whaler that Uncle Amos captained.”

  “But what did the pirate want in your bedroom?”

  “Actually,” she hedged, “I wanted to talk with him about it, and my bedroom is one of the only private places to talk when there’s a party going on downstairs.”

  Lydia appeared to accept the explanation, because she didn’t pursue it. “Is he going to let you have your ship back?”

  Eleanor shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Why not?”

  “I have no idea,” Eleanor answered honestly. “But I intend to find out.”

  Lydia snuggled in. “He’s handsome. Like a pirate,” she repeated.

  Eleanor remembered her first impression of him, how he had been bold and arrogant and threatening. How appalled she’d been, initially, about every aspect of his being. Yet, in retrospect, she admitted that she had found him handsome, in a dangerous sort of way.

  “Yes, I suppose he is. He certainly wasn’t standing behind the door when God gave out good looks.”

  “That’s funny,” Lydia said with a giggle. “I like that.”

  They were quiet for a moment. “What should we talk about now?” Lydia asked, obviously not anxious to go to sleep.

  Relieved to end the course of the conversation, Eleanor said, “Let’s talk about how much you’re going to practice the piano for me after every lesson.”

  Lydia groaned, then joined Eleanor in quiet laughter.

  When she finally fell asleep, Eleanor dreamed of a dangerous pirate with a fierce tattoo. She was shipwrecked, clinging to a piece of wood when he swooped down upon her in his ship, plucked her from the sea and ferried her away to his private cabin. He tossed her onto his bunk and removed each piece of her drenched clothing, flinging it into the ocean. She was naked but for the tangled bedding she reclined upon.

  He demanded that she stand before him. In her mind, she haughtily wondered why she should, but she did it anyway, without a fight.

  He ordered her to turn and reveal her backside. In her mind, she was appalled at such an order, but she turned, presenting him her buttocks.

  With his hands clasped behind him, he circled her as if she were merchandise he considered buying. “Raise your arms,” he ordered.

  I will not, her mind responded. But she did, and he reached out and caressed the soft skin inside her upper arms, causing chills to rise on her flesh.

  “Hold your breasts, so I can see whether your nipples are ripe for suckling,” he demanded.

  I will do no such thing.

  Apparently able to read her mind, he stepped forward and lifted her breasts into his palms, his thumbs moving over the hardened nipples.

  She felt a weakness in her limbs and in her belly, one that she had never felt before. It puzzled her, appalled her. Shamefully excited her.

  He bent his head and took a firm nipple into his mouth, sending a rush of heat through Eleanor’s body, leaving her so weak she nearly collapsed. “You have breasts and nipples to suckle many babies,” he announced without an ounce of passion or interest.

  I am not a brood sow, she wanted to say, but could not.

  His hands moved over her waist and down her hips. “You have ample hips, wide enough for birthing.”

  How dare you? Her indignation was real, yet she was unable to speak.

  “One more thing.” He lifted a gaudy feather boa off the bedpost and draped it over her shoulders, the ends reaching nearly to the tops of her thighs. He took one end and brushed it back and forth across her breasts. The sensation was electrifying, and suddenly her pelvis felt heavy and there was a dampness between her legs. He tickled her navel gently before dipping lower to where her patch of dark curls hid her woman’s place.

  Back and forth. Back and forth. Up and down. He dragged the feathers across the tops of her thighs, moving her legs apart, stroking, oh, so softly, over her nether lips.

  The sensation was almost more than Eleanor could bear. Suddenly he said, “You will do.”

  Do? Do for what? she screamed, yet no sound escaped.

  “Now,” he began, removing his clothing, “I must see if we fit…”

  Eleanor sat up in bed, her heart thumping and her breathing ragged. There was a dangerous itch between her thighs as well as a dampness she couldn’t ignore. “Damn him,” she whispered.

  “Aunt Ellie?” Lydia’s voice was sleep-filled.

  Eleanor expelled a breath and tried to relax against her pillow. “It’s all right, honey. Go back to sleep.”

  “Was it a bad dream?”

  Eleanor hugged her niece to her. “I’ve never ever had one like it, dear.”

  The following morning, Dante made a detour to the Simmons’ residence to retrieve his earring. It was gold, and valuable, and had been a gift, but that wasn’t why he wanted to reclaim it. The earring actually had no sentimental value. He couldn’t have cared less about it.

  It was the perfect excuse to see Eleanor Rayburn again, however
briefly. He refused to examine the need to do so.

  He rang the bell, and a cinnamon-haired child wearing a feather boa and a large, gaudy hat opened the door. When she saw him, her eyes widened briefly. “You’re the pirate.”

  He’d been called many things, but never that. He merely gave her a gracious bow. “Good morning, mademoiselle. In your fine attire, you look like a princess I once met in Cairo.”

  The child studied him. “That’s in Egypt.”

  He bowed again. “Indeed it is.”

  “Have you been there?” she asked, skepticism in her voice.

  “I have,” he answered.

  She continued to scrutinize him, then finally said, “Did you know that no word in the English language rhymes with purple?”

  Dante bit back a smile and gave her a thoughtful look. “I do believe you’re right.”

  Then he asked, “Do you know that on an island off the coast of South America, there are giant turtles that live to be one hundred years old, some weighing over four hundred pounds?”

  She gazed at him. “Really? Gosh, that’s more than Butterfly.”

  “Butterfly?”

  “She’s our cook. She’s big and brown and came from the Sam’wich Islands on a whaler. She lets me help her make things, and she tells me stories about her home. The sun shines a lot, they never have snow, and it rains a little bit every single day. She also says ‘hell’ and ‘damn’, but I’m to pretend I don’t notice.”

  “I see,” he answered around a smile, finding the imp totally entrancing.

  She suddenly studied him suspiciously. “How do you know about those turtles? Have you seen them?” she asked, daring him to answer.

  “Indeed I have,” he offered.

  “Lydia,” someone called, “who’s at the door?”

  Lydia didn’t take her eyes off Dante, but shouted. “It’s the pirate, Aunt Ellie. And you were right. He wasn’t standing behind the door when God gave out good looks.”

  He tried not to smile when he heard “Aunt Ellie” groan aloud.

  She stepped into the foyer from the room where they had had the party, her fingers trying to smooth a fetching, disheveled hairdo. Her face was flushed, her deep brown eyes were shiny, and she was slightly out of breath. “You must excuse Lydia, Mr. Templeton—”

  “Dante, please. And I find that Miss Lydia has impeccable taste,” he answered, winking at the child. Lydia gave him a bright, dimpled smile.

  Dante’s gaze returned to Eleanor. “So, you find me handsome,” he teased.

  Her blush deepened. “It was just a manner of speech.”

  “Then, you don’t find me handsome?” He made a moue, knowing how ridiculous it would look. He was rewarded with a cynical lift of her eyebrows.

  “Surely you don’t need any reassurance from me,” she answered dryly, opening the door wider so he could enter.

  “Sorry, I can’t stay. I was wondering,” he said, “if you perhaps had found a gold earring. I seem to have misplaced it.”

  Eleanor’s face flushed slightly, but her expression remained undaunted. “Well, I…I may have,” she answered, reaching into her apron pocket. She drew out the object. “Would this be yours?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He took the earring from her, letting their fingers graze lightly. She flinched, but when he looked into her eyes, he saw fire.

  “You should be more careful with such expensive things, Mr. Templeton. Something like this, something with such sentimental value,” she said, accentuating the last two words, “could have been swept up and thrown out with the trash.”

  Ah, she must have read the inscription. Their gazes met again, and there was an emotion in her eyes that he couldn’t read. Jealousy came to mind, but that was preposterous. It was probably disgust. Dante gave her a half smile. “Yes, a very special memento, to be sure. Where did you find it?”

  The widow crossed her arms over her chest, presenting an impatient façade. “I…I don’t remember.”

  He guessed he had dropped it in her bedroom. “Well, I thank you so much for finding it.”

  “See?” crowed Lydia, “I told you he was a pirate.”

  “Lydia,” Eleanor warned.

  Dante bent and took Lydia’s hand, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “Good day, mademoiselle princess. I look forward to matching wits with you again. And by the way,” he added, focusing on Lydia, “I adore a woman in a feather boa.”

  He nodded toward Eleanor, then left.

  Lydia gazed after him, a tad dreamy-eyed. “Did you hear that, Aunt Ellie? He liked my feathers and he called me a princess.”

  Eleanor closed the door, wondering if he had somehow physically invaded her dreams.

  But as the day went on, she made a decision. Nothing else he ever did would bother her. She would not dwell on him, she would not dream of him, she would not think about the way he had kissed her.

  She was not vain, and she was not shallow. And because of those qualities, she knew in her soul that she was not now and never would be the sort of woman a man like Dante Templeton could take an interest in. The kiss was merely to knock her off balance. To confuse her. And it briefly had.

  Six

  That Victor! What an obnoxious child! Eleanor left the rectory quickly, afraid she might say something she’d regret. She had been willing to give him the benefit of the doubt most of the time, even though he constantly bullied the other children. His pranks verged on cruelty. But did she criticize? No. Did she even once scold him in front of the other children, even when he had spread molasses on the piano stool, creating a horrible mess on her gown? No. Or when he—Oh, what did it matter?

  But this time…She attempted to wipe the soot from her face with her apron, leaving a swath of dirt on the light-colored fabric. Stopping at a small mirror in the corridor, she peered into it and winced. She looked like a chimney sweep.

  Victor had fireplace-cleaning duty today, and as Eleanor had passed the rectory, he had called out to her that he needed some help. The flue, he had said, was stuck. Would she please help him?

  She should have been suspicious, but he had seemed sincere, and she couldn’t refuse him. She had gotten down on her hands and knees and reached up into the chimney, and indeed, the flue was stuck.

  “There’s something up there,” Victor had informed her. “Can you see it?”

  So, gullible woman that she was, she peered into the chimney, only to feel a fresh load of soot land on her head and face. The little monster had chortled like a child gone mad, hopping around the room, absolutely spilling over with glee.

  Eleanor refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her angry or upset, so she merely had left him there and ordered him to clean up the mess.

  The sisters told her that Dante had taken Victor under his wing; perhaps one day soon Eleanor could speak with him about the boy. Preferably on a day when she wasn’t so angry; she wanted to strangle him.

  As she made her way down the dimly lit corridor toward the washroom, she saw someone walking toward her. Her stomach did a little lurch. Dante Templeton. She uttered a mild oath, because no matter that she’d vowed not to think of him, he still made her skin tingle.

  He came closer. She couldn’t avoid him.

  He stopped, eyeing her disarray. “A new look for you, Eleanor?” He clucked his tongue. “Not particularly attractive, I’m afraid.”

  He had never used her given name before. That he would take such liberties made her angry, and her anger made her brave. “I don’t plan my day around being attractive,” she snapped.

  “That’s obvious.”

  Ouch, she thought, that hurt. But she was still very miffed with Victor. “If you must know, your precious Victor is to blame for this,” she responded with a broad sweep of her hand.

  “My Victor?”

  “He is your delinquent protégé, is he not?”

  “He’s…spirited,” Dante admitted, “but hardly a delinquent.”

  Eleanor swallowed and took a breath. �
�He is a delinquent. I don’t know how else to describe such a bully. Spirited doesn’t even come close.”

  Dante studied her, making her uncomfortable. On occasions such as this, she allowed herself to think about their kiss, because she had no illusions about it. She knew he had done it to shock her. And instinctively she knew that a man could kiss a woman like he meant it without meaning anything at all. And that kept her strong.

  “You say Victor is responsible for this, as well?” he responded, his gaze skimming her sooty appearance.

  “Yes,” she answered tersely, his words jarring her from her thoughts. “And the time he spread molasses on the piano stool, ruining one of my gowns, not to mention the puddle of water he put under the piano stool, making it appear as though I hadn’t made it to the outhouse.”

  Dante’s expression was stony, but Eleanor noted that his eyes were bright—with glee, no doubt.

  “But I don’t even care about those things. I care about how he treats the other children. He is a bully, and since you seem to be the only person he listens to, I would appreciate your help in changing his behavior.”

  Dante stopped in front of her, his face close. “Did it ever occur to you that such actions often cover other fears? Perhaps before you judge him too harshly, you should understand his background.”

  With that, he marched off, leaving her alone in the dark hallway.

  Not to be brushed off like so much lint on a jacket, she hurried after him. “If, as you say, he has other fears, perhaps you could share them with me.”

  He stopped and pulled in an annoyed breath. “His history is in the office. Read it there.”

  “I’m sure my time isn’t nearly as valuable as yours,” she began with a bite of sarcasm, “but I do have other obligations I must meet. Briefly enlighten me. Please,” she added, remembering her manners.

  What he wanted to do was get away from her. She had been in his thoughts for days, and although he should have been able to shrug her off, he found he could not.