Beds and Blazes Read online

  Sniffling, Limax shuffled out and left her to her dessert. Moments later, Carmen heard a knock on the back door. “Come in,” she sang out. “Babe, you have got to try this cheesecake that Dora brought me—it’s to die for.” Carmen looked up, but instead of seeing Brock, her boyfriend, she saw none other than his stocky, scowling brother.

  As one of the Fair Folk herself, Carmen hadn’t been fooled by Lowell’s bluebird guise for a minute, but she could see now that he had dropped it entirely. The phantasmic bird outline had vanished, and only a six-and-a-half foot tower of irritable male remained. She was, however, relieved to see that he had put on real clothes. Dealing with a pissed-off Lowell was bad enough, but a pissed-off, naked Lowell was more than she could handle.

  As had become his custom, Lowell wore a kilt. Ever since he’d learned that a Scottish/Italian designer had come up with an Italian national tartan, he’d taken to a kilt like a wood duck to the Castle Speranza pond. Even though Carmen preferred lanky, lean men, she had to admit that Lowell looked awfully good in the blue and black tartan and snug rugby shirt. He had the bulky, muscular body of a lumberjack and, at present, the dangerous expression of a hungry grizzly bear.

  “Hi, Lowell,” Carmen said. She gave him an uneasy grin. “Want some cheesecake?”

  “I do not.” He crossed his beefy arms over his chest. “I don’t appreciate you dousing me with ice water, Carmen. That was extremely unpleasant.” He stared at her and the muscles in his jaw clenched.

  “Yeah, well,” Carmen replied, “I don’t appreciate you showing up naked and, like, rubbing yourself while Dora and I were dancing.” She shuddered. “Lowell, that’s just gross. You’re practically my brother.”

  He shifted from foot to foot and Carmen thought she detected rising colour in his cheeks. Good, she thought with annoyance. He should be embarrassed.

  “I, ah, regret that I partook in, uh, licentious behaviour in front of you,” Lowell stammered. “It was not gentlemanly of me. However—”

  “Have you been putting the moves on my girl?” Lowell turned as Brock entered the kitchen. “Back off, Lowell. This one’s all mine.” Brock bent to kiss Carmen on the lips and took the seat next to her at the table.

  “Here, honey, have some.” Carmen lifted a fork with a bite of cheesecake to Brock’s lips. He closed his eyes as he chewed and swallowed, then bobbed his head in appreciation. “Damn, that’s good! Did Dora make that?” Brock looked up at Lowell, still standing and stewing before them. “Have you had a piece of this? If not, you’re missing out, man.”

  Lowell grunted irritably and eyed the cheesecake. “Dora made it?” he asked in a quiet voice. “It’s good?”

  Carmen chuckled and stood to get a plate, fork and napkin for him. Minutes later, Lowell had silently devoured his slice of cheesecake and sat before Brock and Carmen with a noticeably less sour expression. “She’s a good cook too,” he whispered. “Amazing.”

  “Lowell, you are ridiculous. You can’t act like it’s horrible for Fair Folk to date humans when you clearly are lusting after one yourself. Do you even remember how you freaked out when Brock brought me to Castle Speranza? You were a nutcase.”

  “That was a long time ago, Carmen,” Lowell protested, “and things have changed between the Fair Folk and humans in town.”

  “Is that so? Are you sure that Father would agree with you, Lowell?” interjected Brock.

  “He ought to,” Lowell muttered. “But that doesn’t mean I want to talk about it to him just yet.”

  Carmen lifted Brock’s hand and kissed his knuckles before continuing. “My point is—why don’t you ask her out on a date like a normal person, Lowell? Obviously, you’re not a normal person.” Brock guffawed and Carmen studiously ignored him. “She doesn’t have to know that, though, Lowell. You don’t have to lurk around and stalk the poor woman, and you certainly don’t have to pretend to be one of Snow White’s woodland pals to get close to her.”

  “The bluebird glamour again?” Brock muttered.

  “Yeah,” Lowell admitted. “Chicks dig it.” Brock gave a knowing nod.

  Carmen sighed in exasperation. “Look, Dora’s a nice, grown-up lady and, at over two hundred years old, you’re hardly a child, Lowell. Just go talk to her. Sheesh. You Rossi boys are ridiculous.”

  Lowell stared at his beefy hands in his lap and shook his head. “She’s just so beautiful, though. So sweet and smart and talented, and her body is”—he sighed—“unforgettable.”

  Carmen caught Brock’s glance and shared a smile.

  “I’ve been with the dryads and, on occasion, a Charade woman, but this is different. Dora’s special. I don’t know why she’d ever give me a second glance,” Lowell concluded sadly. Outside, night had fallen in the woods. Dry branches crunched and snapped beneath Carmen’s kitchen window.

  “Just be yourself and it’ll all work out,” Carmen advised as she served him another piece of cheesecake. “Trust me.”

  * * * *

  Dora put the finishing touches on a late spring arrangement for her entry table. Pink, magenta and chartreuse zinnias, blushing wild roses, white snapdragons and trailing variegated ivy filled her large entry vessel. Homegrown, she thought, and fit for a queen.

  She moved through the six-thousand-five-hundred-square-foot Victorian house, locking up and turning off lights, and thought, That pretty much describes my B&B.

  Dora felt a familiar rush of pride and happiness as she surveyed her home. Bohemian Rhapsody is rated the number four bed and breakfast in Kentucky. She smiled. And for good reason. It’s clean and comfortable, and guests love my sweet potato breakfast casserole, the floral themed rooms and the sun-dried linens. Dora peeked into the Daffodil Suite and frowned when she saw that the wallpaper next to the light switch was peeling a bit. Got to fix that tomorrow. The Dogwood Suite was perfect, as were the Iris and Morning Glory Suites, thanks to unending vigilance on Dora’s part. She needed an assistant, but that was completely out of the question, and Dora was proud and happy to toil away.

  Bohemian Rhapsody was a living thing to her, a loyal friend and a dependent child, brought to life by her own determination and hard work. Each blemish in the ageing house might as well have been on Dora’s own body, it troubled her so deeply. “Tomorrow, the gardens in the morning and the Dogwood wallpaper in the afternoon. Maybe I’ll have time to polish the silver service.”

  Dora poured a glass of cabernet, blew out the rosemary-scented candle on the counter and prepared to retire to her bedroom, the Queen Anne’s Lace master suite. Just as she reached to turn off the light, she noticed a mockingbird perched on the windowsill of her kitchen. It peered at her with alert black eyes and hopped on its clawed feet.

  “What is it with the birds around here, anyway?” Dora chuckled.

  Chapter Three

  She rose at seven the next morning. The Mathesons weren’t expected until eleven and the Parkers planned to check in at two, so there was plenty of time to get a little gardening in after she hung the sheets to dry.

  Dora dressed in loose overalls and a T-shirt, stuffed her thick hair up into a wide-brimmed hat and donned her clogs and gloves. A riot of birdsong greeted her when she stepped outside and the bright May morning coaxed a smile to her face. The climbing roses, draped like a gem-studded stole down the side of the house, were almost garish in their ruby profusion. She knelt before the peonies, whose buds were about to burst with bright fuchsia petals, and started weeding. “I should really have divided these in the fall,” she muttered, “but I reckon they’ll make it one more summer.”

  Soon, she felt lulled into contentedness by the repetitive action and the immersion with nature. She began to sing a favourite Aretha Franklin song, ‘Natural Woman’, as she worked.

  By the last line, Dora was overcome by the power of the Queen of Soul. She leant back on her heels, squeezed her eyes shut and belted out Aretha’s heartfelt lyrics in a womanly growl.

  And heard a quiet, distinctively male cough above her.

/>   Dora lurched forward and looked up. A pair of huge booted feet, two bulky, hairy legs, a blue plaid skirt and, beside them, some pale gold paws greeted her eyes. The figure stepped back hastily, but not before Dora caught a glimpse of what was beneath the kilt. Those muscular legs stretched right on up to a gorgeous male package—semi-erect, thick and scrumptious.

  “Oh my!” she gasped. “I didn’t see you there. Hello!” She stood, blushing wildly, and wished she had on something a bit more figure-flattering than an old pair of overalls. “Paul Matheson, I presume?”

  The man, who towered over her and looked like he could lift a VW bug with his bare hands, appeared painfully uncomfortable. “Um, no, I’m afraid not,” he muttered.

  Dora caught his eyes on her bosom—she knew its curves were clearly visible beneath her snug T-shirt—and he looked away swiftly. The golden lab next to him capered off and out of sight.

  Dora drew her eyebrows together and stood. “Then it’s Mr Parker, I suppose? Randy, is that correct?”

  “No, madam, I’m not Randy,” he replied.

  Dora glanced downward, wondering what on earth this person was doing in her yard and whether she ought to start screaming bloody murder, when she saw that he was decidedly excited by their conversation. An erection, too impressive to ignore, tented the front of his kilt. “That is, I’m not Mr Parker, I suppose you might see that I am somewhat, well…” His voice trailed off miserably. He turned his back to her and crossed his arms over his chest. The back of his neck blazed a deep crimson hue. “I do apologise, madam. I suppose I ought to be on my way.”

  He began to walk away, but Dora caught his arm and stopped him. “It’s okay,” she chuckled. “It’s actually flattering, and I’ll ignore it if you will. But what can I do for you, Mr—?”

  “Mr Rossi,” he supplied. “I’m Lowell Rossi.”

  “Oh, of course! I know you. I saw you at the Harvest Festival last fall at the Prescott Manor. We danced together for a minute or two. You look a little different now, though. Maybe it’s the beard, or possibly the kilt,” she mused. “Anyway, where have you been? Have you been travelling? I’ve been to the manor quite a few times with Carmen, and I came to the Valentines’ Ball, but I haven’t seen you at all. I hope you’ve not been sick?”

  “Ah, well,” he mumbled, “I’ve been here and there, I suppose, but nowhere special. You, madam, are Dora, is that correct?” He turned back to her and, with effort, Dora avoided looking below his waist.

  “Yes, Dora Fontaine.” She took off her gloves and offered him a hand. Lowell stared at it as though it were an alien life form, then shook it firmly. Dora felt a shuddery thrill at his grip—huge, callused and warm, he held her as though she were made of glass. It seemed like a hand that could uproot a tree and, then next minute, cradle a baby bird.

  “Won’t you come in for some tea?” Dora asked. “If you can forgive my appearance, that is. I’d love to learn more about what you’ve been doing. Carmen is always so mysterious about Brock’s family.”

  He nodded silently. A man of few words, she thought, and led him inside. “Welcome to Bohemian Rhapsody!” Dora swept her arm to indicate the curving staircase, vintage wallpaper and stained glass chandelier. “It’s no Prescott Manor, of course, but it’s my own little dream come true. You can see I love flowers and vintage fabrics, and I collect all sorts of Victorian stuff, from dolls to greeting cards to hats. My guests enjoy perusing my displays, you know.”

  “It’s very nice,” Lowell replied. “Very floral and, ah, pretty, in a girly kind of way. I like it.”

  “Have a seat in the breakfast nook while I heat the kettle.” Dora smiled to see his bulky form, redolent of testosterone and all things manly, ensconced on the yellow chintz cushions and framed by the crisp Battenberg curtains. “Do you like the smell of lilac?” she asked.

  “Um, sure,” he answered. “As in the flower?”

  Dora lit a pale purple candle in a mason jar and set it on the table before him. “As in the scented candle. I’m in the habit of burning one when I have a bite to eat. Sort of makes me feel as though I’ve got cheerful company, even when I’m alone.” The yellow flame danced on the table and a sweet floral fragrance permeated the room. “Plus it makes the place smell nice.” She placed teabags in her pot—one mint, one orange, one lemon—and withdrew two cups and saucers from the cupboard. An array of vibrant cups and saucers glinted on the shelves. “I have an eclectic set of teacups,” she said proudly. “Here are the Royal Alberts for you and the Crown Staffordshires for me. It’s like drinking tea from a different bouquet every time, you know?”

  Lowell picked up the dainty pink and green floral cup and nodded. “It’s quite beautifully shaped,” he said, deep voice rumbling. “Like you.”

  He met her gaze with an earnest expression, and Dora caught a glimpse of colour rising in his cheeks. The kettle screamed on the stove. “Oh!” Dora started. “Water’s ready!” Heart pounding, she filled the teapot and brought it to the table, along with a squeeze bottle of honey, spoons, lacy napkins and a colourful tin box. “Lemon shortbread cookies?” she offered. “I made them myself.”

  Lowell accepted a cookie and chewed thoughtfully. “Perfection.”

  She removed her hat and fluffed her hair in the reflection in the stove door before joining him at the table. “I’m so pleased you like them.” She sipped her tea and cleared her throat. “So, Lowell, what is it that you do? Some sort of land management for the woods? It’s such a beautiful stretch of pristine woodland. We’re certainly lucky to have Prescott Woods close by. It makes the whole area seem magical, don’t you think?”

  Lowell picked up another cookie and took a bite. He swallowed before answering. “Yes, that’s exactly right, Dora. I keep tabs on the animals and plants of the woods and conduct some studies, too. It, ah, turns out there are some unusual species in Prescott Woods.”

  “Oh, you’re a researcher? A biologist? How fascinating! Are you going to publish your findings?”

  “Ah, well, it’s possible, that is—”

  Dora stood abruptly. Her mouth dropped open and she stared through the window behind Lowell’s head. “What? Are those my sheets? What in the world…? Excuse me, Lowell.” Shouting indignantly, she hurried outside with Lowell on her heels.

  A pile of sheets lay in a muddied heap and a lone pillowcase fluttered on the lawn near the corner. The feathered blond tail of a barking dog disappeared around the edge of the house. Sputtering indignantly, Dora darted to collect the pillowcase and ran to inspect her clothesline. Every clean sheet had been plucked from the cords and the folding table and laundry bin were toppled on their sides.

  “Well, you could knock me over with a feather, Lowell Rossi. What kind of a dog yanks down sheets from the line? What in the world could have gotten into Dax? He never acted like that when he lived with Carmen.” Her eyebrows scrunched and she shook her head. “I could have sworn I saw a bat for a second there, but I must be going crazy. Bats don’t come out in the daytime.” Dora exhaled and turned to the heap of damp cloth. “I’ll have to rewash all my linens and just hope there are no tears or stains.”

  Lowell’s eyes narrowed and a low grumble resounded in his throat. “Strange behaviour for a dog, all right,” he scowled. Dax’s vocalisations dwindled in the distance. Dora picked up the table to right it, and Lowell darted to her side. “No, let me,” he insisted as he trotted over. “Don’t strain yourself.”

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Dora chuckled, hoisting the piece of furniture up in the air. “I’m stronger than I look.” As he reached for the table, Lowell tripped over the laundry hamper beside it and fell in an heap at Dora’s feet. The table swung about overhead and Dora lost her balance. She fell squarely on top of Lowell’s lap, her forehead resting on the wadded fabric of his kilt and her face squashed on Lowell’s bared crotch.

  “Wha—wha—wha—huh—” Dora stuttered. Lowell’s beefy package, framed by a dusting of hair, pressed against her lips and nose. She stru
ggled to lift her chest up from his lap, but his agitated squirming beneath her made it difficult. “Gah!” Dora pushed away from him at last and rocked back on the grass. “Sheesh!”

  Lowell, long legs outspread like a splayed frog, yanked his kilt down and scrambled to his feet. His face, Dora noted, was an alarming shade of red. “Ah, my apologies, madam,” he said. “How very awkward this is.” He took a step backwards and scrubbed his fingers through his beard.

  Dora stood and dusted herself off. “No harm done,” she assured him. She tossed her hair over her shoulder and smiled. “You broke my fall nicely.”

  Lowell’s cheeks darkened until they were almost purple. “Oh.” He cleared his throat and dropped his gaze down to Dora’s chest. Dora pressed her upper arms against the sides of her breasts to deepen her cleavage and cocked one eyebrow. “Oh!” Lowell stared, transfixed. Dora noted the growing bulge in the fabric of his kilt.

  “Wanna come finish our tea?” Dora asked. “I can do the laundry later.”

  Lowell glanced back at the door. The front of his kilt lifted farther away from his body and the hemline drew up to mid-thigh. “Tea does sound nice,” he answered. “I am fond of your cups, after all.” He cleared his throat. “Ah, well, you know, the china ones, that is—”

  “Hello-oo!” a female voice sang out. “Paul and Lucy Matheson here. Anybody home? Did we find the right place? We’re a bit early.”

  A couple in identical royal blue tracksuits and black vinyl fanny packs emerged and stood next to Dora’s budding peonies. “Is this Bohemian Rhapsody?” the woman asked. She caught a glimpse of Lowell, his erection undeniable, and elbowed her husband. “I think we’re interrupting something, Paul,” she chuckled in a stage whisper.

  “Oh, arrggh, urrrm, well then,” Lowell mumbled, sounding every bit the flummoxed pirate to Dora’s ears. “I’d better be going.” He lowered his head and started to slink past the chortling couple, then paused by the rose-festooned wall. Blushing fiercely, he plucked a bloom and placed it in Dora’s hand with a stiff nod.