by Louise Allen
If only she did not have this urge to touch him, to run her fingers through that intriguing tortoiseshell hair, to enjoy the feel of clean, faintly scented, healthily muscled skin under her palms. To touch those sharply sculpted lips with hers, to—Alessa clasped her hands together in her lap and stared aghast at the stranger. Witchcraft. Not that she believed in it, whatever old Agatha, their neighbour in the country, had told her on countless occasions. No, the only sorcery here was the effect of a handsome and mysterious stranger on a tired and bad-tempered woman who had long since given up any hope that there was a man somewhere for her.
‘And even if there was, it certainly is not you,’ she informed him crisply, getting to her feet and picking up the ewer of water that had been keeping warm on the hearth.
In the bedroom she stood for a moment with her back to the door, surveying the scene. At least here was normality, a very temporary peace, and her only sure source of contentment. Behind a screen Demetri lay sprawled face down on sheets rumpled as only an eight-year-old boy fighting pirates could make them. Across the room on one side of the big bed Dora was curled up with only the tip of her nose showing, her tousle of black curls spilling over the pillow.
Alessa went to touch the back of her hand to the warm cheeks of the sleeping children, beginning to loosen ties and hooks on her clothes as she did so. Undress, a lick and a promise with soap and water, then bed. Heaven. She slid in, careful not to wake Dora, and settled down to sleep, the sound of the children’s breathing a soothing backdrop to her own dreamless slumber.
It must have been hours later when the yowls and shrieks of a catfight on the roof of the bakery roused her. Alessa opened one eye, listened for any sign the children had woken, and then jerked into full consciousness. She was curled around the bolster, holding it in her arms like a lover, her cheek pressed against it. She snatched it up, dealt it a firm thump with her fist and settled it back at the head of the bed where it belonged. Goodness knows what she had been dreaming about. The sooner that man was delivered back to the Residency where he belonged, the better.
Chapter Two
The bed was not moving, which meant he was on land, which was fine. That was where he was supposed to be: in bed, on land. The only problem was, he could not recall getting into his bed—or anyone else’s, come to that. Chance lay very still. The thunderous headache might be one explanation for why his memories of last night were very hazy, although it argued a powerful amount of strong liquor, which he definitely could not remember. But there was someone else in the room. He had not yet engaged a servant; he was quite positive he would have had some memory of it if he had found himself female companionship; the only possibility left was a sneak thief.
Only…they were a very noisy sneak thief. There was the pad of soft leather soles on the boards, the occasional rattle of what sounded like pots, and someone—or something—was breathing like a grampus just inches from his face.
And the smell—that could not be right either. Wood smoke, herbs, soap, food. A kitchen? Chance cracked open his eyes and found himself almost nose to nose with a child. She jumped back and he realised there were two of them, brown eyed, olive skinned, with identical mops of black curls and identical expressions of intent curiosity.
‘He is awake!’ The small girl was squeaking with excitement.
‘Shh! What did I tell you about standing so close? Now you have woken the gentleman up.’ The voice from behind him was clear, flexible, and, although it was uttering a reproof, neither Chance nor the child made the mistake of thinking the speaker was angry with her. Then his befuddled brain started to work and he realised that both were speaking English. It seemed only courteous to make a corresponding effort.
‘Kalíméra,’ he offered.
It provoked an outburst of giggles from the small girl. ‘He speaks Greek!’
The boy, who had been regarding him closely, produced a rapid burst of what were obviously questions.
Lord! Now what? ‘Um…Parakaló, miláte pio sigá…’
‘He doesn’t speak it very well,’ the boy said critically, in accented English, to the unseen woman. ‘I speak English, Italian, French and Greek, all perfectly.’ There was a soft laugh from the watcher. ‘So, my French is not so perfect, but I am only eight and he is a man.’
Goaded, Chance retorted, ‘I speak English, French, Italian, Latin and Classical Greek. All perfectly.’ Then he smiled ruefully. What am I doing, entering into a bragging contest with an eight-year-old?
‘Aiee! Greek like the heroes spoke it?’
‘Yes. Like Paris and Hector and Achilles spoke it.’ Silenced, the boy stared at him, mouth open. ‘I am afraid I do not know where I am or how I got here.’ Or why I do not get up and find out, come to that. I cannot be that hung over, but nothing seems to want to work. Chance levered himself upright on the coach and fell back gasping. ‘Bloody hell!’
‘Not in front of the children!’ Now that was a reproof if ever he had heard one.
‘Sorry.’ He twisted round, trying to ignore the flame of pain in his hip and side and the sickening ache in his ankle. ‘I was not expecting anything to hurt.’
‘Do you not recall last night?’ The hidden speaker came into view at last. There was a moment of crowded thought and he realised his mouth was hanging open, just like the lad’s, but for a quite different reason. Chance shut it with a snap and made an effort to appear less half-witted.
‘I recall nothing of it at all, and I am sure I would remember you.’He would have to be dead not to, he thought, studying the tall, slender figure standing in front of him, hands on her hips and an expression of exasperated disapproval on her oval, golden-skinned face.
A veritable Greek beauty, he thought hazily, seeing how the weight of black hair at her nape balanced the imperious carriage of her head and how the traditional island costume with its flaring black skirt and embroidered bodice showed off curves that a fashionable gown would have hidden.
Then the impact of her eyes, her quite extraordinary eyes, struck him. Greek? Surely not, not with those clear green cat’s eyes, slanting under angled brows. And her accent was clear and pure. ‘You are English.’
She did not answer him, but the expression that passed over her face, fleetingly, was one of barely suppressed anger. ‘Children, introduce yourselves, then leave the gentleman in peace.’
‘I am Dora and this is Demetri.’ The little girl nudged her brother with a sharp elbow. ‘Stop staring, Demi. He said he can speak like the heroes, not that he is one.’ She followed this comprehensive feminine put-down with a sweet smile and skipped off, pulling the boy behind her.
‘Stir the pot, Dora, please,’ the tall woman called after her. ‘And, Demetri, more wood. I do not think you brought much up last night, óhi?’
The cool green eyes turned back to regard Chance. ‘You may call me Kyria Alessa.’ He was left with the distinct feeling that, whatever his chores might have been on the previous evening, he had failed in them also. ‘You were attacked in the courtyard below last night by two men, wrenched your ankle in the drain, fell against the fountain base and were hit on the head. Do you remember nothing of it?’
Chance levered himself up his elbows again and she pushed the pillow down behind his back, stepping back sharply the moment she had done so, as though he had an infectious disease. ‘I can recall playing cards at the Residency—the Lord High Commissioner’s residence,’ he explained. From the impatience on her face she knew what he was talking about. ‘It was my first night on the island, Sir Thomas had introduced me to various gentlemen, his usher had found me lodgings. I discovered I was more tired than I thought, so I made my excuses and started back—’ He broke off, trying to recall. ‘I think they offered me a footman with a torch, but the night was clear, there seemed to be lights everywhere, so I refused.’
‘A foolish decision, in a strange town,’ she observed crisply. ‘Where are you lodging?’
‘In the fort—the Paleó Frourio.’
&nbs
p; ‘Then what on earth were you doing here, in the middle of the town, at almost midnight?’
The chilly criticism was beginning to penetrate both his headache and the general sense of dislocation. Chance began to feel an answering anger, and some other emotion he was too irritated to analyse, tightening inside him. ‘The night air woke me up, I thought I would explore—what is there in that to displease you?’
Any other woman of his acquaintance would have blushed and backed down in the face of a firm masculine reproof. Not this one. Her eyebrows slanted up and she smiled as though humouring a rather backward child. ‘Other than the fact that you were set upon by a pair of murderous no-goods on my doorstep? That you blunder about a strange town flashing your silver-headed cane and your shiny fobs and your pockets full of coin to attract them? That this happens under my children’s window and I have to deal with the consequences?’
Chance could feel the heat over his cheekbones. ‘I gather I have your husband to thank for my rescue, Kyria.’
‘I have no husband.’
A widow then, and a very young one. What was she? Twenty-four? ‘I am sorry for your loss. Who, then, rescued me from these two assassins?’
‘No loss.’ She said it so baldly that he was shocked. It probably showed—he was still too dazed to manage much finesse. ‘And I dealt with them.’
‘You?’ He felt incredulous and made no effort to hide it.
In answer the widow stooped and drew a knife from her boot. She held it as though she knew exactly how to use it.
Chance eyed it with horrified fascination. ‘You knifed them?’
‘Of course not, I am not a murderer. I suggested to one that it would be better if I did not tell the Lord High Commissioner about his smuggling, and I hit the other one.’ She reversed the knife in her hand, displaying the rounded knob of the pommel. ‘He left when he regained consciousness. I thought about having you taken back to the Residency, but it was late, I did not know how badly you were hurt, I was tired and it was inconvenient. Demetri will take a message on his way to school.’
‘Thank you.’ There did not seem to be much else to say, given the turmoil of emotions that were churning around in his aching head. He felt humiliated that he had had to be rescued by a woman, angered at her attitude, physically in pain and, regrettably and damnably inconveniently, thoroughly aroused.
Angry, green-eyed witches were not within his experience; if he had been asked, he would not have thought it likely that he would find one attractive. This one, this Alessa, was reaching him at a level he did not understand. It was not just her looks, which were remarkable. There was some quality in her that made him want to say mine, drag her into his arms and wipe that cold, disdainful look off her face with his passion.
Which was impossible to contemplate. Chance had a strict code when dealing with women: professionals or experienced society ladies only, and this young widow with her children was quite obviously neither.
‘Breakfast is ready.’ It was little Dora, working away in the far reaches of the room behind him where he could not see. Chance tried again to twist round and was brought up short by the pain in his hip.
‘Is anything broken?’He kept the anxiety out of his voice, but it struck cold in his belly. What were the doctors like on this island? How likely was he to end up with a limp for life, or something worse?
‘Nothing.’ She turned away with a swish of black skirts that gave him a glimpse of petticoats and of white stockings over the cuffs of the short leather boots. The costume was exotic and alluring, yet at the same time practical.
There was a brisk discussion in Greek going on. He gave up trying to follow it and made himself relax back against the hard pillow. Then the boy reappeared, dragging a screen, which he arranged around the couch. ‘This is mine, but you can borrow it,’ he announced importantly, stomping off, only to reappear with a bowl of water, towel and soap, which he set down on a chair by Chance. ‘You must wash your face and hands before breakfast. Oh, yes, I almost forgot.’ He thrust an earthenware vessel with a cloth over it into Chance’s hands and grinned. ‘You are to push it under the couch when you have finished with it.’
So, her anger with him did not extend to humiliating him by making him ask about basic needs. That was something to be thankful for. Flipping back the blanket, Chance made the discovery that perhaps he was not so grateful after all. The shirt he was wearing was not his. All his own clothes had gone, down to, and including, his drawers, and someone had bandaged his hip very professionally. Somehow he doubted that this was Demetri’s work.
He made himself decent again and waited, expecting the boy to come back with some food. Instead, Alessa pushed aside the screen and put down a beaker and plate on the chair, shifting the basin on to the floor.
‘Did you undress me and bandage my wounds?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled, laughter glimmering in her eyes. He must be showing his embarrassment. How damnably unsophisticated. ‘Mrs Street, my neighbour, helped me. An unconscious man is not easy to handle.’
I will wager I was not—and aren’t you finding this amusing? ‘Thank you, Kyria Alessa. You must allow me to recompense you for your trouble,’ he said smoothly. He saw from the flash of her eyes that he had succeeded in angering her. She regained her poise with the agility of a cat.
‘That is not necessary. Greeks regard it as a sacred duty to care for strangers.’ She stood there calmly, her hands with their long, slender fingers folded demurely across the front of her apron.
‘But then…you are not Greek, are you?’
Again, she dealt with the direct question by ignoring it. ‘You should tell me your name so Demetri can tell Mr Harrison where you are.’
‘Harrison?’ The name was vaguely familiar, then he remembered. The events of the previous twenty-four hours were beginning to come back in hazy detail. ‘Oh, yes, Sir Thomas’s secretary. How do you know him?’
‘I know everyone at the Residency,’ she replied, without explanation. ‘Your name, sir? Or have you forgotten it?’
‘Benedict Casper Chancellor. My friends call me Chance.’
Alessa ignored the implied invitation. ‘And your title?’
‘What makes you think I have one?’ And what makes her ask it as though she is suggesting I have a social disease?
‘Your clothes, your style, the way you move. You have money, you have been educated in these things. You have been bred to it in a way that simply shouts English aristocrat.’
‘Shouts?’ He was affronted, then amused, despite himself, at his own reaction.
‘I should have said whispers. Shouting would, of course, be ungentlemanly and vulgar. So unEnglish,’ she corrected herself with spurious meekness ‘Am I right?’
‘I am the Earl of Blakeney.’
‘Well, my lord, I suggest you eat your breakfast and then rest. Demetri will ask Mr Harrison to send a carrying chair for you this afternoon.’
‘I can leave on my own two feet just as soon as I have eaten and got dressed, I thank you.’
‘You can try to see if you can stand, let alone walk, of course,’ Alessa conceded with infuriating politeness. ‘And if you can, you can hobble through the streets in satin knee breeches, a sergeant at arm’s third-best shirt and no stockings and neckcloth. But I imagine Sir Thomas will have something to say about the impression of their English masters that would create with the local populace.’ She picked up the washing bowl and tidied the screen away. ‘I will be back when I have taken Dora to the nuns.’
There was a skirmish over a missing slate pencil, the whereabouts of Demetri’s jacket, the finding of Dora’s bag, and then the room was silent. The absence of all that vibrancy left an almost tangible gap.
Chance tossed back the blanket again, reached out to grip the back of the chair, and tried to get up. The effort brought the sweat out on his brow and a stream of highly coloured language from his lips. He hauled himself to his feet and found he could hop, very painfully. But that little witch w
as quite right; he could not get back to the Residency, nor to the Old Fort, under his own power.
He could see his evening suit neatly arrayed on a chair, the shoes tucked underneath. Sweating and swearing, he hopped across the room in search of his stockings, using the sparse pieces of furniture as crutches. She was right about that as well—he might get away with this worn old shirt, but he would be a laughing stock with bare legs under satin knee breeches.
Wooden pails were ranked against the wall, each full of water and white cloth. He fished in one, hoping to find his stockings; he could dry them at the fire. The garment he came up with was unidentifiable, but certainly not his. He hastily dropped the confection of fine lawn and thread-lace back into the water and fished in the next pail, coming up with a delightful chemise. It reminded him forcibly of a garment he had seen on his last mistress the night he had said goodbye to her.
Now there was a proper woman, he thought wistfully. Feminine, attentive, sweetly yielding to his every desire, and flatteringly regretful to be paid off before he set out on his Mediterranean journey. Why, then, he brooded as he straightened up painfully and scanned the rest of the room with narrowed eyes, why did this one arouse him far more than the very explicit memory of Jenny did?
The drip of cold water on his bare foot reminded him that he was standing, as near naked as made no difference, clutching intimate feminine apparel, in the middle of some Corfiot tenement and at the mercy of an icy and mysterious widow who might be back at any moment. Chance dropped the chemise into the pail and groped his way back to his bed. It chafed to admit it, but she was probably correct—he should rest if he wanted to escape from this nightmare.
Alessa climbed the stairs, noting gratefully that Kate had already been and scrubbed the bloodstains off the whitened wood. They took it in turns to look after the communal areas, long resigned to the feckless family on the ground floor ignoring their own obligations.
There were the muffled sounds of an altercation from behind the ground floor door. Sandro was no doubt being taken to task for lying abed instead of taking his boat out. Amid the hard-working fishermen he was a notable exception. There was silence from Kate’s rooms: she would doubtless be out marketing.