by Louise Allen
‘I do not want to get him,’ Alessa protested.
‘You blush over him and you say you do not want him?’ The old woman shook her head. ‘Silly child. Go and sit on the beach and perhaps the spirit of Nausicaa will come and talk some sense into you.’ She waved a hand in dismissal and trudged back to her weeding.
Reluctantly Alessa smiled at her black-clad back. Like many of the Corfiots, Agatha treated the characters from the island’s myths in much the same way as they treated their saints. They held conversations with them, discussed their stories as though they lived just around the corner, drew cautions and morals from the tales. Who was she to criticise? She had been asking Ayios Spyridhon for advice herself, only the other day.
‘She didn’t get to keep him,’ she called back across the vegetable patch.
‘Who?’
‘Nausicaa. Odysseus sailed away in the end.’
The only reply she got was a cackle of amused laughter. Old terror, she thought affectionately. Perhaps she was right though, maybe an hour on the beach would settle her mind. Alessa picked up her hat and a water bottle and began to stroll down the dusty track towards the bay. The spirits of Nausicaa and her lover were unlikely to visit her on the cobble beach; if they haunted anywhere it was the wide sandy half-moons of Paleokastritsa where the hero had drawn up his ships below her father’s palace.
It was a much nicer beach, and perhaps she would take the skiff and sail round the headland with the children and Kate one day. It was too fashionable now that the Lord High Commissioner had taken it up, that was the trouble. Too many officers and their wives filling up the houses for rent, and lodgings appearing wherever an enterprising local family with one of the old Venetian houses could make the necessary improvements.
Alessa found the beach empty. The village children, including Dora and Demetri, were playing in the olive groves and the local fishermen had long gone out. Agatha’s little skiff bobbed at the end of its mooring rope in the shallows and the gulls swooped and screamed overhead.
She skimmed a stone into the waves and it managed one bounce and promptly sank, which seemed to sum up her mood. Alone, with nothing to distract her, she had to admit it—she had been attracted to Chance. No, be honest, it is more than that. You desired him, you were seduced by the idea that if you became a lady—at this point Alessa gave a piece of driftwood a kick which hurt her toe—he might want you too. ‘Oh, very likely,’ she muttered aloud. ‘Lady Blakeney. Ha!’
The tumbled dark rock of the cliffs edging the bay loomed up in front of her. Alessa turned round and began to crunch back through the pebbles at the water’s edge. I suppose I am in love with him, she thought glumly, just as a wave curled up and sloshed over her feet.
For a long moment it was touch and go whether she sat down on a rock and had a good weep, or saw the funny side of it. Then the sun came out from behind a cloud, catching the crests of the little waves, and a wading bird flew over, piping shrilly. Alessa kicked off her wet shoes and stripped off her stockings, balancing painfully on the pebbles. It was a lovely morning, and she was free from all her responsibilities. If she sat and sulked, what would it make better? Nothing, she decided, gathering up her skirts and wading in to pull on the skiff’s mooring line.
The little boat came towards her, bobbing and curtsying. Alessa tossed her shoes into the bottom, tucked the water bottle carefully upright and cast off the rope. She got badly splashed getting in.
‘Out of practise,’ she grumbled to herself as she settled down and unshipped the oars. A stiff row around the headland and along the coast to the first really sandy beach would give her so much to think about that men would have no opportunity to intrude. Alessa grasped the oars, squared her shoulders and dug in.
‘My lord wishes to hire a boat?’ The butler at the Residency villa regarded Chance with barely concealed surprise. ‘But there are only fishing boats, my lord.’
Chance turned from looking out over the twin crescents of sand that bit into each side of the causeway from the mainland to the promontory. High above, the monastery stood watch over the little village. He hitched one hip on to the balustrade.
‘They are not out every day, not all of them. Could one be hired?’
‘Why, yes, whatever your lordship requires. But I am not certain if I can find a crew, not today at such short notice.’
‘I do not need a crew.’ Chance stood up and squinted against the sun at the half-dozen boats drawn up on the sand. ‘I can sail one of those myself.’
‘You sail?’It was Count Kurateni, indolently opening one eye as he lay sprawled in a reclining chair in the shade.
‘Nothing that small before, but, yes, I can sail.’
‘I should have brought my ship around.’ The Count pulled himself into a sitting position. ‘It is what you would call a sloop, I believe; we could have some fun sailing her.’
‘Would you care to come with me in something smaller?’ Chance was beginning to enjoy Zagrede’s indolent good humour.
‘No, no, my friend. I would be seasick in such a cockle-shell. And besides, I lie here in the hope of one of the charming young ladies coming out and allowing me to admire her. You go and get covered in fish scales and leave me the field.’
The butler appeared faintly scandalised at the banter. Chance grinned. It was partly to escape being cajoled into rides, picnics, walks on the seashore or the opportunity to read poetry in the shade of the pine trees that he thought of taking out a boat.
‘Can you see what you can arrange? If it will help, I will take the boat for the duration of our stay here.’
‘I will do my utmost, my lord.’ The butler bowed stiffly and left.
‘On his dignity,’ Chance observed, making himself comfortable on the balustrade and watching as the butler, one of the Greek footmen at his heels to interpret, stalked off down the dusty road to the nearest huddle of huts.
‘Old fool.’ Zagrede curled a lip. ‘I would stand no nonsense of that sort from my servants—you English are too lenient with your butlers and your valets. You treat them like family.’
‘How do you treat yours?’
‘As part of my—’ the Count waved a hand in the air as he searched for the English word ‘—my clan. They serve me, they fight at my back, they would die for me.’
‘I do not believe English upper servants expect that to be in their conditions of employment. You would make the young ladies squeak with terror if they heard such blood-curdling things.’
‘They enjoy it.’ The Albanian grinned. ‘They think I am exotic and romantic and they would be disappointed if I did not curdle their blood just a little. Do you think I should grow a moustache? A thin one?’
‘I could not possibly advise you.’ The butler was returning, a local fisherman at his heels, deep in apparent negotiations with the footman. ‘It seems I have got my boat.’
‘And can escape from the ladies? I wonder why that is, my friend. You are not attracted to boys, I think…’
‘Certainly not!’
‘You northerners, so fierce on that subject,’ he said mildly. ‘No, I watch you when you talk to the ladies; you like women, but you do not want any of these—and they are pretty girls, well bred, amusing. So.’He twirled his imaginary moustache. ‘You have the wife to whom you are devoted? No. You have the broken heart? Ah, yes, tell me all about her.’
Chance glared at him, then found his lips twitching with amusement. The man was a rogue, and completely without shame, but he was disarmingly friendly.
‘There is someone,’ he admitted, as much to himself as to the Albanian. ‘Whatever there was between us had hardly begun. I did something stupid. And then she vanished before I could try and put it right.’
‘Here? On the island?’ Zagrede shrugged before Chance could reply. ‘No, I see you are going to be all English and gentlemanly and not say more. Never mind. Off you go in your smelly little boat. I will tell the young ladies that you have gone to write love poetry and then you will have t
o read it to them tonight.’
‘If you do any such thing, I will tell them that you will sing beautiful Albanian love songs,’ Chance retorted, getting to his feet as the butler reappeared, flushed and slightly dusty.
‘But of course. I will do so, with pleasure.’ The Count lay back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘I sing magnificently.’
Chapter Eight
The fishing boat skimmed over the water with surprising speed considering its single sail. Chance wrestled with unfamiliar ropes and knots, then settled back, enjoying the sensation of controlling something this small and agile.
The breeze was fresh, but nothing to challenge the sailor in unfamiliar waters, and he set off across the wide bay to the south. There would be a village somewhere over there where he could buy cheese, bread and olives. A flask of rough local wine perhaps.
The thought of the wine made him think of the shock of the resinated wine Alessa had given him and he lost concentration for a moment; the sail flapped and the little boat lost way. As he cursed his carelessness, and sorted out sheets and tiller, he let himself think about her properly for the first time since he had packed his bags and let himself be swept off on this trip.
You took off in a huff, he told himself severely. You made a mistake and, just because she wasn’t sitting there meekly waiting for you to come along and graciously apologise, you are just as cross with her as you are with yourself.
That was undoubtedly true, and not very helpful. Am I in love with her, or infatuated with her? How do I tell? Part of a responsible, well-regulated, life back in England was not getting involved in incautious flirtations or entanglements with eligible young ladies, and maintaining one’s mistresses with proper discretion and with no illusions on either side. Eventually one would find a suitable young lady to marry, and that would be that, although naturally, one hoped for a loving and affectionate relationship.
‘Prig!’ Chance muttered. He was finding this self-examination uncomfortable. He had an uneasy suspicion that he had been smug, and patronising in his approach to women in the past. Worse, that Alessa undoubtedly thought so, and could now add hypocrite or oaf to that unflattering description.
He also realised, as the boat skimmed closer to the cliffs, that love her or not, he most certainly was still violently attracted to her.
There was a headland; he tossed up mentally and steered towards the open sea, only to see a tantalising little sandy cove open up before him, the sun directly on it. It was quite deserted, cupped in the jagged cliffs, and on an impulse he ran the boat ashore, juddering to a halt on the sloping sand.
He was barefoot already. The sea was coolly refreshing as he splashed ashore and found a rock to tether the boat to, and his body was seriously overheated. Chance dragged off his jacket, shirt and loose trousers and, naked, took a running header into the wavelets. The shock brought him to his feet on the gritty sand, the water lapping around his loins. ‘Brrr!’ It was colder than he had thought, but the clarity was wonderful. As he looked down he could see tiny fish nibbling around his toes, and already the sun was hot on his shoulders.
Chance plunged back in again and swam strongly towards the headland. The waves had undercut it; here and there little caves appeared, the water inside them a deep turquoise. Where the rock dipped below the water there was a continuous rim of deep pinkish-purple, like a coarse, thick lace. Chance trod water, picking at it. It was like underwater lichen; perhaps the Lord High Commissioner had books in his library that would identify it.
He let himself hang on the surface, face down for as long as he could hold his breath, gazing at the sea floor, crystal clear below him. He began to kick gently, turning his face up for air before drifting on, entranced.
How deep was it? Twenty feet? More? Shoals of fish darted beneath him, rock outcrops were crowned with weed and studded with spiny urchins. He took another breath and saw that the cliff walls were turning inwards, into a deeper cave. Chance let himself drift in, no longer chilled, the heat of the sun sultry on his bare back.
A boat had sunk just inside the entrance, its ribs jutting up bare and stark. Crabs scuttled in and out of its shelter and the sudden flash of a great, sinister snake-like head betrayed the presence of a big eel.
The water’s colours, in the shade and out of it, were a delight of lapis and aqua. For the first time in his life Chance wished he could paint, trap this jewel box for ever.
He stirred his feet lazily, hanging motionless above his shadow, almost forgetting to breathe.
The flash of movement at the corner of his vision made him open his mouth and choke. It was large—as large as a seal. But there were no seals. A shark?
Chance spat water and shook the hair from his eyes, scanning the surface for signs of a fin. Nothing. He dipped his face below the surface again and there it was, swimming beneath him. No shark, but a mermaid.
Long, bare, strong limbs propelled her through the water with the grace of a fish. Her hair streamed around her head like a mass of dark weed. She swooped to pick up something from the sea bed, turned and changed direction.
He knew the moment she saw his shadow. Instantly she turned on her back, eyes searching above her, then she had somersaulted, twisting away, back the way she had come.
Surely she had to come up to breathe soon? Chance dragged air into his lungs and set off in pursuit, cutting through the surface, watching ahead for the sight of the dark hair breaking the surface.
She surfaced almost in front of him, so close he had to stop in a flurry of arm strokes and spray. ‘You!’
‘Alessa?’ Chance trod water, stunned. He could rather have believed in a mermaid. ‘How did you…?’
‘…know I was here?’ They spoke across each other.
‘I had no idea.’ Her hair capped her head sleekly until it reached the water where it separated into fascinating, seaweed fronds. Her shoulders, where he could glimpse them through it, were white, her breasts, moving gently as she trod water, were whiter. ‘Alessa, I am sorry—’
How did it happen? She was in his embrace, their wet, naked bodies bumping and slipping together until their arms locked and she fitted perfectly against him. The feeling of his bare flesh was warm, cold, strange against hers, but his mouth was so hot as he took her lips.
She stopped breathing, almost unaware that they were sinking straight down. She opened her eyes and found his open, watching her, so close she could see the deeper flecks, the rim of gold, the dark pupils.
Her own hair was streaming upwards like black flames, his was washed back from his face, but the kiss was too intense, too possessive for her to pull back and scan his features. Her feet touched on sand, her lungs were burning.
Alessa managed to pull back, gesture upwards and, taking Chance’s hand, kicked for the surface. They reached it, both gasping, and clung together in the shadow of the cliff.
Chance captured her other wrist and turned on to his back, dragging her with him so she overlay his body. Somehow they stayed afloat, their bodies touching and floating apart. ‘God, I want you.’ He pulled her closer, wrapped his arms around her, took her mouth again.
And it seemed he did indeed want her; despite the cool of the water, his desire was quite unmistakable. They were sinking again. Alessa, panting from lack of air, desire and a strange, almost wild happiness, freed herself and they rose, gasping to the surface.
‘Wrap your legs around my waist.’ His eyes were alight with a joyful wickedness.
‘Chance, we cannot, we will drown!’
‘Possibly—I am willing to risk it.’He lunged for her like a dolphin, smiling, and Alessa broke away and swam hard for the shore, not knowing whether she wanted to be caught or not.
His fingers closed round her ankle as her hands began to scrabble on the shelving beach and they collapsed, tangled in each other’s arms where the small waves broke into foam.
‘Chance—’
He was pressing kisses into the angle of her neck, but he looked up and must have seen
the doubt in her face. ‘Let me explain about what happened on the Liston. I acted without thinking, I did not realise how it must seem to you.’
‘You did not want to be seen with me by Lady Trevick, I quite understood.’ Despite her effort at control she could hear her voice shaking. There was a trace of sun freckles across his cheekbones and his hair was dark with water. She just wanted to kiss him and not have to think, but the desire was draining out of her as the water ran down her back.
‘No, you do not. I did not want her to see you at all, not yet, whoever you were with. Not until I had made some more enquiries. Alessa—’ he sat up, pulling her with him, the water lapping around their waists ‘—I think I have found your aunt and she is staying at the Residency. You look so much like her, anyone would see it. I wanted to speak to her first, not startle both of you with the news.’
‘My aunt?’ That was too much to take in. But he had not been ashamed to be seen with her, and he had not been pretending a concern he did not feel out of a cynical desire to seduce her—that she could understand. ‘I thought you had been…that you were…’
‘I guessed that must be what you thought as soon as you had run away. I came back once I found my way to the Residency and could borrow a carriage. But you had gone.’
‘But why are you here?’ The water evaporating off her skin was bringing it out in goose bumps. Alessa shivered.
‘Sir Thomas and his family and house guests have all moved to a villa in Paleokastritsa. I came too, and borrowed a boat. It is in the next bay. But you are shivering.’He pulled her to her feet and Alessa let him, still too shaken to be modest, hardly aware of their nakedness as anything other than natural.
‘You are so beautiful.’ One hand rested on the curve of her flank, the other skimmed down, over the swell of her breast, down the slim waist to the gentle curve of her belly. ‘So…’ His gaze sharpened, focused, then rose slowly to meet her eyes. Alessa felt herself begin to blush as the look brought her to awareness.