Trevelyan Family: The English Witch Part 3

"I shouldn't have brought it up. I'd rather not speak ill of a man behind his back."

Well then, Alexandra thought, glancing at Mr. Trevelyan, who seemed to find Papa inordinately amusing today, let us by all means call him to us so you can speak ill to his face.

Aloud she said, "It isn't kind to drop such alarming hints to me, Randolph, and then say nothing more. Surely you must have some basis for what you claim."

As a scholar who prided himself on his logic, Mr. Burnham wasn't about to own he had no foundation for his remarks. On the other hand, it went against his gentlemanly grain to trade in gossip. The scholar won out.

"I was in London some two years after you left, as you know. While we did not travel in the same circles, I did hear of Mr. Trevelyan, and, I'm sorry to say, nothing to his credit. When I heard this story of six years' trying to make his fortune, I was astonished. Knowing what I did, I could not imagine that he had got his money any other way than by gambling."

Well, this was of a piece with everything else-and surely Randolph wouldn't say such a thing if he didn't have reasonable evidence. Gambling, too. Add that to the rest and it made a pretty sort of blackguard.

What of it, then? She certainly wasn't going to marry the fellow. Fortified by this comforting certainty, she rose-as she must-to Mr. Trevelyan's defence. "That would be very distressing news, indeed. But he was in low spirits when I last saw him," she lied, "and I understand that some men will turn to vice-temporarily-when they're in low spirits. Besides, he does say he's partners with Henry Latham, and we could always find out the truth of that."

Randolph nodded gravely. "Mr. Latham is a distant acquaintance of my father. It won't be difficult to ascertain the facts once we are home. Perhaps I wrong the man. I don't mean to. It is only that I cannot like to see you misled."

He was sincere, of course. Honest as the day is long: that was Randolph. He made her feel guilty. A little while in Mr. Trevelyan's company and she'd deceived her father, Randolph, and even Dhimitri. But when men persisted in being such blockheads, what else could one do? Still, maybe she'd been overhasty in rejecting Randolph. Charm and clever conversation weren't everything. Better to be a little bored occasionally than to be forever worrying what one's untrustworthy spouse might be up to.

Dear heavens! Whatever had led her into that train of thought? What unworthy spouse could she possibly be thinking of?

Randolph was still making apologetic murmurs. Alexandra collected her wandering thoughts and made him a soothing reply-exactly the sort of thing his wife would have to say every now and then when some bit of stone puzzled him or when he lost one of his sketches. Well, he was kind and sincere, but there were other men in the world. Nothing on earth-except perhaps her stubborn father-obliged her to choose between these two alone. Not that they were, she chided herself, willing to be chosen from. Had not one of them made that very clear the first night she met him?

Chapter 4.

Saranda now bore few traces of its origins as the ancient, thriving seaport of Onchesmus. It was a port, still, but a very minor one, and so a boat must be hired to take the group on to Prevesa. With luck-ill luck, as Alexandra saw it-they might speedily obtain places on one of the British vessels that regularly stopped there.

There was news in Saranda of Napoleon and contradictory tales of a great battle in France or Belgium. The outcome of that battle, unfortunately, was a matter of violent debate.

Basil was standing with Miss Ashmore, waiting for the dragomen to finish bullying the townsfolk as they loaded their belongings into the tiny boat.

"I suppose," he said, "we must wait until we get to Prevesa-or even Malta-to learn for certain. I should like to know, in the first place, how the Corsican eluded the British cruisers guarding his island. Then I should be curious to find out why he didn't attack Wellington in Brussels. He was still in Paris, last I heard-though it was all rumour and everyone contradicting everyone else, just as they do now. I couldn't stop to wait for news." He glanced at his companion.

Miss Ashmore seemed lost in reverie. She was gazing out across the narrow neck of the Ionian Sea towards the gloomy ma.s.s of Corfu's mountains.

"What do you think will be the outcome?" he asked.

She brought herself back, but her green eyes were still rather dreamy. "How difficult it is to contemplate war when one gazes upon such peaceful beauty. Yet this has never been a peaceful place. Ali Pasha and his soldiers have conquered, town by town, towns which had been conquered by others before. In time, someone will wrest his dominions from Ali. And he is so much more clever and efficient a manager than Buonaparte," she added, her eyes gleaming now with mischief.

"More Machiavellian, you mean?"

"Certainly that. Ali, I think, would never have been so careless as to alienate Talleyrand. Or if he had, he would have known enough to have the man killed, instead of leaving him to lick his wounds and plot revenge for five long years."

He wondered once again, looking into that heartbreakingly beautiful face, how she came by her opinions. As the daughter of Sir Charles Ashmore, she could hardly be expected to escape without some smattering of historical knowledge. But the baronet knew nothing of current events-beyond the dim awareness that there had been a war going on which occasionally interfered with his travel plans-and she seemed to know everything.

Much of Miss Ashmore's information, Basil had learned, came from divers diplomats the Ashmores had encountered in their travels, especially the many foreigners who paid court to Ali Pasha hoping to lure the sly Albanian to their side. Nonetheless, what Alexandra made of the facts and rumours she heard was her own and always interesting. To egg her on, therefore, he asked ingenuously what she meant. After all, Buonaparte couldn't help but alienate somebody and could hardly trouble himself about whose feelings he might hurt.

She shot him a look of incredulity. "To call the man a stockingful of excrement-and that before the whole court? He could not have helped that? And he reputed a brilliant strategist?"

Basil suppressed a grin. "Called him what?"

But she was already caught up in the drama of the moment she pictured. "Before the whole court," she repeated, shaking her head. "Talleyrand stood and bore the abuse, never saying a word. Yet, one suspects, from that day forth he must have plotted his revenge. Plotted, planned, biding his time for years." She shivered. "Such patience is frightening. I should not care to have such a one about. I imagined him like Ca.s.sius, with his 'lean and hungry look.' "

Basil gave his own theatrical shudder. "That sounds exactly like Rogers, my valet. Left to his devices in Prevesa, heaven knows what he might be plotting. I hope, at least, he's guarding my trunks."

"If he's a proper British valet, Mr. Trevelyan, he'll be obliged to shoot himself as soon as he claps eyes on you."

Basil glanced down ruefully at his raffish attire: Turkish-style trousers, limp cotton shirt the Albanians called a kamisha, and travel-stained cloak. "Well, you see, my costume doesn't look like anything in particular, and so I can't be categorised, which makes men careful how they treat me. I may, you know, be mad."

Miss Ashmore a.s.sured him, with a little grin, of her certainty that he was.

"But sane enough to hope Rogers has kept my baggage safe from these rogues. I don't know why he shouldn't, as he's a worse rogue than any of them. At any rate, he'll not deign to notice my disgraceful appearance. He'll take me immediately in hand, and the next time you see me you won't recognise me."

"Ah, then I shan't be obliged to speak to you."

"In which case, I shall travel as I am," was the prompt retort. "But here we are, speaking of my sartorial tragedies, when I am on pins and needles to hear about this Ca.s.sius-Talleyrand of yours. And of Napoleon's Fatal Flaw. Is he a tragic figure, do you think?"

It wanted very little to coax her to talk. She led Basil on back through history, from Buonaparte and Talleyrand to Caesar to Alexander to Alexander's father, Philip of Macedon. Basil was content to go where she led, though he teased and questioned and tried to undermine her theories. He liked to listen to her, liked exploring with her the characters of those who'd made history, and those who'd made art and literature of history.

What had Dhimitri's relatives called her? The English witch. She wove spells, they claimed, entrapping young men with her beauty, but to Basil she was Sheherazade. He could have listened to her forever... and oh, how he wished she could keep him company through his long, restless nights.

They reached Prevesa by late afternoon-too soon-and he was jolted out of his trance as they prepared to disembark. Deaf to her protests and oblivious to Dhimitri's congratulatory smile, Basil lifted her out of the boat and waded to sh.o.r.e with her in his arms. No, he thought, he was under no spell. He only liked to hear her talk because he wanted her, and he wanted her because he'd been lonely too many months. There was no spell. Only Desire, and that must fade once they were home.

Lefka, Gjergi, and Stefan had stayed behind in Saranda, but Gregor and Dhimitri refused to part from their charges until those fragile English creatures were safely aboard their ship. A British merchant vessel lay in the harbour, awaiting the escort of a brig of war which was scheduled to arrive the next day and depart the day following.

While Mr. Trevelyan made arrangements for pa.s.sage, Dhimitri saw to accommodations. The young Albanian had distant relatives in the town who were very well-to-do. Their s.p.a.cious and well-furnished home was, he insisted, infinitely preferable to the Spartan lodgings of the English vice-consul. Too tired to argue, the travellers agreed to accept the hospitality.

After dinner, their hosts proposed that the Englishmen take a stroll through the town. Alexandra helped the womenfolk wash the simple dinner utensils and then decided to take her own quiet walk through the garden. She had, after all, a great deal to think about.

This make-believe betrothal to Mr. Trevelyan was not a satisfactory solution to her problems. They could not continue the charade after they reached England, which meant she was only postponing the inevitable. Her rakish coconspirator would no doubt wish to recommence his raking immediately, thereby leaving no more stumbling blocks in Papa's-or rather, the Burnhams'-way. Mr. Trevelyan had turned out to be hardly any help at all, and he unsettled her. She was not used to being unsettled, and she didn't like it.

Well, actually, she did like it-and that, considering the man's character, was not a desirable state of mind.

Shrugging to shake off her thoughts of him she turned into the pathway leading to the terraced garden, lush with flowers. The air was sweet, but not cloyingly so. The sea breezes stirred and freshened, making it as deliciously fragrant, she thought, as the Garden of Eden must have been. From the distance came strains of the music she'd gradually come to appreciate, though it had sounded so odd and discordant at first. A tenor voice sang in a familiar, aching minor key accompanied by the wail of what sounded like an Eastern version of a clarinet. She couldn't make out the words, but imagined what they were: a tribute to native warriors and patriots or to the rugged beauty of the country. Sometimes there was a mournful song of love-but then, they all sounded rather mournful, even the triumphant tale of Ali Pasha's conquest of Prevesa. As she stopped to listen, she realised she wasn't alone.

Basil stepped away from the garden wall he'd been lounging against, and approached her. He was dressed now, as he'd promised, like a proper English gentleman, though he still seemed somehow a creature of her imagination. In the moonlight his sun-bleached hair was shot through with silver. Even his amber cat eyes seemed to glow as they settled on her in that watchful way.

"I was right," he said, in a low voice. "I was thinking this was almost-but not quite heaven. Now you are come to make it complete."

The words made her heart flutter, as they doubtless were intended to do, but she was determined not to blush. Nor would she be alarmed in the least at the way he so self-a.s.suredly offered his arm. She'd stroll with him for a minute or two and then go back indoors.

"It is beautiful," she answered, deciding the honeyed words were best ignored. "For the six years we've been here, I find myself in one place after another, each time thinking it must be the loveliest scene in the world."

"I suppose then, you'll be sorry to leave?"

"Yes, of course. What other sea is as blue as the Ionian?"

"None. But I shall be deliriously happy to go home, nonetheless."

"You'd have been gone all the sooner if it hadn't been for me," she found herself saying, though that wasn't what she'd meant to say at all.

"Yes, but I wouldn't have been returning with you-and that, I think, more than makes up for the delay."

Naturally he'd say something like that. He probably thought she was fishing for compliments.

When she didn't answer, he went on. "Now, of course, all the advantage is with the later departure. Not only do I return with you, but I have managed by sheer perseverance to find you alone at last. It did take some doing, and I was wretchedly deceitful. However, I have my reward, and that's all that matters."

She stopped and looked at him. "What are you doing here, Mr. Trevelyan? I thought you'd gone with my father and Mr. Burnham and the others."

"Why do you never call me Basil? Is the name so disagreeable?"

"That wasn't what I asked, Mr. Trevelyan."

"But it was what I asked, Miss Ashmore, and I wish you would stop calling me Mr. Trevelyan. It puts such a monstrous distance between us and makes Dhimitri pity me, which is quite unbearable."

"You keep turning the subject, and yet you were the one to start it."

"Of course I did, and for nothing but the sheer delight of watching your green eyes flash at me. They are indeed flashing, Miss Ashmore, as they always do when I provoke you, and that should make me feel ashamed of myself if anything could. But nothing does, you know."

That was easy enough to believe. "In which case, sir, I think it best to take my leave of you."

She disengaged her arm from his and started to turn back to the house, but he stepped in front of her, blocking the way. He stood only a few inches from her. He was only teasing, of course. He was trying to make her nervous. He was succeeding. "You stand in my path, Mr. Trevelyan, which is very inconsiderate, because now I'll be obliged to trample on that lovely flowerbed."

"I only wanted to kiss you," was the outrageous reply. "Here we are alone in paradise-the perfect moment-and you talk only of murdering these innocent plants."

She was alarmed now, though something pleasantly antic.i.p.atory about that alarm brought warmth to her cheeks. He hadn't budged, and the glitter in those strange eyes forced her to look away.

She took a step backward. "I don't know what you're thinking of. What point is there in kissing me when there's no one nearby who needs to be convinced of our undying devotion?" She took another step away from him. He stayed where he was, looking thoughtful.

"How logical you are. I think it's from spending too much time with Mr. Burnham. Randolph. You do call him Randolph. I've heard you. No use denying it."

That was better. His tone was lighter now, and so hers became. "I've known him for years. But if it troubles you so much, then I'll call you Randolph, too."

Her small grin made him even more restless than usual-or maybe reckless was more accurate a description, because in the very next moment he reached out and pulled her to him. He bent his face to hers, and then there was nothing left but to kiss her. He told himself it was that grin, provoking him.

Miss Ashmore certainly had not meant to let him kiss her in the first place or to kiss him back in the second. But his mouth was so unexpectedly gentle as it touched hers that it gentled her own response. Then there was a warmth, and it was so welcoming and tender and made her feel so very peaceful and cozy and safe in his arms, that she did respond. He'd pulled her closer until her heart was pounding, and the press of his lean, muscular body had kindled warmth into blazing heat, and everything familiar had been whirled away by the maelstrom into which he drew her.

She was, suddenly, very afraid of him, because he was drawing her into danger, and she was following too willingly. His fingers were in her hair. He kissed her forehead and her eyelids and her cheeks, and when his lips found her mouth again they were hungry, demanding, urgent. Because she did not want him to stop, tears-of frustration, anger, shame, she hardly knew-welled up in her eyes as she tried to push him away.

"No," he whispered, crushing her closer. "Not now."

"Yes, stop. Now," she gasped. "Please stop-you must stop. Please."

He barely seemed to notice her effort to push him away. "Alexandra." His voice was hoa.r.s.e.

"Let go of me."

Very unwillingly he released her from his embrace, but he clasped her hand to keep her from fleeing. "This is a terrible time to stop, my love," he told her. He sounded rather breathless as though he'd been running hard.

"Oh, please. No 'my loves.' And will you let go of me? I must go back."

"You can't do that now, Alexandra. Look at you. Your wicked fiance has disarranged your hair, and your eyes are wet. You look exactly as though-well, exactly as you should under the circ.u.mstances." Releasing her, he offered his handkerchief. "And you hate me, which is a great deal worse."

She dabbed absently at her eyes but made no other effort to restore herself to rights. Stunned and confused, she spoke without thinking. "It isn't that... I don't know what it is. I don't understand."

At the moment, there were a few things he didn't understand either. There was, for instance, the totally ungovernable desire. If she hadn't begged him to stop in that desperate voice, he wasn't sure what would have happened. Surely it must have stopped at some point. He refused to think beyond that.

She wasn't looking at him, but was staring off into the dark distance, as though some secret might be stored there. Somewhere in that distance there was music: a mournful, lonely voice calling to the heavens. Her face was like cool marble in the moonlight, so still did she stand, gazing off at nothing. He wanted to touch her, to make her warm again and yielding as she had been-but no, that was quite impossible. Firmly, he turned his mind away and became more charming. "I do hope you'll settle on hating yourself then, because you'll be kinder to me, and I do need a great deal of kindness now after being so cruelly rejected."

"Rejected?" She looked up in astonishment at those strange cat eyes, but they were blank and innocent.

"Isn't that what it was? 'No' and 'stop' to me mean rejection, especially when uttered in such anguish. Yet you needn't expect me to apologise. I'd gladly do the same again, even to be rejected again though that isn't the least bit pleasant, and you may certainly apologise if you like. I'm a very forgiving sort of person, you know."

Good heavens, but he was impossible. To chatter at her so when she was racked by emotions she could neither understand nor name. She stared at him. He stared back, his face still blank and innocent, as the silence lengthened between them. It was not a peaceful sort of silence. Something seemed to vibrate within it. That something finally drove Alexandra to regain her self-command and make a rather tart comment on his magnanimity.

"Yes, magnanimity is one of my failings. But come," he went on briskly, "your current state of dishevelment is unconscionably tempting, and I don't think I can contemplate you another minute without doing something perfectly dreadful."

Thus admonished, she attended to her hair-as best she could, with his helpful interference. He insisted the pins were in wrong and, looking very grave, pulled them out almost as quickly as she put them in. His touch, as he handed them back to her, made her tremble.

"Will you please stop helping me?" she snapped. "I'll be out here all night at this rate."

"You didn't think I intended to let you go back in so soon? However tedious my company seems to you, we've been here only a very few minutes."

"That's quite long enough to be alone in a dark garden with a gentleman, even in Albania. It's hardly proper."

"No, it isn't proper at all, and if I could think of some beautiful lie to convince you to stay-well, obviously, you can't trust me to behave myself."

"That's true. And it's very tiresome and unfair of you, Mr. Trevelyan-"

"Mr. Trevelyan, still."

"Randolph, then."

"Basil, you wretched girl. Basil. "

"Basil, then." Seeing the triumphant smile he wore, she smiled, too. He might have all the experience, but he needn't always have the upper hand. "Basil then, my love, my sweet," she went on in falsely ardent, breathless tones so like his own that she startled the smile off his face. "You are monstrous unfair. For you show me not only that I 'm not safe in your company, but that you're unsafe in mine. I must look out not only for myself, but for you as well-since you seem bound and determined to compromise me."

"Do I?" he asked. He made no move to stop her when she stepped away. His smile was gone, and the bland innocence had turned to watchfulness again.

"Oh, yes. But I gave you my promise, and I mean to keep it, regardless how difficult you make it for me. I will save you from yourself, Basil, my love. So rest easy."

She turned then and left him.