A Most Unconventional Courtship

Alessa slipped the peg into the door latch to secure it behind her friend and started on the evening’s chores. Clean clothes for tomorrow, Demetri’s slate to find, Dora’s piece of lumpy sewing to flatten out so that it would not scandalise the nuns too much when they came to assess it, check there was enough wood by the hearth…

She realised she was achieving little, almost too tired to go to sleep, too restless to try. A deep sigh from the couch—which she had been carefully avoiding—made her start, but the man was still profoundly unconscious. Alessa hesitated, looking down at him. Why was he disturbing her so? He was nothing but extra work, her actions in helping him could lead her into all sorts of difficulties with some very unsavoury characters, and he combined the three things she distrusted most in the world: he was English, he was an aristocrat and he was male.

Trying to be fair, Alessa sat down and studied him. He might not be English, he might not be an aristocrat—although she doubted that, he had all the trappings of the upper classes—and not all men were bad. Just an awful lot of them. It was, taken all round, much the safest course to treat him with the deepest mistrust and to get rid of him as soon as possible.

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.