‘But not long.’ Alessa felt curiously breathless, despite having walked up and down that same hill countless times. Chance’s body was warm against her wrist, and the linen shirt was still damp from where he must have pulled in on over his wet body. She could feel her cheeks colouring. ‘See, there is the cottage.’
The stone building nestled into a bank, shaded by olives behind and a big pine at the side, leaning as though for companionship against Agatha’s smaller house. Alessa felt a warm tug of affection for it. ‘Home.’ Could I leave here? And the feeling that ran through her was fear.
Chapter Nine
Chance felt Alessa’s body stiffen and glanced down, but he could not see her face under the broad brim of her hat. Instead he studied the reception party—he was not certain he would call it a welcome party—which was clustered around the gate.
The children were certainly pleased to see him, but the two women were another matter. The younger, a buxom wench with a tangled mop of red hair, her muscular arms crossed under a quite magnificent bosom, was regarding him with a look that held both curiosity and assessment. He stared back with a certain degree of hauteur, expecting her to drop her gaze, but she just grinned back unrepentantly. This, presumably, was the friend who had helped undress him and put him to bed; from the wicked twinkle he was quite sure she knew that he knew it, and was watching him for signs of discomfiture.
Chance drew on several years’ experience of dealing with alarmingly forward young matrons and maintained his composure. The other woman was another matter altogether. Apparently as old as the olive trees behind her, brown, wrinkled and with every sign of being as tough as old boot leather, Agatha regarded him with sharp black eyes from under an elaborately draped headscarf. That, no doubt, concealed a substructure of cows’ horns.
Chance conjured up a mental picture of the full set of Almack’s patronesses at their most critical and produced a charming smile. The shrewd old eyes narrowed.
‘Kalíméra,’ he said politely.
‘Yia sas.’ Health to you. The old woman produced the phrase like a threat.
Mrs Street smiled more broadly. ‘Good day, my lord. A pleasure to meet you again.’
Beside him he heard the sharp hiss of Alessa’s indrawn breath. ‘I regret I have no memory of our first encounter, ma’am,’ he replied. ‘You have the advantage of me.’
‘Kyria Agatha, Mrs Street,’ Alessa snapped, almost pulling him through the gate so that its two guardians had to give way in front of her. ‘I hope our guest will not have to wait long for some refreshment.’ Her voice had all the steel chill he had last heard reproving him; now he found himself enchanted by it. She was flustered and defensive, for all that she was trying to conceal it, and the only reason for that could be him.
Which means, Chance mused, allowing himself to be pulled by the children to a bench under a vine arbour, that she is not as unaffected by what happened in the bay as she would like to make out.
He should be ashamed of himself, he knew. On one level he was—no gentleman should take advantage of a lady like that, however surprised he was by the encounter, and however extreme their state of undress. On the other hand, his body still ached with the memory of hers in his arms, of the silken slide of wet skin against his, the heat of her mouth, passionate—innocent—under his.
He wanted her, and what was even more imperative, he wanted her to want him. What had she meant when she said, I expect it was something we both needed to get out of our systems? That she had been curious and now her curiosity was satisfied? Somehow he felt as though his for her never would be.
Demetri and Kate Street were bringing over a table, Dora lugging a chair behind them. Chance tried to get to his feet and found himself pushed down on to the bench again by a small, firm hand on his shoulder. ‘Sit, please. You are our guest.’
Food began to appear. A plate of olives, black and green in a golden pool of oil. Cheese lying on a vine leaf. A craggy loaf with a dangerous-looking knife stuck into it and a dish of pale butter, and finally a gnarled, U-shaped sausage that looked as though it had been hanging in the rafters for months. Old Agatha began to slice it, revealing a deep crimson interior, richly flecked and marbled with white like a piece of porphyry. Chance felt his mouth begin to water as the boy hefted a pitcher of water on to the table and Alessa added a jug of wine.
‘Sit, everyone.’ Alessa gestured to the table and they sat around. She began to pour wine into beakers, a splash for the children, topped up with plenty of water: half and half for Kate Street, herself and him; undiluted for Agatha.
In the dappled shade with the sun glinting off the waves in the bay below, Chance felt himself relax. He had not realised just how tense he had been. Now he felt a kind of happiness he could not entirely define.
‘Would you cut the bread, my lord?’
He reached for the knife, suppressing a smile. Alessa’s tone would not be out of place in a Mayfair dining room, asking him to pass the caper sauce or carve a capon. It was difficult to create a creditable slice of the rustic bread, but he persevered, passing each slice as it was cut. The children exhibited perfect table manners, he noticed, sitting quietly and handing olives or the cheese without being asked. He smiled at Dora and was rewarded by her flashing, mischievous smile in return.
She would be enchanting, all dressed up in English style. Would she like a pony? he wondered. When Alessa was home in England where she belonged, the children could have whatever they wanted—her long-lost family would dote on them, surely.
He glanced across at Alessa and saw she was gazing round the garden, an expression of quiet contentment on her face as she took in the neatly tended rows of vegetables, the chickens that had strayed from Agatha’s plot and were chasing a spider, and the vine, which scrambled over the front wall. His pleasure vanished, replaced by a chill stab of
doubt. This was her home now, and she was happy. Was he wrong, after all, to want to take her away from it?
Then he looked at the old woman’s work-gnarled hands, Kate Street’s reddened knuckles, the careful, loving mends and darns in the children’s clothes. Yes, of course he was doing the right thing; she might think she was happy now, but this was not what she had been born to. In society she would flourish, and the children with her.
He looked at Alessa again, and this time caught her eye. Off guard, she smiled at him and his heart seemed to flip in his chest. All the sound in the garden stilled to nothing. The sensation lasted a moment only, then she glanced away and hearing returned.
‘Are you staying locally, my lord?’ It was Mrs Street, managing to sound perfectly respectable, despite the impudent glint in her eye.
‘The Lord High Commissioner has taken a villa at Paleokastritsa. I am his guest.’
‘Then my Fred and his lads are guarding you,’ Kate Street said with simple pride. ‘Smartest lot in the army, my Fred’s lads.’
‘Sergeant Street, is it? I must look out for him.’