"So the colonel truly is your fiancé."
It was an odd statement to make, Alysson thought. Even more odd was his quiet tone; it held both satisfaction and a hardness that inexplicably made her want to shiver.
Unable to define why this elegant stranger should suddenly seem dangerous to her, she gave him a quelling stare. "I cannot conceive how our engagement is any of your concern."
"The colonel's father was an old acquaintance of mine. I have since come to know his son."
"You cannot know Gervase well, or he would have presented you to me in the reception line."
"I arrived late."
"And then hid out in the garden?" Alysson asked skeptically.
He shrugged, a casual, eloquent gesture that was as arrogant as his low-pitched voice. "Like you, I wanted to escape the heat." Pushing away from the tree then, he took a step toward her. "But in fact, I was anxious to meet you. I had heard the colonel had offered for the hand of a beautiful heiress."
Beautiful? She wondered where that rumor had started. Servants' gossip, no doubt. Or officers' talk. Wealth often gave the aura of beauty to those who possessed it. But the thought fled as the stranger came nearer. He moved toward her purposefully, as if he intended to inspect her, to judge her beauty—or lack thereof—for himself.
Alysson began seriously to doubt the wisdom of being alone with a man she couldn't identify. Involuntarily, she glanced back at the house, finding it farther than she expected, yet she stood her grou
nd, determined not to be intimidated by this arrogant stranger. As he emerged from the shadows, into the glow of torchlight, she could see that his hair gleamed a dark gold beneath his chapeau. Then the blur of his face became focused. His bronzed features were angular and lean . . . proud, she would have to say. Noble, even. And hard. Alysson experienced a vague feeling of unease at the hawklike expression that dominated his countenance.
He came to a halt directly in front of her, looking down at her critically. She had to crane her neck to meet his gaze. He had long-lashed, hooded eyes, she saw . . . predatory eyes. Eyes that were a dark and disturbing gold, the color of brandy in firelight.
Then suddenly his sharp gaze narrowed. He became very still, staring down at her as if in surprise, as if she was not what he had expected.
His strangeness disturbed her enough to make her demand, "Is something wrong?"
He seemed to recover himself. "No. You remind me of someone I once knew."
He, too, looked oddly familiar, Alysson thought, but she couldn't place where she had seen him. Not recently, that was certain. She would have remembered someone so . . . compelling. He was nothing like the Frenchmen of her acquaintance, with his athletic height and lean, ascetic features. Indeed, the overall effect was almost savage . . . the lean hollows beneath angled cheekbones, the narrow aquiline nose that suggested patrician fineness, the hard, sensual mouth. Together with those hawklike eyes, they gave the impression of ruthlessness, of fearless determination. Alysson couldn't drag her gaze away.
"You should heed the colonel," he said softly.
"I beg your pardon?" His swift change of subject bewildering her, she stared at him in puzzlement.
"Your journey into the interior tomorrow. You should fear the dangers. Bourmont was right. Christian foreigners will never be safe in Algeria as long as there are Arabs who refuse to abandon the Holy War."
Rigid with annoyance, both at the reminder of this man's eavesdropping, and that he, a perfect stranger, would have the audacity to question her judgment, Alysson had difficulty managing a cool reply. "If you overheard my discussion with Gervase, then you also heard my answer. Our party will be well armed . . . and the leader of the Arabs has fled to Morocco."
"Ah, but his lieutenants have not forsaken him. Emir Abdel Kader might lack a regular army, but his followers stand ready to foment the spirit of insurrection at the slightest opportunity."
Her gray eyes narrowed. She had assumed this gentleman was French, since they were conversing in that language, and since he spoke with a fluency that excelled her own. But his comment made her wonder, for it suggested that on this issue he didn't side entirely with the French. And again, there was something in his tone that gave her pause. It sounded almost as if he was issuing a warning . . . or a threat.
Controlling the urge to moisten her lips nervously, she raised her chin to stare him out of countenance. Unyielding, his gaze captured hers in a long glance.
The air suddenly became charged with inexplicable tension, a tension which Alysson was hard-pressed to understand. He made her feel as though she couldn't take a deep breath.
"I am not afraid," she finally said, her anger returning at allowing herself to be daunted by this disquieting man.
"Then you are either very brave . . . or very foolish."
Alysson clamped her lips together to keep from retorting with an epithet that was quite unladylike, but her simmering silence, her indignant glare, indeed her very posture, conveyed her vexation.
Her ire apparently had no effect on him. "It would seem," he remarked in that same casual tone, "that the colonel is far too indulgent of you."
What effrontery the man had! "I repeat," Alysson said through gritted teeth, "I fail to see how it can be any concern of yours."
He merely continued to stare down at her, those keen golden eyes regarding her with speculation. "That was not much of a kiss the colonel gave you. You didn't appear to be enjoying yourself."