The English Witch (Trevelyan Family 2)

"No, I hadn't anticipated adventures—but then, 'Fierce are Albania's children,' according to Byron. Shall I expect more adventures, Miss Ashmore? I wouldn't mind a little warning."

"Good heavens I should hope not. I can't think what possessed Dhimitri."

"You can't?" His voice grew softer. "How odd, for I can. Yet he gallantly gave you up to your own true love. One gathers that he did not think Mr. Burnham your own true love."

"I suppose you're right. Dhimitri did insist that he was rescuing me."

"Then bless his romantic heart. He believed the show we put on for him—and he's given me an idea."

Since it was most unlikely she'd fall off a horse proceeding at this slow pace, Miss Ashmore wondered why, as they conversed, he felt it necessary to press so close. Or why he must lower his voice to that insinuating timbre when there was only the dragoman to hear. She was unable at the moment to devise a polite way to put these questions to him, considering he'd just saved her from a Fate Worse Than Death. Instead, she asked what idea he had.

"I may have hit upon a way to confound your father's plans for your future. Was he in London during your one Season?"

"No, he came back only just before Mama passed away, at the end of June."

"Then he doesn't know I wasn't in London either. In that case, suppose you formed an attachment then, which you’ve kept secret all this time – for precisely the reasons we gave Dhimitri and his family."

"An attachment? But what—oh, I see. You think to convince Papa..." She trailed off, wondering why the idea made her uneasy.

"That your heart is otherwise engaged."

"I doubt it will make any difference. He's very set on Mr. Burnham."

"Ah, but he hasn't even met me yet, Miss Ashmore. Shall I tell you my credentials?" Without waiting for a reply, he began to enumerate his advantages in ringing tones that made Gregor sit up and take notice. While Basil himself had no title, his first cousin was the seventh Earl of Hartleigh. Furthermore, the Trevelyan family could be traced back to Norman times. His Aunt Clem, daughter of an earl, had maintained her status by marrying the Earl of Bertram, whose own line was equally ancient and honourable.

"Moreover," Basil went on, "in addition to being monstrous well connected, I am now quite plump in the pocket—which makes me a perfectly unexceptionable catch. Add to these my considerable charm and a reputed talent for making black appear white—and I cannot imagine any Papa saying me nay."

"But what of your character, sir?" Alexandra asked sternly, imitating her father at his stuffiest. "Mr. Burnham is honest as the day is long, a dedicated scholar and a gentleman, an earnest and honourable man."

"Deuce take it—you have me out there, madam. You see, my character is as black as black can be. I am an incorrigible liar, a wastrel, and—I beg your pardon, ma'am, but the truth must be told—a womaniser. Selfish and fickle, I am, as Aunt Clem will be quick to tell you, a perfectly dreadful boy."

Alexandra was able to suppress her gasp, but couldn't help turning to look at him in disbelief. The dreadful boy was smiling at her so angelically that she couldn't tell whether he was roasting her or not.

"Well then," she answered, careful to keep her voice light, "you'd better not tell Papa that."

"Of course not. I am a liar, after all. And a very good one, too, I might add."

Doubtless he was. He'd made such a good show of a passionate embrace that even now, thinking back on it, she felt a little dizzy. But then, what did she know of such things? One or two gentlemen had stolen kisses from her, but those were hasty affairs, easily halted by the simple expedient of stomping on a highly polished boot.

To have employed like measures in his case would have meant disaster. Consequently, his was the first full-length kiss she'd experienced. She wasn't sure whether she'd liked it or not. There had been a rush of sensation not altogether unpleasant. That sensation had made her feel powerless, and the loss of control frightened her. Though not nearly as large as Dhimitri—not even so very many inches taller than herself— Mr. Trevelyan was alarmingly strong. She was by no means a frail little thing, and yet it had seemed he might easily crush her to pieces if he liked. Now, as he held her too close, too tightly, she was acutely conscious of his lean, muscular form and of a tension between them that made her breath come and go more rapidly than usual.

"Well then, will I do?" His voice dropped to a whisper again, and his mouth seemed terribly close to her ear.

Fortunately, she'd had some experience with flirtatious gentlemen, a species of which Basil Trevelyan appeared to be a member.

Taking herself firmly in hand, Alexandra answered with cool dignity. “I suppose you must, since there is no one else, Mr. Trevelyan. However, I am puzzled why you must hold me so tight. I assure you I am in no danger of falling off your horse. Unless you think to begin the performance already. But Papa is still miles away, so there really is no need."

"I was practising, Miss Ashmore," came the amused reply.

"I doubt you require any practice. You have quite convinced me of your aptitude for this sort of thing."

"Then perhaps you want practice," he persisted.

"I had much rather you trusted me to muddle along. I promise to follow your lead exactly."

He gave a forlorn sigh. "Which is all to say you don't trust me a bit. And after all we've been to each other. Cruel girl. I am yours to command." He loosened his hold on her. "There. Is that better?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Well, it seems a great deal worse to me. Let me know if you change your mind."

"There is very little likelihood of that. Now perhaps you

'd be kind enough to change the subject."

"Heartless girl. You forbid me to hold you, and then you forbid me even to flirt with you. This is quite the worst engagement I've ever experienced."

"Ah, then you’ve been engaged before, Mr. Trevelyan?"

"Very briefly."

The terse reply and the tense silence that followed told her she'd inadvertently stumbled upon an interesting topic. He gave her only a moment to ponder this little mystery before he went on, in a more normal voice, to ask what had brought the Ashmores to Albania.

Alexandra explained that they'd come at the express invitation of Ali Pasha himself. Evidently, when Byron had visited, either he or Mr. Hobhouse had mentioned Sir Charles's work to the great Pasha of Egypt. Ali, being an Albanian and in a humour at the time to cultivate the English, had graciously invited the scholar to explore the little-known country.

"And Dhimitri dared to abduct the daughter of Ali Pasha's honoured guest?"

"The Albanians are afraid of nothing, Mr. Trevelyan. It is fortunate you were so inventive. Papa is no diplomat and might very well have threatened them with Ali. They would have promptly taken Dhimitri's part and laughed at the danger, because the Albanians are not only fearless, but proud and clannish as well. Once Ali got to hear of it—he hears of everything, you know, for all that he's in Egypt now—he'd send his men to kill everyone in the town just to set an example."

"Yes, I understand he roasts his friends on a spit if they annoy him. Well then, it only goes to show, as I've always maintained, that kisses are infinitely preferable to bloodshed."

She could hardly disagree with this pacifistic opinion, yet she dared not concur enthusiastically either. It was plain, even from the small sampling he'd provided of his talents, that his charm was, as he claimed, considerable, and she'd rather not have him exert any more of it upon her.

In other circumstances she might have enjoyed a lighthearted flirtation. But there were only the three of them on a dark road, and already his behaviour had been overly civil. He'd been very slow to release his hold on her and was only amused at her reproof. Besides, he'd admitted to being a liar and a womaniser and other dreadful things. While that, too, could be a lie, it was wiser to assume it was not and to be cautious.