A Most Unconventional Courtship

‘Indeed.’ She stared at him, fighting her way through her own muddle of emotions. What did she feel? Embarrassment, anger, disappointment that he should have thought such a thing of her, pleasure that he rejected the evidence, complete confusion over why his opinion should matter. ‘Why?’ she demanded, before she could stop herself. ‘Why do you not believe it?’

That direct question had taken him aback. What were the women of his acquaintance like, that he was so surprised by direct questions, a willingness to argue? ‘Because I think I know you, even after so short a time. Because I do not think you would use your own children’s bedroom. Because, if it were so, I would be jealous.’

The last words were soft, as though he was speaking only to himself. Her eyes, which had been watching his hands, powerful and elegant on the homespun blanket, flew to his face. He had taken himself by surprise as much as he had her.

‘Jealous—?’

The knock on the door cut off what would have been an impossible question. Alessa tore her eyes from Chance’s and went to open it. ‘Mr Williams! Pl

ease come in. I had not expected you until this afternoon, but Lord Blakeney will be delighted to see you so early, I am sure.’

The Lord High Commissioner’s steward stepped into the room with the polite half-bow he always favoured Alessa with. It amused her, and puzzled her too, that he should treat one of the Commission tradespeople with such courtesy, but he was unfailingly punctilious where she was concerned. She managed an answering smile and bobbed a curtsy.

‘Sir Thomas was most concerned when he received the message, Kyria Alessa. Although, with your skills, we knew his lordship could not be in better hands.’ Alessa could almost feel the waves of curiosity emanating from the couch as the steward turned towards it. ‘How do you find yourself, my lord? We are all appalled that you should have encountered such violence and criminality in a town under English governance.’

‘I am justly punished for my recklessness in wandering around alone at night in an unknown town, Mr Williams, but I will recover soon enough, thanks to Kyria Alessa.’ His smile was warm, even though she was conscious of a certain constraint in it. The things that had passed between them were too recent and too strangely intimate to leave either of them comfortable.

The two stalwart footmen who had followed Mr Williams were waiting just inside the door. ‘Have you brought a change of linen for his lordship?’

Roberts, the one she knew best, hefted a portmanteau. ‘All in here, Kyria, just like young Demetri said.’

‘Perhaps you can assist his lordship to dress, in that case.’ Alessa indicated the screen and drew the steward to the other end of the room, leaving Chance to the mercy of his helpers. She caught Mr Williams’s eye with a smile as a grunt of pain and a hasty apology from one of the men marked his lordship’s progress with his clothes. ‘He is not seriously hurt,’ she assured the steward. ‘But I imagine both his hip and ankle are extremely painful and it would be best if you can see that he rests for several days. He will be guided by Sir Thomas’s own doctor, of course.’

‘Doctor Pyke will not venture to contradict your diagnosis in such matters.’ Mr Williams took out his pocket book and handed Alessa a list. ‘He asked if you had any of these salves in stock. If not, he would like to order them.’

Alessa opened the big press and began to lift pots down. ‘All except the lemon balm ointment, which I am potting up today, and the sage wash. I will have some of that ready by the end of the week—it is still infusing. Here, it will all go in this rush bag with his lordship’s clothes. His linen is still in the wash; I will bring it with the rest of the Residency laundry.’

Further muffled curses heralded Chance’s emergence from behind the screen. He was hopping on one foot, the other unshod, his hand gripping Robert’s shoulder. ‘We can carry you, my lord,’ the footman was protesting. ‘Make a seat with our hands. You’ll not manage the stairs otherwise.’

‘I am not drunk and I am not dead,’ Chance retorted grimly. ‘I can manage a flight of stairs.’ The look he shot Alessa was defiant, but she refused to gratify him with feminine flutterings and protestations that he take care, despite the fact that his lips were set in a thin line and he had gone white under his tan. He was a grown man, and he could take the consequences of being too proud to be carried in front of a woman.

‘Kyria, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done for me. I apologise that you have been put to such inconvenience by my actions, and, if in my…confusion, I blundered.’

Do not go, not until you explain what you meant…The words were so clear in her mind that for one awful moment Alessa thought she had spoken them out loud. ‘There is nothing to apologise for, my lord,’ she said calmly. ‘Xenia, hospitality to strangers, is important to us. You may best repay it by taking care of yourself. And, Roberts…’ the footman turned ‘…be careful with that arm.’

‘I will, Kyria.’ The man grinned. ‘But it’s all healed up now.’

Alessa let them all out on to the landing, but went straight back inside, leaving the door a little ajar, and waited, braced for a crash. None came, but the muttered curses rising up the stairwell added a little to her vocabulary. With a smile she closed the door and went to look out of the window down into the courtyard below. Chance was resting, one hip hitched on the edge of the fountain, apparently engaged in questioning Roberts. The footman, who was wearing a sleeveless waistcoat, unbuttoned the cuff of his shirt and began to roll up the sleeve, just as Spiro wandered out of the bakery door to see what was going on. Alessa’s eyebrows rose—this was going to be interesting.

‘Kyria Alessa’s a wonder with salves,’ Roberts explained in answer to Chance’s enquiry as they had hopped slowly down the stairs. He bared a forearm for inspection. In the bright sunlight the tanned skin was puckered with a pink scar. ‘The cook splashed me with boiling water three weeks ago—and look how she’s got it to heal. Hey, Spiro, you see Kyria Alessa for your back, don’t you?’

‘Ne.’ The stocky man nodded politely to Chance, subjecting him to the intense stare he was beginning to expect from the local people. He had seen him somewhere before. ‘She fixes it good now.’ The man rolled a shoulder experimentally, sending flour off his coat like snow. ‘She is a tough one, Alessa. She bangs my back hard where it is all knotted and she rubs in the ointment that stings, and she tells me not to be a baby when I shout. It makes it much better.’Of course—this was Spiro of the thumping bed head.

Chance regarded his clasped hands thoughtfully. He had managed to put his foot in it comprehensively. Both feet, in fact. Alessa had probably saved his life, she had dressed his wounds with a skill that ought to have told him something, if only he’d stopped to think beyond embarrassment at the knowledge that she had stripped him to do it—and what had he done? Leapt to the worst possible conclusion about her.

And why did you do that, you bloody fool? he asked himself savagely as the footman and the baker topped each other’s stories of how wonderful the Kyria was. Because you want her, that’s why. The first thing that enters your head when you think of her is sex.

Mr Williams strode back into the courtyard. ‘The carriage has managed to get through to the next street. Just a few more yards, my lord, if you are rested.’

‘Of course, thank you.’ Chance got upright, his hand on Roberts’ shoulder, and looked up. Far above them Alessa was leaning out of the window, framed with scarlet flowers in pots. She was watching them, her weight on her crossed arms. He thought she was smiling. Chance lifted a hand in salute and wondered if he was going to receive a plant pot in return. Instead she lifted a hand in response and he thought he glimpsed a flash of white teeth.

A forgiving woman then, or perhaps she was just enjoying the sight of his undignified exit from the courtyard and out of her life.

Chapter Four

Alessa turned from the window, the smile still playing about her lips. A stubborn man that, but one who was at least ready to admit his faults. Even from her lofty viewpoint she could read the mingled chagrin and regret on his face.

How could she blame him for the conclusion he had jumped to? And how could she explain that leap of faith, which had led him to deny what common sense told him was the disreputable truth about her?