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"Illyria," she repeated breathlessly.
"That was its ancient name," he said. "A part of it is known to your people as Albania. I am an Albanian by birth and blood." He paused briefly. "You wanted to know my name. My mother, who was a Christian, wished to name me Alexander—Skander, in my own tongue. My father, a Moslem, chose Ismal. I am Ismal Delvina. I take my surname from the region of his family."
Alexis Delavenne, Comte d'Esmond.
In reality, he was Ismal Delvina, whose mother had wanted to name him Alexander. His name, she thought, her heart aching. What she'd begged for—and more. He had a mother and father, and a place of birth, Albania. And even his countrymen thought him strange.
"Ismal," she whispered. "Your name is Ismal."
He watched her for a moment, as though waiting for something, but she could only wait, too, for whatever else he meant to tell her.
"It is a common Moslem name," he said expressionlessly. "My father was an unpretentious man. A warrior. From him I inherited my height and my strength. It was strength, perhaps, that assisted the growth of superstitions about me. They began, however, when I was born, at the height of the full moon. My hair was white. That was the first omen. The second omen was that, as a babe, I could not be kept swaddled. Always I worked myself free, for even in infancy I could not be confined. The third omen was observed when I was three years old. While I played in the garden, a viper crawled into my lap. I strangled it and draped it about my neck, and strutted about to show my elders."
"When you were three?" she asked weakly.
"It is significant," he said. "Three years old, the third omen. My people believe three is a number of great power and importance. They are superstitious. They believe witches and vampires live among them. They believe in magic, in the Evil Eye and curses, and in charms to ward off ills and evils. After these three mysterious events—which my mother made sure everyone knew of—it was easy for them to believe I was not altogether human." His smile was mocking.
As though he were embarrassed, Leila thought, surprised. "The Albanians sound rather like the Irish," she said. "Imaginative. Poetic. They made you special."
"With some help from my mother." He darted her a veiled glance. "It was from her I inherited my guile. If not for guile, I should not be what I am today."
After another pause, he went on. "When Ali heard of this strange little boy, his curiosity overcame him. He came to look at me, and while he looked, my mother told him the dream she'd had of my destiny. I doubt she had such a dream. She was a skilled liar and deceived him because she wanted to live in luxury. She succeeded, for Ali took my family back with him to his court. He was the greatest miser in all the Ottoman Empire, but because of her lies, he paid to send me abroad, to be educated among westerners. In Italy, France, and England. Here I attended Westminster and Oxford."
That explained the public school accent.
"It was only for a few years," he continued, "because I learned quickly, and soon outpaced my masters."
There was another silence, a very long one. Leila was afraid to break it.
The lines at the corners of his eyes tightened when he spoke again. "As I said, the future my mother predicted was a lie. But I grew up believing it. When I reached my young manhood, I determined that the first step toward achieving my destiny was to overthrow Ali."
He cast her another glance from under his lashes. "You must believe that by this time I owed him nothing. Every coin he'd spent had been paid back threefold in service. I brought him considerable wealth. It was my people I owed—or so I believed in my youthful arrogance. I set out to destroy the tyrant. I failed. He repaid my treachery by having me poisoned. By slow degrees."
The hairs on the back of her neck lifted.
He laughed softly, mockingly. "But I am very hard to kill, as others besides Ali have learned to their annoyance. Two loyal servants rescued me. In time, after a few other illfated enterprises, Fate led me to Lord Quentin. It was he who found a productive—and profitable—use for my peculiar assortment of talents. What I have done since then I am not at liberty to reveal, even to you. Suffice to say the Vingt-Huit matter was typical."
He set the sketchbook aside. "Except for you, that is. I have worked with women before. I do not become entangled with them. I do not let them cut up my peace. I am careful not to disturb theirs, either, for an agitated woman can be very troublesome. Last night you troubled me very much. I vowed I would go back to Paris."
Her enchantment with the story swiftly ebbed under a wave of mortification. "You're rather troublesome yourself," she said. "As a matter of fact, I came in here ready to tell you I was quitting the inquiry and never wanted to see you again."
"Tsk." He gave a sharp nod. "You do not truly wish to quit the case. You will never rest easy not knowing the answer. You could not even rest easy not knowing my name. I have told you all you asked and more because I knew I could not keep away, and so, you would pry the truth from me sooner or later, one way or another."
"You're telling me you just wanted to get it over with?" she asked, nettled.
"Yes."
"So I'd stop nagging and making scenes. So I wouldn't be troublesome."
"Ali Pasha had three hundred women in his harem," he said. "All three hundred at once could not make me as crazy as you do. All three hundred, using all their wiles, could not have coaxed even my name from me."
She blinked. Harems. He had told her his life story and not once had it occurred to her that he might have a wife—a dozen of them—hundreds.
"How many?" she choked out. "How many did you—do you have?"
He toyed with the ends of his sash. "Women? Wives, concubines, you mean?"
"Yes."
"I forget."
"Ismal."
He smiled down at the sash.
"It isn't amusing," she said. "One doesn't forget wives."
"How easily it falls from your lips," he said softly. "My name."
"Don't tell me, then," she said. "I suppose it’s none of my business." And it wasn't, she guiltily realized. He'd already told her more than she had any right to know. She had asked for his name only.
She had an abrupt and painfully vivid recollection of the circumstances under which she'd asked. She'd as much as offered to go to bed with him if he told her his name. Worse, she'd offered to do so whether he told her or not. Heat stung her neck and swarmed over her face.
"You were very good to tell me as much as you have," she added hastily. "Even if it was only to shut me up. Which I ought to do. Because you weren't lying this time, I'm sure. Maybe you left some things out, but a person's entitled to some privacy. I suppose you should be allowed more than most. Obviously your work is dangerous," she babbled on. "Your life has been dangerous, since the day you were born, it seems. People have tried to kill you. For all I know, some might still want to. But you needn't worry about me. You trusted me—and I'm honored, really. I shan't give you away. I promise. Word of honor. Wild horses couldn't—"
"Leila."
She stared very hard at the pillow near her knee. "It looks as though you found every pillow and cushion in the house," she said. "Including the garret."
"Leila." His voice was soft, coaxing. "There is something between us to settle, I think."
There was a rustle of silk, gold and blue, shimmering in the firelight, as he moved, graceful as a cat, to close the small distance between them. The loose shirt had fallen open slightly, revealing the hollows at his neck and the bare expanse of one marble-smooth shoulder. Even where it covered him, the silken robe hid nothing. It outlined the whipcord muscles of his arms...the hard planes and contours of his chest. He was pure, male animal...and he was closing in.
She couldn't move, could scarcely breathe. Already, wanton heat coiled through her body to throb in the pit of her belly...the heat of animal hunger.
Her eyes lifted to his, to blue guile. Seduction.
"Last night," he said.
"Yes." A breath of a word, barely audible.
/> "You said you wanted me."
Run, some inner voice cried, while the images rose in her mind: herself writhing in feverish need, Francis' mocking laughter...shame.
But it was too late to run. She was lost. Trapped, as she'd been countless times before. Tangled in the Devil's nets, in desire. She had wanted this man from the beginning. She wanted him now—this beautiful, exotic creature—beyond bearing.
"Yes," she said helplessly, drowning in the fathomless blue depths of his eyes. "Still. More."
"More," he repeated very softly.
He leaned in close, flooding her senses. Glistening blue and gold...silk whispering over rippling muscle...warmth...and scent. She quivered under it, like any animal, caught by the scent of its mate. But there was fear, too, trembling at the core of desire. Fear of the mad desperation that, once triggered, she couldn't control, and of the humiliation, when it was over.
