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This make-believe betrothal to Mr. Trevelyan was not a satisfactory solution to her problems. They could not continue the charade after they reached England, which meant she was only postponing the inevitable. Her rakish co-conspirator would no doubt wish to recommence his raking immediately, thereby leaving no more stumbling blocks in Papa's—or rather, the Burnhams'—way. Mr. Trevelyan had turned out to be hardly any help at all, and he unsettled her. She was not used to being unsettled, and she didn't like it.
Well, actually, she did like it—and that, considering the man's character, was not a desirable state of mind.
Shrugging to shake off her thoughts of him she turned into the pathway leading to the terraced garden, lush with flowers. The air was sweet, but not cloyingly so. The sea breezes stirred and freshened, making it as deliriously fragrant, she thought, as the Garden of Eden must have been. From the distance came strains of the music she'd gradually come to appreciate, though it had sounded so odd and discordant at first. A tenor voice sang in a familiar, aching minor key accompanied by the wail of what sounded like an Eastern version of a clarinet. She couldn't make out the words, but imagined what they were: a tribute to native warriors and patriots or to the rugged beauty of the country. Sometimes there was a mournful song of love—but then, they all sounded rather mournful, even the triumphant tale of Ali Pasha's conquest of Prevesa. As she stopped to listen, she realised she wasn't alone.
Basil stepped away from the garden wall he'd been lounging against, and approached her. He was dressed now, as he'd promised, like a proper English gentleman, though he still seemed somehow a creature of her imagination. In the moonlight his sun-bleached hair was shot through with silver. Even his amber cat eyes seemed to glow as they settled on her in that watchful way.
"I was right," he said, in a low voice. "I was thinking this was almost—but not quite heaven. Now you are come to make it complete."
The words made her heart flutter, as they doubtless were intended to do, but she was determined not to blush. Nor would she be alarmed in the least at the way he so self-assuredly offered his arm. She'd stroll with him for a minute or two and then go back indoors.
"It is beautiful," she answered, deciding the honeyed words were best ignored. "For the six years we’ve been here, I find myself in one place after another, each time thinking it must be the loveliest scene in the world."
"I suppose then, you'll be sorry to leave?"
"Yes, of course. What other sea is as blue as the Ionian?"
"None. But I shall be deliriously happy to go home, nonetheless."
"You'd have been gone all the sooner if it hadn't been for me," she found herself saying, though that wasn't what she'd meant to say at all.
"Yes, but I wouldn't have been returning with you—and that, I think, more than makes up for the delay."
Naturally he'd say something like that. He probably thought she was fishing for compliments.
When she didn't answer, he went on. "Now, of course, all the advantage is with the later departure. Not only do I return with you, but I have managed by sheer perseverance to find you alone at last. It did take some doing, and I was wretchedly deceitful. However, I have my reward, and that's all that matters."
She stopped and looked at him. "What are you doing here, Mr. Trevelyan? I thought you'd gone with my father and Mr. Burnham and the others."
"Why do you never call me Basil? Is the name so disagreeable?"
"That wasn't what I asked, Mr. Trevelyan."
"But it was what I asked, Miss Ashmore, and I wish you would stop calling me Mr. Trevelyan. It puts such a monstrous distance between us and makes Dhimitri pity me, which is quite unbearable."
"You keep turning the subject, and yet you were the one to start it."
"Of course I did, and for nothing but the sheer delight of watching your green eyes flash at me. They are indeed flashing, Miss Ashmore, as they always do when I provoke you, and that should make me feel ashamed of myself if anything could. But nothing does, you know."
That was easy enough to believe. "In which case, sir, I think it best to take my leave of you.''
She disengaged her arm from his and started to turn back to the house, but he stepped in front of her, blocking the way. He stood only a few inches from her. He was only teasing, of course. He was trying to make her nervous. He was succeeding.
"You stand in my path, Mr. Trevelyan, which is very inconsiderate, because now I'll be obliged to trample on that lovely flowerbed."
"I only wanted to kiss you," was the outrageous reply. "Here we are alone in paradise—the perfect moment—and you talk only of murdering these innocent plants."
She was alarmed now, though something pleasantly anticipatory about that alarm brought warmth to her cheeks. He hadn't budged, and the glitter in those strange eyes forced her to look away.
She took a step backward. "I don't know what you're thinking of. What point is there in kissing me when there's no one nearby who needs to be convinced of our undying devotion?" She took another step away from him. He stayed where he was, looking thoughtful.
"How logical you are. I think it's from spending too much time with Mr. Burnham. Randolph. You do call him Randolph. I've heard you. No use denying it."
That was better. His tone was lighter now, and so hers became. "I've known him for years. But if it troubles you so much, then I'll call you Randolph, too."
Her small grin made him even more restless than usual—or maybe reckless was more accurate a description, because in the very next moment he reached out and pulled her to him. He bent his face to hers, and then there was nothing left but to kiss her. He told himself it was that grin, provoking him.
Miss Ashmore certainly had not meant to let him kiss her in the first place or to kiss him back in the second. But his mouth was so unexpectedly gentle as it touched hers that it gentled her own response. Then there was a warmth, and it was so welcoming and tender and made her feel so very peaceful and cozy and safe in his arms, that she did respond. He'd pulled her closer until her heart was pounding, and the press of his lean, muscular body had kindled warmth into blazing heat, and everything familiar had been whirled away by the maelstrom into which he drew her.
She was, suddenly, very afraid of him, because he was drawing her into danger, and she was following too willingly. His fingers were in her hair. He kissed her forehead and her eyelids and her cheeks, and when his lips found her mouth again they were hungry, demanding, urgent. Because she did not want him to stop, tears—of frustration, anger, shame, she hardly knew—welled up in her eyes as she tried to push him away.
"No," he whispered, crushing her closer. "Not now."
"Yes, stop. Now," she gasped. "Please stop—you must stop. Please."
He barely seemed to notice her effort to push him away. "Alexandra." His voice was hoarse.
"Let go of me."
Very unwillingly he released her from his embrace; but he clasped her hand to keep her from fleeing. "This is a terrible time to stop, my love," he told her. He sounded rather breathless as though he'd been running hard.
"Oh, please. No 'my loves.' And will you let go of me? I must go back."
"You can't do that now, Alexandra. Look at you. Your wicked fiancé has disarranged your hair, and your eyes are wet. You look exactly as though—well, exactly as you should under the circumstances." Releasing her, he offered his handkerchief. "And you hate me, which is a great deal worse."
She dabbed absently at her eyes but made no other effort to restore herself to rights. Stunned and confused, she spoke without thinking. "It isn't that...I don't know what it is. I don't understand."
At the moment, there were a few things he didn't understand either. There was, for instance, the totally ungovernable desire. If she hadn't begged him to stop in that desperate voice, he wasn't sure what would have happened. Surely it must have stopped at some point. He refused to think beyond that.
She wasn't looking at him, but was staring off into the dark distance, as
though some secret might be stored there. Somewhere in that distance there was music: a mournful, lonely voice calling to the heavens. Her face was like cool marble in the moonlight, so still did she stand, gazing off at nothing. He wanted to touch her, to make her warm again and yielding as she had been—but no, that was quite impossible. Firmly, he turned his mind away and became more charming. "I do hope you'll settle on hating yourself then, because you'll be kinder to me, and I do need a great deal of kindness now after being so cruelly rejected."
"Rejected?" She looked up in astonishment at those strange cat eyes, but they were blank and innocent.
"Isn't that what it was? 'No' and 'stop' to me mean rejection, especially when uttered in such anguish. Yet you needn't expect me to apologise. I'd gladly do the same again, even to be rejected again though that isn't the least bit pleasant, and you may certainly apologise if you like. I'm a very forgiving sort of person, you know."
Good heavens, but he was impossible. To chatter at her so when she was racked by emotions she could neither understand nor name. She stared at him. He stared back, his face still blank and innocent, as the silence lengthened between them. It was not a peaceful sort of silence. Something seemed to vibrate within it. That something finally drove Alexandra to regain her self-command and make a rather tart comment on his magnanimity.
"Yes, magnanimity is one of my failings. But come," he went on briskly, "your current state of dishevelment is unconscionably tempting, and I don't think I can contemplate you another minute without doing something perfectly dreadful."
