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Hebe ploughed on, all too aware that Mrs Carlton was watching her from the corner of her eye. ‘I should imagine it is no more restricted than that experienced by the residents of a resort such as Brighton or Harrogate. Would you be so kind as to pass me the butter, Major?’
He did so, unfortunately raising his eyes in time to intercept an encouraging nod of approval from Sara Carlton to her stepdaughter. Hebe considered feigning a sudden headache and fleeing the table, but that nagging curiosity kept her there, despite a growing feeling of frustration. She was going to get a straight answer, or at least a genuine smile, out of him before they rose from the dining table if it was the last thing she did.
‘Will you be staying long on Malta, Major Beresford?’
‘That will depend.’ She found herself watching those long fingers again as they curled around the bowl of his glass. They were drinking lemonade, cold from the pitcher’s long immersion in the fountain, and condensation beaded the outside of the goblet. His little finger ran up and down, leaving a track through the moisture, and Hebe watched as though mesmerised.
‘Upon what?’ she asked abruptly, pulling herself together.
‘Upon my orders,’ he responded frostily.
‘Ah. Well, of course I will ask no more, Major.’ Like all of the English community, Hebe was well aware of the need for complete discretion about orders, for however careful the authorities were, there were bound to be French spies all over the island.
‘Will you not?’ He half-turned in his chair to regard her with that piercing blue gaze. Hebe had the sudden fantasy that he was about to demand that she confess all, when he added, ‘And what will we talk about if you are resolved to stop interrogating me, Miss Carlton?’
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Taken aback, she met his hard stare with her own; grey eyes wide with anger. ‘I am sure, Major,’ she said, keeping her voice too low for the other couple to hear her, ‘I am sure you must find it an intolerable bore to be expected to make small talk with a young lady. Could I suggest that you consider whether the young lady concerned is also finding the experience somewhat tiresome?’
That did, at least, provoke a reaction. She still kept her eyes locked with his and something stirred in the blue depths: anger, heat and, she saw with a sudden sense of shame at her own behaviour, exhaustion. Now she was looking at him properly she could see that the skin beneath his eyes was white under the tan and realised that his excessive coldness was simply a device to keep him on his feet and conscious, able to respond to this unwelcome luncheon party into which Sir Richard had pitch-forked him.
She glanced at his plate, feeling the moment when she broke away from his gaze as something almost physical. He had eaten hardly anything.
‘Miss Carlton,’ he began.
‘Oh, dear,’ Hebe said shakily, but loudly enough to attract the attention of Mrs Carlton and Sir Richard. ‘Oh, dear, I feel quite faint all of a sudden. Major, please could you help me into the garden?’ He got to his feet swiftly, one hand under her arm and she let herself lean a little on to the support. ‘No, no, Mama, I will be quite all right if the Major does not mind. I will just sit in the shade…’
Mrs Carlton took a swift look at Hebe’s face, which was indeed somewhat pale, and decided that this was as good a way as any of throwing her and this attractive, and doubtless eligible, man together. The small back garden was always busy with the servants passing to and fro—Hebe would be well enough chaperoned. ‘If you do not mind, Major, I would be grateful.’
As soon as they were outside the door Hebe freed his arm, casting him an anxious look. ‘I am sorry about that, but I think you ought to rest and the garden is the coolest place.’ She was steering him towards the open door at the end of the hall, towards the green arbour in the little courtyard and the soft sound of water trickling from the fountains.
‘I should rest?’ He looked down at her frowningly. ‘But you said you were…’
‘Faint, yes, I know. It was a fib, but I do not expect you want Sir Richard to know you are not feeling quite yourself,’ she replied briskly. A maid popped her head out of the door as they passed and Hebe added, ‘A pitcher of lemonade, please, Maria, and two glasses.’ Major Beresford allowed himself to be directed through the door, stooping under a tangle of hanging climber and into the deep shade of a little paved area. A lionhead fountain burbled gently against the wall, and two fringed white hammocks hung companionably side by side.
‘There, lie down,’ Hebe ordered firmly, plumping up pillows. ‘If you drink at least one more glass of lemonade and then sleep for half an hour, you will feel somewhat better when you wake.’
The Major was obviously unused to taking order from débutantes, but the novelty appeared to be sufficient to secure at least compliance. He sat on the hammock, long legs over the side, and watched her with the beginnings of a genuine smile catching at the corners of his mouth.
‘I think you should take your coat off as well,’ she added. ‘You will sleep much better.’
‘I should imagine your mama will be out here any minute to see exactly what is going on!’ he retorted, making no effort to start unbuttoning the row of shining buttons.
‘Oh, no,’ Hebe said, curling up in the opposite hammock and setting it swinging to and fro. She pushed up the pillows behind her and looked at him. ‘Go on, take it off, we are quite safe for at least half an hour. Mama will enjoy talking to Sir Richard without me there and she will be delighted to think we are in the garden indulging in a little genteel flirtation.’
‘Is that what we are doing?’ He started to open the jacket, his eyes on her face.
‘Of course not! But you are exhausted, and you will be able to carry on with your business with the Commodore much more efficiently after a little rest. Here, give me that jacket and I will put it on this stool.’
She looked at him critically as he poured the lemonade and tossed back half the glass in one gulp. In the white shirt Alex Beresford looked far less like a bird of prey, and not at all like a monk. She studied the line of his throat as he swallowed, the width of his shoulders as he lay back against the pile of pillows and the length of his legs, elegant in tight overall trousers and black boots as he swung them up into the hammock.
He leaned out to put down the glass and met her gaze. ‘What told you I was tired? I did not think I was so easy to read.’
‘Your eyes, and the skin under them. And you hardly ate anything.’
‘And I was very rude to you.’ Hebe twinkled back as he pulled a sudden, rueful face. ‘You know, Miss Carlton, tired as I am, I think I would rather flirt than sleep.’
She could see his lids were beginning to droop. ‘I never flirt, Major.’
