over for so long and some of that cheese. Maybe even some of that wine if you don’t mind drinking straight from the bottle.’ His motions suggested he was not expecting any resistance.
She liked that—confidence in a man was always attractive. Not Julian’s over-confidence, which was really a combination of ego and arrogance, but the assumption that he knew they were enjoying their time together and would mutually like to continue it. She was also wary of that confidence. She’d not forgotten he’d given something up to be with her this afternoon. Maybe he thought this would be another avenue for getting what he wanted: a meeting with her brother. She’d warned him about such a ploy once before.
They found a patch of grass away from the path in enough shade to keep their eyes from being blinded by the sun. Haviland made to spread out his coat for her, but she declined with a laugh. ‘I’m not so delicate as to need something to sit on. The grass is fine.’ To prove it, she sat down and tucked her legs beneath her. She welcomed it actually, this chance to sit on the ground and just be.
Haviland reached into the basket and took out the wheel of cheese. ‘You might as well take out the sausage, too,’ Alyssandra said and then realised the flaw in their impromptu picnic. Bottles could be drunk out of in the absence of glasses, but they absolutely could not sit there and simply bite off hunks of sausage and bread with their mouths. ‘Oh, no! We don’t have a knife.’
Haviland grinned and dug into his pocket. ‘Yes, we do.’ He flipped open a small silver knife. ‘It won’t be elegant carving, but it will do.’ In that moment, she didn’t care. It was enough to watch this man smile, to know that he was smiling at her, enough to cling to the knowledge that he’d been interested in her before he’d known who she was.
Haviland sawed through a slice of bread and cheese and handed it to her. ‘Bon appétit, Alyssandra.’ His blue eyes twinkled. Good lord, he was handsome but that didn’t mean she wasn’t cautious.
She tilted her head to study him. ‘Why are you doing this?’
Haviland bent his knee in a casual pose. ‘Does there have to be a reason?’
‘There usually is.’ She didn’t particularly want to know it, but she would probably be better off in the long run knowing it now instead of later.
Haviland chewed his bread. ‘You know. Persuasion. I made you an offer of pleasure and escape. The offer is still on the table.’
‘I already rejected it,’ she reminded him.
Haviland arched a dark brow. ‘You didn’t mean it.’ He leaned closer, over the basket of food between them, his hand cupping her cheek. His voice was a low whisper against her jaw. ‘You kissed me at the Medici Fountain. That’s the most unlikely rejection I’ve ever had.’
She closed her eyes and let herself drink in the scent of him, the touch of his hand against her skin, his voice a caress at her ear. ‘Then there’s this electricity that jumps whenever I’m near you, like it’s doing now. That’s not any form of rejection I’ve ever known.’
She drew a deep breath and let herself pretend it could be real a moment longer before she uttered the words that would break the spell. ‘Does that electricity have anything to do with wanting to meet my brother? Do you think seducing me will gain you an introduction to the famed Antoine Leodegrance?’
She expected him to rear back, expected him to take her words as a blow to his honour. It was what a gentleman would do, lie or not. No gentleman in good conscience would admit to such a thing. Haviland did neither. His mouth found hers, his lips brushed hers.
‘Is that what other men have led you to believe? What fools.’ He breathed against her and deepened the kiss until she wanted to forget that she needed to refuse him, that she needed to exercise caution. Too much too soon and perhaps he wouldn’t come back having had all he’d come for, or perhaps it would push him to ask his insatiable questions. ‘You don’t want to turn me down, Alyssandra, you’re just not sure how to accept.’
Maybe just this once, she could indulge. She knew her boundaries, after all. Perhaps she was making too much of a fuss over it. She leaned into him and gave over to the kiss, over to him, part of her mind remembering how far back they were from the public path. There was no one to see. His hand was in her hair at the back of her neck, massaging, guiding her into the depths of his mouth. He tasted of spicy sausage and fresh bread, of sun and grass, and of Paris in spring—hope and heat and possibility.
Alyssandra reached for his cravat, tugging him to her, letting him press her back to the cool grass. His hands bracketed her head, his body half lay against hers, her arms about his neck. Madness welled in her, want surged at the feel of him hard against her stomach. The madness was in him, too. Amidst this desire it was easy to believe this wasn’t about Antoine, after all, but about her and about him. A hand slid up her rib cage, cupping a breast, and she gave a sweet moan and arched against him. There was only pleasure for a moment, before it exploded into chaos.
‘Bâtard! Get off her, you English swine!’ A booted kick seem to come out of nowhere, catching Haviland in the stomach. He groaned and rolled, staggering to his feet as she scrambled to sit up. Her first instinct was to grab a weapon, anything. Haviland’s knife was on the ground beside her. She curled her hand around the tiny hilt. If only she had her épée.
Haviland was still bent double, but his fists were up, and he moved to stand between her and their attacker. There was no need for his chivalry or her puny weapon of a penknife. She recognised their attacker as he drove his fist into Haviland’s jaw.
‘Julian! Stop!’ Alyssandra screamed, but neither man was interested in listening.
Haviland’s head snapped back, taking the force of the blow. He vaguely registered Alyssandra’s scream, but he was too enraged to heed it. He charged like a bull, burying his head into the midsection of the Frenchman. Julian went down, Haviland on top of him, delivering a few equalising punches.
‘Haviland! Enough!’ He was aware of hands tugging at him, trying to pull him off Julian Anjou. Alyssandra’s hands. Some of the rage ebbed out of him at the realisation she was safe. There was no need for more violence unless Anjou chose to jump him again. He rose, straddling Anjou and dragging him to his feet. From the look on Anjou’s face, Haviland wasn’t so sure Anjou wasn’t going to do just that.
‘What do you mean by attacking a man without warning?’ Haviland barked.
‘That is hardly the greater crime here! You were all over her!’ Julian roared. Haviland released him with a shake. It was a mistake to let Julian go. It gave the man a chance to focus on Alyssandra. ‘And you!’ He jabbed a finger her direction. ‘You let him. That makes you a—’
Haviland stepped between Julian and his view of Alyssandra. ‘I’d advise you to stop before you say something you regret.’ His voice held unmistakable steel. He wouldn’t mind punching Julian again—the slightest provocation would justify it.
Julian backed away, throwing one last threat at Alyssandra. ‘Your brother will hear of this and he won’t be pleased.’
With Julian gone, he could focus on Alyssandra. Haviland turned towards her. She was pale, but not entirely from fear or shock. There was anger in her eyes. ‘Alyssandra, I am sorry—’
She
